《Book of The Dead》


 Chapter 1: The Boy in the Attic

    Chapter 1: The Boy in the Attic


    The tolling bell warned Tyron that he didn''t have much time left. With a sigh he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes, smudging ink across his cheek as he did so. With any luck, this would be thest time he would have to pull an all-nighter keeping his uncle¡¯s books. As much as he appreciated the ie, the hours he was forced to keep put a lot of pressure on his sleep schedule. Sitting up straight, he closed the ledger in front of him, cleaned his brush and capped the ink before storing it away. The pot found its ce atop a row of volumes neatly stood on the desk, the spine facing outward. Behind the books, on the wall itself, page after page of handwritten notes covered the surface, each neatly pinned into ce, each filled with sigils, strange iconography and diagrams.


    The sun had already begun to rise, the weak morning light streaming through the upstairs window and into the attic that had be his home away from home, as well as a makeshift office. As much you could call a bedroll in the corner a home, or a worn down table covered in worn books and paper filled with runes an office. As Tyron stood, he stumbled, his muscles more stiff than he anticipated. He cursed and paused for a moment to stretch before he gathered his ledger and walked toward thedder. It may not have been morous, or evenfortable, but he felt at home here. Everything in the room was where it was because <em>he</em> had put it there. It was his own in a way his family home had never quite been.


    The dust was starting to gather in the corners again, he observed with a critical eye. Also, it appeared the spiders were beginning to think he''d dered a truce, and had begun to creep back in, industriously weaving whilst he worked. When he returned in the evening, he''d need to disabuse them of <em>that</em> particr notion. The war on arachnids never ended, and Tyron was ever ready to rejoin the front lines. The young man creaked as he walked, his eyes felt dry as sawdust after a full night of work. He needed to freshen up.


    Careful not to slip, breaking a foot was not something he cared to repeat, he climbed down the woodendder and was greeted by his uncle, Worthy, the moment he reached the bottom.


    "There you are,d!" came an enthused cry before a heavy arm mmed down on the youth''s shoulders the second he reached the floor. "I''d begun to think you''d already headed out for the day!"


    Tyron staggered under the weight of the former Hammerman''s enthusiastic greeting before he held up the ledger and waved it in his rtive''s face.


    "I''ve been doing your ounting, remember? You aren''t going to forget to pay me are you? Again?"


    Worthy Sterm''s bright blue eyes darted away for a second beforeing back to rest on his nephew''s face, once more bright with mirth. "That was only the once,d! No need to keep bringing it up! Anyway, forget those damned books, don¡¯t you know what day it is?"


    The older man snatched the book away with ease and tossed it carelessly onto a nearby table, his shorter nephew still trapped under the weight of his arm.


    "I''m hardly likely to forget my own Awakening, Uncle," he squeezed out, "it''s all anyone''s wanted to talk to me about for days. You included!"


    "Is that why you''ve been hidden in my attic?" his uncleughed. "You only go through the Awakening ceremony once, after all! I''ve been waiting a long time for this day. A long time. Can''t believe that little screaming pile of cloth is all grown up! It''s a damn shame your parents weren''t able to make it back in time."


    Emotion billowed up in his chest but Tyron reflexively shoved it down.


    "They tried," he shrugged, "you know as well as I do that they go where the wind takes them."


    "Aye, I do know that. Born to adventure, those two. I''ve always said it." Worthy''s eyes softened as he looked down at his nephew. He withdrew his arm and ruffled the boy''s hair with one hand. When thed looked up at him, indignant, he just chuckled and pped him on the shoulder.


    "Born to it they were,d. Like nothing I ever seen. But that don''t mean they shouldn''t be here for this. They''ll be right ashamed of themselves the next time they roll into town. As they should be! I''ll be givin'' ''em hell about it for the next twenty years! At least! As for you, make it fifty years! Hound them into the damn grave with it! Just promise me that you''ll forgive them. Alright?"


    Tyron felt a surge of affection for the gruff old man and awkwardly hugged him with one arm.


    "It''s not like I can hold a grudge against them. You know what they''re like."


    "Aye, I do. That''s why I forgive them theirpses, but it doesn''t mean they get a free pass. Now you go and wash up. I can''t have a member of my family showing up at their Awakening looking like they haven''t slept for three days!" He paused and his eyes narrowed. "When <em>was</em> thest time you slept?"


    "Uhhh."


    "I knew it! Get the hell out of here and into a cold shower you daft boy!" With a yful shove, his uncle sent him staggering toward the kitchens before turning to greet the staff walking in the door.


    The young man chuckled to himself as he stumbled out of themon room and into the inn''s kitchen where he was greeted by his aunt Megan. The older woman looked up from the porridge she was making, no doubt the breakfast for this morning and smiled.


    "Hello there, Tyron. Heard the grouch giving you a hard time. As if you weren''t up doing his own work for him," she sniffed, "well I won''t have you thinking we don''t appreciate it. Come in here and sit. Let me know how the porridge tastes. I levelled up my Cooking Skillst night and I''m excited to know the difference."


    Never one to turn down his aunt''s cooking, Tyron was all too happy to take a seat and partake of the morning''s offering. That Megan was the finest Cook in Foxbridge was beyond debate, and arge part of the reason the Sterm Inn drew the customers it did. That she''d managed another level just meant her already formidable advantage would be stretched even further.


    Soon, a steaming hot bowl of porridgended on the bench in front of him and he pulled up a stool to settle in. After he blew on it, he took a sample from the edge to test it.


    "Sensational, Aunt Meg. Even better than before," he said sincerely.


    "What a nice boy you are," she beamed, proud of her achievement. "Now eat up. You''re so thin that people will start saying we don''t feed you and we can''t have that!"


    "Yes, ma''am," he grinned and started to eat whilst his aunt nattered on behind him.


    After getting a dose of the town gossip and what the old birds around town thought what ss everyone would get today (apparently he was a shoe-in for Clerk), Tyron excused himself and made his way out behind the inn to wash up. Cold water from the barrel and soap worked its magic, as it always did, and he felt much refreshed when he made his way back inside to find the inn already clicking into gear.


    The kitchen hands had arrived, as well as Lauren and Gwen, the two maids, who''d begun to make the rounds of themon room, serving the morning clientele. Uncle Worthy did as he did best; pulled drinks and wowed the audience with tales of his adventures. You''d think the man had been a Bard before he retired, given his easy charm. He was already deep into the Mountain Drake story when Tyron snuck past and out the door, the bell over the door his only witness.


    He sighed with relief as he ducked his head and made his way back down Leaven Street to his own house, just a few doors down. Foxbridge wasing awake by this time, but today there was a particr, nervous frisson in the air. It was Awakening day. Yet another year¡¯s worth of children would transition into adults and receive their ss. A big day for any child and a proud day for any parent. If they were here.


    He shook thoughts of his parents out of his head and choked the coiling excitement in his belly until it had fully receded. What will be, will be. No need to get nervous or excited, he warned himself. As he walked toward his own, familiar door, he couldn''t help but recall the advice his father gave him regarding his first ss.


    "Now, this isn''t something that you''ll hear about in your lessons," he''d said in his charismatic drawl, "but it''s something that a lot of us Monster yers and Delvers know."


    He''d leaned back and taken a long draw from his pipe. A habit he''d developed during a recent expedition visiting the mountain folk, much to his mother''s disgust.


    "They say the Primary ss you''re given is chosen by the Gods themselves. That they use the stone to peer into your heart and look at the person you are before they give you the power to realise your dreams. I don''t know if that''s true, but what I do know is that the Primary ss is tailored to the person. It <em>can''t </em>be just random chance. But here''s the thing..."


    He''d leaned in at this point, his bright eyes dazzling to the young Tyron.


    "Nobody who renounces their first ss has risen to the top. Not one. Sub-sses will never make up the loss, even for a human. That''s why I''m telling you, keep your ss. I don''t care what it is, Robber, Thief, Prostitute, heck, even a filthy Merchant." He spat for emphasis. "That is the ss that fits you and your Mother and I don''t care what it is. We''ll ept it just as we ept you. Okay? Stick to the pathid out before you. There''s no such thing as shame between us."


    It was impossible for Tyron to hate Magnin and Beory Sterm. They were terrible parents. He could admit that, and so would they. But what they did do was love him unconditionally, and for that he was grateful. They epted him for who he was, much like they epted themselves. Rather than bottle up their wanderlust, grow resentful and bitter until they hated each other, they indulged it. Once he turned fourteen, they''d offered to bring him along on their travels, but he never feltfortable epting the offer. That was their world and he suspected he would feel like an intruder, even if he <em>was</em> their son. He wasn''t sure he wanted to be a yer in the first ce. Who knows? Maybe he <em>would</em> wind up a Clerk.


    As he pulled his heavy iron key out of his pocket he chuckled at the thought of his father''s face if he found out his son had earned a Bookkeeping ss. He turned the lock and walked into the still house. The dust had umted over thest few days, or maybe it was closer to a week now? When he thought about it, he wasn''t sure how long it had been since he was home. As always, the air felt heavy here. So much space with nobody to fill it made the house feel ufortable. That was why he hesitated to stay here by himself even after his uncle had decided he was old enough.


    Not wanting to dwell on negative thoughts, he walked to his room and pulled out a clean set of clothing to pull on. A minuteter and he was done. Although he owned bright coloured clothes, most of them gifts from his mother, he only wore them on sufferance. Today he would wear his usual, neutral greys and dark colours which helped to hide the ink stains. Not like his parents couldin since they weren''t here.


    Once he was dressed and found his good boots he took a little time to tidy around the house. He didn''t need to get to the town square for a few hours yet, although some of the other eighteen year old townsfolk were sure to be there already. He couldn''t me them. Some of them had been waiting for this day their whole lives, as if everything up to this point had been a waste of time. Eighteen years of life, all in preparation for this day.


    After an hour of futile wiping and rinsing, Tyron gave up and collected his documentation from the kitchen table where he''dst left it. The Mayor was a stickler for the rules and those rules required that a Status reading performed within a fortnight of Awakening be presented on the day before the ceremony. Not wanting to get caught in thete rush, he''d gotten his reading from Mrs Barbury the town Scribe thirteen days in advance. He nced down at the page, noting the clean hand it was written in.


    <strong>Status Report Dated 14/6/5447</strong>


    Name: Tyron Steelhand.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 10)


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    15


    Intelligence:


    16


    Wisdom:


    15


    Willpower:


    18


    Charisma:


    13


    Maniption:


    10


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)


    Handwriting (Level 4)


    Concentration (Level 2)


    Cooking (Level 1)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Skill Selections Avable: 3


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 8)


    Sleep (Level 4)


    Mana Bolt (Level 1)


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Words of Power (Initial) : INT +3 WILL +3


    It was short and to the point but itmunicated the entirety of Tyron''s eighteen years of life. Strange, how so much of a person could be contained within such a short list. Yet, he had to admit it painted a ratherplete picture. Almost everyone levelled up their Race to ten by the time they turned eighteen, many were able to push it higher than that. Since experience was gained through what they were taught to call ''human experiences'', such as socialising, forming emotional connections and engaging inmunity activities, it was a small miracle Tyron had gotten it to level ten. He had his aunt, uncle and small circle of friends to thank for that.


    Some people liked to save their feat selections until they knew what their ss was, but Tyron had decided some general purpose feats with a wide variety of applications would be fine to choose. He didn''t like the idea of not moving forward at all with his life until he Awakened, so he''d chosen his feats as soon as he could. He''d been helping keep the books at the Inn since he was ten, so the Steady Hand feat made sense to him. That had helped with his penmanship and would surely prove useful for almost any ss he received. Mages needed exceptional fine motor skills, Craftspeople, Archers, even Clerks.


    Since he was trying to bnce studying, practicing his spellcraft and working for his uncle, he''d found his nights had gottenter andter. The Night Owl feat kept him alert at night and helped to alleviate the fatigue he felt fromck of sleep. That was a choice he''d never regret. Many overlooked this feat but it had been a lifesaver for Tyron.


    His attributes were fairly normal for his age. Higher mental attributes as opposed to physical made perfect sense, considering his build and lifestyle. Sorry Dad, it looked like your child had taken after his mother in this regard. Hopefully Magnin had given up hope his son would inherit his Swordsman ss years ago as it was certain it wouldn''t happen. Higher than usual constitution was nice, he was rarely sick and could handle all-nighters like a champion. His Charisma managed to hold at barely above average thanks more to his inherited appearance than his own personal charm. His father''s piercing blue eyes and mother''s silky dark hair were surely worth a few points, which no doubtpensated for his generally awkward demeanour and soft spoken voice.


    He''d followed the wisdom of his elders in not using all of his Skill choices. These were rare and he might need those selections to shore up his weaknesses or push harder at his strengths depending on his eventual ss. The Skills he had were a testament to his hard work. Alright, he hadn''t earned Arithmetic or Handwriting the hard way, but bought them using his Skill Selections, however the rest were all him. His father had insisted he train until he earned Swordsmanship and Tyron had almost cried with relief two years ago when it finally appeared. The endless drills had been far more draining than the hunts his Mother took him on where he''d learned the Sling.


    His crowning achievement was the Words of Power Mystery alongside his small selection of Magicks. That wasn''t easy to earn outside of a ss and without any of the bonus Attributes mages had ess to, but Tyron had persisted until the endless theory grinding had paid off. Mother will be so proud when she finds out, thest time she''d seen his full status had been a year ago and he hadn¡¯t possessed a mystery at that time. The Spells he''d learned were fairly basic, he used Light rather than candles to work at night since it was cheaper and helped him train. The Sleep spell had been tricky to learn and so far had been exclusively used on himself to fight off insomnia. Mana Bolt was the basic offensive Spell that anyone could cast. Spending his time wrestling with books rather than monsters had meant he hadn''t had much chance to level it up.


    With everything he needed to hand he might as well get going. Destiny awaited.

 Chapter 2: Awakening

    Chapter 2: Awakening


    Tyron didn''t even make it to the door before there was a modest knock. He frowned, it was unusual for anyone to try and find him in this house, since he was almost never here. This person must have seen hime in. That narrowed the list of suspects quite considerably. He approached the thick wooden door and paused.


    "Elsbeth?" He called through the door.


    "How did you know?" came the muffled reply.


    "Intuition."


    He smiled to himself and turned thetch, opening the door to the day and the bright young woman on the other side. He was greeted with a wide smile and warm green eyes that danced with excitement.


    "Hey, Tyron! Are you ready for the big day? Are those <em>clean</em> clothes I spy?"


    "Ah, yeah. I thought I should ¡­ dress up, a bit."


    "You look good! I thought I''d dress up a little myself. What do you think?"


    She performed a quick twirl for him, letting her long dress flutter in the wind as she giggled girlishly. The dress itself left her slender arms bare whilst reaching down to below her knees. Tyron idly noticed that she also had her best shoes on for the asion, and maybe¡­ was she wearing a hint of powder?


    "You look great," he said, honestly.


    She calmed herself with a hand to her chest and smiled.


    "Thanks. I know I shouldn''t have bothered, but I just couldn''t help but get excited! I can''t believe it''s finally happening..."


    She was so animated and full of life it was almost blinding to see, Tyron nced to one side as he wished that smile was only for him.


    "Yeah. It''s getting close to time, are you ready to go?"


    "Ready? I''ve been ready for hours! The only reason I''m out here is I''ve been waiting for you! The others are already waiting at the library, so hurry up!"


    "Fine, fine," he grumbled as he stepped through the doorway and locked it behind him. "Nobody told you guys you had to wait for me."


    Elsbeth just rolled her eyes.


    "Oh sure, after ten years of ss together we''ll just drop you on thest day. Now <eme on</em>."


    She grabbed him by the arm and hauled him down the cobbled street, her soft shoes barely making a sound on the road. He put up with it for a moment until he felt ufortable and pulled his arm free.


    "I''ming, okay? You''re going to ruin your shoes, let''s just walk."


    "Fine," she huffed and set off at a brisk pace toward the centre of town.


    Foxbridge wasn''t a particrlyrge or important town. It held no strategic value or rare resource and its rtively rural location doomed it to mediocrity. What it did have was a fairly central location in this province, rtive safety and a river. The Blue River flowed from the ironically named Red Stone Mountains and carried its way toward the central province near the capital, which meant the little trade that urred out here all went through the town. The end result was a quietly prosperous rural hub, perfect for a family to live quietly and start a business or farm, or for a roving pair of yers to drop their child in his uncle''s hands.


    There were a few amenities that most children in the outer edges of the Kingdom wouldn''t have ess to, such as the school, library and among other things, a fully charged Awakening Stone. Which meant on the year they turned eighteen, people from all over the outer edges of the province would travel here for the ceremony. Tyron hoped the Mayor had a good night''s sleep, he''d be watching over the ceremony from midday to close to midnight in all likelihood.


    Indeed, as the pair approached the square, the crowds grew thicker and the faces noticeably more hairless. By the time they''d closed in on the library the bodies were shoulder to shoulder.


    "This is why I wanted to get here early," Elsbeth threw him a mournful look as she raised herself onto her toes to look for their friends. "Ah! I see them! Let''s go."


    She started to push her way through the crowd with a determined set to her face, leaving Tyron no choice but to sigh and follow, apologising as he went. Thankfully, nobody took any serious offence and they were able to make their way to the wooden railing in front of the library in one piece.


    "Took you long enough," Rufus smirked, "I told you he would sleep in. You didn''t need to wait for him."


    Elsbeth waved a hand to brush off the criticism.


    "There''s no harm done, we''re all here now. Right, Laurel?"


    The fourth member of their small circle just shrugged her shoulders.


    "It''s fine. How''re you doing, Tyron?"


    "Tired," he sighed, "but I''m here."


    Rufus threw him a baffled look, as if wondering how he could possibly be tired after sleeping in to such an hour, but Laurel just nodded.


    "Had any more thoughts on what ss you''ll get?" she asked.


    Naturally all anyone had wanted to talk about for thest year was their ss, indeed, most of their childhood was focussed on this topic. It created a lot of pressure and excitement amongst most kids but Tyron was just bored with it. They''d talked about it around and around in circles for almost a decade already. Nobody knew anything for certain until the event happened. Making up endless ns that may nevere to fruition was a waste of mental energy.


    "No," he sighed, "to be honest, I''m just looking forward to getting it done. I want to get my ss, read up on it and go home. I''m ready to move on with my life."


    "Always the books with you," Rufus scoffed. "We should get out and celebrate! We''re awakening today!"


    "What if we get an unsanctioned ss?" Elsbeth fretted. "If I got something banned, I don''t know what I''d do."


    "Get it removed," Rufus shrugged, "work on getting a new ss. You don''t even need to leave town to get it done since that old bat, Barbury is here."


    "Remember two years ago when that guy got Thief and refused to give it up? I''d never seen the Mayor so mad," Laurelughed.


    A sour feeling turned in Tyron''s gut. That man had tried to flee town back to his vige without having his status read after the Awakening. After being caught by the marshals and dragged back to town he''d been Appraised and then refused to renounce the Thief ss. The mayor had cut off both his hands. Without the ability to steal, the would-be Thief would never be able to level his ss, crippling him for life.


    "I don''t know why you''re worried Elsbeth, you''re practically a guarantee for Priestess," Laurel teased.


    "Don¡¯t even say that!" Elsbeth raised both hands and shook them in denial. "Priestesses are rare! Just because I help out at the Church doesn''t mean a thing."


    Silently, Tyron agreed with Laurel, if anyone was going to be a Priestess it was Elsbeth, but then, who knew? The Gods were fickle, after all. At the talk of the Priestess ss, Rufus'' eyes flickered and he raised to voice to speak to the group.


    "Have you guys put any thought toward my suggestion?"


    Tyron''s shoulders slumped a little when his old friend brought up the topic. He''d known this woulde up, it always did.


    "We don''t even know what sses we''re going to get, Rufus. There''s not much point pledging to be yers together now, is there?"


    "Always a doubter, Tyron." Rufus mocked. "Look at the four of us. We''ve got a great mix, waiting to happen. I''ll be a Warrior or Swordsman, no question, Laurel will be Ranger or Archer, Elsbeth will be our healer and Tyron can be the Mage. It''s a perfect setup."


    It wasn''t as if Rufus'' n was entirely without merit. Rufus was a cksmith''s son and had built the muscle required to help at the forge, but spent most of his time doing weapon drills in the School practice yard. With his fiery red hair, solid skills and irritable temper, he had a bit of a reputation about town as a trouble maker. Laurel was a quiet, dark skinned girl who picked up hunting from her father. She was often away for week-long stretches tracking weaker monsters in the woods. She''d confessed to Tyron once that her Archery Skill had reached level five, a massive achievement for her age. Elsbeth was likely to be a healer of some sort, given the time she spent volunteering to help the sick and her natural disposition. Having ess to healing magic in the field was as rare as hen''s teeth. Any group would be begging Elsbeth to join should she get such a ss. Which just left Tyron.


    Even he had to admit he was perfectly set up to be a Mage of some type, be it Conjurer, Elementalist, Summoner or one of the other countless varieties. His Mental Stats were high for his age, he''d worked hard on his Spell Working theory and his practical Skills had progressed nicely. Secretly, Tyron hoped for the Wizard ss. They weren''t suited to working as a Monster yer, since their magicks were generally too broad in scale. If he could rank up to Arch-Wizard then he''d get his own tower somewhere and be left to his own devices until the Kingdom needed him to drop aet on something, then he could go back to his books.


    Still, he wouldmit to whatever ss he got. He just hoped it wasn''t Dancer or Musician. Having to perform in front of crowds to level up would be a nightmare. Also, the idea of having to work so closely with others just ¡­ rubbed him the wrong way. He could like his friends without wanting to spend weeks on end with them, right? Although if Elsbeth joined¡­


    "Maybe if I get the Swordsman ss your dad might finally train me. You''ll ask him for me, right?" Rufus asked.


    Tyron shrugged again.


    "Rufus, you''ve asked him to train you, <em>I''ve</em> asked him to train you. I don''t think he wants to teach anyone."


    "He taught you, didn''t he?" Rufus refuted.


    "He taught me some drills so I could pick up the Swordsmanship Skill," Tyron reminded him, exasperated, "you know that."


    "I don''t know why he wasted his time," the other boy muttered, "he could have trained someone who actually <em>wanted</em> to learn how to handle a de."


    "Oh, I think it''s about to start!" Elsbeth cut in, keen to avert an argument.


    Tyron shook his head and Laurel shed him a sly grin before they all turned to face the front. The Mayor had taken the stage and had begun shuffling his papers in his toorge hands. The man always looked out of ce at formal events. In Tyron''s opinion, he was far more suited, and happier, behind a plough working his fields. Since his family had ved and saved for generations working thend, they had be quite prosperous by rural standards. Deserving folk if there ever were any.


    Mayor Arryn wiped one hand across his dark tanned forehead to clear the sweat and steady himself. He hated this event. He had to put on his good shirt, buttoned all the way up to his neck for twelve hours straight, by far the longest public engagement of the year. Right in the middle of watering season as well. Idiotic timing and he''d told the Baron as much to his face. There was no changing that fat toad¡¯s mind so there was nothing for it. He rolled his broad shoulders once and began to speak.


    "Wee all to this year''s Awakening ceremony. I am Mayor Arryn of Foxbridge and I greet you all. There are many from out of town here today and I wee our friends from across the province. Break thew in my town and I''ll have you run out by the marshals without a stitch of clothing on your back."


    Silence.


    "d we understand each other." He coughed. "Regtions around the ceremony are the same asst year. A five day grace period is allowed during which you <em>must</em> register with the Scribe to have your Status Appraised so your ss may be registered. Hopefully it doesn''te up, but any Unsanctioned sses <em>must </em>be revoked. That is thew. We will get started in the usual order, locals first, travellers after. If you''vee from out of town, please move to the back or better yet, get out of the square, you won''t be needed here for a few hours."


    So saying, the Mayor jumped down from his podium and walked to the small plinth outside the town hall which housed the town''s Awakening Stone only for this day of the year. Tyron had tried to learn what he could of the Awakening Stone, but there wasn''t a lot to go on, at least in the texts he was able to find. They''d been used for thousands of years to help Awaken people to their Primary ss, supposedly helping to channel the energy of the Gods. Mother had said they were just high quality Mana Stones that acted as a conduit between the vessel (person) and magical energies that filled their world. Whatever the case, everyone would get their ss once they pped their hands on that rock.


    "You heard him, let''s go."


    Rufus jumped down and began pushing his way through the crowd, using his height and strength to tunnel a path. Laurel and Elsbeth followed eagerly in his wake whereas Tyron moved a beat behind. Which naturally meant he was jostled from start to finish by irritated farmers who''d travelled a long way and now had to wait for these soft city-folk.


    Grimacing behind his rigid smile Tyron pressed forward and joined the others of his age group from Foxbridge. There weren''t many who turned eighteen this year, only thirty three, which was a decent enough group for a town of this size. Most of them had attended school together, not all had been as frequently in attendance as Tyron. Most of them were farmers'' kids, or from merchant families or even dock workers and most of them spent their time helping the family trade. The Sterms were in the monster ying business and Tyron sure as hell wasn''t helping out with that. But ying certainly paid well, especially for veterans with high levels like his parents, so Tyron had the luxury of being able to attend his lessons every day and get his head stuffed full of history, magical theory, monster biology, politics and mathematics.


    Of course this meant his reputation as a stuffy bookworm was cemented amongst his peers.


    Whilst Elsbeth, Laurel and Rufus greeted the others and engaged in excited banter as they formed a somewhat orderly line, Tyron held back and kept to himself until he could take his ce toward the back. As he stepped behind the doughy form of the baker''s son he felt ice creep into his veins and his heart begin to thud in his chest.


    He took deep, calming breaths. No big deal. Doesn''t matter what sses out. Just stick to it. Simple as that. You''ll get other sses down the road anyway, this is just the first one.


    <em>Just your primary one</em>.


    He silently cursed the traitor voice in his mind and tried to master his emotions. Be calm. Don''t worry. It''ll be done soon, you can go home and rx, study your new ss. You''ve been waiting to do that for a long time. As Tyron tried to settle himself, the ceremony began at the front of the line. Four burly town guards nked the Mayor, who wasrger than all them, who stood in front the brightly glowing Awakening Stone. The plinth the stone rested on was roped off from the crowd, though many pressed forward to watch the youths undertake this rite of passage. At the front of the line, naturally, was Rufus. He stepped forward confidently and half listened as the Mayor told him what to do. As soon as he was given permission he stepped forward and ced both hands on the stone, almost covering it with hisrge hands.


    To those watching it looked as if his eyes went nk, the consciousness behind them gone, before they filled once more with life and a broad grin split his face. His jubtion was clear to see and those observing let out a smattering of apuse. It was always good to see a young one getting a ss they hoped for. Brimming with excitement, Rufus stepped to one side and nodded absently as the Mayor reminded him of his obligations, his eyes already scanning the line for his friends. When he found Elsbeth and Laurel toward the front he grinned excitedly and clenched his fist. When he found Tyron at the back he shed a gleeful look and waved.


    Well, at least he''s happy. Must have gotten a sword-oriented ss like he''d hoped for. Tyron knew he''d be getting pestered about asking his Father to train him until his parent''s next came home. At least it wouldn''t be long. His parent''s had intended to get back yesterday but had been dyed on the road. They were four days out ording to theirst letter, a week at most. He could tolerate Rufus for that long. If worst came to worst, he''d retreat to his ''office'' in the attic, it had worked before and would work again.


    The next person stepped up, then the next and then it was Laurel''s turn. Her reaction was far more subdued than Rufus'' had been but Tyron could tell from the slight upward curve of her lips that she was delighted. Which was interesting, since Tyron had never really pegged down what sort of ss she wanted. She tended to agree with whatever the person in front of her would suggest without ever offering her own opinion. She might tell him what she had, but most likely she wouldn''t. She might have counted him as a friend, but she tended to keep her cards close to her chest.


    There was only one person between Laurel and Elsbeth and soon it was the young girls'' turn. Her bright blonde hair sparkled in the sun as she nervously stepped forward. He silently cheered her on in his head as she nodded dumbly to the Mayor''s words and then staggered forward, almost falling onto the stone but catching herself by nting her hands directly on it.


    There was a moment of silence as her eyes went nk. When the light came back to her she was still and silent for a moment longer before a dazzling smile broke out on her face and tears formed in her eyes. To one side Rufus clenched both fists as his eyes zed with triumph. Even Laurel looked shocked for a moment before she recovered her poise. It was harder for Tyron to see but from the stir at the front and Elsbeth''s bodynguage it appeared as if the long shot had indeede through and had be a Priestess.


    "Good on you El," he mouthed to no-one in particr as the girl in question collected herself and dashed toward her mother who had closed the tailoring shop to watch the big event.


    Shortly afterwards Elsbeth, Laurel and Rufus disappeared from the square leaving Tyron alone in the crowd. He tried to shrug it off. They had family to celebrate with and nning to do, their futures suddenly so much more clear than they had been a moment ago, whereas he still had to wait another half hour. It still stung. But no matter. He''d relied on himself thus far, he would cross the final hurdle the same way.


    Person by person, the line diminished as each youth stepped forward and learned their fate. With every step forward Tyron had to master himself all over again as nervousness and anxiety rose to try and drag him down. By the time he finally reached the front he felt exhausted and a headache had begun to form in his temples. It could have been theck of sleep, or the sun beating down on him or the repeated waves of emotion but as he stepped to the stone and the Mayor''s mumbled words reached his ears he felt physically sick.


    Almost done now. One step forward, throw your hands on the stupid rock and it''s finished. You''ll be able to make your own way, like you''ve always wanted. It''s right there in front of you. Just TAKE IT.


    And he did.


    He drew a sudden, deep breath, took a long stride forward and pped his hands down on the stone.


    Immediately he felt as if his mind had been pulled from his body and into a vast space of light and darkness. He felt infinity. He felt cold. He didn¡¯t feel anything at all. Time stretched out before him until he couldn''t begin to guess how long he''d waited, then a voice spoke, the vibrations sending waves throughout his being.


    <em>Tyron Steelhand. You seek power. You seek control, both over yourself and your fate. What''s more, you seek control over those around you, to ensure they will not hurt you, to ensure they will act ording to your will. You have made the darkness your home and the study of the arcane your passion. Solitude and Authority are your desires. They shall be granted.</em>


    <em>You have received the ss: Necromancer.</em>


    <em>The Mage of the Dead, the Necromancer can summon spirits, create Undead and call upon Dark Magicks. To increase your proficiency, you must engage in the core pursuits of the ss; Raise the dead and drive them to battle on your behalf.</em>


    <em>ss Attributes per level:</em>


    <em>Intelligence +2;</em>


    <em>Wisdom +1;</em>


    <em>Constitution +1;</em>


    <em>Maniption +1;</em>


    <em>Skills granted level one:</em>


    <em>Corpse Appraisal.</em>


    <em>Corpse Preparation.</em>


    <em>Spells granted level one:</em>


    <em>Raise Dead.</em>


    He felt his brain burn as the new knowledge was inscribed upon it. Half-understood whispers and slivers of thought were shoved into his head as he weakly tried to withstand the process. Then his mind mmed back into body and his senses returned. For a moment he didn''t move. <em>Couldn''t</em> move. What ss was this? <em>What had just happened?</em> He stood in front of the stone, his hands still sped on it, stone still and gaping like a fish. Before he could formte his thoughts, another voice burst into his mind and spoke directly to his soul. Where the first voice had been powerful and righteous, this one was dark and sinister.


    <em>Tyron Steelhand. The strings of fate have been woven tight around you in ways we find most amusing. With our aid it''s possible that you may survive long enough to provide greater amusement still.</em>


    <em>You have caught the Eye of the Dark Ones, The Scarlet Court and the Abyss. They have granted you a Special ss.</em>


    <em>You have received the Sub-ss: Anathema.</em>


    <em>You are the enemy of the righteous and viin in the eyes of the Gods. You have drawn the attention of those who lie beyond, but not their favour. To increase your proficiency, perform those acts that will please your dark patrons. Give worship and spread the Will of the Dark Ones, offer sacrifice and blood to The Scarlet Court or plumb the forbidden mysteries of the Abyss.</em>


    <em>ss Attributes per level:</em>


    <em>Constitution +2;</em>


    <em>Intelligence +2;</em>


    <em>Willpower +2;</em>


    <em>Skills granted level one:</em>


    <em>None.</em>


    <em>Spells granted level one:</em>


    <em>None.</em>


    On the heels of his first shock, the second numbed him almost to insensibility. He just wasn''t able to process what he''d just heard. A Special ss? Anathema? <em>Enemy of the Gods?!</em> Frozen in ce with his hands on the stone his mind raced to try and catch up until he heard a polite cough from next to him. Tyron turned his frantic gaze to the side to find the Mayor kindly looking back at him.


    "Everything alright there,d?"


    Tyron reflexively forced a smile to his face and nodded.


    "Of course! Everything''s great!"


    He stepped to one side to allow the next person through and managed to keep his feet steady as he walked back into the crowd. He pushed through until he reached the edge and clear streets opened up before him.


    He ran.

 Chapter 3: Search

    Chapter 3: Search


    The town library was unusually busy at this time of day. Normally when Tyron visited he would nearly have the ce to himself, but as more people unlocked their ss they would head here to consult with the town Scribe and research prospective paths and careers. It wasn''t as if you couldn''t do this sort of thing in advance of the Awakening, but most didn''t bother. Tyron himself had done a great deal of research, trying to cover his bases and have at least <em>some</em> idea what his future would like, regardless of his eventual ss.


    However, none of that work had included anything to do with <em>Necromancy</em>.


    After running home and hyperventting on the floor, Tyron had tried to calm down and think about what he should do next. His first thought was that he would have to renounce his new ss, consequences be damned. His father had told him he didn''t care if he was a Thief or a Thug, but how would he feel about a Dark Mage who could raise the dead to unlife?! Probably not good! Even if he wanted to keep it, there was no chance he would be able to. He was expected to be Appraised by Mrs Barbury within five days. The moment his ss was revealed he would be forced to have it revoked and that would be that.


    Even more troubling was the mysterious Sub-ss. During all of his research, Tyron had never heard <em>mention</em> of something like the Dark Ones, Scarlet Court or Abyss, let alone their ability to convey some sort of Special ss. Anathema. The name alone marked him an enemy of the good and righteous. If he actually <em>did </em>turn up to renounce the Necromancer ss and have it burned out of him, how would they react to his sub-ss? The Church wasn''t known for its tolerance of things that stank of dark magic. Would he be strung up on the spot?! Surely not¡­ his parents would probably burn the ce down when they got back. But could he take that chance?!


    If he wanted to avoid the Appraisal then he would need to somehow flee town, avoid the marshals and survive on his own in the wilderness without the support of family or friends. Not to mention theplete and utterck of survival skills. He might be able to hunt a rabbit or two, thanks to his mother, but Tyron wasn''t exactly the outdoors type. No. It would be impossible for him to flee, and even if he seeded, how was he supposed to survive and raise his level living in the wilds like a savage?


    Was there really no other choice but to revoke his ss and Sub-ss? Maybe he could. Maybe they would just remove them and let him go about his way. Without his Primary ss slot and missing a Sub-ss slot, he''d be permanently crippled, but he''d be alive. Perhaps he could get Scribe training and be a vige Scribe somewhere. Perhaps his parents would be able to afford for him to take on Alchemist training. There were options out there. Maybe he''d grow slower, maybe he''d never reach a higher level, but did that matter? He could live a safe and productive life somewhere, he could be useful and help people. Was it really important that he be exceptional?


    As hey on the floor and tried to convince himself to ept his fate, part of him refused to acknowledge his reasoning. What had the voice said? He wanted power. He wanted to control. As he tried to piece his thoughts together, Tyron could admit it was true. His parents were exceptional. Both of them were high level, in demand yers, heroes of the people, who roamed the wilds and defended civilisation. Deep down, he''d just <em>expected</em> that he would be the same. Maybe not a yer, but extraordinary, special. He wanted to stand out like they did. He didn''t want to live in their shadow for his entire life. And what would they say? What sort of look would they give him when he told them his ss was gone, that he was going to be weak his entire life?


    Reluctance, anger and grief slowly crystallised within him to form a newfound determination. He <em>was</em> exceptional. The ss he''d received proved it. He refused to give up on it without at least trying. Having formed his resolution he''d been able to pick himself up and ransack the books in his home. His parents had a small smattering of books on sses and Skills about the ce, things they''d picked up to use as a reference, along with many bestiaries. Tyron had read them all before but now he flicked through them, desperate to find any reference to Necromancers.


    Unsurprisingly, there weren¡¯t any. Unsanctioned sses were illegal, therefore there was no reason to put any information about them in a publicly avable text. The knowledge that he''d have no guide or reference to work from hit Tyron hard. There were thousands of books dedicated to exining sses, detailing Feats and Skills that were avable and useful, entire essays that discussed prominent holders of the ss and how they''d structured their choices. There would be none of that on Necromancy. Famous Necromancers were anything but celebrated. The opposite more like. Throughout history there had been several who''d done significant damage¡­


    History books!


    That was when Tyron realised he''d been looking in the wrong ce. He''d never get information from ss guides, they were useless. But there <em>were</em> references to Necromancers in history books. It wasn''t nearly as useful, but something was much, much better than nothing.


    Because Tyron didn''t know much about Necromancy. Why would he? It was an illegal ss and therefore not discussed during lessons or written about in textbooks. His parents had never talked to him about Necromancers they''d worked with. Come to think of it, he''d never heard them mention Necromancers they''d worked <em>against</em> either. If he weren''t as well read as he was, he may have never even heard of it at all.


    So he''d hunted down every historical text he could find in the house, a grand total of two, and scoured them for any reference of Necromancers. After ten minutes of relentless page flicking he''d finally found a hit. He eagerly seized the sizable volume in both hands and brought it closer to his face. After a few moments he threw the book back in disgust. There was hardly anything. A slight reference to the devastation wrought by ''Arihnan the ck'' in the Empire of Granin, to the west. A few lines about cities burned and armies destroyed before the Mage was finally brought down outside the walls of the capital.


    At first Tyron was discouraged, but then his mind began to turn. Armies destroyed? <em>Cities</em> burned? A single mage had almost brought an entire Empire down. How had he done it? By raising zombies? That didn''t make any sense. Brow furrowed, Tyron grabbed the few bestiaries in the house and tore through the pages, looking for references to Undead.


    He found what he was looking for in the second volume, an entire chapter dedicated to Undead creatures, their characteristics, strengths and weaknesses. Zombies were weak, slow moving and easily dispatched monsters that could be threatening inrge numbers. They were often found in locations of great death where mana was thick. Some advanced forms of zombie were able to pass the curse of undeath onto their victims, thus growing the horde. Any such monsters should be put down urgently.


    Surely one mage with an army of weak, slow zombies wouldn''t be much threat to anyone? There must be more to it. He flicked over the pages and read about skeletons, ghosts, bound spirits, undead mages, vampires, liches and other, nightmarish creatures. The mostmon were generally considered soft, full of exploitable weaknesses and easy fodder for proper yers. The more powerful undead were rare and seemed to have little do with necromancy. Vampires were created by existing vampires, apparently passing on some sort of curse to their victims. Liches were formed from powerful mages trying to extend their lives beyond death, most of them being Necromancers themselves, not something Tyron would be able to create.


    There were small hints here but it was frustrating. One Necromancer was capable of bringing down cities! What incredible power! But <em>how</em>? What did this Arihnan actually <em>do</em> to build that sort of strength? He needed to know more.


    Which is why he reluctantly decided he had to go to the library, where he found himself huddled over a small table toward the back of the reading area, pouring over texts rting to the history of the Granin empire and studying bestiaries on Undead. The bestiaries were pretty useless, not containing anything he hadn''t been able to learn from those he''d read at home, but the history books were different. After an hour of searching through the modest history section, he''d been lucky enough to locate a volume dedicated to the Granin Empire and found an entire chapter dedicated to the disaster that had been the uprising or Arihnan the ck.


    The book spoke glowingly of the valiant warriors who had stepped up to defeat the evil mage, of the Priests and Pdins who had taken up arms to put down the evil that threatened their people, but precious little time was devoted to discussing the mage himself. Other than describing him as a ''Necromancer of great power'', very little time was given over to the man. Where was he from, where had he lived before his uprising, what made him try to bring down an entire Empire single handed? Nothing. It was baffling. Surely such a figure of historical importance warranted more than a casual mention?!


    Still, there was some meat to be had. In the descriptions of the battles the author detailed the ranks of Skeletons bolstered by dark robed figures who had flung out curses and dark bolts of eldritch energy. There were monsters who''d been risen from the dead as well, wyverns with flesh dripping from their bones but nevertheless flew aloft and hounded the empire from the skies. Even skeletal knights on steeds of bone who thundered forward, heedless of danger, throwing themselves into the ranks before them to cut down as many as they could before the magic that held them together was broken.


    And it <em>was</em> magic that held them together. The book detailed the moment that Arihnan had lost his head in excruciating, flowerynguage. One thing was clear though, the moment the mage had died, the entire army withered away and fell apart. Somehow, that one person had been holding the entire thing together.


    Though he had no ambitions of destroying empires or burning cities of innocents to the ground, Tyron felt a sliver of excitement coiling in his gut. How many sses could boast of <em>this</em> sort of power? The strength to control literal <em>armies</em>? What could he do with that sort of strength? Forget being a yer, he could conquer huge stretches of the wilds, exterminate monsters acrossnd equivalent to a <em>kingdom</em>. Maybe he could put his own parents out of business.


    He chuckled to himself at that thought but quickly sobered. If he were able to umte that sort of strength, the sort that Arihnan had possessed, but used it for good, he would be excused for his ss, perhaps even celebrated. Was this another path for him? He''d be reviled at first, sure, but with enough good deeds to his name, he''d be weed home, surely.


    "Is everything alright, Tyron?" A soft voice spoke beside him.


    "Gah!" Tyron jumped in his seat, his arms flinging out over the open books in front of him before he turned his head.


    "Mrs. Barbury! How - How are you?"


    The woman in question eyed him with a cool gaze until he started to sweat.


    "I''m well, thank you," she answered finally, "I was curious what you might be reading back here."


    She cast her eyes over the books on the table. "History?" She asked with one brow raised.


    "Uh, yeah. Just brushing up on a few topics I found interesting. Nothing big."


    She nodded slowly and pursed her lips and Tyron was taken aback, not for the first time, just how attractive the town Scribe really was. To the teenagers and kids in Foxbridge, she was ''olddy Barbury'', but in reality she was only in her thirties. Behind the in clothes and serious demeanour she was smooth faced and possessed a pair of intelligent, sharp eyes.


    "I thought I''d find you studying up on your ss. I don''t mean to pry, of course, your ss is your business outside of the registration..."


    Tyron forced a chuckle, his throat dry. "Naturally," he wheezed.


    "¡­ but I wanted you to know that if you wanted to discuss your options, you can look for me. I''ll be moving between the town hall and the library for the next few days. I''m happy to talk anytime."


    Puzzled, Tyron forgot to be nervous and tilted his head as he gazed up at the Scribe as if she were a puzzle. Suddenly, it clicked.


    "The Mayor sent you," he said.


    Mrs. Barbury nodded and smiled wryly.


    "Too smart for your own good, young master Sterm. Yes. He mentioned that you hadn''t looked too¡­ pleased, after your Awakening. He asked me to check in on you and offer my advice."


    He supposed he should feel grateful for their care, but instead he felt threatened. They probably imagined he had acquired a boring ss and was distraught at the in futureid out before him. There were always several people in that boat every year. No doubt the Mayor kept a sharp eye out for them and tried to settle them down before they did something stupid. But one thing still puzzled him.


    "But why you, Mrs Barbury. With respect, this sort of thing falls outside your normal role."


    "That it does," she said drily before she gathered her skirts and sat down at his table. "It isn''t something I talk about often, but I myself renounced my ss after Awakening."


    "What?" Tyron was shocked. "Really? Why?"


    "It''s amon enough story, there are people all over the ce who''ve chosen to renounce their primary ss. It''s not the end of the world. With hard work and a Trainer, it''s possible to pick up almost any ss at all, once enough time has passed. Plenty of people have gone on to do great things after choosing a new Primary ss. As to why, my family didn''t approve of my ss and I didn''t see a future in it, so I changed it. After six years of waiting, then months working with a Trainer, I acquired the Scribe job and took over duties here in Foxbridge. See? Not the end of the world."


    "Can¡­ Can I ask what your original ss was? If that''s okay.. I mean." Tyron stuttered, realising how inappropriate it was of him to ask.


    The first ss was quite personal and people could get quite touchy about it. Mrs Barbury hesitated before she answered.


    "I received the Dancer ss. I quite enjoyed dancing when I was young."


    Tyron could see it. Even now she moved with a certain grace that she surely didn''t have the Dexterity to justify. Having said her piece, the Scribe put her hands on the table and pushed herself up.


    "Remember toe and look for me if you need advice, alright? Make sure you talk to a range of people before you make any decisions."


    Tyron would, if he could.


    "Thanks, Mrs Barbury. Tell the Mayor I appreciate his concern."


    "I will."


    With a final smile, she walked away to check in with another group and left Tyron to his books. Though he felt a little shaky at this unexpected intrusion, he returned to his study, hoping to find more examples of Necromancy throughout history. After another hour he was sessful. As he flicked through a dense volume that dealt with the dealings of the Sand Folk to the south, he found reference to certain cultural practices that sounded a great deal like Necromancy. Supposedly able to summon spirits and bind them to service as well as passages that described those ''devoid of life'' being used to suppress rebellious viges.


    He rose from his table to search for volumes rted to the tribes and returned with a few promising texts within ten minutes. Before he could sink his teeth into them, he was interrupted once more.


    "There he is! I knew he''d be stuck in a book!" Rufus boomed through the hushed library.


    Not now. He didn''t want to deal with this now! But he didn''t have a choice. When he turned away from his book he found Rufus already striding across the room, headless of the disruption he caused, with Elsbeth and Laurel trailing behind him.


    "Hey Tyron! Sorry I didn''t see you after your Awakening," Elsbeth greeted him.


    "It''s fine," he said, "I know you had to talk to your parents and sort out stuff with the church."


    She blushed and nodded.


    "Was it that obvious?" she asked.


    Tyron forced out a smile.


    "It was, yes. Congrattions on bing a Priestess."


    "I told you it would happen," Rufus broke in, "nothing was more sure. I got the Swordsman ss as well. The group ising together! I''m telling you guys, we are purpose built for ying!"


    Tyron turned to Laurel.


    "I assume that means you got the ranger type ss you wanted?"


    Laurel''s eyes twinkled as she smiled.


    "Maybe," was all she said.


    Tyron felt his heart clench in his chest. His friends had all received the ss they wanted and now they were here without a care in the world, the future rolled out in front of them like a red carpet. He struggled to shove his bitterness down. It''s not their fault he received the ss he did. If anything, it was his own. This was the ss he was most suited for. Who else but himself could he me for that?


    "So," he broke the silence, "Elsbeth. Have you put any thought to the deity you want to serve? You have to pick one, right?"


    "That''s right," she said, "I shouldn''t be surprised you know about that."


    "I researched a lot of sses."


    "It shows," sheughed. "I have to choose before I can get Appraised, since it permanently affects my Status and ss. It''s not entirely up to me though, the Gods have their say."


    "You want to pick Seren, right?"


    She brought her hands up to sp the symbol of Seren she wore around her neck, a flower, wrought in silver that she''d had for years. Seren was the Goddess of Purity and Healing. Most of her followers were women and Elsbeth spent most of her volunteering time with the Sisters who worked out of the local church.


    "I hope so. My family wanted me to appeal to Seren as well."


    "I''m sure you''ll be epted. And there are tons of viges and churches crying out for a Priestess. You''ll do well."


    Rufus shifted his feet before he broke in.


    "Elsbeth can worry about thatter, It''s time to celebrate! We''ve Awakened! Let''s hit the town! Get off your butt and let''s go!"


    Tyron leaned away from his friend''s exuberance.


    "Ah, I''m fine. I think I''ll just stay and read for a bit before I hit the hay. I haven''t checked in with Uncle Worthy yet either, he''s probably worried."


    That was very true. His uncle had expected him back as soon as the ceremony was done, which was five hours ago. He had to get back there.


    Elsbeth broke into his thoughts.


    "You didn''t say what ss you got, Tyron. Is it alright if I pry?" She smiled, her eyes dancing with excitement.


    His heart froze in his chest. He couldn''t tell them. He tried to y it off.


    "Ah, nothing special. I don''t think there''ll be any ying in my future."


    There was a heavy silence after he spoke as the three friends tried to think of something to say. Tyron waved his hands.


    "It''s fine! Nothing dramatic. Look, you guys go celebrate. I need to get back to the inn anyway."


    They looked at him withplicated gazes. Considering his family it was almost inconceivable that Tyron would have an ordinary ss. Elsbeth looked equal parts shocked and saddened. Tyron rushed to m all his books closed and pushed through them.


    "See you," he muttered.


    He couldn''t take their pitying gazes. He rushed out of the library as quickly as could but he couldn''t help but hear Rufus'' voice behind him


    "Look, forget him. Are we going to celebrate or not?"


    Feeling irritated, Tyron rushed back to the Inn to reassure his aunt and uncle that he was well and endure their curious, concerned looks before he retreated back to his parent''s house. He needed to think.

 Chapter 4: Working Nights

    Chapter 4: Working Nights


    Grave robbing was less exciting than Tyron had expected. He''d expected that sneaking through the night and stealing into the cemetery would have been difficult, with him having to dodge Town Guards and Marshals before having to outwit the cemetery keeper and sneak away with his rotting prize. Reality was somewhat different than his imagination. As night fell the travellers and newly Awakened youths were out in the streets and inns of Foxbridge, drinking, celebrating and making a general nuisance of themselves. The Guards were therefore out in force <em>inside</em> the town, keeping a watchful eye on drunken behaviour and trying to stop fistfights. The marshals sent from the province were nowhere to be seen and the cemetery keeper was passed out drunk in his house. All his preparations now looked somewhat foolish. He''d even smeared dirt across his face and bought the Sneak General Skill for this outing. Aplete waste of effort.


    So it was that Tyron Sterm found himself standing in the grave of Myrrin Jessup, the elderly matron of a farming family on the outskirts of town who''d passed away three months ago, shovel in hand and conflicted look upon his face.


    He''d fobbed off his aunt and uncle when they pressed him for details on his ss, telling them that he''d be happy to fill them in tomorrow but for now he just wanted to rest. He''d been up for several days in a row after all. Uncle Worthy had reluctantly agreed and Tyron had rushed back to the safety of his own home and tried to decide what he was going to do.


    In his panic this afternoon he hadn''t even stopped to investigate his new ss through his own Appraisal, nor had he thought to ask any questions at all about his sub-ss, Anathema. He cursed his stupidity but ultimately he couldn''t be too hard on himself. Lack of sleepbined with the unique pressure of his current situation meant his decision making was not what it should be. He seriously considered just going to bed, casting Sleep on himself if he needed to, just to get the rest he so desperately needed. He decided against it, but only narrowly. He had very limited time avable to him and he needed to make the most out of it. He was in a race against time and he couldn''t afford to lose.


    With a sigh of exhaustion he grounded his shovel and leaned on it heavily. Was it really necessary to bury them so far down? His shoulders were on fire and his lower back had a definite ache. Almost everyone his age was getting drunk in town and here was shovelling dirt dressed in his darkest clothing. The thought of Elsbeth drinking, dancing and making merry shed through his mind but he angrily shoved it away. She didn''t matter right now and probably never would again. Their lives were on very different roads after today.


    After he''d caught his breath he gripped the shovel once again, cursing when his raw hands rubbed on the wood. Desperate times¡­ Once again he put his weight behind his hands and started to cut into the soft earth. After an hour of digging he was over a metre down and desperately wishing that he didn''t have much further to go. With every spadeful of dirt he moved, his conscience whispered in the back of his mind, and every time he pushed it away. Living normally was not an option to him, not if he wanted to keep his ss. If he wanted to learn more about Necromancy, then he no choice but to try and level it up. The message had been loud and clear during his Awakening. To level up his Necromancer ss he had to raise the dead.


    So here he was. He''d performed an Appraisal on himself and found exactly what he''d expected to find. Neither his Necromancer ss, nor his Anathema ss provided options for purchase at level one. Almost every ss was like this. A person received the basic abilities of the ss upon receiving it and then further options upon levelling up to the second level. After that, choices usually came every five levels to customise and tailor the ss to the individual''s wishes. Since he had no idea what sort of things the ''dark patrons'' wanted him to do to level Anathema, something he was somewhat happy about, he focused all of his attention on Necromancy.


    THUNK.


    The tip of the shovel bit through the dirt and bit into something solid. Trepidation rising in his heart, the young Necromancer began to scrape away the dirt and widen his hole, another thirty minutes work, until he was looking down on the partially rotted casket of poor old Mrs Jessup. Before proceeding further Tyron climbed out of the grave and rummaged through his pack which he''d ced on the ground nearby. It wasn''t easy in the dark but he refused to cast Light. Even if everyone else was casual about security in the graveyard, he wouldn''t be. After a moment he had what he wanted, a ball of wax he''d prepared for this part of the task. He cursed his raw and filthy hands but took the wax and softened it by rolling it between his palms before he broke it in half and used the two pieces to plug his nose.


    He''d never smelled a three month old body before and he didn''t want to start now. The stink had already been rising when he''d finished digging and he wasn''t tempted to get a full dose once he''d opened up the casket. Job done, he pulled out a coil of rope which he used to tie around one end of the partially rotted wood. As quietly as he could he began to haul the remains of the beloved farmer''s wife and her wooden resting ce out of the ground, but it was slow going. He really didn''t have the physique for this. For a moment he was tempted to dump his free points into Strength but he chased the thought away. That would be a stupid waste.


    Cursing under his breath, covered in sweat and grime, Tryon pulled, hauled and heaved until he''d seeded in his excavation. He copsed onto his back and heaved a few deep breaths of the cool night air before he stood once again. His work wasn''t done, not even close. Careful not to disturb the rest of the cemetery he dragged the wooden box forty metres to the Arryn Mausoleum. The mayor''s family had built the thing almost a hundred years ago and generations had been interred inside since then. It wasn''t enormous, roughly the size of an average house in Foxbridge, but no other family could possibly afford the extravagance of a stone crypt in which to ce their dead.


    Tyron carefully lowered the casket and wearily trudged back to his pack. He picked it up with one hand and felt around with the other as he walked back. By the time he arrived in front of the looming stone edifice, carved with likenesses of the Five Divines and ''Arryn'' written in flowing script across the entrance. It was locked, of course. A thick chain bolted shut ran through the iron banded wooden doors and Tyron knew he''d have no hope of forcing it open, certainly not quietly. Being the son of two prominent, perpetually absent Monster yers did have a few advantages however. Moving with care in the darkness, Tyron unfolded the bundle of cloth and withdrew a clear ss container within which sloshed a small amount of dark green liquid.


    "Door Away," his mother had cheerfully described it. They''d purchased a supply of the stuff toplete a job that had required them to assault a crumbling ruin some madman had renovated to breed monsters. What he held was all that remained after they''d finished with the ce.


    Holding his breath he carefully uncorked the bottle, nearly sshing the stuff on himself when his hands slipped.


    "Fuck." He swore.


    His hands were raw and numb, his arms and shoulders burned like fire. He was mentally and physically exhausted, but he couldn''t stop now. He took a deep breath, then another before he brought the bottle to the lock. Holding the heavy steel lock in one hand he dribbled a tiny amount of liquid on the metal threaded through the chain. The fluid immediately bubbled and steamed and Tyron jerked back to avoid the fumes. In less than a minute the lock had been chewed through and he was able to slip the chain loose, the metal clinking with every movement, and pull open the door.


    Dust, darkness and cobwebs greeted him on the other side.


    "Of course, spiders," he muttered as he turned and dragged the casket inside.


    Once he had it past the threshold he let it drop and pped at his robes to dislodge the cobwebs and brush off half imagined crawlers he thought he felt creeping on him. He grabbed his pack, brought it inside and then shut the door, closing himself inside.


    "Light."


    His tired brain worked the magick with ease after his years of practice and a small globe of light appeared in his palm. Concentrating briefly he raised his hand and then opened his fingers with a jerk. The globe hung in the air as if suspended from an invisible string, illuminating Tyron and Myrrin''s new abode. There were four rooms in the mausoleum arranged in a cross. This particr space appeared to be an entranceway, the floor clear to allow traffic deeper into the building. Which suited Tyron just fine.


    His shadow flickered across the carved interior of the tomb as he got to work opening up the box. In the end he had to use a few more drops of Door Away to get a purchase. The lid popped off after another heave, sending him stumbling backward until he thudded his head into the arch around the door. More swearing, a few moments to gather himself, then he stepped toward the open casket.


    He wished he hadn''t. He wished he hadn''t cast Light. He wished he wasn''t here at all. The corpse was a disgusting, fetid mass of rotting flesh, barely recognisable as a person. The smell was so overpowering that even his improvised nose plugs were not enough to keep it away entirely, causing his stomach to heave. Acid burned the back of his throat as he gagged but he forced it back down and spat on the floor.


    It''s not as if he wanted this. He didn''t want to be here, doing these things. If he had his way he''d be drinking with Elsbeth in town, drinking in the sight of her golden hair and bright smile whilst he celebrated his Wizard ss. But Necromancer he was and so here he was doing Necromancer work. He spat again, as if to hurl the self-pity out of his body. He had no use for it.


    Time to get to work.


    The base knowledge of the Skills he''d received along with his ss had been imprinted in his mind, but that didn''t mean he was fully proficient with them. From what he''d read, it was akin to having instincts and impulses shoved into his brain and only with application and practice would he be able to make that knowledge his own.


    Which was what Tyron did. Corpse Preparation and Corpse Appraisal were the two Skills he''d received from his ss at level one and he relied on those instincts to guide him as he ran a critical eye over the body. He didn''t feel that he needed to do much to prepare the remains for his Spell, rather there didn''t seem to be much he <em>could</em> do in his current circumstances. His Appraisal Skill was telling him that this body would make a particrly poor undead. A frail olddy when she''d passed away there wasn''t a lot of meat on her bones when she''d been buried and there was precious little of that left. He did feel confident that the Spell would take. If all went well then Myrrin Jessup would rise as a Zombie under his control.


    He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and immediately regretted it. Between the dust and stench of rot, the air tasted thick and foul.


    "Just get it done," he growled to himself and moved to his pack. He removed a small leather bound book from the bag and flicked through it to his notes.


    Just like his Skills, the Spell he''d received was an outline, a sense, rather than a full andplete picture. As he practiced, levelled up the Skill and grew more experienced then he would be able to develop his understanding of the magick and cast it as easily as he had the Light Spell. Arge part of his preparation for this task was spent preparing these notes. Using his knowledge of Spellcraft theory he''d teased out as much as he could in the limited time avable. It was aplex magick, one that would take almost his entire pool to cast, by far the most potent spell he''de across.


    From his limited understanding, the Spell contained three mainponents. First, the construction of a magical animus, a crude bundle of instincts that the zombie would use to control its body and make basic decisions. The mind and soul of the body''s original inhabitant were long gone and thus would need to be reced, which was the purpose the Animus fulfilled. It wasplex work, creating a structure out of arcane energy that would allow the risen dead to perceive and react to its environment. Albeit in only the crudest possible ways. Following that, a conduit of magick would be established between himself and his servant, enabling it to draw on him for the magick needed to sustain its existence. It was obvious that a body in such an advanced state of disrepair wouldn''t be able to move under its own power, magick would be the engine that animated the creature and he would be required to supply the fuel. Third, came the binding, an invocation that would chain his newly created creature to his will.


    Each individual part of the Spell was moreplex that the Sleep Spell he''d learned and it was insane to even attempt it in his condition. In fact, this entire escapade was madness. But he felt desperate. He felt as if an unseen eye was watching him every moment. As if hands were wing around his ankles, desperate to drag him down into mediocrity. He refused to ept that!


    He snapped the book shut decisively and ced it back in his pack. He strode two steps to stand at the head of the corpse, spread his hands and began the invocation.


    Magick was a science and an artform rolled into one, so his mother had told him. A high level Battlemage, she bridged the divide between rough and ready cantrips that could be thrown out with a word and more powerful Spells that demanded concentration, extended cast times and often consumed materialponents. This Spell was assuredly thetter. Tyron¡¯s hands drew arcane sigils in the air as the words of power rolled from his tongue and echoed off the dust covered walls in this cramped hall of stone. His long hours of study and the power of his earned Mysteries showed their effects now. Despite his exhaustion, despite the cripplingck of sleep, he enunciated each word clearly and shaped the magick smoothly, the arcane energy draining out of his body and pouring into the vessel before him.


    So much energy. The Spell drew deep on his reserves as sweat began to run in rivulets down his face. He wanted to grimace and clench his teeth but he couldn''t, the invocation mustn''t be halted once it had begun and slurring his words could prove disastrous. Moment by moment he battled with his own body and waged war on his own mind. His arms were as heavy as lead, his thoughts as sluggish as msses, but he refused to yield. If he failed now, he may as well give up on every dream he''d ever had and resign himself to bookkeeping his entire life.


    For twenty minutes he fought tooth and nail, his voice growing hoarse and his body shaking from the exertion. The final words flew from his lips in a shout before he copsed to his knees,pletely spent. It had taken every drop of magick in him toplete the Spell, but he''d done it. It had gone as perfectly as he could have hoped for, given his circumstances.


    He panted, head down as his vision swam before his eyes.


    "Might have¡­ Overdone it a little," he rasped.


    But he couldn''t keep a lilted smile from his lips. He''d seeded. He''d actually done it! Who else could have performed such a difficult feat of magick like this with as little preparation as he had? Augh bubbled in his belly but only emerged from his shredded throat as a croak.


    "Hrrrrrrrrrrrrr," came a long slow moan.


    Tyron raised his head to see the putrid, rotting remains of his new servant slowly push itself up until its sightless eyes were staring back at him.


    "Looking good there, friend," he wheezed.


    Then thest drop of his magick left him and he knew no more.

 Chapter 5: First Steps

    Chapter 5: First Steps


    He awoke an indeterminate amount of timeter, a headache pounding against his temples. His mouth was dry, he felt bruised and battered all over. What happened? Am I hung over? He groaned and winced as he shifted his body and slowly began to pick himself up. It waspletely dark inside and he was almost tapped out of magick.


    "Light," he rasped.


    When the light bloomed and illuminated his surroundings his memory flooded back to him. The zombie! Where was it?! He scrambled onto his knees, his eyes frantically scanning the enclosed tomb only to find the body of Myrrin had copsed back into the casket. Just to be certain, he ran his hands over himself to make sure he hadn''t been eaten. When he found no bite marks in his flesh and all his digits still attached he heaved a sigh of relief. As he steadied his breathing and waited for his heart to stop pounding in his chest he turned his mind to what had gone wrong.


    The answer came to him after a moment''s thought. He had used all of his magick in order to raise the zombie, which meant the moment his new servant had tried to move it had drawn on his reserves, which were empty, and he''d passed out from the strain. Without an energy source, the spell had fallen apart on its own, causing his friend to fall inert once more. His relief onlysted long enough for him to realise he had no idea how long he''d been passed out for. He scuttled to the door and ripped it open only to find the dark of night still hung over the graveyard. He heaved a sigh of relief. He can''t have been out for more than an hour. This was fine.


    Exhausted and in pain he gathered his things and repacked his bag before he exited the mausoleum, chaining the door and slipping the lock through to give the appearance nothing had changed. With that done he returned to the open grave of his victim and spent another two hours refilling it and disguising his work to the best of his ability. It wasn''t great, anything more than a cursory inspection would reveal that something had been done, but it was the best he could do right now. Job done, he staggered back to town and slipped in the back door of his house. Even the raucous celebrations had died down at this point and the people of Foxbridge were abed for the most part. ording to the clock it was almost four in the morning. Barely conscious, Tyron stripped and cleaned himself mechanically, the cold water doing nothing to alleviate his drowsiness, before he copsed into bed and passed out.


    He awoke at midday feeling little better than when he went to bed. Muscle pain wracked his arms, shoulders and lower back every time he moved as he levered himself out of bed. He needed water and food, badly. As his dreariness fell away a powerful urge to Appraise his status and see what he had gained the night before, but he resisted. He''d taken a massive riskst night and for the moment it appeared that he had gotten away with it. He needed to be calm and settled before he made any decisions. ording to the clock he''d slept a bit over eight hours. Not enough to catch up but enough to freshen his mind. He''d head over to visit his uncle to eat beforeing back. Problem was, what would he tell Worthy when he inevitably asked about his ss?


    The truth? Impossible. The odds that his uncle shared the same cavalier attitude to illegal sses as his famed brother was slim to none. Even less chance he''d be happy to hide an Anathema. No matter how much he wanted to trust in his family, Tyron felt it wasn''t worth the risk. If he was wrong, after he revealed the truth, there would be no turning back and no chance of escape. Tyron may still end up having to renounce his ss, but he would only do so if he''d exhausted all other avenues avable to him. He wanted to keep his fate in his own hands as long as he possibly could. So what would he say? He could only lie. It would hurt to have to lie to his family, especially his Aunt and Uncle who''d cared for him for so long, but it was only the way he could keep his activities under cover. He''d pretend he''d achieved a boring ss and put his odd behaviour down to being depressed.


    ns made, he left his house and walked down the road to the Sterm Inn.


    "There you are!" came the exuberant greeting the moment he put his foot through the door.


    A crowdedmon room was revealed as Tyron stepped inside, the many travellers in town for the ceremony eating the midday meal and nursing their hangovers before they registered their ss and headed home. With so many patrons the only way his Uncle could have picked him out so quickly was if he''d kept constant watch on the door.


    "Hi, Uncle!" He called over the chatter and waved an arm as he made his way toward the kitchen.


    "Oh no you don''t!" Worthy put down the sses he was filling behind the bar and bustled in front of the door to block his nephew off. "I''ve barely seen hide nor hair of you since yesterday morningd. Goin'' to catch some words before you disappear again!"


    The words were serious but there was twinkle in his uncle''s eye that gave away his mirth.


    Tyron feigned a resigned shrug.


    "What do you need, Uncle? I was just going to get something to eat and head back home."


    "Home?" his uncle quirked an eyebrow in surprise.


    Tyron was entitled to sleep at home and could do so whenever he wanted, but he seldom did. Well, if he wanted to avoid the crowd and noise it would make sense. The Inn had been loud untiltest night and if he wanted any sleep he wasn''t likely to get it here.


    "Your aunt and I are just concerned,d. We didn''t hear from you much after the Awakening and we - "


    "Clerk."


    "We didn''t want¡­ uh, what?"


    "I''m a Clerk." The boy shrugged. "Can you imagine? The son of Magnin and Beory Sterm is a fucking Clerk."


    Worthy almost staggered and utterly failed to keep the shock from his face.


    "What? Lad, you''re sure?"


    His nephew looked down and nodded confirmation, unwilling to look his uncle in the eye.


    "I just want to get some food and go home, Uncle. Can you talk to Aunt Meg for me?"


    Worthy mastered himself and ced a hand on the boy''s shoulder in an attempt to givefort.


    "Sure,d. Whatever you need. You grab yourself a seat and don''t worry about a thing. When your parents get home we''ll figure things out."


    Still staring at the floor, Tyron nodded and brushed past his uncle to find a seat in the corner of themon room at a nearly empty table. It was more difficult to lie to his Uncle than he thought and frankly, he was lucky to get away with it. Someone with as much Charisma as Worthy was extremely adept in social situations even before ounting for his no doubt well levelled Skills. If he hadn''t been shocked he would''ve no doubt noticed something was off about his brother''s son.


    Keen to avoid further contact with his family, he slid into a seat at the table and did his best to look miserable. He didn''t want to interact with anyone if he could help it. It was unfortunate that circumstances didn''t seem to allow it.


    "Elsbeth? Is that you?"


    Seated opposite was a person lying t on the table with their hair syed out in a messy golden puddle. The figure let out a long groan before they lifted their head and Tyron found himself staring into the bleary eyes of his friend.


    "Whazzat? Tyron? Not so loud please."


    Tyron blinked. She was obviously hungover.


    "Elsbeth, what the heck happened to youst night?"


    "Last night? I went out with Laurel¡­ and Rufus." Tyron noted the slight hesitation in her voice and colour that rose in her cheeks when she mentioned the newly minted Swordsman.


    "And you obviously got drunk. What the hell happened? This isn''t like you ''Beth."


    She blinked owlishly at him before she frowned.


    "What''d you know anyway? You shoulda'' been there with us. What happened to you, huh?"


    He leaned forward and whispered.


    "I''ve got my own shit to deal with, alright? I couldn''t go out with you guys."


    No, he had to go defile a grave and desecrate the remains of a respectedmunity member. Inside the locked mausoleum of another respectedmunity member. He felt a wave of bitterness rise up.


    "Why would you want me there anyway? Are you sure I wouldn''t just get in the way?"


    Her eyes widened.


    "W-What do you mean? Of course I wanted you there," she said, her voice rasping with each word,


    He shoved down his emotions and clenched his jaw. He didn''t care. He had no time to deal with his friends and their issues right now.


    "You''re hungover. Eat something and drink some water then go back to sleep. If you want to talk, I''ll do it then."


    Then he stood up and walked away from the table to the opposite corner where he sat with his back toward her. He refused to turn around and never saw the shocked expression that turned into hurt before Elsbeth gathered her things and walked out of the Inn. It was fine. So long as Tyron refused to surrender his ss then there was no reason for him to hold onto old attachments. Whatever hade before, it no longer had anything to do with him he told himself.


    Soon his uncle came over with a jug of clear water and te filled with steamingmb shanks and spring vegetables. He ced both items down without a word, only pausing to tousle the boy''s hair before he sighed and moved back to his work, his body moving with mechanical ease. There had not been a Sterm in living memory who hadn''t taken on abat ss. Beory had dered her son was a certainty for a Wizard. What would those two wandering fools say when they found their only child was a powerless desk worker? Sure he could take on other sses, even revoke his first and put the work in to acquire another, but it was a massive dy with no guarantee of sess. He''d heard the same rumours that Magnin had as an adventurer, he knew that giving up the initial Primary ss meant mediocrity for almost everyone. He''d had such high hopes for that boy. What had gone wrong?


    As his Uncle pondered morosely, Tyron ate. Aunt Meg''s cooking had truly ascended to a new height and he hoovered in the food, pausing only to guzzle the water. He was starving, it was true, but he also needed to get home to check his Status and he was burning with curiosity.


    With the food and water dealt with he pushed his chair back and hurried out of the Inn, not wanting to remain at the scene of his deception. Lying to people who''d looked after you most of your life didn''t feel right and left a sour twist in his stomach. He rushed home, not paying any mind to the people he passed on the road and locked the door behind him once he was inside.


    He wanted to ensure that there wouldn''t be any witness to the ritual so to take no chances he moved to the trophy room and ced the required materials on the ground before he sat on the floor. The trophy room was where his parents stored the various items that struck their fancy during their adventures. It featured no windows and a <em>very </em>strong door, perfect for his purposes. Technically even he shouldn''t have the key but he''d found it rummaging through his father''s things a few years ago whilst they were away. To a younger Tyron the things held in the room had been wondrous treasures, remains of powerful rift-kin, monsters and enchanted weapons that glittered with light. Now he viewed them in much the same way his parents did, mementoes of the past, not relevant to the future. That they even brought them back at all was so out of character for them, he had ended up wondering why they''d done it at all.


    The Appraise Status ritual was a simple one, so simple there wasn''t even a Skill or Spell entry for it. The dumbest back alley thug could perform it just as well as the brightest mage. All that was required was a t surface and a drop of blood. Tyron jabbed his thumb with a pin and pressed it to the centre of the clean sheet of paper he''d prepared. He spoke the words of power and winced as his blood flowed out onto the page, forming itself into letters and numbers by the power of the ritual. After a few seconds, his Status was ready.


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>Your attempts at stealth have increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>Your study of the Raise Dead Spell has increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>You have examined a corpse. Corpse Appraisal has increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>You have raised an Undead with your first attempt. <strong>Raise Dead has reached Level 2. Necromancer has reached Level 2. You have received +2 Intelligence, +1 Constitution, +1 Wisdom and +1 Maniption. New Choices avable.</strong></em>


    <em>You have pleased the Darkness by embracing your role. The Dark Ones are impressed with your desecration of a tomb consecrated to their foes. The Court delight in your twisting of a beloved elder to a creature of death. The Abyss is pleased with your hunger for arcane mastery. <strong>Anathema has achieved level 2. You have received +2 Intelligence, +2 Constitution and +2 Willpower. New choices avable.</strong></em>


    Name: Tyron Steelhand.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 10)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Necromancer (Level 2).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ol><li>Anathema (Level 2).</li><li>None</li><li>None</li></ol>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    18


    Intelligence:


    20


    Wisdom:


    16


    Willpower:


    20


    Charisma:


    13


    Maniption:


    11


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)


    Handwriting (Level 4)


    Concentration (Level 2)


    Cooking (Level 1)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Sneak (Level 1)


    Skill Selections Avable: 2


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 1)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 1)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 8)


    Sleep (Level 4)


    Mana Bolt (Level 1)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 2)


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    <em>Necromancer Level 2. Please Choose an additional Spell:</em>


    <em>Flesh Mending - Repair dead flesh.</em>


    <em>Bone Stitching - Weave together bones.</em>


    <em>Anathema Level 2. Please Choose a Skill:</em>


    <em>Dark Communion - Beg intercession from the Dark Ones.</em>


    <em>Appeal to the Court - Attempt tomune with The Scarlet Court.</em>


    <em>Pierce the Veil - Seek Guidance from the Abyss.</em>


    Tyron felt lightheaded by the time the writing had finished forming. Quite a difference from hisst Status! He had grown as an individual in this world, atst, and the writing in front of him was the evidence of that growth. He felt a heady rush when he realised he had levelled twice thanks to his efforts the previous night. The fierce joy that seized him wiped away thest remnants of guilt he had felt due to his actions. In its ce now zed a hunger that he could only feed if he continued on the path he was now on. Look at his Attributes! The moment hepleted the ritual his body would begin to change to amodate his new abilities, an experience that all young people yearned for prior to their Awakening. He was going to grow stronger<em>, finally!</em>


    But first he had to read through the events and make his choices. Both sses were going to grant him a choice at level 2, an unexpected benefit. He frowned as he read the descriptions of the Anathema level up. This was touching on things he hadn''t wanted to deal with after he''d received this ss. Clearly the Anathema ss was associated with three separate entities or organisations and he had pleased all three with his actions. The problem Tyron had was that he''d never heard of any of them before. The only Deities he was aware of were the Five Divines who''d been represented on the tomb he''d broken into. Apparently the ''Dark Ones'' were opposed to the Divines? A separate Pantheon?! To think he''d never heard of such a thing. The Scarlet Court asked for blood and sacrifice and were pleased when he defiled the body of Myrrin. He had no idea who or what they were, but that sounded ominous. Lastly, the Abyss. Forbidden knowledge? Arcane mastery? He couldn''t guess who they were either.


    It appeared as though he was going to be forced to make a choice, however. He would deal with that second. First was his Necromancer Skill choice.


    Flesh Mending or Bone Stitching. He knew from his studies that it was possible he would be able toe backter and select whichever Spell he failed to choose now, but it wasn''t always ideal. For him, the choice was straightforward. Although the descriptions were vague, he could intuit quite a bit. Flesh Mending would enable him to magickally repair the rotting flesh of a corpse in order to produce a more powerful zombie. Whilst magickally powered, a zombie still required a bit of meat in order to get work done and the better the condition, the more powerful the zombie.


    Bone Stitching on the other hand, was a ticket to a whole new type of Undead. skeletons. Unlike zombies, skeletons had no need for flesh at all and instead required far more magick and preparation. Unless he missed his guess, this Spell would enable him to prepare bones so that they might be animated by the Raise Dead spell. Since skeletons were more powerful than Zombies (not to mention they smelled less) it was a no brainer for Tyron. He used his thumb to make a mark with his blood next to Bone Stitching.


    Then he contemted the three choices Anathema presented. He wished he could go research the three groups before he made amitment but he couldn''t, he had to choose now or he would waive the choice and lose it. He mentally kicked himself. He should have done his research the moment he had a chance, then he might have been better armed with knowledge than he was now. He had nobody but himself to me for his ignorance. Never shy away from knowledge, Tyron you fool!


    Arm heavy with reluctance, Tyron ced his mark next to Pierce the Veil. Without any information, any choice was as good as the next. The mentions of secrets and magick where enough to draw him in. He hoped he wouldn''te to regret this choice.


    The moment the final selection was done he ended the ritual and for the second time in as many days, passed out.

 Chapter 6: Rebirth

    Chapter 6: Rebirth


    Several hourster, Tyron awoke to find himself lying on the floor, his entire body stiff and sore from resting on the hard wooden floor. Above him his parent''s treasures glittered from their ces mounted on the walls but he had no thought for them. The influx of stats he''d gained had changed him forever. He marvelled at the change, at the way his mind felt sharp and clear, his body tougher and even his thoughts seemed more firm and sure.


    For someone just going from level one to two, he''d gained a lot of stats, way more than was the norm. His ss provided a lot of stats for being in its initial state, five was above average for sure, but six from the sub-ss was unheard of. Even four would be considered good. He thought about it a bit more as he levered himself up from the floor.


    Considering he still didn''t really know how to level Anathema, or at least, the ideas he had were all bad, it kind of made sense the rewards would be high. He wasn''t going to go around desecrating holy sites or seeking out recently deceased belovedmunity members to purposely raise as undead. The idea was to keep a low profile, not piss off everyone in town and leave a trail to follow. As he stood and took his bearings, Tyron steadied his thoughts and tried to calm down. He''d read about this sort of feeling, the euphoria that came from the first level up.


    The stats of a human rose naturally as they aged, but always slowly such that it was hard to notice a difference when they changed. After someone received their first ss and gained three or four stat points at once, the feeling was incredible. After gaining an incredible <em>eleven</em> stats, as well as two new skills, it was little wonder that he''d been unable to remain conscious.


    Normally a person would want toy low after making such a dramatic change to their body and capabilities, allow themselves to slowly adjust to the new normal, but Tyron rejected that line of thinking. He didn''t have the time to take things slow, tonight was another chance to test his new Skills and he wasn''t going to waste it.


    He took care to destroy the ritual paper covered with his Status information before leaving the room, burning the paper to ash using one of his father''s me enchanted weapons on the wall. Being meticulous, he gathered the ash and spread it on the hearth. Since he hadn''t been living here much, there was no coals there at the moment, but he would soon fix that. Once the remains of the paper had been spread amongst the remains of a wood fire, no-one would be able to trace the ritual he''d performed.


    Given that it was early afternoon, Tyron rushed to make his preparations for the evening. He gathered together the money his parents had left behind for him, usually far beyond what he would need but he found himself grateful for their careless attitude towards money for a change. Funds in hand, he hurried to the market to acquire what he needed. The town was still suffering from the previous nights of revelry when he walked the cobbled roads. People moved in slow motion, nursing their sore heads from too much drink and more than once he was forced to alter his path to avoid suspicious stains on the ground.


    He was a little concerned that the market wouldn''t be open but was pleasantly surprised to find the stalls and shops doing a quiet trade. He made his purchases without issue, refusing to stop and haggle, much to the disappointment of the traders. They increased their proficiency much faster with vigorous haggling and it was considered rude not to give them the opportunity to flex their skills, but he didn¡¯t want to waste any time.


    The moment he arrived home, he dropped his goods on the table, separating out the logs he''d filched from behind his uncle''s inn and getting the fire going immediately. He watched the wood smoulder and crackle with satisfaction before he turned to his next project. The butcher frequently traded in bones, usually purchased for pets to gnaw on and such, but he was a touch surprised when young Tyron had entered the shop and asked for a fullmb carcass. Didn''t the boy live on his own? Maybe he was putting on a celebratory feast after getting his ss sorted, or weing his parent''s home? They¡¯d be right pleased to see such a filial son.


    Heart filled with warm feelings, the butcher had handed over the produce as Tyron had run a critical eye over the bone structure.


    With the carcass on his kitchen table, Tyron could feel himself itching to get to work. First, he meticulously inspected every inch of the exmb, running his hands and eyes across each sinew, poking and prodding at the bone and joints as he tried to understand what his Corpse Appraisal Skill was telling him.


    Since the body was iplete, missing the head, feet and offal, it was not possible to raise a proper zombie, even if it were human. To even animate the thing would take a monumental effort that the budding Necromancer was confident he wasn''t capable of. That wasn''t what he''d made the purchase for anyway. Satisfied that he''d learned what he could, Tyron unlocked the trophy room once more and emerged with a gleaming dagger in his hand. Of all the short des in that room, he was confident that this was the sharpest. He knew this since he''d tested most of them over the years, when his parents were away.


    Corpse Appraisal had done all it can, now it was time for Corpse Preparation to take the stage.


    For the next hour, Tyron took a crash course in butchery as he tried to remove as much meat from the bones as he possibly could. It was tiring work and his aching body, not nearly recovered from his exertionsst night, protested fiercely as he worked. It was a rough job. If the butcher had been able to see the miserable pile of hacked up and shredded flesh he heaped next to the skeleton, he''d have wept at the poor knife-work just as much as the waste. Hands and sleeves stained red from his work, Tyron was satisfied with the result. He took a moment to catch his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow, staining his face without realising it, and thought about his next step.


    During the ritual, he''d learned a new skill, Bone Stitching. With the bare knowledge nestled in his head since awakening, he knew what it was for, but he knew he''d want to practice before trying it on human remains. A Zombie required some flesh to remain in order to be raised, the fresher the body, the better the zombie would be. The reason being, as Tyron understood it, the magic provided acted as the catalyst to allow the creature to utilise the rotting flesh to move, supplying the difference when that flesh wasn''t up to the task. The older and more desated the body was, the more inefficient the zombie would be, drawing on the necromancer deeply in order to move at all.


    The skeleton was different. It had no flesh, in fact, the less organic tissue attached to the bones, the better, as it would interfere with the magick. Instead, the Bone Stitching Skill would provide the means through which the undead would move itself. From what he was able to interpret of the skill after waking, it was somewhat akin to magical sewing. By weaving threads of magick, the Necromancer was able to bind the joints together and provide the ''sinew'' that would allow the creature to move. The better quality the thread, the more skilful the ''sewing'', the better the skeleton would be able to move.


    If Tyron was going to raise a human skeleton, he didn''t want to do a poor job of it. That would be disrespectful. While he was at it, if he was going to take the risk and infiltrate the graveyard again, then he wanted his next minion to have a more promising and useful life than his first. Poor Mrs Jessup, she deserved better.


    The incantation was simple enough, almost a cantrip; it was so short. Tyron sessfully cast it on his first attempt and admired the glowing points of light that appeared on the end of his fingers. He looked down at the mess of animal bones on the table, took a deep breath, and got to work. After two hours of painstaking, finger aching work, he gave up and copsed face first into the table.


    Utilising the technique on themb bones had been more than difficult. His rudimentary understanding of the skill was designed for use on human, or humanoid remains, not sheep, which posed an immediate challenge. He''d expected that to be a problem and wasn''t surprised by how poorly his weave fit onto themb. What <em>had</em> taken him aback was just how uncoordinated his fingers were at creating the weave in the first ce. His SteadyHand feat had certainly helped keep him still and smooth when he needed to be, but the finger dexterity required to loop the threads of magick around and through each other in the proper manner was something hecked.


    "Holy shit," he swore, massaging the back of his right hand with the thumb of his left, "that stings like hell."


    He sat at the table working on one hand then the other with a pensive frown on his face. Would he need to consider purchasing some sort of weaving skill? Maybe it was more akin to ying an instrument? He''d seen travelling bards and minstrels perform at his uncle''s inn over the years, ying a variety of different musical implements. The lute or the harp might work, both required extremely quick and precise movement of both hands. He was about to rise from his seat and go back to the trophy to perform the ritual and buy a musical skill when caught himself and steadied his nerves.


    "It''s the euphoria," he told himself, "just rx. No rash decisions."


    He still hadn''t adjusted to his new body and mind. He felt giddy and unbnced. He needed to think five times before he made any ns or selections he couldn''t take back. Buying a skill to y the lute? This was hardly the time. Tyron forced himself to sit at the table for a full five minutes, breathing deep and slow. When he decided he was calm enough, he moved to tidy up the waste from his work. The armload of mangled off-cuts would need to be dropped in the midden at some point, probably after dark, the bones he could keep to practice on more tomorrow, but he had to hide them somewhere they wouldn''t stink too much. The cer was the ideal ce for that. Although it was cramped down there, it was cool and even if found, the bones wouldn''t look <em>too</em> out of ce amongst the other foods stored on the shelves there.


    After that was done, he took the time to scrub down the table, only now regretting he hadn''t used a cloth to cover the wood surface. Keeping secrets was not something that had been part of his life until the day before. He''d had nothing to hide and nobody to hide from. He could acknowledge to himself that he was a bad liar and poor at concealing information, something he could no longer afford. Perhaps in another four days he¡¯d give up his ss and continue to live as an honest cripple, but if not, then he''d need to learn how to hide his activities and fast.


    Because a day <em>had</em> passed. It had been twenty four hours since Tyron had be a Necromancer and he had only four more until he would be forced into a final decision. Until that time, he would learn as much as he possibly could.


    As he cleaned up after himself, Tyron briefly considered the other skill he''d learned: Pierce the Veil.


    Supposedly it would allow him tomunicate with some entity called the Abyss, one of the three groups responsible for bestowing the rather unpleasant ''Anathema'' sub-ss on him. It''d be a lie to say he wasn''t curious about it, but far more than curious, he was cautious. He didn''t know anything about this ''Abyss'' or what it wanted. He was <em>not</em> willing to cast a spell or ritual when he wasn''t confident that he knew what the oue would be. In this case, he knew nothing at all about what would happen, and unless he was truly desperate, he wasn''t going to resort to this measure.


    For the rest of the afternoon, Tyron continued to lie low, recover and prepare for the night''s excursion. The only time he left his home was when he decided to show his face at the Inn for a meal. If he burrowed into the house and didn''t show his face too much, he''d only cause his family to worry and keep an eye on him, something he would much rather avoid. Far better to turn up, get a warm meal, and give the impression he was getting over his ''disappointment'' gradually.


    The Inn picking up steam when he arrived in the early evening. The dinner had been served and customers were starting to arrive. Some prepared to continue the previous night''s revelries, others just looking for a hot meal before they turned in for an early night. A healthy mix of locals and travellers upied the tables, a low murmur of conversation giving the space afortable atmosphere as Tyron pushed open the door.


    For a man who spent most of his youth smacking people in the face with a hardened piece of metal, Worthy Sterm certainly knew how to create a convivial atmosphere. The fire crackled cheerfully, the tables were cleaned to a shine and even at this rtively early hour, braziers were lit around themon room to create a warm andfortable scene. As he''d expected, his uncle had an eye on the door and weed him cheerfully before he''d even managed to close it behind him.


    "Ho! My favourite nephew returns, twice in one day! Must be my charming personality," the big man beamed.


    Tyron sighed and made his way over to the bar. As he passed between the tables, he scanned the room and was relieved to see none of his friends in attendance. After his earlier run in with Elsbeth, he didn''t want to have any more experiences with his friends. He could only imagine how insufferable Rufus had be. And Laurel¡­ who knew what Laurel thought?


    "Probably has more to do with Aunt Meg''s cooking," Tyron said.


    His uncle clutched at his chest in mock pain.


    "You wound me, nephew. To think my care was worth less than a pot of stew."


    "To be fair, have you tried the stew?"


    Worthy stood still for a moment.


    "It''s a pretty damn good stew," he admitted.


    Augh came from the kitchen behind him, followed a momentter by Meg herself, wooden spoon in one hand and apron on, she looked every bit the plump innkeeper''s wife.


    "You heard meing," she used her husband with a smile as she prodded him with the spoon, "you knew you''d be eating stale bread and bones if you had ought to say against my food."


    The high levelled Harmmerman pretended clumsiness as he fended off the spoon assault of his wife.


    "I''d never dream of talking down on your food. Oi! Would you - ¡­ Leave off woman!"


    Finally growing tired of the relentless poking, the doughty innkeeper''s hands blurred and Meg found herself suddenly spoonless. Non-fussed, she shrugged her shoulders before turning her beaming smile on her nephew.


    "Nice to see you again, Tyron. Hope you''re ready for a feast! I''ve made extra tonight."


    Looking at the goofy pair, the young man knew that this cheerful act was half natural and half put on to help him feel better. He felt his throat constrict as his emotions threatened to rise to the surface. His aunt and uncle were good people and it was hard to deceive them. For a moment he felt he should be open with them, reveal his situation and trust in their advice, but something stopped him.


    He forced out a smile.


    "Thanks, Aunt Meg. I''d love something to eat."


    The Cook smiled warmly and seized back her spoon from her husband before bustling back into the kitchen to serve him a bowl. Worthy just chuckled and shrugged defensively.


    "To think I used to smite beasts and monsters for a living. Now I get bullied in my own Inn."


    "And you''ve never been happier," Tyron told him.


    "Aye, that''s true," Worthy grinned before reaching out arge hand to rustle his nephew''s hair. "Don''t worry about what you told me earlierd," he said, "once your parents get home, we''ll work out the best path for you. Whatever you want to be, your mother''ll know a way to make it happen. That woman knows more about the hammer sses than I do myself!"


    Tyron looked down and swallowed the lump in throat before he nodded. Mercifully, his rtives gave him some space once they''d put food in front of him and he ate it with haste before he cleaned up after himself and quietly left. Deep down, he didn''t want to tell his family the truth, because once he did, the decision of what to do next would no longer belong to him alone. As much as possible, he wanted the choices that would decide his future to be his own. He recoiled from the idea of surrendering that control.


    Perhaps the Gods were right about him after all.

 Chapter 7: The Thing About Bones

    Chapter 7: The Thing About Bones


    The Arryn mausoleum weed Tyron back with open arms. Or at least, an easily prated front gate. As far as he could tell, nobody had noticed his earlier intrusion to the cemetery. The grave of olddy Myrrin remained clearly tampered with, the dirt visibly disturbed and the depth of the site much lower than it had been. He''d taken the coffin out, after all, and not reced it with any dirt. He didn''t see what he could do about it for the time being and retreated quickly back to the mausoleum.


    He did<em> not</em> want to be found lurking around a disturbed grave. Would anything scream ''necromancer'' more than that?! Skulking through the shadows wearing dark clothing was not really his habit, but the Sneak Skill proved its worth and helped him somewhat navigate the process of remaining hidden. The real trick had been stealing out of town without anyone noticing. The marshals had been more visible this time, making their presence known in Foxbridge and showing their faces as a warning to anyone who might cold feet about their ss. The show of force had been unnerving to Tyron, but he''d managed to control himself enough to act casually until he was well out of sight.


    Compared to the dim streets of town, he almost felt morefortable amidst the dust and webs of this sealed stone building. In here he had absolutely nothing to hide.


    "Light," he incanted.


    With a familiar gesture he conjured a soft globe of light and suspended it from the worn ceiling above his head. The resulting scene was not a pretty one. His zombie remained where he had left it, half slumped out of the coffin, the rotting flesh broken and in ces sloughing off the body onto the floor. He flinched back and felt grateful he''d remembered to rece his wax nose plugs before opening the door. There was little doubt that, could he smell, he''d be gagging on the stench of rot. He was almost afraid to breathe in case he tasted something in the air he rather wouldn''t.


    If he had time, perhapster he would return the former matron to her ce of rest. She''d done enough for him already and he didn''t need to raise her again as a zombie. He was much more interested in a more powerful type of servant.


    Holding his sleeve across his face, Tyron moved deeper into the crypt, waving his prepared broom in front of his face to clear the webs. He didn''t want to get bitten, but at the same time he didn''t want to exin why he was covered in thickyers of webbing and dust if he were seen walking back into town. The crypt was divided into three main chambers, each holding members of different generations of the Mayor''s family. The oldest remains at rest here were a little over a hundred years old, he assumed those bones had turned to dust long ago. The more recently deceased though, there was a chance with them.


    The family members had been interred in simple stone coffin made from bs, each marked on the side with the details of the person inside. It didn''t take long for him to find the most recent member of this exclusive resting ce.


    <em>Nth Arryn.</em>


    <em>Husband, Father and Friend.</em>


    <em>Your support was like a steady rock in troubled waters.</em>


    <em>You will be missed.</em>


    <em>5348 - 5439</em>


    Nth had been the current Mayor''s grandfather, a bull of a man who''d lived to the ripe old age of ny-one. Not an unusual age for a farmer to reach, the ss bumped constitution significantly, especially after advancing. Perhaps all that toughness would help preserve the bones? He could only hope. Tyron eyed the heavy stone lid of the coffin with a weary expression on his face. He hadn''t expected a ss that involved such powerful magick to involve quite this much physicalbour! He fumbled with his robes for a moment before he pulled out the cast iron fire poker he''d strapped to his leg before leaving home. Hopefully the thing wouldn''t snap¡­


    It didn''t, but he suspected it came close. After almost two hours of scraping back and forth, trying to clear the encrusted dust of almost a decade, then carefully prising at the lid, he managed to shift it. What followed was gut busting, back breaking effort as he tried to push the lid off the coffin without making too much noise. A difficult prospect as stone scraping on stone tended to be anything but quiet. Then came the issue of lowing the stone to the floor without dropping the thing. He managed it, but only barely.


    The young necromancer sat and gasped for air on the floor, his hands severalyers of skin lighter than before. The scrapes stang as the omnipresent dust in the air clogged the wounds. With a sigh he picked himself up and rummaged in his bag, taking out his water bottle which he used to clean his hands. He winced as the cool water ran over the scrapes, but he couldn''t take any chances, he needed his hands in good condition for the next part.


    Once he got his breath back and stopped sweating, he moved back to the coffin to assess the state of his newest subject. Surprisingly good, was the answer. Not good, but better than he''d expected. Nth had been buried here for almost a decade and was clearly in a highly advanced state of decay. The flesh was almostpletely rotted, devoid of any moisture it looked simr to a dried web that clung to the bones. The skeleton itself was in much better condition than he''d expected. The fear had been that they''d have been reduced to powder or cracked beyond repair, but it seemed that the hardy constitution the farmer had cultivated in life had indeed done something to help preserve him, or perhaps bones were just more durable than he¡¯d thought?


    They weren''t perfect though. The bones were clearly softened in ces and many a hairline fracture could be seen under close inspection. Tyron listened to what his Skills told him and the impression he got wasn''t ideal, but was good enough. The bones would serve to make a skeleton, with some work. It wouldn''t be a great skeleton, or even a good one, but it would be a skeleton.


    There was little doubt that things could be done to improve the condition of the remains and he felt frustrated that he just didn''t know what they were. There must be ways to properly cleanse the flesh and remaining grime. Acid perhaps? Or would that be too strong and destroy the skeleton? It should also be possible to strengthen the bone in some way. Perhaps using alchemy or some sort of magick? He racked his brains but nothing came to mind. He could only sigh in frustration. Yet another topic he would need to research in greater depth. He needed information on the care and treatment of remains, as well the materials to carry out whatever he found. Neither of those things would be easy to find and would draw a huge amount of suspicion on himself the moment he went looking.


    The life of a Necromancer was a difficult one¡­


    For now, Tyron could only push such thoughts from his mind and deal with the here and now. Using his knife, he scraped clean the bones with the utmost care, wary of causing any unwanted damage to his precious subject. The work was painstaking and slow, but whenpleted he was able to look down on the now mostly clean bones of Nth Arryn.


    Now for the hard part. After a short break to flex and massage his fingers, the Necromancer got to work knitting together the fibres of magick that would allow the loose collection of bones to move. He''d made numerous notes on how he might proceed and he consulted them frequently as he worked. Turns out the human body was quiteplex, who knew? The threads, when woven correctly, would be the sinew and muscle that would allow the skeleton to move, this much he knew from the knowledge he''d gained when learning the Skill. He had also been granted a basic understanding of how to form joints using the threads. What he <em>hadn''t</em> been granted was an understanding of how the whole system of threads would work together. For example, he knew he needed a knee and ankle joint, but what about the feet? How did that work? And how did it all connect together?


    As much as Tyron enjoyed the challenge, he couldn''t help but wish he could snap his fingers, push a little magick into the bones and they''d leap up, ready to fulfil his everymand. Such a thought was patently ridiculous though. How were <em>bones</em> supposed to walk around on their own? Was he supposed to provide the magick necessary to move them all constantly? He''d be drained in seconds! What about the animating consciousness of the bones? Did he just whip one together in moments? Springing new servants out of the grave in a few seconds was pure fantasy. Only through painstaking work and preparation would useful undead servants be created.


    And it <em>was</em> painstaking. Not being the sort of person who tolerated failure in matters arcane, Tyron cursed and grumbled to himself with increasing frequency as he concentrated on his work, his fingers dancing in the air above the bones as he wove. Several times he was forced to cut the threads and re-do a certain joint. He had to do the hips three times. Three! By the time he finished his hands were an aching mess, he was sweating profusely and a headache pounded in his temples. He stumbled away from the stone casket and retrieved his water skin from his bag. He drunk deep before he released a satisfied sigh.


    Considering this was his first true attempt at bone stitching, he was quite satisfied at the final result. With practice and research, he would make vast improvements at his speed and efficiency in creating the weave, as well as being able to increase its quality. For now, he was <em>fairly </em>confident that the skeleton would be able to move once he raised it. For all the effort, the final product was almost invisible to the eye. When pulled tight, the threads had shrunk together and clung to the bones as they faded from sight. The final result would look as if the bones moved almost without being attached, but that was far from the truth.


    He upended the water skin on his hands and then used the moisture to cleanse his face. It was a small thing but he felt much refreshed. The dust was so thick in the small mausoleum he felt constantly clogged and suffocated by it and even a moment of relief was nice. Hours of darkness had passed as he''d worked on his newest project and there wasn''t much time left before dawn arrived. Tyron made a decision to let the remains rest for now. The magical threading would deteriorate over time, but would easilyst long enough for him to return the next night and raise his servant.


    What to do then with the time he had left? He certainly couldn''t afford to waste it. He cast his eyes to the sealed casket lying beside the one he''d been working on.


    "Well, Nth, I guess we better see how your Mrs is doing these days."


    As the first rays of light began to creep over the horizon, Tyron had returned to his family home. Exhausted beyond words, encrusted with dust and webs and reeking of the grave, he stripped down and pumped some water to wash himself, even going so far as to scrub himself with one of his mother''s precious soaps before he copsed into his bed. Sleep came quickly to him, tired as he was, and it wasn''t long before his soft snoring was the only sound in the house.


    Mayor Arryn rose early that morning, as he did every morning. He crept out of bed before dawn, careful not to wake his slumbering wife as he dressed himself in the dark, habit guiding his hands more than his eyes. Once his feet were firmly nted in his boots he went to rouse his children from their beds. They blinked owlishly at him as he leaned down and shook them gently before climbing from their nkets and getting ready to face the day. He smiled and nodded approvingly at them when the two boys and girl met him outside a few minutester. Younger than ten, it was important that they learned good habits in their youth in order to set them up for whatever ss and whatever future they chose for themselves.


    So just as he had done with his brother when he was young, he led them through the morning chores on the farm, tending to the animals, opening the gates, sweeping, cleaning, milking, directing the farm hands as they arrived, inspecting the tools and the million other minute but important tasks that kept a farm running smoothly. There was never enough time to get everything done, but ording to family tradition, if you worked your guts out, you could get damn close.


    By the time the sun had risen over the horizon the family had already put in several hours of work and the Mayor collected his children and took them inside where Mrs Arryn had now arisen and baked them all a hearty breakfast.


    "Much on today?" Merryl asked.


    He grunted.


    "Too much, as usual. The Water Mages are due in town today and you know what a fuss that always is."


    The children brightened at his words and shared excited grins around the table. Watching the Water Mages work in the fields was a yearly treat. The mages could conjure massive jets of water that they would st into the sky to rain down on the crops orbine to flood water into the reservoirs.


    With one rueful eye on the children, Merryl walked behind her husband and massaged his shoulders.


    "Don''t push yourself too hard, dear," she warned, knowing it was useless, "there''s such a thing as overwork."


    He smiled and caught her hands over his shoulders.


    "I''m tough as mountain bones woman, stop fussing."


    He gave her hands a quick squeeze of affection before he turned and rose from his seat. He snatched up another slice of fresh bread andthered it heavily with butter as he made his way back to the room.


    "Don''t forget the children have lessons today," he called as he quickly changed from his work clothes to something that could be considered <em>remotely</em> respectable. He might have the Mayor sub-ss, but he was still a Farmer damn it. He refused to dress up like some city ponce for official duties. Once he was ready, he farewelled his family and saddled his horse for the ride into town.


    One short and dull rideter, he tied his horse up outside the town stable and walked with brisk steps into the town hall. A grand description for a rtively modest building that housed a few offices, the record keeping room and the strongbox for tax collection.


    "Good morning Mayor," a gruff voice greeted him the moment he stepped within the door.


    The Mayor didn''t break stride as he made his way towards his desk, waving the marshal captain to follow him.


    "First, call me Jiren" he said, "we''ve worked together for eight years Markus. When do you n on dropping the formalities?"


    He settled in behind his desk and sighed when he noticed the generous stack of papers arranged in a neat pile awaiting his attention. Ririta had clearly been in already this morning. How could a town with as many cows as people produce this much paperwork?


    "Still need that list from you Mayor," Markus said, refusing to yield his white knuckled grip on his respect for the office of mayor, no matter how much the Arryn family would have it otherwise.


    Jiren thought for a moment before he reached to one side and pulled open a draw. From within he removed one sheet of paper covered in his own neat, utilitarian handwriting.


    "Here you go, Markus. Every kid who looked in any way suspicious during the ceremony. I don''t know why you don''t rely on your own list, it''s not like I don''t have enough work to do this time of year."


    He gestured with one hand at the stack of paper he had to deal with as he ran his eyes over the list one more time. Chances were all of these names were just twitchy kids who were overwhelmed by the asion or who imagined they''d get some grand ''God yer of the Heavens'' ss and ended up a Shepherd. Every year there would be a few rude awakenings for those who squandered their youth, or those individuals who were just miserable with the ss that had been given. The trick was separating out those who were just unhappy with those who were looking to break thew.


    Just as he was about to hand over the sheet to the outstretched hand of Markus, he hesitated.


    "Just a second," he said, "I''m going to add a name."


    It was probably nothing. It was definitely nothing. But it didn''t hurt to keep a bit of an extra eye on the kid. His parents cast a mighty long shadow in Foxbridge, being the only truly high level yers in the entire province. He would have had high expectations for his ss no doubt. Jiren could remember the shock on the poor boy''s face the moment he''d snapped back into focus. Face pale and sweating, hands clutching the Awakening Stone tight. He''d seen it so many times before.


    "Just to be thorough," he said as scratched the name "Tyron Sterm" under thest name on the sheet before handing it over.


    Markus ran his eyes down the list and whistled when he saw the name on the end.


    "Hol-ee shit," he drawled and shook his head. "If we actually bring that kid in, what do you think would happen here, Mayor?"


    The Mayor didn''t even want to think of it. It was hard to reconcile Magnin and Beory with their reputation sometimes. The couple were humble, full ofughter and a pleasure to interact with every time he''d met them. That didn''t mean they couldn''t bury Foxbridge in an avnche of violence in minutes if they chose to.


    "It won''te to that," he said firmly, "I just want us to keep an eye on him. There''s a lot of pressure on that boy and I don''t want him to do something stupid and ruin his future while his parents are out of town. That''s all it is."

 Chapter 8: Desire to Slay

    Chapter 8: Desire to y


    Laurel rose and stretched in the early morning light, totally unashamed of her nakedness. Cat-like, she extended her arms forward and arched her back, sighing in satisfaction as the joints loosened with faint popping sounds.


    "I still don''t know why you do that every morning," Rufus asked from the bed.


    "I don''t hear youining," she said as she began to gather up her clothes and put them on.


    "You''re leaving already?" Rufus asked, surprised, "I thought you''d want to hang around this morning."


    The hunter''s daughter rolled her eyes.


    "Despite what you might think, I have better things to do than lie in bed with you all day."


    "Like what?" the newly minted swordsman asked, his face darkening.


    "Like getting levels." Laurel finished dressing herself and startedcing up her worn boots, her nimble hands dancing across the knots. "I''m surprised you aren''t out there already, trying to find monsters to kill now that you''ve got what you want."


    She could hear Rufus grunt from the bed as he pulled himself out from under the sheets and began to rummage around her room for his own clothing.


    "There''s plenty of time for thatter," he muttered, "there''s other things I have to settle first."


    "Like Elsbeth?" Laurel asked archly.


    The burly young man froze a moment before he turned to face her with a smirk.


    "Is that jealousy I hear?" he said. "From you of all people, I''m shocked."


    With barely a pause, she strode toward him until there was barely a hand between them. Confronted by the cool re of his lover, Rufus drew himself up to his full height, his muscr frame loomed over the slight woman. Undeterred, Laurel smiled for an instant before she drove her fist into his gut at the same moment she stomped her booted right foot down on the swordsman''s unprotected toes.


    Having the wind driven out of him at the same time his foot exploded in pain left Rufus with little option but to fall back on the bed, wheezing and cursing in equal measure as Laurel stared down at him.


    "You might be a decenty, Rufus, but don''t think for a second that I would be jealous over you. You want to screw Elsbeth over? I couldn''t care less. If I had other options it might not even be you I shake out of my sheets in the morning."


    Rufus glowered at her from the bed as he caught his breath and rubbed his foot.


    "Who else? Tyron? That bookworm doesn''t have the stamina."


    "I''d be willing to find out," she shrugged, "and I would have, if he didn''t shoot me down."


    "What!?" Rufus gaped.


    "Make sure you lock up when you leave."


    Unwilling to put up with the muscle-brained antics of the still naked oaf, Laurel turned on her heel and gathered thest few things she needed. Her bow and string in hand, her pack and quiver over her shoulder, she was out of her room in moments and out the front door a few seconds after that. The wooden cabin she shared with her father quickly vanished behind her as she rushed out into the forest, her eyes wide to catch the dim light and her ears alive to the sounds amongst the trees. Her pulse quickened as she stopped to string her bow, bracing the yew with her foot as her hands slipped the string into ce without her having to look.


    Her father was out here somewhere, just as he almost always was. On days like this she couldn''t find it in her to resent him for it. Just like her, he was addicted to the hunt and he could be in the woods for a week before he''d had his fill. Breathing deep, she scented the air and began to scan for prey. She had skills and a ss now, like hell she was going to wait.


    Back in the cabin, Rufus swore viciously under his breath as he hopped into his clothes. The pain in his stomach red a few times which caused him to copse back onto the bed and wait for it to subside. It took longer for his anger to cool and he was out the door and into the cool morning air before he''d managed to calm himself down. Laurel was the kind of girl who never held a grudge. Whatever he''d done to tick her off, she''d likely have forgotten about it by the time she got back. Since he needed her for his ns, he''d put up with the indignity.


    It wasing together possibly better than he had even imagined and the young man let out augh as his face split into a broad grin. After waiting his whole life, it was finally going to happen. His father was already at work in the smithy when he arrived, the sharp ring of the hammer on the anvil audible from hundreds of metres away. Rufus didn''t particrly feel like arguing with the old man, so he snuck in the back door in order to help himself to some breakfast. He was halfway through some cheese on bread when he realised the steady beat of the hammer had stilled.


    "Nice to see your manners haven''t changed with your awakening then," came a growl from the doorway and Rufus looked up to see the imposing figure of his father looking down at him.


    He choked down the suddenly dry bread before he replied.


    "H-hey Dad. Didn''t want to bother you at work, so I thought I''d just grab a bite before I headed out for the day."


    Brindle, the Foxbridge Smith just grunted in reply before he stomped into the room and helped himself to a generous wedge of cheese. Rufus frowned as his father''s massive hands came into view and he turned his head to hide his expression.


    "Where''s mother?" he asked.


    "Still sleeping," Brindle replied through a mouthful of ripe cheese, "says her bones hurt."


    A sh of anger stole across the younger man''s face before it was gone, vanishing as quick as it had appeared. He pushed back his chair as he stood to his full height and looked his father in the eye.


    "I''ll be heading out then," he said.


    Before he could turn to leave, his father spoke again.


    "Still nning on going through with your idiot scheme then?"


    Anger sparked in Rufus'' eyes as his jaw set but he refused to rise to the bait.


    "I am," he said.


    The Smith wiped his thick hands absently on the leather apron he wore as he shook his head.


    "Fool boy," he rumbled, "all you''re going to do is get yourself killed and break your mother''s heart. For what? So you can dream of being some big shot yer in the city?"


    His temper red again and the new Swordsman struggled to contain himself as he stared into the soot covered face of his father. Not trusting himself to reply, he simply stood and glowered, his fists clenched by his side. His father paid this disy of anger no mind. Full grown and now with his ss, Rufus was strongly built and physically imposing, but next to the Smith he was a cub next to a bear. Despite not having abat ss, Brindle was likely the second physically strongest person in Foxbridge after Magnin Sterm himself. If he so chose, he could pick up his son with one hand and throw him through the door. And they both knew it.


    Brindle stared hard at his son as he waited. When it became clear Rufus wouldn''t rise to the challenge, he leaned to one side to spit before he turned back to the smithy, the door creaking shut behind him as he left. Rufus didn''t move for several long seconds, breathing deep as he calmed himself down. He wouldn''t achieve anything by trying to fight his old man, he''d learned that lesson the hard way. His time woulde, just not yet. When he was ready, he finished eating and made his way out of the house, his mood lightening the moment he set foot outside. He turned to look toward the upstairs window beyond which his mother was resting for a few long seconds before he turned the corner of the Willison''s house heading into town.


    With a final deep breath, he put his family out of his mind. These next few days would be crucial if he was to realise his dream and he refused to let the chance slip out of his hands. He wasn''t going to be buried in Foxbridge, ving at the forge with Brindle until the old bastard died. He was going to be a yer, he was going to be a shield between the darkness and the light. When he came home, he''d be rich as a king and as powerful as Magnin, then things would change.


    His mind filled with visions of his triumphant return, a small smile broke out on Rufus'' face as he made this way through the morning traffic. Distracted, he arrived at his destination almost before he realised it. The Ranner household where Elsbeth lived with her parents, brother and two sisters was unusually quiet when he arrived and he quickly shook the fantasies out of his head so he could concentrate.


    Trying to look nonchnt, the young man walked down a few houses before he turned down a side street, checked behind him and then leapt the fence to his right. Moving swiftly, he kept moving and after surmounting one more fence, he found himself in the Ranner''s small yard just outside Elsbeth''s window. He tensed for a moment, listening for any sign that he had been discovered, but he heard nothing except quiet weepinging from the room in front of him. He approached the window in a crouch and tapped gently against the ss, careful not to make too much noise. Not that it did him much good. A momentter, Elsbeth threw the window open and flung her arms around his neck.


    "I was rejected by the goddess," she sobbed into his shoulder, "the holy mother shoved me out of the sanctum. What am I going to <em>do</em>, Rufus?"


    He raised his arms and gently embraced the girl as he whisperedfort into her ear, trying to keep his voice from betraying the broad smile on his face.


    <em>What a waste it would be for you to be locked away in the Church of Purity, healing cripples for scraps of coin. This will be better, you''ll see.</em>


    It didn''t hurt that he would get a rare and powerful healer ss for his burgeoning yer team either.


    Back in his house, Tyron startled awake and immediately felt a sharp pain in his back. And why the hell was it so dark?! Could it still be night time? Had he slept through the entire day?! Only after he iled his arms a little did he realise he couldn''t see because some paper was stuck to his face, covering his eyes. When he pulled the paper away, light returned and he realised he''d fallen asleep at the table again. Numerous pages covered in his neat scrawl covered the surface, only slightly marred with his drool. Still groggy, he pushed his chair back and stumbled outside, a huge yawn cracking his jaw as he went. He stumbled around the corner from the kitchen and found his father''s outdoor shower, installed at the insistence of his mother due to the stink of the man after his outdoor training sessions.


    Tyron nearly forgot to disrobe but caught himself just in time before he stepped onto the polished stone and waved a hand in front of the enchantment te. A few secondster a burst of cold water rained down on him, instantly shocking him awake.


    "Holy shit!" he chattered, rubbing his arms against his suddenly frozen torso, attempting to p some warmth back into his skin.


    After a vigorous scrub he was able to rid himself of the umted dust and cobwebs from the previous night''s activities. Only when he couldn''t stand the cold anymore did he leap out from under the overhead pipe and wave a hand in front of the te once more, shutting off the flow of water. Now he finally knew why father wanted a fire stone installed along with the water stone behind the te. His mother would never allow it, she was far too tight with the family purse, pointing out that having an enchanted outdoor shower was already an extravagant expense to begin with. Reminding her that she was the one who insisted it be installed did Magnin more harm than good, which never seemed to stop the man. Thinking of his parent''s endless, good hearted bickering brought a smile to the young man''s face as he waited for the sun to dry him off before he went inside to find clean clothes.


    Much refreshed, he rummaged around for some breakfast before he sat back down to go over his notes. Absentmindedly chewing on his stale bread, he quickly remembered what he''d been up to.


    Spellwork. Specifically, the <em>Raise Dead</em> spell. The signature spell of the Necromancer ss and his most powerful weapon. If he to decide to keep his ss and try to survive on his own, outside thew, this spell would either make or break him. The description of the ss was clear, he couldn''t get experience and level up by fighting himself, it didn''t matter if he ughtered a thousand monsters on his own, he wouldn''t gain a thing. The only way he could improve was by creating undead and having them fight on his behalf, which meant his minions would need to be as powerful as he could possibly make them.


    The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that there would be a huge number of things he could do to better prepare the remains before it even came time to cast the spell. If he were an alchemical master, there might be some way to strengthen the bones using a solution or infusion of some sort. If he were an enchanter it might be possible to saturate the remains with magick, or do a hundred other things to improve their condition. All of that was out of his reach for the moment, he had no knowledge and no resources with which to make it happen, so he fell back to what he did understand and what he was good at: Spellwork.


    The budding Necromancer continued to munch away on the hard bread as he was drawn back into his work, his free hand fumbling around the table for his pen and ink as he thought. Before long, he was back at it, scratching away at the pages and trying to unravel the secrets of theplex spell, oneyer at a time. His mother''s training came alive whenever he did this sort of work, the long hours of studying phrases, the drudgery of pouring through her seemingly bottomless supply of diagrams. If he was honest, it was twice as taxing as his father''s sword training, but he enjoyed it far more.


    "Concentrate, son!" his mother would rap him on the head whenever his focus would start to waver. When he would give her an indignant look she would smile broadly and his ire would melt away as she ruffled his hair. "If you be a mage, I won''t have you throwing spells around like some back-alley Hedge Wizard. A true mage <em>understands</em> their magic, they don''t just use it. <em>That''s</em> how you level your spells."


    "What if I don''t get a mage ss?" he could remember the young Tyron protesting. "This will be aplete waste of time!"


    His mother had stared down into his eyes from her seat beside him at the table, the sound of his father performing sword drills outside the only other sound they could hear.


    "But you <em>might</em> be a mage. And if you are, do you want to be mediocre, or do you want to excel?" she asked.


    Faced with that, he''d had little choice but to throw himself into his studies until she was satisfied, and ultimately he''d ended up continuing them even when she wasn''t home to make him. Despite never learning many spells, he was confident his fundamental grasp of spell structure and magick were at least decent for his age, especiallypared to other kids from the outer provinces. His Status acknowledging he possessed some understanding of the Mystery of Spell Shaping was all the proof he needed.


    He could feel that Mystery at work in him now, a faint trickling of sensation that would vanish if he tried to focus on it. It wasn''t well understood how they assisted people with tasks, only that they did. Ever since he''d earned it and it¡¯d appeared on his status sheet, he could tell that they were aiding him in some intangible way. He didn''t bother focusing on them now, the spell itself was engrossing enough for him. He needed to level up his Raise Dead spell, and to achieve that he needed two things, practice and understanding. It would be hard to practice, he needed rtively fresh corpses for that and it wasn''t like he could pop down to market in order to get one. In fact, the two skeletons he prepared the previous night may be thest he would get his hands on, which meant this was the only way he could try to empower the spell before then. With luck, he would be able to raise the level of the spell once through study before he needed to raise his next servants.


    There was some debate about whether it was a spell''s level that produced increased power, or whether it was the improvement of the mage themselves that was reflected by the level change. His mother believed there were elements of both.


    "The Unseen rewards your efforts," she''d said, "if you learn and grow, stretch yourself and your abilities, then you will be granted more power to match."


    Tyron was inclined to believe his mother when it came to things like this. After all, who would better understand the workings of the Unseen better than a high-levelled yer? A higher levelled Raise Dead spell would mean more powerful skeletons, not only because his own skill would improve, but because the hand of the Unseen would push a little harder for him, which could make all the difference.


    For several long hours he continued to scratch away at the page until his hunger forced him to put down his pen and seek out a meal. He stood from the table and stretched, the crack and creak of his bones elicited a quietugh. His father wouldment he was sinking even further into ''bookworm-hood'' as he had phrased it, sitting hunched over a table for so long. Tyron had long suspected that Magnin still held out hope that his son would follow in his footsteps with a warrior style ss, but he had only grown more bookish over the years.


    It was close to midday when he emerged blinking into the sun once more and made his way to Leaven St, keeping himself to the edge of the street and allowing the traffic to pass him by. He tried to be unobtrusive as he slipped into the inn, but he should have known it would be a waste of time. He was no more than three steps in the door when his uncle''s voice rang throughout themon room.


    "AHA!" he shouted. "If it isn''t my favourite nephew!"


    Immediately half the eyes in the room turned to see the young man standing sheepishly near the wall, observing him for a quiet moment before turning back to their meals, the murmur of conversation rose back to its previous levels. Uncaring of the general mood of the room, therge innkeeper strode across the floor, weaving his way through the tables until he pped his nephew on both shoulders with his hands.


    "How are you doing boy?" Worthy asked, looking sincerely down at Tyron with clear eyes.


    The younger man winced under the pressure from those powerful arms. He might run an inn now, but Worthy was once a yer and a proud Hammerman at that. His physical stats were no joke and it wasn''t umon for the man to forget to control himself from time to time.


    "I - I''m fine, uncle," Tyron said, trying not to look his uncle in the eye. "Just getting a little hungry and thought a hot meal would be pleasant."


    Worthy threw an arm around his shoulders andughed as he steered him toward the kitchens.


    "Of course, a hot meal fixes every ill! <em>Especially</em> when cooked by my wife! I swear by the stones of Sazz himself I''ve seen her stew knit flesh and mend bones. Isn''t that right, darling?"


    Unimpressed with her husband''s antics, Megan gave him a level stare before turning a more weing gaze onto Tyron.


    "Hello thered," she said warmly, e on in and I''ll get you fed. As for you, you''d best get back behind the bar before my wooden spoons finds stones of a different sort."


    She waved said implement threateningly and Worthy backed away, his hands raised.


    "Threatened? By my own spouse? I''m wounded," he feigned an injured expression, poorly and Megan snorted.


    "I''ll give you wounded," she threatened him before turning back to her work, her hands shing over the bench as she chopped, stirred and tested the dishes sizzling away on her stove.


    With a final wink to his nephew, Worthy vanished back into themon room and only momentster Tyron heard his bellowingugh roar out as he exchanged jests with the regrs and he didn''t fail to notice the small smile that graced his aunt''s face.


    "He has a way with people that one," she said to him as she served a generous serving of stew, tearing some bread off a fresh loaf and tossing it into the bowl before putting it down in front of you, "which is why I suspect he''s right to be worried about you."


    She looked down at him kindly and Tyron felt guilt and shame rise hot in his chest. His family were good people and he was making them worry about him. It wasn''t a good feeling, but he just didn''t know what else he could do.


    "It''ll be alright, Aunt Megan," he tried to sound confident as he sought to reassure her. "I just need a few days to sort myself out and then I''ll be able to move forward. Things just didn''t turn out the way I expected, that''s all."


    She gave a sigh and reached out to pull him to her in a hug.


    "I know you''ll be okay,d," she said. "You''re brighter than you''ve got any right to be and I know you''llnd on your feet, no matter what the Gods throw your way. You just need to have that confidence in yourself. It''s not the ss that defines a person and only fools think that way."


    She pulled away.


    "Eat up and go rest. That''s all you need to focus on. I''ll tell Worthy to make sure that you get your space."


    He sat and ate in silence.

 Chapter 9: Minions

    Chapter 9: Minions


    Deep into night on the third day and Tyron Steelhand found himself once again shuffling through the gloom trying to look unobtrusive as he crept out of town to the graveyard. The damp was out early and his shoes were sopping wet by the time he arrived, dragging soft curses out of him as he squelched through the fields. He probably could have just taken the road, nobody would be using it, but he wanted to minimise risk, which meant he crossed through the Grady family''snd and their knee high grass.


    "Stupid," he muttered to himself, "probably left a track through the field a blind, noseless dog could follow. Why not just stick to the road?"


    Even as he cursed himself, he knew why: the marshals were out and about. He''d seen them wandering through town as dusk fell, spotted a few on the roads on the outskirts of town. It spooked him enough that he''d been determined to take extra steps to try and cover his tracks, only to mess up. When he finally reached the Arryn mausoleum, he was half an hour behind schedule, dripping wet and freezing cold. A fantastic start to a night of difficult spell casting.


    Hands shaking and teeth chattering, he slipped the chain from the entrance to the mausoleum and moved inside, muttering a light spell once he''d closed the door behind him. The now familiar sight of dust and webs greeted him once more and he sighed. At least it was private. Throwing off his bag, he started unpacking. He had a lot he wanted to get done tonight and not that much time to spare considering how much he''d wasted already. This was already the third night since the ceremony, he only had two more before he would be forced to report on his ss and relinquish it, crippling himself in the process.


    If he was going to hold onto it and preserve his future, he needed to make as much progress as he possibly could. In his head, vague ns were beginning to take shape of running away into the wilderness, making his way to the border towns or the yer Keeps close to the rifts. It would be hard, but if he managed to be strong enough, anything was possible. He needed levels.


    And to get those, he had to have minions. The ss description was clear: raising the dead and having them fight for him were the only ways he could progress. He had a suspicion that simply raising minions would only get him so far. If he wanted to reach level twenty and achieve the first ss evolution, he would need to have his minions fight.


    Which was why tonight was so important. ording to the admittedly limited research he''d been able to conduct, pouring through his parent¡¯s archives to read descriptions of undead monsters, he''d quickly abandoned the idea of relying on zombies. Slow, filthy, able to be smelled a mile off, weak in small numbers, zombies didn''t appeal to him at all. Their advantages, namely being easier to create and cheaper to maintain in terms of magick might have been appealing if he''d had an abundance of fresh corpses to work with, but that simply wasn''t the case.


    What he had were bones. Stronger, faster, capable of wielding weapons albeit clumsily, the skeleton was an all-round more appealing minion than a shambling pile of rotted flesh. More difficult to create, a more intensive drain on magic, there were certainly downsides, but he was going to do the best he could with the resources he had to hand.


    Spreading light throughout the dim, narrow corridors of the mausoleum, he brought out the cloth he''d prepared and started to swat away the webs that blocked his path. The eight legged pests sent shadows flickering across the walls as they skittered away from his marauding muslin, the soft glow of his light magick catching them in the act. When he was done, he had a little more clear air and turned back to finish unpacking. He took a long draw from his water skin and munched on the jerked meat he''d packed as he consulted his notes, running through the spell forms one more time.


    Reluctantly, he closed the book, rose and stretched.


    "Alright then, time to check on Nth and his blushing bride."


    He moved around the corner to see the two caskets he''d opened the previous night. Eyes lighting up, he walked straight to the stone bed of Nth, leaning forward to inspect the bones and the careful threading he''d performed. There had been some decay, the magick weave he''d so painstakingly created had begun to fray as the energy dissipated. He''d expected it to be worse than it was and quickly set to repairing the damage. He paid careful attention to the areas around the joints, this was where the finest weave was required and where loose threads were hardest to spot. It wouldn''t do if he spent all this time raising his first skeleton only to find it couldn¡¯t walk!


    After an hour, more than half of which was spent needlessly fussing over every little detail, he finally rocked back on his heels and stretched out. He grasped the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders as he looked down on the two assembled skeletons, still lying in their open stone caskets in front of him.


    "No point dying any longer," he muttered, "might as well get on with it."


    It was frustrating, but he didn''t have enough time, resources or know-how to do any more preparation. He knew that given a few more days he''d be able to make further improvements to his understanding of the remains and the intricacies of the Raise Dead spell, resulting in more powerful skeletons, but he was denied that luxury.


    Fetching his notebook, he hunched over it for a few more minutes as he ensured he hadmitted everything he needed to memory. With a final nod, he snapped shut the book and moved to stand at the feet of Nth''s remains. Raising his hands, he began the incantation, feeling the magick begin to stir within him as it was summoned by the words of power.


    For long minutes the words rolled sonorously from his mouth as the magick flowed and twisted through the air, leaching into the bones which began to glow with dark light as more and more arcane energy filled them. The fine weave of magick thread he''dced around the bones ignited, drawing close and fusing into the remains as sweat began to drip down his brow halfway through the cast. Still, it wasn''t done, and Tyron didn''t let his focus slip for a second as he allowed the spell to take hold and consume his mind.


    On and on it went until atst, after almost an hour, the final syble was drawn from his lips and he copsed, his throat raw and body drained. With shaking hands, his wiped the sweat from his forehead and watched as the final vestiges of energy flowed into the bones. For a moment, nothing happened and the only sound in the dusty tomb was Tyron''sboured breathing as he collected himself and waited.


    Despite the massiveplexity of the spell, he was confident in his ability. It worked. He <em>knew</em> it had worked.


    A few secondster, a soft light, so dark as to be almost ck, but Tyron thought he detected hints of purple, appeared in the empty sockets of Nth''s skull. As excitement built in Tyron''s eyes, he detected the almost imperceptible movement of the bones as they began to draw together, the femur pulling toward the tibia, the pate rising to its ce atop the joint. They moved was almost as if a thread, loosely sewn through a cloth, was ever so slowly being pulled tight, drawing all the disparate parts together.


    Which was exactly what was happening. The hours he spent threading were nowing to fruition, animating and pulling the skeleton together. It was a gradual process, one that the budding Necromancer watched with rising enthusiasm. As the skeleton grew more animated, Tyron could feel the drain on his remaining store of magick grow as his new minion drew on his reserves to, quite literally, pull itself together.


    "Come on now, Nth. Up you get," the young mage urged his creation like a child would speak to a new pet.


    In many ways, it was. The Raise Dead spell formed a connection between the two of them, a master and servant bond that now flickered to life. Tyron had spent a great deal of time examining this portion of the spell matrix, since anything to do with the mind was well outside of his knowledge. As part of raising a collection of bones to life, there were many elements that were necessary, a way for the bones to move, a source of energy to power it, and a mind to control it. Part of the magick he had just performed, perhaps even the most significant part, was constructing a crude mental ''shell'', he hesitated to call it a mind, it was far too crude for that, that would allow the skeleton to control its own body without him having to direct its every movement.


    Little more than a set of directives his new servant would follow to the letter, the shell was useful, but only in a limited sense.


    Fuelled by his arcane power, the skeleton climbed from its grave, climbing with surprising dexterity from the stone casket to stand on its own two feet, a servant, willing and waiting on hismand. Now that he actually saw the fruit of hisbours, Tyron couldn''t help but feel a giddy wave ofughter bubble up from his belly. He''d done it! Not only had he sessfully raised a skeleton, the second level of undead, on his first attempt, it was only his second attempt at casting Raise Dead in total!


    He didn''t have any base topare his own ability to another necromancer, for obvious reasons, but he felt confident that his own progress was at least a little exceptional. He refused to believe that any newly ssed spellcaster would be able to handle as difficult a piece of magick as reanimating bones without <em>extensive</em> training and education.


    He himself was lucky to have the intermittent instruction his own parents had been able to impart, but even with this advantage, he was rather proud of himself as he shakily rose to his feet.


    "Dammit," he muttered as he reached for his bag, his hands fumbling with as his fingers refused to obey the demands of his brain.


    With some effort, he was able to reach inside and wrap his fingers around the item he was searching for. When he drew it out, the soft blue light it emitted, was almost blinding in the darkness of the tomb, his own light globes having faded with his diminishing mana reserves.


    "Mage candy," the voice of his mother sounded inside his head, a memory of her holding up a crystal just like this one in front of his younger eyes. "Very useful in small doses, extremely toxic inrge ones. If you end up being a spellcaster, it''s a good idea to start building up an immunity early, because if you''re anything like me, you''ll be chewing through these things," she grinned, "like candy."


    Good thing she kept a small stash of the stuff in the house in case of an emergency. Good thing he''d found out where it was when he was eleven. Not that he''d ever needed them before now. Crystal in hand, he settled himself on the floor, sitting cross legged on the freezing cold stone as he brought his hands together in front of his chest before he ced the gem into his mouth and concentrated.


    It was slow at first, so slow he almost couldn''t notice the trickle of pure magickal energy leaking into his body, but as the minutes trickled past the flow increased in speed until he was receiving a steady stream of magick, lifting his reserves from their woefully low state. Gradually, his hands began to steady and his body regained its strength. Casting the spell to raise a skeleton had taken him to the edge of his reserves, even after his level up and the resultant surge of stats. To make matters worse, when he had been on the verge of running dry, the skeleton had stood up, using his magick to do so. All in all, it had been a close call.


    Ten minutester he spat out the crystal to find the glow that had emanated from the crystal had diminished considerably, but he felt much improved. He rose from his seated position to find his minion still standing at attention, the dull glow of ethereal energy flickering in its hollow sockets. He could feel it in his mind, an emotionless pocket in the corner of his awareness. He had to admit, it was a little unnerving being in the tomb with it. The skeleton stood with perfect stillness, and would do so forever, until he provided an order or the mana that sustained it exhausted itself.


    He was specifically careful <em>not </em> to give it an order. Any movement it made would resume the drain on him, which was something he could not afford right now, he had ns for the magick that infused him now.


    "Alright Nth," Tyron muttered to himself, rubbing his hands together, "about time you and the Mrs were reunited I would say."


    A second casting of Raise Dead in one night. It would be a risk, and if he hadn''t brought a small collection of mage candy with him, he wouldn''t have had enough energy to do it. The danger wasn''t that his magick wouldn''t be sufficient, but the toxic effect of the crystals on his body. When he''d made his ns for the evening, it had been something he had deemed would be worth hazarding. His time limit was just so short. In two more nights he would bepletely cut off from society unless he renounced his ss.


    As he stared into the faint mes that burned in the eyes of his skeleton, he simply couldn''t imagine giving it up. This was the first step, the first hurdle. A Necromancer was capable of creating not just a few servants, but an army. This was merely the beginning of what he would be able to achieve if he pursued this ss.


    Faced with a future in which he moved through the world as a powerful mage with a horde of fearsome undead at his side, or one in which he slunk through town as a cripple, no Primary ss to speak of, he couldn''t imagine choosing thetter. He was a Sterm, son of Magnin and Beory. He''d spent his entire life in their shadow, how could anyone think he would be content to remain there for the rest of his life?!


    He didn''t want to live beneath them! He wanted to <em>be</em> them!


    And when he''d swept through the wilds and destroyed the rifts at the head of his legion of the dead, they would sing his praises in the streets and he would be celebrated alongside his parents as a great yer of the age.


    Eyes hardening in determination, Tyron withdrew another crystal from within his bag and popped it into his mouth, the cold surface of the gem freezing on his tongue even as he felt the trickle of power begin to flow from it.


    This would be difficult. He rolled the candy in his mouth until he had it firmly pressed under his tongue against the back of his teeth. Gem secured, his hands began to move and the words of power began to roll from his tongue as the dead air within the mausoleum stirred once more as his power thrummed.


    Outside, the wind rose and clouds began to creep over the horizon, heralding the storm toe.

 Chapter 10: Troubling Signs

    Chapter 10: Troubling Signs


    Worthy sighed heavily as he moved through themon room of the Sterm Inn, shifting tables and pushing chairs. It was the little details that made a goodmon room, this was something he''d learned over his years as a yer. Travelling from town to town, barony to earldom and city to city in search of the next contract meant a lot of time spent sleeping in beds that weren''t your own and although none could use him of being the sharpest weapon on the rack, Worthy had an eye for the little things.


    His inn wasn''t the most patronised in Foxbridge and the wider duchy because he traded on the family name, though it certainly helped. His brother''s exploits might bring the patrons through the door, but it was the quality service that kept theming back.


    When the chairs were crooked, it showed ack of care, made the atmosphere feel off. After all, if the Innkeeper didn''t bother to straighten the chairs, where else might corners be cut? He''d made it a point across his career to only stay in businesses with neat chairs. When the tables weren''t arranged properly it made it harder to move through the space, made life more difficult for his servers, made it harder for the patrons to reach the bar. Best to head off trouble before it had a chance to make itself known in his estimation.


    It was that kind of ''fussing over the little things'', as his brother put it, that made sure the Sterm Inn enjoyed a ster reputation and operated as regr as a clock. Which was why he was so concerned about his nephew. Gaining a ss was a big deal for a kid, it was the moment you finally became an adult, a fully functioning person. For someone like Tyron, who''d lived with the constant expectation that he would do incredible things when he grew up, just like his parents (and to a lesser extent, his uncle), the shock of getting such a humdrum ss would be world shattering.


    The poor kid. When he''de to eat over the past few days, it hadn''t been hard to notice the growing bags under his eyes, the sallow skin. It was easy to see that he hadn''t been sleeping. At least he was getting food into him. If all went well, then his damned parents would show up in a few days at thetest and then they could sit down together and work out what the boy would do for his future.


    Being a Scribe wasn''t a great start, but it''s not like there''s nothing that you can do with it. With the right mix of secondary sses, he could turn himself into a reasonable spellcaster. Enough to support yer groups on expedition if he worked hard. If he wanted to, Worthy was confident that the boy could be a hell of a Scribe though. If he levelled it enough, chose his secondaries carefully, he''d make money hand over fist working for a lord, or even the royal treasury.


    He''d be getting paid better than half the yers in the kingdom without any risk of getting eaten. Didn''t seem like a bad deal to Worthy.


    Though in his heart, he knew it wasn''t what the kid wanted for himself. Tyron liked to y it cool, act like he wasn''t bothered by it, but deep down he longed for the sort of renown that the legendary yers received. Defenders of the people, warriors of light, wardens of civilisation. It was all nonsense as far as Worthy was concerned. He''d been in the business long enough to know that there wasn''t any glory there, just blood and guts and shit.


    But he could remember what it was like when he was a boy, how he''d longed to go into battle, fend off the creatures from the rifts. He saw that same burning ambition in his nephew and having that dream crushed before it could even begin was a mighty sad thing.


    Every chair in its ce and every table properly arranged, the innkeeper stepped back to appreciate his work. Not so rigid as to look sterile, but just organised enough to make for a smooth day of business. Perfect is what it was. Now for the cleaning. With a little more life in his step, he moved to the storage cupboard and removed the enchanted gear he kept stored. The bucket which heated the water and kept it near boiling point. The sponge he''d had to order special from his sister-inw. Only her contacts would allow him to get his hands on something like this.


    Death magick enhanced, the sponge would suck the life from everything it touched, leaving a trail of death in its wake. With his powerful defensive stats and build, Worthy himself was immune to the effect, but the bacteria on his tables were not. With a savage sense of glee he got to work, swiping the piping hot water which he could barely feel across his tables, imagining devastated armies of microbes begging for their lives as he approached each wooden surface.


    "No mercy," he rumbled, thoroughly wiping down another table with grim satisfaction.


    Tables done, he was about to head into the kitchen for the morning clean down when the door opened unexpectedly. Worthy turned, surprise written in upon his face, to see Tyron standing in the doorway, swaying on his feet, his eyes half-focused as his hands grasped at nothing by his sides.


    "Boy?" Worthy asked as he walked closer, "are you alright?"


    Tyron''s hands rose and seemed to search for the door. Not finding it in front of him, he took a few staggered steps into themon room, that same semi-vacant expression on his face. A sense of rm began to rise in Worthy as he drew nearer, the boy didn''t look right, not at all. It was something beyond just fatigue and sleep deprivation, something that tickled at his memory.


    "Hey, uncle," the boy slurred, "any chance I can¡­ get something to eat? I''m¡­ I''m starving¡­ I think?"


    At his side now, Worthy gripped his nephew by the shoulder to steady him and took a good look at his face. Eyes close to bloodshot, face drawn and covered in dust, ck marks and streaks across his skin, the kid looked like hell.


    "Holy shit, boy. What in the ninth rift have you been doing?"


    The kid was still unsteady on his feet, even with the powerful yer¡¯s hand steadying him. At the question, a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.


    "Magick, uncle. I did magick. I wasn''t sure if I could, but I did it."


    "Magick? You can do magick any time, why would you stay up all night doing it, you mad boy?" Worthy berated him even as he felt his heart pang.


    He could easily imagine Tyron, unable to ept his fate working through the night to develop his magical talent. Even so, that shouldn''t put him in this state¡­


    "Fuck!" he swore.


    Of course! How could he miss it! He almost pulled up his death sponge to wipe at the kid''s face but stopped himself at thest moment before he threw the cleaning tool into the corner with another curse. Megan emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron, an expression between disapproval and amusement on her face.


    "What''s all this cursing so early in the morning, husband?" she mock scolded before she saw Tyron and gasped. "Tyron! What''s happened?"


    "Get me a cloth woman!" Worthy bellowed as he reached down to scoop the boy from his feet. "And warm water!"


    "Uncle?" Tyron asked, a faint tremor in his voice, "what''s happening?"


    "Shut up,d," Worthy said as he carried him swiftly into the kitchen,ying him down on the table as one of the kitchen staff held open the door.


    "Here''s the cloth."


    "Ta."


    With one hand, the former hammerman gently brushed the hair back from the boy''s face as he used the cloth to wipe away the dust and grime around his mouth. After a few moments, he leaned closer to get a better look before he swore explosively.


    "FUCK!" his hand smashed down on the table, smashing an imprint onto the treated wood, made to be hard enough to prevent knives from cutting it.


    "What''s wrong with him, Worthy?" Megan asked, frightened by her husband''s unusual expression of anger.


    For the moment, he ignored her, his hands tightening around his nephew''s head.


    "How many boy?" he whispered, voice trembling from suppressed rage. "How many did you havest night?"


    "Uncle? I.. Don''t know what you mean."


    "The crystals boy. How many crystals? Try to think."


    The urgency in his tone seemed to do something for Tyron, his eyes almost focused for a half second, before it vanished, his mind retreating into the fog once more.


    "I-I''m not sure. Crystals? I''m so ¡­ tired."


    "No! Don''t sleep!" Worthy pped him across the face, hard.


    "Worthy!" Megan was almost in tears at this point. "What''s wrong!?"


    With a visible struggle, Worthy mastered his temper as he continued to lean over his nephew, his focus never leaving his face.


    "This idiot has been up all night casting spells. Which would be fine, normally. It''s not smart to do it, but it''s not like he hasn''t done it before. Except this time he must have burned through all his energy and decided that he should use some arcane crystals to top himself off."


    His wife gasped.


    "Isn''t that?"


    "Fuckin'' dangerous? Yes, it is," he growled. "If the little idiot used too many, then he''s already dead."


    With barely any effort, Worthy slipped his arms underneath Tyron''s increasingly limp form and hoisted him up.


    "I''ll put him in the back room, make himfortable. Send someone to run and get the apothecary, tell the old bastard to move his ass, I don''t care how early it is. Megan, pull together some of the leftovers, if we can get some food into him, that can help."


    As the small crowd that had gathered in the kitchen raced to do as he''d said, the broad shouldered man carried his nephew as gently as a baby to a spare room on the ground floor.


    "Don''t you dare died. Not before your fatheres home and kicks your arse over this first," he muttered.


    Ten minutester, the town apothecary, a leather skinned old codger named Yarrus, was dragged into the room by Berry, one of the kitchen hands. Worthy gave her a nod as the healer drew himself up, cursing the youth and theirck of respect for their elders.


    "I''m here Worthy, what is worth dragging me out of bed for?"


    "My nephew. He''s used arcane crystals, I''m not sure how many."


    "Magick toxicity?" the old man sucked in a deep breath as he rushed to the bedside. "That''s not good."


    "No shit," Worthy growled, "can you do anything for him?"


    "I can," Yarrus confirmed, a sly tone creeping into his voice, "but perhaps we should first discuss the matter of payment?"


    In one motion, the innkeeper snatched the old man up off the ground by his neck, holding him there as easily as if he were a sack of potatoes.


    "How about you heal him first? Worthy rumbled, fire dancing in his eyes, "or maybe you''d like to exin to Magnin why his only son is dead because you wanted to argue about the price?"


    The apothecary frantically wed at the hand that gripped him, but couldn''t budge it so much as an inch. Worthy slowly lowered him until the tips of his toes touched the ground before loosening his grip just enough to let the man breathe.


    "This is assault!" Yarrus gasped, "you think you can do this to me?"


    "You heal this boy or I''ll do far worse. I''ll pay your fucking coin when you''re done! Get to it!"


    With a face filled with contempt, Worthy released the apothecary who slumped to the ground before crawling to the bedside and rummaging through his robes. The old hammerman watched him carefully as the healer began to pluck various herbs from his pockets, fetching a mortar and pestle from the bag he''d brought with him to start grinding away.


    "It''s advanced quickly," Yarrus muttered, mostly to himself, "you can already see the veins in his face turning blue and the bruising around the mouth. His temperature is... normal enough for now, but that will change in the next hour or so. Judging by the rapidity of the spread, I''d say he had three crystals, at least."


    Worthy sucked in a breath, his brow creased with concern. Three crystals into someone who hadn''t built up a tolerance was a high dose. Three in one night was a high dose for someone who''d been using them regrly for a long period. He didn''t have much experience with mage training, having never gone through anything like it himself, he''d still worked with plenty of spellcasters over the years, and most of them wouldn''t take more than one crystal at a time, and only when they had to.


    Just what had the kid been doingst night? Why did he have to push himself this hard? And where the hell did he get his hands on the things? They''re restricted!


    The answer was obvious, but he couldn''t believe that Beory would be so careless with her own equipment that Tyron had gotten his hands on them. Had he bought them himself? With what money? He had a small stash of funds to take care of himself, certainly not enough to purchase arcane crystals, not that anyone in Foxbridge sold the damn things.


    "You''re lucky I did my rounds at Skyice Keep," Yarrus said as he pulled a series of needles from his bag and began coating the tips in the mixture he had prepared, "I treated many for this condition during my time there."


    A grunt was the only reply the apothecary received and his face soured as he drew the first of the needles out of thepound he had prepared.


    "By cing these at the nexus points in the extremities, I''ll be able to draw away some of the excess magick in his body. Hopefully, it will be enough to prevent the worst ramifications of his overdose, but as with all things in life, there is no certainty."


    "Get to it," Worthy said.


    Moving with the utmost care, Yarrus allowed his experience and skills to guide him as he turned over the boy''s arms so the palms faced upward, tracing the needle along his veins. When he was satisfied, he inserted the thin rod of tempered medicinal steel at the midpoint of the forearm, quickly replicating the effort on the other arm. With this done, he rolled up the boy''s pants to mid-calf and inserted two more needles above the ankle on each leg.


    After a few minute of patient watching, the four needles began to emit a soft light.


    "There," Yarrus nodded in satisfaction, "a portion of the energy is being drained away. I must caution you, should too much magick be taken from his system then there will be adverse side effects to that as well. Monitor the needles carefully. When the light is half as dim as it is now, remove them immediately, lest he suffer as a result."


    "Is that all we can do?" Worthy asked.


    "With the resources we have to hand here in Foxbridge? Yes. If a high level Arcane Healer were in town, they could do much more, but s you are stuck with me."


    The old man pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.


    "And I expect to be <em>paid</em>."


    Avarice glinted clear and bright in the apothecaries eyes. The Sterms were the wealthiest family in town and hardly suffered from as much as a cough across the years. The opportunity to dip his hands into those deep pockets was near enough to get him salivating.


    "You can settle ounts with Magnin when he gets home. He shouldn''t be more than a few days away."


    Worthy dismissed the apothecary with a few words and knelt by the side of his nephew, taking the boy''s hand in his own. A range of emotions writhed across Yarrus'' face as he contemted trying to wring funds from a powerful yer. Greed, concern, fear followed quickly by glum eptance.


    Magnin might decide to shower him with gold, or just as easily short change him and there was absolutely nothing that he, a small town healer could do about it. Someone like Magnin was worth a thousand of him in the eyes of the kingdom. If the warrior decided to cut him down in the street he likely wouldn''t be punished for it.


    Grinding his teeth, Yarrus stalked out of the room and stomped through the inn, unheeded by everyone. Instead, their focus was on the semi-conscious young man in the back room.

 Chapter 11: Sleeping

    Chapter 11: Sleeping


    Sunrise of the fourth day since the awakening ceremony and Elsbeth Ranner woke numb and tired, the patter of rain on the te roof of the family home a constant drum in her ears. After shey in her bed for ten minutes, she finally sighed and pushed her nkets off, having managed to summon the energy she needed to prepare for the day.


    So much had changed since the awakening. Everything had changed.


    It was normal, in a way. Getting a ss and transitioning to an adult, it was a momentous shift in everyone''s life, and she''d known that going into it, but even so she hadn''t expected¡­ <em>this</em>. She''d even gotten the ss that she''d been hoping for, she was a genuine Priestess. Somehow, she couldn''t find it within herself to celebrate that fact this morning.


    She brushed her hair and dressed herself before she left her room, turning left down the corridor she opened the door to find her family at the table eating breakfast. The air sat heavy in the room and silencey beneath it like a nket.


    "Sorry I''mte," she muttered to no-one in particr and dragged a chair out to sit down.


    Her mother shed her a brief smile that faded as quick as it appeared. Her father sat in stony silence as he stared straight ahead, chewing his food with a mechanical rhythm. Elsbeth nodded to her mother in thanks for preparing the meal and raised her hands to pray before she hesitated. She''d been praying to the Goddess so long that the words of the morning prayer hade to her lips unbidden, but, she couldn''t pray to her now, could she?


    Her father mmed a hand down onto the table before he stood, the legs of his chair scraping over the floor in the way he''d always hated.


    "Thanks for the meal," he ground out, his entire posture radiating suppressed anger.


    It was so unlike the loving father that she knew. Tears welled in her eyes but Elsbeth kept her head down as the man who had raised her tidied his te before he stomped out of the dining room, mming the door behind him.


    She nearly jumped when a hand gently touched her shoulder.


    "He''ll be alright in a few days," her mother said, "he just needs a little time."


    The gentle tone and warm support broke thest of her defences and the tears spilled over.


    "What about me?" she sobbed as her mother drew her into her arms, "it isn''t any easier for me!"


    Angine Ranner didn''t answer her daughter, just held her close and rocked her side to side as she had for all her children when they were upset. Eventually the tears ceased and she helped wipe Elsbeth''s face her hide the tracks of her weeping.


    "What are you going to do today?" she asked.


    Elsbeth blinked. She couldn''t just keep hiding in her house, she had to go out sometime.


    "I''ll go and register my ss at city hall. No point waiting until thest day, better to get it over with."


    Angine nodded in approval.


    "That''s the way. One door closing isn''t the end of the world. You''ll find that there are many opportunities for a bright girl such as yourself."


    She smiled.


    "Thanks mother."


    The two women shared a hug before they parted ways, Angine to see to her chores and Elsbeth to get ready to head into town. She almost lost her nerve. Once she had her boots on and found a warm coat to keep off the rain she made it to the front door before she froze. After a moment, she screwed up her courage and shoved open the door, the grey and dreary weather greeting her the moment she did.


    It was probably thanks to the rain that she managed to get from her house to the town hall without being noticed. Once she got there and pulled back her hood it was a different story. The entrance hall which stood deserted most of the year was packed, even at this early hour. Young adults, all here to register stood or sat around the room in small groups, muttering quietly to each other.


    The moment she entered, all eyes turned to her and the whispers stopped for a conspicuous second, before they returned, louder than before. Her face reddened but she refused to back out now, instead she strode forward to the secretary who stood outside the mayor''s office, parchment and quill in hand.


    "Elsbeth Ranner, here to register my ss," she said.


    "No problem, Elsbeth, take a seat. It''s likely to be a little while," the woman said apologetically.


    It was two hours before her name was called. For two hours she sat in one corner by herself and endured the whispers and sidelong nces of people she might have considered friends once. Twice she''d tried to start a conversation with someone nearby and twice she''d been rebuffed with a sneer.


    News travels quickly in small towns.


    When she heard her name, she practically flew out of her seat and into the mayor''s office where she found Mayor Arryn and Clerk Barbury seated on the other side of the desk.


    "Good morning, Elsbeth," the Mayor smiled. "This is all standard procedure and we''ll try and hustle through it since there''s still quite a few waiting. I don''t know why but people always seem to wait until the fourth day. Day two you could have swung a cat out there."


    "We''ll ask a few questions about your awakening, then we will get you to perform the status ritual here in front of us," Mrs Barbury exined. "Then I''ll use one of my skills to inspect your status and wepare the two results, then your paperwork goes away for filing. We keep one copy here and one copy goes to the record house in Dorrun."


    "I understand,'''' she nodded."


    The whole process took fifteen minutes toplete, with Elsbeth happy to answer the simple questions that were asked. Her status sheet was inspected with care before Mrs Barbury utilised her own method to produce an identical status sheet. Inspectionplete, the young priestess was all too happy to leave the reception room behind her and head back out into the rain. By now it was almost lunchtime and after a brief hesitation she decided she didn''t want to go home just yet. The frosty, repressed anger of her father was still a weight on her mind that she wasn''t prepared to deal with at the moment.


    Instead, she turned down Leaven street, stepping carefully on the slick cobblestone road as she made her way to the Sterm Inn. Pushing open the front door, she was greeted by a burst of warm air and the weing din of a livelymon room. She shook off her coat before she entered, hanging the damp clothing over the back of a chair, she sat at a table close to the corner and waited to be served.


    As she looked around the room, she couldn''t help but notice Worthy wasn''t present. Normally the jovial, chubby man would be holding court, roaring withughter as he served tables and pulled drinks, making every guest feel wee with a broad grin and a story of old heroics. She frowned for a moment before she brushed it off. He was probably fetching something from the cer, or perhaps was in town making a purchase. She didn''t need to overreact to him being absent the moment she entered the room.


    So she sat and waited and it wasn''t long until Nica, one of the serving girls, arrived at the table, returning shortly after with a bowl of steaming beef stew and a cup of mulled wine. She''d barely begun to enjoy her meal when two familiar figures slid onto chairs at her table.


    "Rufus! Laurel!" she gasped around a mouthful of stew and immediately blushed at her ownck of manners.


    "Hey there El," Rufus winked as he sat down.


    Laurel didn''t say anything as she took her seat. The tanned girl''s eyes wandered about the inn as if searching for something. Not finding it, she faced Elsbeth directly.


    "Tyron not around?" she asked.


    Elsbeth started when she realised she hadn''t thought of her friend at all since she''d entered the inn. Her eyes flicked around themon room guiltily before she replied.


    "Umm, no? I haven''t seen Worthy this morning either. Do you think everything''s okay?"


    The huntress shrugged carelessly and Rufus snorted.


    "I can''t believe that Tyron wouldn''tnd on his feet, no matter what happens. Even if his ss isn''t what he wanted, he can rely on his folks to sort him out. To be honest, I''m stillughing at how embarrassed he was after the awakening. You remember the look on his face?"


    "Rufus!" Elsbeth reprimanded the Swordsman. "He''s your friend, remember?"


    The young man pulled a face and opened his mouth to retort but Laurel cut him off before he got a word out.


    "I don''t believe he was given a boring ss," she said.


    "Believe it or not, you saw him for yourself," Rufus shrugged, a grin splitting his features. "He sure as shit didn''t look happy about whatever he got."


    Laurel casually reached across and cuffed the smith¡¯s son hard across the head, which made him flinch and forced a giggle out of Elsbeth.


    "You aren''t listening, blockhead," Laurel said evenly, "I don¡¯t believe his ss is boring, or weak."


    As he rubbed at the side of his head where he''d been struck, Rufus'' face darkened.


    "Why? Because of who his parents are? You think we''re all carbon copies of our fathers? Or mothers? That''s bullshit. Magnin and Beory are top shit, but Tyron''s always been weak.


    Elsbeth wanted to speak up to defend their friend, but the acid in Rufus'' tone made her reluctant to speak. Only a few days ago the four of them had hung out together constantly. Since the awakening, things had changed so quickly¡­


    For her part, Laurel just rolled her eyes before she fixed Rufus with a level stare.


    "Just because you want him to be weak, doesn''t mean that he is," she said simply. "He sucks with a sword, can''t fight for shit and you think that''s enough to make him useless? He''s smart. Real fucking smart. He started teaching himself magic before he even had a ss. I don''t care if you feel a desperate need to pull your dick out and measure it against his constantly, but at least try to see the reality in front of your eyes. <em>That</em> kid ended up with some boring and useless ss? I don''t believe it."


    "So, what, you think his ss is something incredible and he didn''t want to tell us because he thought we''d feel bad?" Rufus slumped in his chair sullenly, anger tightening the muscles in his neck. "That''d be right."


    "Or," Laurel spelled it out for him, "it''s illegal."


    A silence fell over the table as the other two absorbed that thought in shock.


    "No!" Elsbeth gasped.


    "You seriously think so?" Rufus grinned.


    "I don''t know," Laurel pursed her lips, "but I think it''s possible."


    "But that''s terrible! We have to help him!" Elsbeth cried.


    "First time I ever heard a priestess wanting to help a criminal," Rufus observed acerbically before softening his words with a smile when she shot a hurt nce in his direction.


    Silence blossomed once more amongst them as each considered the possibility of this news in their own way. It was several minutes before anyone spoke and it was none of the three young people. From the kitchen door, Worthy emerged looking somewhat haggard. The normally boisterous former yer swept his eyes across the room and stilled when he noticed his nephew''s friends seated in the corner. With wide strides, he made his way across themon room, dropping a muted friendly word here and there as he did so, finally arriving in front of the trio before they had noticed his approach.


    "Fancy seeing you three here," he greeted them with a small smile.


    Laurel, Elsbeth and Rufus jumped at the sound of his voice, jolted from their thoughts they turned to see the portly Innkeeper looming over them.


    "Worthy!" Elsbeth spluttered. "I was wondering if you were home!"


    Laurel and Rufus both greeted therge man with a murmured "Mr. Sterm".


    Though he may have developed a belly since retiring as a yer, Worthy was still an imposing physical specimen whose reputation alonemanded respect. His history, as well as his jovial nature and boisterousugh made him a favourite amongst the children of Foxbridge. The three of them had looked up to the man since they had been able to walk.


    The innkeeper''s face turned downcast in response to Elsbeth''s words.


    "Well, I suppose you wouldn''t have heard. Young Tyron has gotten himself into a spot of trouble. The fool boy is recuperating in the back room, his aunt hasn''t left his side all morning."


    "Oh no!" Elsbeth gasped. "Is it serious?"


    Rufus and Laurel exchanged nces.


    "He could have died," Worthy said simply. "Since the awakening he''s been beating himself up and pushing himself too hard. You four have been friends since you were wee munchkins. It''d mean a lot if you could spend some time with him when he wakes up. Try and cheer him up."


    Elsbeth immediately apologised profusely for not visiting earlier and pledged that they would all spend time with him the moment he awoke, but Rufus had other priorities.


    "What did he do?" Rufus interrupted the young Priestess. "To hurt himself, I mean?"


    Worthy frowned but didn''t see any reason not to answer.


    "He overdosed on magic, pushing himself to cast spells that he shouldn''t. I can only assume he got the stuff from his mother''s supply somehow." He shook his head. "Not getting the ss he wanted has hit the boy hard. It''ll be good for him to see that he hasn''t lost his friends."


    "Of course he hasn''t" Elsbeth said firmly and the others offered muttered agreement.


    "Thanks," Worthy smiled at them, his usual bright grin dimmed to a muted glow. "I''ll have the kitchens send out something extra for you kids."


    Having said his piece, Worthy finished his rounds of themon room and vanished back into the kitchen, most likely to sit by his unconscious nephew once more.


    "Poor Tyron," Elsbeth said, "I can''t believe he''d do that to himself. He''s always been so careful¡­"


    "It''s almost like he''s pushing his illegal ss to its limits before time runs out," Rufus leaned forward and whispered.


    "Or," Elsbeth red at him, "he''spensating for having his dreams shattered by pushing himself too hard."


    "Maybe," Rufus shrugged and leaned back in his chair.


    "It''s almost like you <em>want</em> him to have an illegal ss. Why? You want him to have it ripped out of him, to live as a cripple?" she demanded hotly.


    "Keep your voice down," Rufus hissed. "It''s not like that," he continued, "I just think we should listen to what Laurel has to say."


    "And do what? I still can''t believe either of you think this is real, but what are you going to do if it is? Help him escape? Or something?"


    "There''s a bounty on catching runaways," Laurel mused with a straight face.


    Both of her hands mmed into the table before she even realised what she was doing.


    "I can''t believe you, <em>either</em> of you," Elsbeth was on the verge of tears, "I''m going home."


    Her chair screeched as she rose from the table and stormed out, half the eyes of themon room on her as she did so. The moment the door mmed behind her, those eyes turned to the two youths who remained.


    "Nice and lowkey," Laurel murmured.


    "As if it isn''t your fault," Rufus scoffed, though he took care to keep his voice low. "You really don''t think you could have been a little more tactful than that?"


    "It''s your job to wrangle the princess, not mine," Laurel said, bored. "Though I''m not sure if trying to catch Tyron and turn him in would be a good move, <em>if </em>he has a banned ss."


    "What do you mean <em>if</em>?" Rufus said, "you were the one who suggested he did in the first ce!"


    "It''s possible, not certain."


    The young man pondered for a moment.


    "But if he does¡­ that bounty could help us. It''s not cheap to be yers, every little bit could help us out."


    Laurel watched the cksmith''s son with level eyes before a slow smile spread over her features.


    "You <em>do</em> want him to have an illegal. You want to drag him back into town and watch it ripped out of him. Don''t bother denying it, I can see it in your eyes."


    Rufus didn''t reply.


    "You are such a petty bastard," she said as she rose from the table, draining thest of her cup. "I''ll help you, because I think it''s hrious to see how far you''ll go for a childhood grudge, but I don''t think you''ll get the princess on board."


    "Leave her to me," Rufus said.


    Laurel stretched like a cat, the lithe form of her body catching Rufus¡¯ eye.


    "Even if I''m right, the marshals will get him before we do," she said as she turned toward the door.


    "The marshals are watching everyone. We only have to watch him."

 Chapter 12: Awakening

    Chapter 12: Awakening


    Fragments of thought rolled through Tyron''s mind, flickering from one to the next as he slept, like a fever dream. He saw bones, and dust and smelled rotting flesh and mildew. Spiders crawled over his body, weaving their webs through his ribs and in the holes of his eye sockets. He felt cold, a deep, bottomless cold that swelled and rose and pulled him down into a world of shadow that buried him in its heart. In his heart he thrashed and fought, tried to free himself from the vortex that pulled him away from the light, but it was useless. No force of man could possibly resist that which had hold of him now and soon he was lost. Lost to sight and sun, time and touch as his awareness was smothered in darkness.


    With a gasp like a drowning man thrown up on a beach, Tyron sat upright in bed, the sheets falling from his chest.


    For a moment he waspletely disoriented as he tried to reckon the world around him with the nightmare in his mind. His hands grasped for a hold on reality as his eyes rolled in his head, the light almost painfully bright. He heard a woman''s voice call out in fright and he came back to himself with a shock, sweating and heaving for air as he steadied himself on the bed. This was the inn. He knew this room. He turned his head to see his aunt Meg, a hand on her heart as she stared at him with eyes wide open.


    "Dear gods boy!" she wheezed, "you nearly scared me to death leaping out of the bed like that!"


    She recovered from the her surprise in a moment as she leaped from her chair, the crochet she had been working on falling to the floor as she swept him into her arms.


    "You little fool," she whispered through the tears that spilled over her eyes, "you could have died, Tyron."


    In an instant the shame swept over him and the young man was thrust back into his memories, sobbing in his aunt''s arms as a child whilst his parents adventured for months on end. This woman had practically raised him, she deserved better of him that this. His arms shook as he raised them to embrace her, still mmy with sweat.


    "I''m sorry Aunt Meg," he said. "I''m really sorry."


    They sat like that for several long minutes as Tyron tried to hold in his tears whilst Meg openly wept. She always wore her heart on her sleeve, Aunt Meg did. Eventually she released him and pulled back to wipe her eyes using the apron she still wore.


    "I''m sorry," she hupped, "but you can''t me an old woman for getting emotional when her nephew almost winds up dead now can you?"


    "No," he replied. "No I can''t."


    Now that he was awake and she was no longer frightened that he would suffer permanent damage, the fear that had lingered in her heart faded away to be reced with anger. He could see it spark to life in her eyes, though she controlled it well.


    "Now I suppose you''ll need to be exining yourself, young man," she said sternly, the effect only slightly ruined by the wet tracks that still glistened on her plump cheeks. "Your uncle and I have been worried sick! What could have possibly possessed you? Even if your ss is poor, there''s no need to be this extreme!"


    For a moment, he almost told her everything. He wanted to. Not only did he want to unburden himself, to exin how he felt and what he had done, share the secret that was lodged in his chest and no longer carry the weight of it himself, he also wanted the freedom that woulde from no longer having to decide. He could it put it all on his aunt and uncle. His parents had not returned and wouldn''t be able to shield him, or advise him, only these two were here, with him, as they''d always been.


    He opened his mouth to speak, then froze.


    Meg watched him with patience as the gears turned within his mind. Could he do it? Really? Selfishly pushing the burden onto them? Did that really serve them? Or himself? A bad situation didn''t necessarily get better just because you shared it around. He was in the shit, that didn''t mean his entire family needed to climb in with him. If he really wanted to help these people who had loved and cared for them, it would be better if they had no part of his ns. Better that he carried the whole burden himself.


    "I¡­ I got impatient," he averted his eyes and muttered. "I just don''t want to see my dreams copse into nothing, Aunt Meg. I can''t stand it."


    Thatst utterance, at least, had the ring of perfect truth and his aunt''s eyes softened at the pain in his voice.


    "It''s going to be alright," she reached out and patted him on the head, "you can trust us, Tyron, you know that."


    Another stab of pain red in his heart, but he just nodded dumbly, not trusting himself to speak. Meg''s eyes widened as she rose hurriedly.


    "I need to get your uncle! He only just went to bed, bless him. I''ll be back!" she hustled from the room.


    Tyron couldn''t help but chuckle warmly at the sight before a thought struck him cold. His uncle had gone to bed? What time was it?! He scrambled to find a window but this spare room had none and soon enough his uncle stormed into the room and dragged him into a bear hug which left him little room to breathe.


    "You little idiot," his uncle rumbled as he squeezed him tight and Tyron gasped for breath.


    He didn''t know how he managed to get out of that room without confessing. Thefort and support that his familyvished on him warmed him and buried him in guilt all over again, but he held his tongue. Both of them demanded that he stay in the inn overnight and wouldn''t hear of letting him go back to own house. His entire n was almost destroyed until he managed to persuade them to allow him to sleep in the attic as he usually would. After a thousand apologies and a thousand more hugs the two of them returned to their own chambers, but only after they had watched him climb up thedder and close the hatch.


    "Light" he whispered to the darkness.


    The soft globe of light sprang into existence and he levitated it into the air for a moment as he looked about his ''office'' and home away from home. The desk with the old wooden chair, the dusty pallet and nkets he had set for himself in the corner, his collection of worn texts he had brought over from his mother''s collection so he would always have something to read. He''d spent a good portion of his youth up here, when he didn''t want to stay in his own house by himself anymore.


    He was tempted. So tempted. He could just lie down, drag his nkets over himself and sleep. When he woke in the morning, he could go register his ss and it would be removed, then he could go on living in Foxbridge, probably for the rest of his life. He could pick up a few sub-sses, maybe work for the mayor''s office, or work as an ountant? He already kept the books for his uncle after all.


    Even as he rolled the thoughts over in his mind, he knew he wouldn''t do it. He felt as if he were to actually lie down, then he wouldn''t be himself anymore. He''d no longer be Magnin and Beory''s child, no longer be a Sterm. Even if it was hopeless, he was going to try and decide for himself how his life would go. The awakening ceremony might have dealt him a bad hand, but he refused to walk away from the table.


    There wasn''t much that he could use here, but he rummaged through his things anyway, making sure to keep the noise to a minimum. None of these books would be particrly useful after he left, but he couldn''t help flicking through them one more time. He waited for an hour, idly turning pages and gathering a few odds and ends he might want before he extinguished the globe and moved to the window.


    He suspected that his aunt and uncle knew full well about the rope he kept hidden in the attic but he hoped that on this night, with everything that had happened, they wouldn''t remember it. He moved as carefully as he could, opening the window a centimetre at a time until he lowered the rope and oh so slowly levered himself onto the window sill and then shimmied down. He was puffing by the time he got to the ground.


    <em>I''ll have to work on my fitness if I''m going to be roaming the rifts by myself,</em> he thought wryly. <em>Father would be pleased I finally got motivated to exercise.</em>


    Not that Tyron was overweight, he didn''t eat enough for that, but he was certainly unfit. He knew that tonight, the fourth since the awakening, the marshals would be on the highest alert for runaways, so he had to be careful. Heart in his mouth, Tyron crept towards his home, keeping to the shadows, relying on the instincts his Sneak skill gave him. Luck was with him, and he was able to climb the stone fence and flop into his backyard without rousing any suspicion. Once inside, he quickly gathered the materials he would need to sustain himself out in the wild.


    Gold, mage candy, some hardtack that he used when he couldn''t be bothered going to the inn to eat. He rummaged through his mother''s books until he found a few tomes that he thought would be useful as well as valuable in case he needed to sell them. A monster almanac, since he wasn''t as well read on these as he would like, a tome of spell forms that dealt with magick transference and another on sigil work. These he carefully wrapped before he ced them on the table along with everything else. He also raided his father''s store cupboard where he found a few travelling cloaks that didn''t really fit him and some spare swords. He needed three des in total and carefully selected these, keeping in mind a few things. He could open up the trophy room and take out the best and most powerfully enchanted weapons his father owned, but his skeletons wouldn''t be skilled enough to use them properly, and the moment anyone saw as much as the hilt he would likely be robbed.


    No, what he wanted were the kind of des his father favoured: in, well made and with utility enchantments to prevent rust. He took two of Magnin''s spares and grabbed his own sword and belted it onto his waist. He looked down on the unmarked sheath with mixed emotions. He''d never thought he might actually have need of the sword his father had bought him, and hopefully, if all went well, he wouldn''t have to use it all.


    <em>The skeletons do the fighting</em>, he reminded himself, <em>but you still need to defend yourself.</em>


    Two years ago, when his parents had first invited him to join them on their travels they had surprised him with a full set of travelling gear. Though he had turned them down in the end, the gear itself he had kept in his room as a reminder that they were willing to share their lives with him. He went through it all methodically, ensuring it was still packed correctly and ready to use. Rain proof cloak, sleeping roll, camping supplies, it was all still here. He brought it all to the kitchen and started to pack everything he had gathered. Not being used to this sort of thing, it took him a few goes to get it all to fit snugly into the bag, and a few more to work out how to get it onto his back and strapped in ce.


    With the fullyden pack and three swords hanging off his belt, he was far from stealthy, which worried him considerably. After he took all of the gear off again and considered it, he decided he would have to make two trips out to the mausoleum. The three swords he could take on the first trip, along with maybe the bedroll, then the pack on his second run. It would take longer, but he doubted he could get through town unnoticed when burdened by so much stuff.


    He didn''t feel guilty at all going through his parent¡¯s belongings like this, taking their money, weapons, books and equipment. He knew for a fact that the two of them didn''t care one bit for any of it, least of all the money. If he''d ransacked the trophy room and sold everything inside, he doubted his father would have batted an eye, though his mother would likely be furious at such a disy of poor character. Odds were, they left all this stuff lying around for the express purpose of making it easier for him to travel should the desire ever take him.


    As he made his final preparations, Tyron sat down and wrote a letter to his parents exining his situation which he sealed in an envelope, then he prepared himself once more to undergo the ritual to view his status. If all had gone well, he would have improved his skills, and with a little luck, maybe levelled one more time.


    He spoke the words, broke the skin on his thumb and pressed it to the paper. A wave of dizzyness washed over him briefly as the blood poured from the wound to form words on the page. He needed more rest, he still wasn''t fully recovered, but he didn''t have time. Once he steadied himself, he eagerly leaned forward to read the words on the page.


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>Your attempts at stealthhave increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>Your study of the Raise Dead Spell has increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>You have examined multiple corpses. Corpse Appraisal has increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>You have practiced applying threads of magick to remains.</em><strong>Bone Stitching has reached Level 2.</strong>


    <em>You have raised two Skeletons. <strong>Raise Dead has reached Level 3</strong>.</em>


    <em>The Darkness continues to be pleased with your progress. The Dark Ones see your corruption of the sanctified and take note. The Court see you raise minions with glee. The Abyss still waits to hear your call. <strong>Anathema has achieved level 3. You have received +2 Intelligence, +2 Constitution and +2 Willpower.</strong></em>


    Name: Tyron Steelhand.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 10)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Necromancer (Level 2).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ol><li>Anathema (Level 3).</li><li>None</li><li>None</li></ol>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    20


    Intelligence:


    22


    Wisdom:


    16


    Willpower:


    22


    Charisma:


    13


    Maniption:


    11


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)


    Handwriting (Level 4)


    Concentration (Level 2)


    Cooking (Level 1)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Sneak (Level 1)


    Skill Selections Avable: 2


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 1)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 1)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 8)


    Sleep (Level 4)


    Mana Bolt (Level 1)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 3)


    Bone Stitching (Level 2)


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    Seeing that his level in Raise Dead had increased, Tyron pumped his fist. Obviously it was no help for him now, but the next time he used the spell it would have a little more power behind it, something he wouldn''tin about. Sneak not levelling was disappointing, since that <em>would</em> have helped him tonight. He''d hope for another level in Necromancer, but hadn''t expected it, he hadn''t actually done any fighting with them after all. Luckily, Anathema had increased, giving him the boost to his stats that he needed. To continue fuelling his minions, he needed stronger mental stats to increase his magick reserves and regeneration.


    That message he''d received from the Abyss was a little ominous. They were waiting for his call? They''d have to <em>keep</em> waiting. He wasn''t about to try andmune with something referred to as part of ''the darkness'' which had lumped him with a sub-ss called <em>Anathema</em> until he knew a hell of a lot more about it. He could only hope that decision didn''te back to bite him in the rear.


    With a wave of his hand he ended the ritual and rocked back as he felt his body change to reflect his new status. He hadn''t managed to retain consciousness the first time but thankfully this wasn''t a repeat performance. It was a strange sensation, to say the least. His eyes swam as he felt <em>something</em> invading him, changing him from the inside out. Time seemed to fade into the distance and sensations passed beneath his awareness as his mind began to drift away from his body until he was suddenly snapped back.


    Tyron came back to himself with a start and blinked rapidly as he processed what had just happened, only to realise he simply didn''t have the time and forced his legs to move. He stood from the table and took his letter and the status sheet into the trophy room, unlocking the sealed door and cing both inside on the floor. Barring the townsfolk knocking down the walls of two powerful and respected yers, there was no way anyone other than his parents would find them here. Being careful, he made sure the door was properly locked before he returned to the kitchen. Pulling on his rainproof cloak, he gathered the three des, extinguished the light and slipped out the back door.


    Heart pounding in his chest, he scaled the back fence once again, pausing when he reached the top to peek over the edge and check for marshals. Seeing no one, he threw his legs over, one before the other, and dropped as silently as he could down to the ground. With three swords on his hip, it was much harder to do than he''d expected. As he crept away into the shadows, the clouds above which had threatened to open all day, now did so, unleashing a steady downpour onto Foxbridge.

 Chapter 13: Stolen Away

    Chapter 13: Stolen Away


    Tyron cursed the downpour as he crept through the empty streets. At least he''d remembered to wear his cloak which kept him rtively dry. Despite his difort, the downpour would at least help conceal him from prying eyes. He crept around the back of his parents'' property and looked about. Greys Street was dead at this time of night, unsurprising, given the weather. Even so, his steps were slow and careful as he stepped out from the stone wall and made his way across the cobblestones. In this manner he crept cautiously through town until he found himself staring out into pitch ck darkness as rain poured down onto his hood, stering it to his head.


    "How the hell am I supposed to find my way?" he muttered to himself.


    He roughly knew the right direction, he''d made three trips to the cemetery in the dark already, but without even moonlight to guide him and the slippery conditions he was likely to break his leg in a ditch. That''d be a glorious start to his life on the run! Caught by the marshals, shivering on the side of the road clutching at his broken limb. At least his father would get a goodugh out of it. He was always good at finding the humour in a situation.


    As he clung to the side of the Wissen brewery storehouse on the edge of town thinking, a new awareness nudged to the forefront of his mind. His skeletons! They were still there, inside the mausoleum, following thestmand he had given them, to wait without moving. He was connected to them now, a whisper thin thread of magic connected him to them. If he concentrated, he would be able to follow it through the dark and it would lead him straight to them!


    Breathing deep, he focused on that miniscule connection and began to walk. It was slow going, and he wasn''t able to keep an eye on his surroundings as much as he would like, but he did it. An hourter, he slumped onto the door of the crypt and pushed it open, the connection with his minions a steady pulse at this close range. With a tired grin, unbuckled two of the swords and pressed them into the skeletal hands of his creations. They had little by way of minds, these creatures, but they had enough awareness to close their fingers around the hilt of the weapon and hold it steady. Tyron could feel the drain on his magic increase with even this slight movement, the aided strain of holding the weight of the swords enough to make a noticeable difference. The two spare cloaks he had brought went over the two skeletons and he tied them around their bony necks. They wouldn''t do much to conceal the nature of his minions up close, but perhaps from a distance they might help. He also removed his own sword and leaned it against the wall, less weight for the trip.


    A moment of rest was required before he felt confident to head back. The return trip was even worse, as he didn''t have that magical signpost to guide him in the dark, but by crouching low and feeling out each step before he took it, he was able to make it back to town in one piece. Drained and with a headache developing in his temples, he was almost caught when he stumbled against the stone fence of his house, drawing the attention of a marshal passing nearby.


    The downpour had forced the patrols to light theirmps in order to see in the dark and Tyron panicked when he saw the blurred glow approaching through the rain. With no time to think, he turned and leapt, grabbing onto the top of the fence and hauling himself over with adrenaline fuelled desperation. As he tumbled and fell on the other side he scored his knee badly on a stone, causing him to hiss as the pain red. Over the fence he could hear someone approach and inspect the wall, no doubt seeing the footprints he''d left in the mud on the other side. He judged they wouldn''t bother investigating, they were out to prevent <em>escaping</em> the town, not sneaking <em>in.</em>


    Even so, he resolved that he would need to take another exit when he left. He couldn''t risk that they might lie in wait for him, he didn''t get a second chance at this.


    For thest time, he opened the backdoor of his family home and wandered into the kitchen. He didn''t allow the sentimentality to touch him, he couldn''t afford to, though it was difficult to keep his eyes dry as strapped the pack onto his shoulders and secured it firmly. One more time he cast his eyes around the empty kitchen, over the table and chairs that had hosted so few family dinners as he had grown up, but each one was a precious memory.


    He <em>would</em> be back. When he had proved his worth and made his name fighting the rifts in the bordends he was sure that his ss would be overlooked. In ten years, no, in <em>five</em> years, he would return to Foxbridge a hero, not an outcast. Life would be hard until then, but he could do it, he was a Sterm after all. Resolve hardened within the young man and he extinguished his globe of light with a gesture and walked out the front door with sure steps. This was just the beginning for him, it wouldn''t end here.


    The oppressive rain continued to drench the streets, and turned the cobblestone roads slick. Visibility was awful, but that was to his favour and Tyron wasted no time making his way into the alleys. When he passed by the back of his house he was unsurprised and more than a little nervous to see a cluster of lights gathered by the back wall. He couldn''t hear them over the constant downpour, but he was certain they had gathered to investigate the disturbance he''d made.


    He swallowed heavily and moved as silently as he could, circling wide around the gathering as he felt his way between a few buildings and through to the other side of town. Again he relied on the vague sense of direction he gained from his minions, the connection between them, so faint at this distance, his guidepost in the near total darkness.


    Despite the cold, he felt drenched in sweat beneath theyers of clothing he wore and his heart pounded in his chest all the way from town until atst he copsed inside the mausoleum, exhausted from the tension.


    "That was stressful as all hell," he muttered to himself as he pushed back his hood and shook out his damp hair. In moments a puddle of water had umted around his feet as he stood inside the entrance and took a moment to breathe.


    "Light," he mumbled.


    Thankfully his mastery of this basic spell form was enough that even when fatigued and distracted there was no deviation in the magick and a soft globe of light bloomed over his head, banishing the darkness and revealing the interior once more.


    After a minute of calming himself and gathering his strength, he rolled the pack off his shoulders and removed his sopping wet cloak, careful to ensure no water dripped into the dry interior. With a shrug, he hung the clothing from a winged cherub carved into the arch above the entrance before turning back and making his way deeper into the crypt.


    His two minions remained as they had been and he had to admit that the addition of the cloaks, when standing this close, didn''t do much to make them less intimidating. In fact, it probably made them look even more creepy. With the hoods pulled up it was difficult to see their faces but the soft glow of purple light that emanated from their empty sockets cast their features in a frightening way. Tyron was almost tempted to check his connection to the two undead remained sound but resisted with an effort of will. It was fine, they remained under his control, there was no need to be spooked by his own creations!


    Seeing that everything was fine, he walked back to pack and removed some tack that he''d packed, the hard biscuit giving him a little energy back, particrly after he washed it down with fresh water from his canteen.


    "No need to dy, Tyron. The rain won''t let up for hours and you need to move as far as possible while it''s still dark," he told himself.


    It was true, he didn''t have time to waste, and yet he still had to force himself to get moving. He grabbed his sword and strapped it onto his belt, fumbled out another chunk of mage candy and carefully ced it under his tongue before he pulled down his cloak and put it back over his shoulders. The trickle of power through the rock in his mouth energised him once again and began to replenish his reserves even as his stomach heaved.


    Using it again so soon after thest time was foolish, but he didn''t have a choice if he wanted to bring his two skeletons with him. It would take long days, possibly more than a week of travel before he made it to the Allthorn Forest. Dodging the patrols and staying off the roads would make the journey that much more difficult. He grabbed his pack and tied it on, grunting slightly at the weight.


    His constitution had improved considerably from his recent stat gain, but his strength was as insipid as ever. Perhaps he could deal with that issue with his second sub ss slot? It was far too early to be worrying about that, he scolded himself. Until he had a better handle on the strengths and weaknesses of his primary ss, choosing a secondary would be idiotic. Though he''d already had one chosen for him, not that he liked to think about it much.


    He was almost ready to depart, a few final checks and then it would be back out into the rain and on to adventure.


    "¡­ he''sing out?" he heard through the door.


    <em>SHIT</em>.


    In a second he snuffed out the light and ordered his servants to gather closer with a sharp mentalmand. They obeyed, as they had to, the two skeletons walking smoothly to his sides as he watched and listened.


    "Give me a minute," a different voice this time, a male.


    Muffled noises could be heard from the other side before someone cursed and a trickle of light flickered through a crack. A torch had been lit, they wereing in! Suddenly flushed with adrenaline, Tyron''s hand fumbled at his waist before he managed to grip the hilt of his sword. He moved slowly and drew the de from the sheath as quietly as he could.


    The door creaked open a touch.


    "Tyron? Are you in there?" Elsbeth''s voice drifted through the gap.


    He sagged in relief for a moment before he caught himself. She wasn''t alone, Rufus and Laurel were likely there with him as well. Had theye to stop him? He hesitated before he sheathed his weapon and ordered the skeletons to turn around, their cloaks concealing their undead frames.


    "I''m here," he hissed, "what is it?"


    "Oh thank the goddess," she said and the door swung open to reveal his three friends huddled in the entrance to stay out of the rain.


    The moment she saw him, Elsbeth ran the few short steps between them and threw her arms around him.


    "Tyron!" she sobbed, "what have you gotten yourself into?"


    "What do you mean?" he mumbled, a little dazed as he awkwardly gave her a one armed hug in return.


    "Interesting ce, Ty," Laurel said archly as she stepped into the mausoleum. "Not sure the mayor would approve."


    "What are you doing here?" Tyron demanded as he gathered his thoughts. He pushed Elsbeth away and held onto her shoulders as he looked her in the eyes. "Tell me why you''vee?"


    His one-time crush nced askance from him.


    "We were worried about you," she said.


    "We''re here because we were looking for <em>you</em>," Rufus said as he stepped through the entrance. "I think a more relevant question would be, why are you here?"


    Something in the tone of his voice triggered Tyron to flick his eyes to his friend¡¯s hands, one of which, he realised with shock, was resting on the hilt of his sword, as if he were prepared to draw it at any moment. Tyron looked back at Elsbeth disbelievingly, a creeping sense of betrayal burning in the back of his throat.


    "You really came here to capture me?" he whispered. "You want to drag me back to town and have them strip my ss, my future from me?"


    Tears brimmed in the priestess'' blue eyes as she shook her head weakly.


    "No! It''s not like that! I wanted to <em>convince</em> you -"


    "To what? Throw my life away?! Tyron growled as his grip on her shoulders tightened, ¡°you think you can decide for me? The choice is mine!¡±


    "You''re hurting me," she whispered.


    He released his hands with a start and took a step back, not that there was much space to move in. With the four of them inside the first chamber of the mausoleum, there was barely room to swing a cat. <em>Six </em>of them, he should say. He looked at Laurel as she leaned against the stone wall and she just smiled back at him, one brow raised. Rufus was battling hard to keep the smile of his face, he could tell, though he was still wary of the cloaked figures behind him.


    A harshugh ripped out of his throat.


    "Some friends I had. I cannot believe, of all the people, that you three came out here to drag me back. For what? A bit of coin? A little satisfaction?" he spat in Rufus'' direction.


    Laurel just shrugged as Rufus stepped forward.


    "So you don''t deny that you have a forbidden ss?" he said solemnly.


    "You don''t deny that you''re a sour sack of shit?" Tyron matched his tone. "If you don''t think my ss is illegal, why would you even be out here?"


    "I can''t believe it," Elsbeth said. "You''re really nning on running away? Breaking thew?"


    Her pleading gaze might have moved him a few days ago, but in this moment his blood was up and his entire future was crumbling before his eyes. Her entreaty fell on deaf ears.


    "Yes. Obviously," he said sarcastically, gesturing to his clothes and pack. "And if you''re wondering why I didn''t say anything to you, maybe have a look at the situation we are currently in right now."


    "We just want to bring you back so you can be safe!" she said. "You''re making a huge mistake!"


    "No," he replied, "I''m not. And if you think the pair behind you feel the same as you do, then you might just be beyond hope Elsbeth."


    "I don''t know what you mean," she said, "we came here together. To help you."


    Rather than waste his breath on her, Tyron just shook his head. She always saw the best in people, that was her blessing and her curse. She''d always seen the best in him too, that was what had attracted him to her in the first ce.


    "Well this is how it''s going to go," his eyes firmed as he dered. "I''m leaving and I''m noting back. If you want to stop me, then you''d better pull steel. Though I think my two friends might have something to say about that."


    Rufus eyed the two figures warily, his hand still on the hilt of his sword and Laurel eased off the wall as she readied her bow.


    "I don''t think there''s any need for that," he said slowly. "Your two friends likely weren''t paid enough to justify a fight, right? How about you two just walk away and we take our friend back to town."


    Tyron grinned as the young swordsman tried to talk his two skeletons down. The two minions, naturally, didn''t respond, and Rufus'' expression hardened.


    "Why don''t you try again, Rufus?" Tyron mocked as he slowly drew his sword. "I''m sure that devilish charm will work a treat next time."


    His once friend also drew his de.


    "Worked well enough with Elsbeth," he mocked.


    He''d suspected, but having it confirmed was still a stab to his heart. He shook his head and the swordsman''s smile grew wider as he saw the blownd. Tyron grit his teeth, anger and desperation boiled within him and he was desperate to strike back.


    So he turned to the only one he knew he could hurt.


    "I can''t believe you literally let him fuck you out of a job," he said to her.


    Elsbeth''s eyes filled with tears as she watched her childhood friends draw swords on each other, her mind clouded in confusion.


    "I don''t know what you mean," she sobbed, "please don''t do this."


    "Don''t listen to him Elsbeth," Rufus took a slow step forward, "he''s cornered and angry. Help me bring him home."


    Sensing weakness from the man, Tyron forged ahead.


    "I mean, it''s real hard to have the Priestess Elsbeth in your yer team if she''s serving at the temple of purity in Foxbridge. Seduce her though? Now she''s damaged goods in the eyes of the goddess. A few reassuring words, a shoulder to cry on and now she might juste along with you when you leave town."


    Rufus raised his sword angrily but Tyron sidestepped to put Elsbeth between them.


    "That''s not what happened," she denied.


    "Oh, I think it is," Tyron mocked. "Tell me the truth, has he asked you to join him at the yer academy or not?"


    "Shut up, Tyron," Rufus growled.


    "Yes or no question. Has he asked you?"


    "I-I-I mean. We all talked about it. We talked about it with you too!"


    She was growing increasingly agitated at the situation, and Tyron''s stinging words yed on all her doubts and her fears. He could see it too, her thoughts were written all over her face. He tasted bile as he continued to y on her emotions. The more he agitated her, the more he angered <em>Rufus</em>, the better his chance would be.


    "The real question I have is actually for Laurel," he said as he turned toward the huntress.


    "I don''t think so Tyron," she said as she drew back her bowstring and aimed straight at him.


    Tyron spread his hands wide.


    "I do. The question I have is this: did Rufus stop sleeping with you after he tricked Elsbeth, or no?"


    Rufus roared and surged forward, barrelling past Elsbeth and knocking her into the wall. Tyron brought his sword up to meet therger man¡¯s as he barked "LIGHT!"


    A bright globe shed into existence right in front of Laurel''s face as she released her arrow. She cursed as she flinched at the sudden re, her arms jerking to the side and sending the arrow wide. Rufus'' sword swept down with crash and Tyron was barely able to angle his weapon in time. Thankfully there wasn''t enough room to allow a full swing, otherwise therger man might have swept through his guard in one blow.


    Weighed down by his pack, the best he could do was deflect the de as he was driven to one knee.


    "You always were a weak piece of shit," Rufus gloated.


    "And you''ve been a fucking moron since the day I met you," Tyron grated.


    With a mentalmand, both skeletons turned and surged forward, des at the ready. Faced with two undead bearing down on him, the young Swordsman went pale and stumbled backwards, giving Tyron the space to rise. He couldn''t allow Laurel the time to take another shot, he wouldn''t get far out of town with an arrow in him, so hemanded one skeleton to rush at her as he advanced with the other at his shoulder.


    He strode directly past the dazed Elsbeth against the wall, resisting the urge to reach out and help her.


    Unwilling to give up his advantage he thrust toward the retreating Rufus, forcing the other man to defend himself clumsily as the glowing eyes of the skeleton stared him down. With luck more than anything else, he was able to strike a ncing blow, tearing a shallow cut across one thigh. Surprised by the pain, Rufus bellowed and clutched at his leg, which gave Tyron the brief opening he needed.


    Gripping tight to his sword and one arm on his pack, he rushed past his former friend and through the door, sprinting out into the rain drenched night. A secondter, both skeletons followed, their bones cking on the stone as they ran before they too were out into the graveyard.


    The three friends were left inside the Mausoleum filled with the sounds of Rufus cursing and Elsbeth quietly sobbing. Laurel clicked her tongue as the re finally began to fade from her eyes.


    "That was different," she murmured.

 Chapter 14: Homecoming

    Chapter 14: Homing


    "Do you think he''ll be mad at us?"


    "Yes. You keep asking me, and I keep telling you. Yes! Of course he''ll be mad at us!"


    "You agreed we should dy!"


    "And I knew he would be mad when I did."


    Magnin Sterm slumped over the pommel of his saddle as his long suffering horse whinnied and rolled her head.


    "Ahhhhh," he sighed as he contemted his reunion with his only son. "I don''t like it when my boy is angry with me, Beory."


    The proud sorceress rolled her eyes at her husband''s hangdog expression.


    "Then you''d best go back in time and turn yourself into a different man," she told him, "since you are incapable of not making him angry."


    Magnin straightened.


    "What do you mean? Who wouldn''t be proud of having a father like me!?" he dered, gesturing at himself as if stating the obvious.


    "I didn''t say he wasn''t proud of you, darling, I said you can''t not make him angry. To avoid angering him, you''d have to get home on time."


    Magnin slumped again.


    "Well I can''t do that."


    "I know."


    "Will he forgive us though?" Magnin asked in a more serious tone.


    Beory nodded.


    "It will take time, but he will. It doesn''t hurt that we werete for him, in a sense."


    "I still think he''ll like the sword better than your staff."


    "Care to make a wager on that?" she asked him archly.


    The renowned swordsman eyes his wife askance for a moment.


    "What are you thinking?"


    "Latrine duty for a month."


    "Done."


    Throwing back her head she unleashed a throatyugh.


    "As good as mine," she purred.


    Seeing her happy, Magnin could only grin. Digging thetrine when they camped was trivial for both of them, he could dig it out in seconds with his physical prowess and she could shift the dirt with her magick in an instant. However, this had been the standard bet between them ever since they had begun travelling together. It wasn''t the difficulty of the task, it was the <em>principle</em>. Digging out thattrine would remind the pair of them who had one upped the other in thest wager.


    And Magnin had a strong feeling he was going to lose this one. But if it kept his wife happy, he hardly minded.


    Unlike what many seemed to think, he was under no illusions that his bookish son would be given some form of fighter ss, no matter how much he wished his boy would walk in his footsteps. As long as the kid was happy, that was what mattered. He nced over his shoulder at the two hilts poking over the pauldron of his leather armour. One was his own sword, the other was the master crafted work he had battled like a demon to acquire the resources for over thest month.


    The thing had the core of an abyssal woven into it, an abyssal! No expense had been spared to the point it was almost as good as his own de. The very thought that it would go to the hands of some mage with a level one swordsmanship skill made himugh out loud. Humour aside, if he was going to give a gift to his boy to celebrate his awakening, then it was going to be the bloody best! Even if it meant they would bete!


    Simrly, over Beory''s shoulder, the heads of two staves peeked, her own, and the much more likely to see a gift that they had prepared for the young (most probably) mage. Just as extravagant in its construction and cost as the sword, that stave was a work fine enough for all but the top yers of the western province.


    Content with life, the two could smile and joke with each other as they continued to ride the final stretch along the river to Foxbridge. As they''d done many times before, they stabled their horses outside of town and walked the rest of the way, packs slung over their shoulders and warm feelings bubbling away in their hearts. It wasn''t necessarily that they were happy to be back in the rural town they had chosen to make their home, the town they could take or leave, it was family that made a home and there was a spring in both of their steps as they wandered down main street and turned toward the inn.


    The return of the two mighty yers was always something of an event in Foxbridge. The two were far and away the most well-known residents and were a vanishingly rare opportunity for the country folk toy eyes on high level yers. Such people were generally beyond them, more closely associated with the capital, the rich and powerful, or indeed the yer Keeps themselves, than small farming and trading viges on the fringes of the western province.


    The very idea that the two of them chose to live in such a ce was almost beyond belief, that is, unless you knew them. Magnin and Beory were certainly nothing like most of the people who achieved their level of sess. Where most yers would retire to a mansion, afortable life working in the bureaucracy or take fat contracts training noble children, the two of them had continued to live much as they had all their lives, on the road taking contracts and killing rift-kin.


    Magnin noted the usual whispers and pointing as his wife and he walked past, but beneath that there was a certain undercurrent, a tone of unease that he detected in the people around him. He couldn''t know the cause, but a sour feeling began to twist in his gut.


    "Beory¡­" he muttered.


    "I know," she said. "Wait."


    Though he tried not to let any tension show on his face, Magnin''s stride lengthened and a short timeter he pushed open the door of the Sterm Inn, a half-forced grin on his face.


    "We''re home!" he announced to the strangely sparse crowd in themon room as Beory entered behind him and quietly shut the door.


    The Swordsman looked around, confused.


    "Tyron? You aboutd? Worthy? Where the hell are you, brother?"


    When the few customers nched at the sight of him and tried to hide their faces in their cups, Magnin knew something was deeply wrong. When Worthy charged out of the kitchen reeking of drink with rage in his eyes, his heart sank.


    With a roar that rattled the floorboards the normally jovial innkeeper charged like a raging bull across themon room, knocking empty chairs and splintering tables that got in his way. As he drew closer to his brother he pulled back one fist and brought it around in a wide arc, smashing it into Magnin''s chin. Despite the weight of the blow, the smaller man barely moved, his head knocked to the side and his broad shoulders tilting slightly.


    Unsatisfied, Worthy pulled back again and unleashed a devastating right hand. Unlike before, Magnin did not move at all and his brother''s fist recoiled off his face as if he''d punched an anvil. Worthy cursed and shook his hand as he stumbled back from the no longer calm yer.


    "You get one, Worthy," Magnin growled, a little heat in his eyes. "Now spit it out, what happened? Where is my son?"


    An hourter the two of them stood within their own house, looking down at the letter and the status sheet that Tyron had left for them. After Worthy had finished his drunken rambling, sobbing and spitting as he alternated between furious and grief stricken, they had returned to their house and torn the ce apart searching for any clue as to the location of their boy. The two of them thought so little of the trophy room that it had taken ten minutes before Beory thought to check there, good thing that she had.


    The letter said much of what they might have expected to see. That he was sorry. That he refused to have his future ripped from him. That he would make them proud.


    Beory wept as she read it, but even through her sadness she could not disguise her fierce pride at the status sheet.


    "Look at this Magnin, look at it!"


    "I''m looking, dear heart."


    "He has a Mystery! Before he even had a ss I bet! It''s ridiculous!"


    "Spell Shaping¡­ at his age?"


    "A genius! I always told you that the boy was a genius!" she grinned as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.


    "And his swordsmanship is still level one," Magnin pretended to despair.


    "Oh pish!" the beautiful sorceress swatted him. "He''s not going to need that, he''s going to have minions to do the fighting for him! He won''t even need a sword."


    "Now <em>that</em> hurts."


    Magninughed, then frowned.


    "Necromancer though. That''s a difficult ss isn''t it?"


    "Very tough spell work," Beory nodded as she chewed her bottom lip in thought, "but look, he already managed to level Raise Dead to three, which means a few sessful casts at the very least. Without any training! Remarkable."


    "Do you know what this is? Bone Stitching?"


    "That''s how they make skeletons. Good to see he''s moved away from zombies as soon as possible."


    "I <em>hate</em> zombies."


    "Everyone hates zombies, dear. You would have to be weird to like them."


    "I''m not a big fan of this sub-ss though. Anathema? Why did they stick <em>that</em> on him?"


    Beory leant back in her chair as she thought for a moment.


    "If <em>they</em> were attracted to his awakening and put that on him, then there''s likely a reason for that."


    Magnin stilled and looked his wife carefully in the eye.


    "You think¡­?"


    "It''s possible," she nodded, "perhaps even likely."


    Silence reigned in the Sterm household as the two of them considered the implications of what they had thought. The atmosphere was grim and the lines on Magnin''s face deepened as the anger started to burn within him. With some difficulty, he mastered himself and ced his hands t on the table, careful not to break it.


    "Do we run?" he said finally.


    Beory loved him for that. That he gave her the choice. Now that this had happened, now that Tyron had fled, things had been set in motion that could no longer be stopped. For all their power, how events would proceed from this point was no longer in their control. The only thing they could do was to change how it would end. In many ways, it wouldn''t have mattered much even if they''d been here the whole time. It would have been easier for the boy, with their support, but he would still have had to run in the end.


    "No," she shook her head, which caused her raven ck hair to sway against her snow white neck, "we''ll make them do it to our faces."


    Magnin''s brows shot up.


    "You''re quite beautiful when you''re furious," he observed.


    "Shut up, Magnin."


    It was five minutes before the knock came, five minutes in which the couple moved through their house tidying and sorting, trying to settle things back to how they should be. The letter Tyron had written Beory carefully preserved and stored in her pack, the status sheet she burned.


    When they answered the door, it was a grey faced secretary to the mayor who greeted them.


    "T-t-t-t-t-the m-m-mayor wants to s-see you," she chattered out.


    The poor thing was scared out of her wits and Beory felt her heart go out to the girl for a moment, but no more than that.


    "Lead the way dear," she said.


    The pointed fingers and huddled whispers were more pronounced now that word had gotten around of their return. More than a few people sidled back into their houses and locked the doors as the couple walked by. It didn''t matter to them, the fears, hopes and dreams of these people did not touch them as they passed, did not cling to them no matter how hard they tried. What had been set in motion the moment Tyron had his awakening would y out regardless of what anyone desired, least of all these people.


    When Magnin and Beory were finally ushered into his office, Jiren Arryn didn''t know what to feel. Trepidation was there, certainly. These two were so much stronger than him, so much more powerful, that they may not be the same species anymore. No matter how high level a Farmer became, he would never be tough enough to stand up to a yer. The sses were just built differently. In truth, nobody even knew what Magnin''s ss really was anymore. He''d started as a Swordsman, sure, but now? He could be anything.


    But more than nervousness, more than fear, there was anger. It burned in his chest just as bright as the day he had walked into his family mausoleum to find his ancestor¡¯s bones no longer at rest.


    "Why don''t you sit down?" he stiffly invited the couple and gestured to the chairs across from his desk.


    "No," Magnin smiled as he walked to stand across the desk from the mayor, his hands resting casually on his hips.


    Without batting an eye, Beory moved to stand beside him, her eyes as cold as a winter storm.


    Broad shouldered and slim hipped, Magnin was a picture of physical fitness, but he wasn''t a giant, hecked the height of his brother Worthy, to the point that Jiren was able to look him straight in the eye.


    "I suppose by now you''ve heard what has happened with Tyron," he grated out.


    Magnin just continued to smile and Beory did not reply.


    Jiren hung his head, but the anger wouldn''t let him stay silent.


    "I''ve reported his flight, as well as his likely ss to the Baron by ro''w, as is protocol."


    He reached down and opened a drawer on his desk. Before he could withdraw the sealed missive within, Magnin finally spoke.


    "I''d think carefully about what you''re doing before you pull that out," he said simply.


    The mayor''s head shot up and he red at the still smiling Swordsman across from him.


    "You know what he did? To my family? To my father? You <em>dare</em> say that to me?!"


    "Just bones," Beory said dismissively, "bones and dust. You should have more care for the living, mayor."


    "Is that a threat?" he growled.


    "Yes," she said.


    For a fraction of a second, he could feel it, feel the sword on his neck, the blood in his veins frozen to ice and then boiled away. They could do it in a heartbeat, do it before he could even blink. But in a surge of reckless rage, he didn''t care.


    He snatched the envelope out of the drawer and pped it on the table.


    "A Necromancer is a great threat to the stability of the kingdom. The Baron has ordered that you two, as the ranking yers of the western province, catch him and bring him in."


    The two looked down at the letter with unchanged expressions. Magnin still wore that half-smile, Beory still carved from ice.


    "You want us to run out and capture our own son, then drag him back here so you can execute him?" Magnin chuckled. "How about you get fucked?"


    Jiren permitted himself a small smile.


    "I think the two of us both know that you don''t have much of a choice."


    The sword was at his neck. In one moment, Magnin had been standing, hands on his hips, the next, the sword was drawn and at his neck. A slight sting told the mayor that his skin had been cut, a small trickle of blood, no more than a few drops, falling onto the bare steel.


    Magnin still smiled.


    "I get the feeling that what you think you know, and what is the case, are further apart than you imagine."


    It took all of Jiren''s self-control to remain still and hold his nerve as he stared down the de of the Century yer.


    "This order has gone straight to the Magisters," he jabbed a finger onto the paper, "by your oath you are bound toply."


    "I''m also bound not to hurt innocent citizens, Jiren, but look at what I''ve done to your neck."


    A shiver of fear ran down the mayor''s spine.


    "But the brand," he rasped out of his suddenly dry throat.


    "Oh, it hurts like shit," Magnin cheerfully agreed, "and it''ll get worse. Much worse. But I''ll have plenty of time to make you regret what you did here today."


    "You should have cared for the living," Beory stated, her voice as cold as winter, then she turned on her heel and walked out.


    As quickly as it had appeared, the sword was gone and the mayor slumped forward onto his desk.


    "He defiled my family," Jiren grated through gritted teeth.


    "I don''t give a shit," Magninughed. "That''s <em>my</em> son. He can do whatever the fuck he wants."


    The Swordsman casually turned and strolled out the door, whistling as he went.


    When he had finally collected himself, Mayor Arryn had run home as fast as his legs could take him, but long before he arrived, he knew he was toote. His wife and children were safe and he openly wept as he swept them into his arms. His children were hoarse from screaming and Merryl shook like a leaf in his embrace. As he did his best to calm them, he couldn''t help but feel his heart break as he looked out over thend his family had worked for generations.


    It was destroyed. All of it, destroyed. The house he had grown up in was ttened, barely a brick stood on top of another. Every barn, every wall, every well was a shattered ruin. The fields themselves were scorched and barren, the soil torn and carved as if a giant ripped it up with his bare hands, all of the livestock were ughtered. The farmhands stumbled about in a daze, scarcely able to believe their own eyes.


    "You should have cared for the living," Beory had warned him.


    That night, when he made his way to the mausoleum, he was unsurprised to find that too had been levelled. The resting ce of his ancestors reduced to nothing more than a few crumbling stones and a t piece of earth.

 Chapter 15: Journey

    Chapter 15: Journey


    Ravens screeching awoke Tyron with a start, the bird''s harsh call grating in his ears as he blinked the grime from his eyes and tried to sit up. Muscles stiff from cold and lying on the hard ground groaned in protest and the young man slumped back down before he flopped like a fish, trying to get the blood flowing through his limbs again. The rain had been a near constantpanion but thankfully he''d managed to find a rtively dry patch within a copse of trees to unroll his bedding.


    When he felt up to the task, the Necromancer pushed himself off the ground, biting back a grunt of pain as he did so. A quick stretch, then he began to pack up his small camp. Sleep had been hard toe by since his flight from the mausoleum five days ago and he was in half a fugue state as he went through the motions of repacking his bedroll and rummaging in his pack for meat and water.


    It''d be so nice to have the skeletons handle the menial tasks, he reflected to himself, but his reserves of magick wouldn''t hold against such profligate waste. Every ounce of power he could scrounge together would be needed to continue the march, with luck they might even reach the woods today.


    They. Heughed grimly to himself and shook his head.


    There was no ''they''. His minions were just that, almost mindless servants to his will. That they had been formed from the remains of people meant nothing in the long run. He was alone in this and he would be for a long, long time. Once again the temptation to reach out to the Abyss rose within him and once again he quashed it. He was not about to perform a spell andmunicate with apletely unknown power just because he was lonely. Even more seductive was the part of him that wondered if the Abyss might offer him a shortcut to power, a way to hasten his eventual triumph and return to civilisation.


    That part of him he throttled even more ruthlessly. Five days living rough was not enough to drive him to desperate measures and dangerous deals. His resolve was not that weak.


    Even so, he was struggling. The long days of marching, the constant anxiety and fear of capture, the rough nights and little sleep were all wearing down his nerves slowly but surely. There was nothing for it but to keep going though, he''d known this would happen the moment he''d decided to run. He rinsed his mouth and spat with the dregs from his waterskin before he shouldered his pack and set about removing the traces of his camp site. He was far from an expert in such matters, but he did what he could. Job done, he issued a mentalmand to his minions and set off once more.


    Travelling cross country had slowed his pace significantly, and worn him down. His legs ached, his feet hurt abominably and he was fairly sure he''d slept on a rock at some point since he''d gained a persistent ache in his hip. Tyron had slept rough and travelled hard before, in short bursts out with parents, but he had to admit that he''d let his physical condition slip to a low level and now he was suffering for it.


    As the hours ticked by, he and his two robed minions continued to travel through the poorly cultivatednds to the northwest of Foxbridge. The river was far behind him now and from his hazy memory of maps he''d seen in the library there was little to be found between his current location and Allthorn Forest that marked the edge of the western province.


    As he travelled, Tyron kept constant watch behind him for marshals. They were sure to be out there looking, though how thorough they would be he wasn''t sure. He''d never really checked to see what happened when someone with an illegal ss fled civilisation. It would go onto his records, obviously, and he''d never be able to gain employment in any major institution without providing a verified copy of his status, which would get him immediately arrested the moment he did so.


    He also spared an eye forward as much as he could. He was acutely aware that he was walking toward contestednd and the threat of encountering stray rift-kin rose with every step. Farmingmunities this far out were under constant threat from critters and were often quite martial, tilling their fields with a bow slung across their back or a sword on their hip.


    Through it all, his skeletons continue to march. Unspeaking, ungging they followed his mentalmands and followed in his wake, their robes rippling in the breeze. The drain on Tyron''s reserves of magical energy was constant. These were not natural creatures, after all, they were constructs, formed from bones and powered by his own magick. At the end of the day he was as tired as if he''d marched the distance three times instead of one. His own stamina was gone and his magick was all but empty.


    When it came time to make camp again, he slumped down, his back against a tree trunk and just breathed for a few long minutes. His muscles ached, his head hurt, and he felt hollowed out inside, as if someone had scraped away at his soul until there was almost nothing left.


    He was tired.


    Almost mechanically he started setting up his camp. No fire since it might give him away, he ttened out a section of ground and spread out his bedroll while he could still see, he ced his back in a dry spot and pulled out some more cured meat which he chewed without really tasting. With that done, he washed it down with the stale water he had left before he kicked off his boots, hung his cloak and rolled into nkets, making sure to order the skeletons to stand somewhere dry.


    Despite his exhaustion, sleep didn''te easily. His mind churned through the events of thest week over and over again. Why had this happened to him? What would his parents say? They must have arrived home by now. How much longer would he have to live this way?


    <em>I would kill for one of Aunt Meg''s meals.</em>


    Then he could onlyugh bitterly at himself. Six days into his ''adventure'' and already he yearned for home. Had all his bluster and determination crumbled so easily?


    When he finally slept, his eyes were wet with tears that dripped slowly from his eyes.


    The next day he awoke sore and stiff once more as he pushed himself out of bed and moved through the motions of packing his camp, pulling on his pack and once again setting out on the march. On this day something changed. It was midday, the sun hanging high overhead when he almost tripped over his first rift-kin. Thend was less cleared now, he came across fewer farms, skirted around fewer homesteads and the trees were getting thicker, older the further he travelled.


    As he stubbornly ced one foot in front of the other he rounded a tree and there it was, ravenously tearing into a hare it had caught. He should have heard it easily as he approached, but his fatigue was greater than he suspected. It wasn''trge, thank goodness, just a small one. Despite his exhaustion, he reacted quickly once he realised what he saw.


    The rift-kin was small, no bigger than arge cat, a savage looking thing of spikes with a tiny mouth full of needle sharp teeth.


    His first instinct was to pull his sword, something he did with fumbling hands. He almost swiped down at it, shing at its spiked hide with his rudimentary skills, only to realise at thest second that if <em>he</em> were the one to destroy the creature, he''d get nothing for it.


    His was the way of the Necromancer, it wasn''t for him to do the fighting.


    With a mentalmand, he ushered his minions forward, the two skeletons shambling forward with their des raised. The rift-kin saw them now, raising its head from its meal to his and snarled, it''s face covered in blood. The creature scuttled forward to slice at his minions and Tyron frowned, trying to direct the two of them at once. It was difficult to coordinate them, his thoughts flicking from one servant to the next as he tried to direct them and he kept getting confused. After an awkward dance thatsted far too long in his mind but was likely less than a minute, one of the skeletons was able to skewer the beast with a thrust .


    Creatures from the rifts were hard to kill and the little thing kicked and snarled for some time on the end of the de before finally breathing itsst. Only when it went limp did Tyron rx and order his minions to retreat so he could step forward to inspect it. He''d been lucky to find such a small one. Likely this rift-kin had been part of arger swarm that had broken through and scattered into the woods and surrounding area. It wasn''t umon for such things to happen and if the infestation became too bad then yers would be dispatched from the capital to clean up the mess. His parents had been dispatched to the yer Keep in Allthorn Forest twice that he could remember, to help relieve the pressure and close the rifts when things got too dangerous.


    High-level yers like his parents were generally not used on the frontlines like that, for reasons that he didn''t really understand. Magnin and Beory Sterm were somewhat unusual in that they <em>wanted</em> to be out fighting and got restless if they stayed in one ce for too long. Which meant they travelled from rift to rift even if they weren''t called for.


    As he gazed down on the pitiful creature Tyron sighed and then sat. After a little rummaging he pulled out the bestiary he had taken from the house and began thumbing through the pages. He didn''t really have the time to spare, but his mother had always warned him to know what it was that he was fighting.


    "The rifts are dangerous, Tyron," she''d warned him, her eyes serious as she''d looked down at him. "Information is a weapon. If you know what you''ll be dealing with in advance, then half the battle is already won. And sometimes you mighte up against a rift that goes against your strengths. There''s no shame in backing down from that. Only a fool throws their life away for pride."


    So he kept thumbing through the pages as he peered at the corpse and then back again as he tried to identify the beast. With some surprise he actually seeded. There were thousands of different types of rift-kin and hundreds of different rifts, so there was no guarantee that the one he''d fought would be in the pages of this volume, but once again he''d been lucky.


    "A gem biter," he read to himself as he stared at the beautifully illustrated creature on the page. "From the Nagrythyn rift."


    As he''d suspected it was a swarming creature that coulde in groups numbering over a hundred. A pack feeder that could grow to be almost waist high on a man if given enough time and sustenance. He flicked a few more pages and read up on the general information of Nagrythyn. Generally unintelligent beasts with little magical affinity, the creatures who came through these rifts tended to operate inrge numbers and have thick hides. If the biter he''de across had a little more time to grow then the swords he had may not have been able to prate¡­


    With a sigh he closed the book and carefully stowed it in the pack before he strapped it onto his back and stood with a groan. It was hard to say just how far he''de, but he had to think he was still some distance from Allthorn Forest given the pace of his travel. If he was running into rift-kin out here, that meant there was likely to have been a breakthrough over thest few days, which didn''t bode well. On the other hand, it could be a blessing in disguise, since the marshals were unlikely to chase him into territory known to be covered in beasts from another dimension.


    It didn''t change much, he had to keep pressing forward whilst being more careful not to stumble over the things. With luck, he''d find a few more weak ones and pick them off, gathering some experience in the meantime. If he managed to snag a few levels before he arrived, that would be for the best. At level four, he''d likely be able to choose another spell and at level five he''d get his first ss feat, which could be a huge boon to his progress.


    Filled with a renewed spirit, Tyron set forth once more. Though he scanned his environment more carefully as he went, he spared a nce for the fallen creature his minion had destroyed.


    The first rift-kin to fall to him, but far from thest!


    It was unfortunate that he couldn''t raise it as a minion. Not that it would be overly powerful, but likely it would need less of his magick to fuel. After studying the spell he had been granted upon his receiving his ss, Raise Dead, Tyron had quicklye to realise that it would only work on human remains. Why that was the case, he didn''t know, but he was certain of it. Attempting to raise this beast would be a waste of time, energy and magick.


    He found one more gem biter that day before it grew too dark to continue, which he quickly dispatched with his skeletons. He was sorely tempted to perform the status ritual to see if he''d levelled up, but he doubted that killing two of the tiny creatures would be nearly sufficient and didn''t want to waste paper, or blood. So he resisted and set camp. He felt grim as he inspected the remaining food in his pack. A mere handful of smoked meat was all that remained of what he''d taken with him. If he didn''t get more soon, he''d have to tighten his belt all the way to the forest.


    He could go without eating for a few days, but would rather he didn''t have to if he could help it. After a little thought, he decided he''d hunt around for a farmstead the next day, see if they were willing to trade. Word of his flight from Foxbridge likely hadn''t made it out this far yet, not to these isted holdings.


    He ordered his skeletons to keep watch over him as he slept, hoping that they''d be proficient enough to keep him alive through the night if a rift-kin were to appear. There was still a great deal he didn''t know about his minions. How well did they see in the dark? How capable were they of interpreting orders? Poorly and not much he suspected, but testing their limits would have toe another time, he simply didn''t have the energy or time right now.


    When he rose the following day it was to find that clouds above had finally broken, if only a little, and the near constant rain that had apanied his trek had abated somewhat. A good omen if ever he saw one. He ate thest of his food and set off, rather than heading straight toward the woods this time, he zigzagged left and right, using the sun to keep his bearings as he''d been taught. It was close to midday when he saw a what appeared to be a fence in the distance and as he approached he could tell he''d been right. Sectioned paddocks of cultivatednd surrounded by high and thick fences to keep the smaller rift-kin at bay formed a neat pattern around a central farmhouse that he was able to spot by climbing a tree outside the property. Smoke rose from the chimney that poked through the roof which gave him heart. Someone was home at least.


    It was strange to think that he''d be looking forward to talking to someone, given how aloof he''d been his whole life. A few days of istion in the wilderness with nothing but skeletons forpany was enough to make him feel wistful about human contact. Despite this inclination, he wasn''t foolish enough to abandon his caution. As he circled wide around the farmstead, he took care to hide his pack and bury his gold, leaving the two skeletons standing over his belongings as he took only a modest amount of silver with him. There was almost no chance an isted ce like this would have received word of his flight yet, but out here with no-one watching, it didn''t hurt to be safe.


    This close to the woods and the rifts that were found within, it wasn''t easy to carve out a life farming. The constant threat of attack meant thend was cheap for those hardy folk who were willing to try and make a life out here. As Tyron drew closer he felt like he was approaching a small fort rather than a farm, the solid high fences and gate,plete with two watchtowers were intimidating enough. As he walked toward the thick wooden doors that marked the boundary of the property he quickly became aware of the archers on either side of the path keeping their weapons loosely drawn on him. Nervous and exposed, he put his hands up to show he was no threat.


    "That''s about close enough. What''s your business, stranger?" a man called from the right tower.


    "Trade," Tyron replied. "I''m a traveller in need of supplies. Some bread and cheese, a chance to refill my waterskin. I have a few silver I can pay with."


    He felt awkward, standing there as the two armed farmers looked down at him with hard eyes.


    "Wait there," the man eventually said before he jerked his head at the other archer.


    A secondter the other man was gone, likely to the building, hopefully to gather the supplies he''d asked for. After five minutes of nervous sweating the gate swung open and Tyron was faced with an old woman who appeared to be more leather than human nked by two grim looking farmhands, both armed with hatchets and bows. He negotiated poorly and paid far more than he ought for what he received, but given the circumstances and the cold look in the eyes of his suppliers, he was happy enough to get away with anything at all.


    Business concluded, he smiled politely as he handed over his silver before he turned and walked decisively away, unknowing that he was watched. He didn''t know why he decided not to go straight back to his skeletons and belongings, instead opting to go directly north, stopping only to nibble on the stale bread and hard cheese he''d managed to acquire. After an hour, they caught up with him.

 Chapter 16: The Kindness of Strangers

    Chapter 16: The Kindness of Strangers


    The frontier of the western province had a reputation for breeding hard folk. There was little in the way ofw out here, the various farmsteads and viges left to fend for themselves more often than not. When three burly looking farmhands stepped out of the trees around him, Tyron was quick to throw his hands in the air and try to look as harmless as possible. Which was quite simple considering he was alone and unarmed.


    "Hello there," he tried to force a smile through the greasy feeling of fear that bloomed in his stomach.


    The three weren''t interested in talking. Instead they advanced on him from three sides with their hands raised. Getting robbed was not part of his ns for this part of his journey, but it wasn''t exactly something he hadn''t considered would happen. Although he hadn''t expected his first experience with it would be at the hands of farmers. They beat him, not too badly all things considered, before they shook him down. Frustrated at not finding any further coin, they beat him again, worse this time, before they left him lying in the dirt.


    Tyron gingerly felt his ribs one by one, wincing when he prodded any sore spots. He didn''t think anything was broken, he might have gotten off lucky there. Working a physical ss like they did meant they had plenty of strength, perhaps only his unusually high constitution for being so low level saved him from worse injury. After ten minutes of resting and gathering his breath, he forced himself to stand and took stock of the damage.


    Most of the food he''d bought was ruined, though crucially, not the water. He''d managed to hold the waterskin underneath him as they''d put the boots in. His face was bruised but at least he hadn''t lost any teeth. With a groan he began to walk and took the long way around, just in case he was still being watched. Eventually he made his way back to the ce he''d buried his money and left his two minions.


    The skeletons stood stock still, as they had when he''d left them.


    "Lot of good you two were," he grumbled at them.


    They watched him with that same steady fire in their eyes that they were born with, as if judging him.


    "I know, I know," he sighed. "It was my decision."


    Could he have defended himself with his minions? Perhaps, perhaps not. If he''d revealed himself to be a Necromancer he would have put the marshals back on his trail in an instant. If they''d still attacked him regardless, he might have been forced to kill in order to survive, something he wasn''t willing to do. He''d taken a chance ande up short.


    "Ah well," he winced, "let''s take it slow for a little while."


    He paused.


    "I need to stop talking to the skeletons," he said.


    Progress slowed considerably from that point. He walked with a heavy limp due to a kick in the hip he''d received, not to mention the numerous aches and pains that red up as he moved. Despite the pain, he did his best to focus his attention on the surrounding forest, wary of encountering any further rift-kin. Each of the creatures he found was a danger and an opportunity. Unless he happened to stumble upon a recent gravesite, he wasn''t likely to get his hands on any remains he could use to practice his signature magick, which meant the only way he could gather the proficiency necessary to increase his level was to have his skeletons fight.


    He was sorely tempted to turn around and try to hunt down a few frontier farmers, but he tried hard to squash that grudge. It would be morally wrong, he knew that, but he also knew that he would more than likely get himself killed if he went storming back there looking for trouble. He may have grandiose visions of walking at the head of his own undead army one day, but at present he was level two.


    "In the grand scheme of things," he remembered his father saying, "once you have a ss and pump a few levels into it, sometimes even before then, depending on the ss, you can basically kick the shit out of anyone who hasn''t awakened. The abilities they grant are just that good. Maybe there''s a few exceptional people out there who raised Swordsmanship to a high level by the time they reach eighteen who can still defeat a level one Swordsman, but those types are rare."


    "Why don''t I practice my skills then," a younger Tyron had asked, keen to extract the wisdom of his powerful father while he was feeling talkative.


    "Waste of time," Magnin shrugged. "You learn skills rted to your ss about ten times faster after you''ve awakenedpared to a non-sser. That''s the unseen helping you out along your path. You could spend four years practicing the de and reach level five in the skill, or you could do that in four months once you got the ss. Kids like you should just be having fun."


    He''d reached out and ruffled his child''s hair at that point. As his son, Tyron had been painfully aware of how hard it was for his father to control his strength. They''d lost more than a little furniture over the years. Even so, he treasured these moments.


    "But don''t forget, a newly awakened sser is still a piece of garbage in the broader context."


    Tyron had nced around quickly.


    "Don''t worry," Magnin grinned, "your mother is shopping. Now. Until you reach level five, you don''t even have a ss feat and your abilities are low level garbage. Once you reach level twenty and advance your ss, then you''ll start to have some real power under your sleeve. Until then, you''re just small fry. That''s why the yer academy exists. Once you''ve awakened, you can go there and they''ll help you through the early stages when you''re too weak to do much. Or you cane out with mother and me, we''ll show you the ropes!"


    He smiled at the memory even as he tried to avoid aggravating his bruises. He had to keep in mind that he was still a ''piece of garbage¡¯ as the great warrior Magnin had phrased it. He also didn''t have the ability to rely on his parents or enrol in an academy to help through this weak period. He had to push through the power trough on his own, which meant being a small target and not drawing attention to himself as much as possible.


    No matter how much he wanted payback on some fat-fisted farmers.


    Eventually he stumbled across a creek and stopped long enough to wash his wounds in the cold, murky water, scrubbing out his hair while he was at it. Perhaps it didn''t help his cleanliness all that much, but at the very least he was able to confirm he wasn''t bleeding from anywhere under his clothing.


    For two further miserable days he travelled in this way. Sleeping was almost impossible, given his wounds and theck of anything soft to lie on. He encountered several more rift-kin, fending them off with the skeletons but he wasn''t able toe out unscathed. Not that he himself was injured, but the skeletons began to rue damage. Another gem biter, butrger than the first he''d seen, managed to crack the left leg of one of his minions. The skeleton was still able to walk, though slower, it was still enough to keep up with his own hobbled speed, problems arose when he noticed that it took much more of his magick to keep it moving than before.


    If he wanted to keep the minion around, he would need to stop more frequently, or be constantly using mage candy in order to sustain the necessary flow of energy. He was close to the keep now, or at least, he should be. But if the beasts he encountered continued to grow stronger, he would need all the help he could get. With reluctance, he ced another of the magick filled crystals under his tongue and drew on it to allow his wounded minion to continue to move.


    In a strange way he was attached to these two unthinking bone creatures. They were the first real steps he had taken on his journey as a Necromancer and he would always remember them, even if he became much more proficient at raising his servants in the future. In fact, he <em>needed</em> to be more proficient. If he never raised anything more useful than these two, he would be in trouble!


    When he finally stumbled into the edge of the clearing in which the yer Keep was situated, he was a mess. A fever had seized him the day before, suggesting that he might have suffered some internal injury from his beating, and many of his bruises had yet to fade. His injured skeleton had been lost fighting another gem biter, though he''d been able to finish the creature off with his second skeleton and recover the sword at least. He was forced to sacrifice his one remaining servant a few hours prior when a hulking rift-kin had found him as he hobbled amongst the trees. Asrge as a bull, the beast had been a nightmare of gem encrusted flesh that he had instantly decided he could not defeat. Ordering his skeleton to engage the beast, he''d turned and run as best he could in the other direction, his heart pounding in his chest the whole time.


    Losing both of his minions was a painful blow, the magickal connection that bonded them to him snapped as they ¡®died¡¯, taking a portion of his spent energy with them. It was strange. His servant¡¯s felt no pain, nor fear, nor any emotion at all. They met their deaths the same as they met everything else, with cold obedience to his will.


    His first two undead, lost, just like that. First <em>proper</em> undead. Zombies don¡¯t count.


    Fortunately, the creature hadn''t followed and he had arrived here shortly after. Far from relief, all he felt was a resigned eptance of just how weak he really was now that he was out in the world. What should have been a short and easy journey had turned into him being robbed and losing both of his minions to rtively weak creatures from the rifts.


    He squashed his rising bitterness and tried to focus his exhausted mind as he stumbled toward the keep.


    <em>Woodsedge,</em> he reminded himself, <em>on the outskirts of the Allthorn Forest. Find some lodgings and try not to get robbed. Again.</em>


    The trees had been cleared for over a hundred metres beyond the outer wall and Tyron had to limp quite a distance around before he met the road that led to the gate. There were only two ways in and out of Woodsedge, one that led back toward the province, and one that led straight toward the brokennds within the forest itself. Of the two, the gate he preferred to use was obvious. Due to the recent danger the road was mostly empty and he was d to join a very short line behind only a few wagons seeking to gain entry in order to sell their wares inside. When he finally stepped to the front of the line he tried to fix a harmless smile on his face as he approached the two guards on duty.


    The effect of his efforts did more to make him look deranged rather than cheerful. Corporal Northran was shocked to see such a ragged looking kid out on the frontier, let alone one with such a frightening countenance.


    "Holy shit, kid," he eximed, "you look like death."


    "Ran into rift-kin out on the road," Tyron said. "I, uh, didn''t have the best time of it."


    "That much is obvious," Northran waved his partner to deal with the next cart in line. The inspections took time and this one didn''t look like he could hurt a newbornmb. "If you can''t handle a few of the weaker beasts then you really ought not to be travelling out here."


    "I didn''t think I''d see that many so far from the keep¡­"


    He tried not to sound too usatory as he spoke but the guard picked up anyway.


    "We¡¯ve had an outbreak this week, it''s true. I think some big shot yers have been called in to squash it before anything too serious happens. Anyways, what''s your business in Woodsedge?"


    "Visiting," Tyron tried to shrug but a stab of pain rocked him halfway through the motion. "Looking for work," he finishedmely.


    Corporal Northran looked him up and down. This kid couldn''t be more than a month or two past his Awakening and already he''d fallen into such a state.


    "Are you able to pay the gate fee?" he asked dubiously.


    He was even more surprised when thed unhesitatingly reached into what remained of his cloak and pulled out a silver sovereign.


    "My parents paid for my trip," the kid tried to smile but failed, "but I don''t have much left. Is there a healer I can see inside?"


    There were many in fact. Curing the wounded was a major industry around any yer Keep.


    "Alright then. You''ve paid the fee, let me take your details and then you can go get yourself looked after," Northran sighed. It wasn''t his business to question the decision of every glory seeker who ran to the brokennds the day after they Awakened. It was his job to take their money and their names and get on to the next one.


    "What''s your name?" he asked, readying his ink and clipboard.


    "Uh¡­"


    For a moment Tyron obviously nked as he forgot the fake identity he had prepared for himself. He blinked and tried to force his sluggish brain to move.


    "Lukas¡­ Almsfield."


    "¡­ Uh-huh. I''ll put you down as ''seeking employment''¡­ ''Lukas''. If you need a healer but don''t have much coin then I suggest you head to Iron Square. Most of the cheaper ces are there."


    "T-thanks," Tyron stammered before he stepped passed the guard and through the open gate.


    Behind him Corporal Northran shook his head as he watched the kid walk inside Woodsedge. This time of year, kids like him where a dime a dozen. In two months, most of them would be dead or will have seen sense and run home. For those who dreamed of being a yer but couldn''t pay for entry for a college, running away to a Keep was the only path left for them to pursue their dreams.


    "Poor parents," he sighed to himself as he turned back and waved the next in line forward.


    A huge weight rolled off Tyron''s shoulders the moment he was out of sight of the gate. His biggest fear was that he wouldn''t make it here before word spread of his flight. If that happened then the odds of the guards demanding a verified status before allowing him entry would skyrocket. As it was he was just another kid on the road who didn''t belong there. Exhausted and feeling increasingly delirious, he did his best not to draw attention as he tried to navigate the haphazard town outside of the Keep. He''d heard a long time ago from his mother that almost every keep, even the most inhospitable ones, were host to some sort of settlement. yers had money to burn, but nowhere to go. Which meant that merchants and services had toe to them if they wanted to gouge the profits. With merchants came mercenaries, shopkeepers, inns, brothels and all the other machinery of society.


    After he finally asked for directions he was pointed in the direction he needed. The Iron Square, so named since only the iron ranked yers would go there, unable to afford anything better. After being bandaged and fed some foul smelling concoction by the apothecary to deal with his internal bleeding, Tryon was shoved back out onto the street feeling overcharged and even more exhausted. He resorted to pinching and poking himself in his wounded leg to stay awake as he made his way through the narrow streets. He was on the verge of copse before he finally found an inn he was satisfied with. After arranging for lodging for the night and forcing himself to eat a few slices of bread with stew, he staggered upstairs, found his room and copsed into the bed, asleep before he hit the mattress.


    He woke a few times over the next twelve hours, the first time because the pommel of his sword was digging into his hip, so he drowsily undressed before climbing into the bed proper, the second because he was dehydrated and in desperate need of a piss. Eventually his eyes dragged open and he spluttered back to wakefulness. Aches and pains riddled his body, he felt nauseous and hungry at the same time, and his mind was still sluggish fromck of sleep, but he felt he wasn''t going to improve if he stayed in bed beyond this point. He looked around the cramped room he found himself in, with one window, a small cupboard and vanity, a single chair with a tiny table and sighed. This was as good as things were going to get for the foreseeable future. For someone who spent many night sleeping in an attic, he''d thought this wouldn''t bother him, but back then he''d always had the option of going back to his house if he so chose. Now, he was stuck with this, and for that reason it grated on him.


    "Get over it, Tyron," he scolded himself. He had more important things to worry about than the state of his lodgings.


    His pack remained on the floor where he''d dumped it, which was lucky since, to his chagrin, he''d not bolted the door after walking inst night. Cursing himself for a fool, he quickly checked his belongings and sagged with relief when he found nothing missing. If there was one thing he could be grateful for, it''s that Woodsedge was well policed. It had to be if they wanted to keep the yers in line.


    As he stood with a sigh, Tyron reflected on hisst week. It''d cost him a good chunk of his coin, both of his minions and a massive knock to his ego, but this first, smallest part of his journey had finished. From here it was only going to get harder. He had to grow his skills and abilities without allowing anyone to learn of them and he had to do it right under the noses of the authorities. Still, out here he had ess to the two things he needed most: rift-kin to fight and ¡­ bodies.


    He was going to need a <em>lot</em> of bodies.

 Chapter 17: Next Steps

    Chapter 17: Next Steps


    The rest of the day was taken up with eating, drinking and sleeping as Tyron recovered from his journey. He kept to himself an focused on getting his energy and focus back as quickly as possible. His overuse of mage candy had stretched his tolerance quite a bit and he would need time to detoxify his system. Frankly, he was embarrassed at how badly the journey had yed out. He''d taken far longer to arrive here than he should have and lost so much along the way. Without the little forethought that he''d managed to summon he could have lost everything and arrived at Woodsedge a stumbling pauper!


    <em>No point crying over spilt milk</em>, he scolded himself. <em>Learn from it and get better.</em>


    And he would. The first thing he did was to take steps that he didn''t draw any notice to himself. He took his meals in his room and kept to himself as hemitted to his convalescence. He refused to take any action until he was back to full fitness, not in his body, but in his mind. The fatigue and stress he''d endured had left him listless and vague, not something he could afford to be, so he leaned on his dwindling supply of coin to buy himself two full days to recover.


    So he slept, and ate, and thought and then slept some more until he rose the following morning, his muscles still contained an echo of the pain and stiffness he''d endured, but his mind felt fresh and clear once more.


    "Here we go," he muttered to himself.


    All of the sudden the nervous energy and desire to advance that he had bottled up came gushing forward and it was difficult to pull his boots on due to his hands shaking. He couldn''t afford to waste any more time! There was almost zero chance that word of a fugitive hadn¡¯t spread, one with a forbidden ss and possibly with a sizable bounty to boot. He wasn''t a petty thief or smuggler either, those sorts of bounty notices were a dime a dozen. For a Necromancer it was likely that the Baron would pull out a much more significant purse.


    Thankfully the Keep had seen a constant influx of young people over the week ording to the gossip he''d had from the kitchen maids, which meant he was just one face among hundreds. That also meantpetition would be heating up and he couldn''t afford to wait any longer.


    He moved at a quick walk that morphed into a slow jog once he was out onto the street in the early morning light. Luckily he was able to find what he needed without too much trouble, though he had to part with a gold sovereign for it. With his prize tucked under his arm he rushed back to the inn he boarded at, grabbing a te of breakfast which he took to his room. As soon as the door was shut behind him he sat in the centre of the room, put the te down to his side and carefully ripped a page from his freshly acquired book.


    Given how important a supply of nk paper was to <em>literally everyone</em>, he hadn''t realised just how expensive it would be to buy. Even allowing for inted prices due to being out on the frontier, he''d been shocked at the amount the store clerk had demanded. It was possible he was getting fleeced, but no matter how he''d tried the man hadn''t budged on his price so he''d just given in and paid. He''d never had to buy a book, or paper before, since his parents kept a healthy stock of it in the house, so he had no idea how much the small, leather bound bundle of clean white sheets under his arm would cost back in Foxbridge.


    Still, he couldn''t bring himself to care at this moment. He''d been waiting so long for this! A small prick on his finger using the tip of his knife and then he was ready to perform the status ritual.


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>Your attempts at stealth have increased proficiency. </em><strong>Sneak has reached level 2.</strong>


    <em>Your use of Swordsmanship has increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>Concentration has increased proficiency. </em><strong>Concentration has reached level 3.</strong>


    <em>Your Minions have battled on your behalf. Your minions have fallen in your service. <strong>Necromancer has reached level 4. You have received +4 Intelligence, +2 Wisdom and +2 Willpower. New Choices Avable.</strong></em>


    <em>The Darkness continues to be pleased with your progress. They urge you to continue on your path. The Abyss grows impatient.</em>


    Name: Tyron Steelhand.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 10)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Necromancer (Level 4).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ol><li>Anathema (Level 3).</li><li>None</li><li>None</li></ol>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    20


    Intelligence:


    26


    Wisdom:


    18


    Willpower:


    24


    Charisma:


    13


    Maniption:


    11


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)


    Handwriting (Level 4)


    Concentration (Level 3)


    Cooking (Level 1)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Sneak (Level 2)


    Skill Selections Avable: 2


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 1)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 1)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 8)


    Sleep (Level 4)


    Mana Bolt (Level 1)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 3)


    Bone Stitching (Level 2)


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    <em>Necromancer Level 4. Please Choose an additional Spell:</em>


    <em>Flesh Mending - Repair dead flesh.</em>


    <em>Please Choose an additional Skill:</em>


    <em>Empower Servant - Feed mana to your minions.</em>


    <em>Death Magick - Attune to Death.</em>


    Two levels at once! Tyron sucked in his breath at this. Reaching level five would have been incredible, since it would grant him his first ss feat, but he couldn''t be disappointed with this. Level four was enough for him to get his next skill or spell and it would be an important choice given his circumstances. He was disappointed to see that Anathema hadn''t levelled, and the message received about the Abyss sounded ominous to say the least. He had no idea who or what the Abyss referred to and he certainly hadn''t be more enthused about the idea of contacting them via some ritual, but he felt a tinge of fear at the thought of having something so powerful it could grant him a sub-ss angry at him.


    Pushing that aside, hisck of growth as a human was also grating. Level ten at his age was definitely on the low side, usually people gained roughly a level a year. Being as isted and anti-social as he was had cost him in this regard. It hadn''t really bothered him in the past, but now he felt a need to progress in his racial levels keenly. He needed ess to more general skills, which he gained every second level, and more importantly, he needed the human racial bonus that would open for him at level 20.


    That extra ss slot would be so important down the line, especially since he''d lost a slot to Anathema through no fault of his own. The sub-ss gave him fantastic stats per level, that was true, but he had no idea how useful it would be or how legal it was. He suspected it might even be more hated than Necromancer. Thank goodness there was no way for anyone to know he had it outside of a full Appraisal. Something he had to avoid like the gue.


    Before he did anything else, he carefully wrote down on the page a few words using his own blood: New General Skill: Butchery.


    His face twisted a little as he wrote, but he didn''t hesitate to do it. This was necessary for the next step and as much as he didn''t want to admit, the skill would likelye in handy for his ss as well. He carefully tried to avoid thinking about that as he brought his eyes to the bottom of the page. As expected, he was still able to select ''Flesh Mending'', the choice he''d ignored at level 2. He felt no urge to take it this time around either, he''d moved on from zombies to another form of undead and he didn''t see a reason to go back. His new options were skills rather than spells and he read each of them carefully.


    Empower Servant felt intuitive to him. When he raised a minion arge part of the process involved forging a conduit between him and it, a connection that allowed the minion to draw on his magick to fuel its actions. The energy that allowed a skeleton to move had toe from somewhere, it certainly wasn''t burning body fat! This skill would teach him how to push magick through the connection manually, granting the minion additional speed and strength. It would definitely be useful, but he had to consider the cost. He suspected that for the early levels at least, the skill would be horrendously inefficient. Which was a major problem, since he struggled to support even two minions at present. The additional stats he gained from levelling Necromancer would certainly help, but he was hesitant to take a skill that he may not be able to use at present.


    Likewise the next choice had simr drawbacks. This kind of skill wasn''t umon, although this particr one might well be. He knew for a fact his mother had several such skills, namely Fire Magic and Earth Magic, that allowed her to cast those spells with greater ease. These skills could also act as a prerequisite for spells, feats or even sses. It wouldn''t do much for him right now other than helping him cast Raise Dead a little easier, but the potential benefits wererge.


    Tyron was a little nonplussed that both new offerings weren''t very useful for him in his present circumstances, but then, not much could have been. Both were potentially very useful and he could see himselfing back to take either one in the future.


    He considered his choice carefully, as he stared down at the blood letters for several long minutes before he marked his desired choice with a drop.


    Death Magick it would be. He was sure it was illegal, but what did that matter to him? His Status page was already ouwed, possibly several times over! He couldn''t be positive, since he still had no idea how the Necromancer ss would proceed and what spells and skills he would be offered, but he felt that it was a safe bet he would seeing enough choices rted to Death Magick that he would get more than enough value out of the skill. The knowledge that it could act as a prerequisite for many things helped seal the deal.


    With his selections made, he ended the ritual and immediately swooned as the change came upon him. He didn''t fall unconscious, but it took him over an hour before he feltfortable pushing himself off the floor. By now his breakfast had be cold but he forced himself to eat it anyway, he''d need the energy and couldn''t afford to skip meals that he was paying for anyway. That was another consideration, should he move somewhere cheaper? He currently had no source of ie and this ce was probably in the mid-range of inns in Woodsedge. If was to live within his means, he''d need to find somewhere much cheaper¡­ but part of him hesitated.


    For now, he decided to stay. The food was good and the security was excellent. If he moved to a cheaper ce to save money and was robbed, that would set him considerably more than paying double for a room. If he was careful with his remaining coin, he''d be able to stay here for a long time yet, months if need be. If he was able to start earning some sovereigns, then that time could stretch out to a year or more.


    And that was his next concern. Having rested andpleted the ritual, he needed to move onto the next step. He gathered his te and stood, squaring his shoulders before he marched down the stairs and into themon room, making sure to lock his door behind him. This next part was going to be unpleasant, but it was a necessary step if he was going to seed. Tyron avoided being pulled into conversation by the serving maids, each of them giggling as he walked past and trying to extract gossip out of him and walked purposefully out into the town.


    It took a little while for him to find what he was looking for, and a little while longer to work himself up to the point of actually stepping in the door.


    When he did, the first thing he noticed was the smell, it was overpowering. Blood, and a lot of it. The second thing that drew his notice was the temperature. It was noticeably colder inside than it had been outside.


    <em>Is that why the door was so heavy?</em>


    He turned to stare at the thick-panelled wood for a moment before he curiously nced around the shop. It had to be enchantments keeping the temperature down this much, nothing else could do it. He couldn''t spot where they were, but he''d be keen to take a look if he got the chance. He knew a couple of runes, picked them up off hand by poking at his parent''s enchanted stuff, and he wouldn''t mind -


    "You gonna stare or are you gonna buy sumfin''?" a gruff voice rumbled out.


    Tyron jumped and turned to see a squat man with the thickest forearms he''d ever seen folded across his chest. Even then it was easy to see the red stains that covered his fingers.


    "Ah, hello," Tyron tried to smile but failed utterly. He was so useless in social situations. "I was¡­ uh¡­ hoping to talk to you ¡­ as a matter of fact."


    "Spit it outd, I don''t have the time."


    "Right¡­ I''m wondering if you''ll allow me to¡­ volunteer. Here. Do some work. For¡­ free?"


    Even he had to wince at how his voice trailed off under the steady re of this rough looking man. The fellow looked him up and down and then sighed minutely to himself.


    "You kids, runnin'' off here and lookin'' to get yourself killed. Every damn year. You think I wan'' your help jus'' caus'' you smart enough toe here first?"


    Tyron stood a little straighter.


    "I took the Butchery skill, sir."


    The Butcher''s eyes narrowed a little at that and his demeanour thawed oh so slightly.


    "At least you got tha'' muchmitment."


    He paused and considered for a moment.


    "You willin'' to work fer free?"


    "Yes, sir."


    "Don'' call me sir. I work fer a livin!"


    After a hard re he rolled back on his heels.


    "Tell you what. I want a month, eight hours a day. No less! Do that an¡¯ I''ll teach ya'' sumfin along the way. Deal?"


    Tyron winced. A month was longer than he''d wanted tomit for, but he could see how it wouldn''t be worth teaching him anything if he was gone after a week. It wasn''t all bad though, if he worked here long enough it would help normalise his presence in Woodsedge, help him build a routine and connect with the locals. He firmed his resolve.


    "Deal."


    "Right. Get in tha'' back."


    Without another word the burly man turned and walked through the open door behind him from which the potent stench was wafting, leaving Tyron standing on his own in the entrance. After a dazed second he scrambled to move around the counter and through the door. Inside he found the temperature even colder, and the stench even stronger. Seemingly immune to both, the butcher strode up to a long bench covered in treated wood from which he pulled thergest cleaver the young man had ever seen with one hand from where it had been wedged.


    "Got a delivery o'' elk packed in crates. Crack ''em out and haul ''em in one by one."


    This time Tyron did as instructed without pause and so followed the longest day of physicalbour he had ever done in his life. The butcher drove him as hard as a ve driver, as if to make sure he extracted every ounce of value from the free help that he could. So Tyron opened crates, hauled corpses, ran deliveries, sharpened knives, so many knives. All the while the stout man executed the methods of his trade with inhuman precision. Beneath his hands whole carcasses were skinned and sectioned with ease that belied the absurd level of strength and skill he possessed.


    By the time dusk rolled around, the young Necromancer was thoroughly exhausted, his forearms and back burning from the unfamiliar work. What galled him the most was not once during the entire day did he perform a single activity that might see him increase the level of Butchery. As he leaned against the wall to recover the butcher was packing up with the same efficiency he had done the rest of his work. After thest of his tools had been cleaned to a mirror shine he turned and spoke.


    "My name''s Hak, short fer Hakoth. I''ll see yer early morn'' tomorrow."


    "Sure thing, Mr Hakoth," Tyron forced out.


    The grizzled man snorted at his words and jerked his head to the door. Not needing an invitation, Tyron practically ran out the door before he turned to give a brief wave to his ''employer'' and then made his way back to his residence. A full meal, taken in themon room this time, was a wee distraction for him after the day''s events and he found himself eating with far more appetite than was usual for him.


    A lot of farmer¡¯s boys in Foxbridge had mocked him over the years for being a soft prince with a silver spoon in his mouth and he''d always hated that description, but in this moment he couldn''t really fault them. He''d worked hard before, sure, extremely hard on asion, but generally he was used to doing most of his heavy lifting with his mind.


    Something most of those farmers, with a few notable exceptions, were totally inept at. Which he had reminded them of. Frequently.


    Though his muscles already protested and gave warning hints of the aches toe in the morning, Tyron knew his day wasn''t done. With a sigh he pushed his chair back and headed back out into the fading light. Finding a spot for this next task would be a touch tricky¡­

 Chapter 18: Friendly Faces

    Chapter 18: Friendly Faces


    The next morning Hak rose with the dawn, as was his habit, and carefully rolled out of bed so as not to disturb his still slumbering wife. The woman had a fierce temper when she didn''t get enough sleep and he was wise enough to know a little care on his part would pay dividends down the line. In the near darkness he fumbled until he was able to light a single candle by which he was able to dress himself and make his way downstairs.


    After a simple breakfast that he prepared himself, that Cooking skill really came in handy at times, he walked out the door and into the brisk morning air. When he finally arrived at his shop he was more than a little surprised by what he saw.


    "Good morning Mr Hak," the young man greeted him a little awkwardly.


    The Butcher shook his head slightly as he walked towards the door and drew a heavy iron key out of his pocket.


    "Yer don'' need to call me Mr," he grumbled. "Feels unnatural."


    Thed shrugged to indicate hisck of feeling on the matter and silently followed the older man inside.


    "Wasn'' sure I''d be seein'' yer face today," he said.


    "I figure a lot of people don''te back after a first day like that," Tyron replied.


    "S''true enough."


    "I had a think about it and to tell the truth I suspect that might even be the point."


    Hak grunted and continued arranging his knives for the day.


    "I feel as if there might be several days of gruelling menial work in my future before I get to practice butchering."


    There was no judgement in the young man''s voice, just a simple statement of his thoughts. As the Butcher eyed him sideways, Tyron waited patiently for instructions. Finally Hak broke his silence.


    "M'' daughter will be here today. She ''elps with the store."


    Thebination of tone and re from the burly man delivered a secondary message loud and clear: <em>keep your filthy hands off my daughter</em>.


    "What do you need me to do?" Tyron asked.


    <em>Your message has been received loud and clear</em>, his demeanor replied.


    Hakoth grunted and frowned. <em>This kid is too quick on the uptake to be doing what he''s doing</em>, he thought, <em>still, it''s not my ce to care about that.</em>


    Pushing that aside, he gave the first instructions of the day to the kid and almost felt irritated at how readily thed leapt to obey. How many times had he seen kids in the same position break down before the first day was even done, let alone show this level of enthusiasm on day two? Certainly none that had actually realised they wouldn''t learn shit until Hak was good and ready to teach it. For his part, Tyron kept his head down, ignored his protesting muscles and got to work. He understood the position he was in perfectly. He''d follow through on the agreement he''d made as best he could, which meant working his ass off for the surly Butcher, and he could only hope that Hakoth would do the same. It certainly wasn''t ideal, but he was the powerless one hoping to leech some levels from the tradesman, so the terms were to be expected.


    Two hourster the bell over the door rang out and Tyron put down the knife he was sharpening to poke his head through the door to see who had entered the front of the shop. He was quite surprised to see a gorgeous young woman with bright blonde curls and clear blue eyes closing the door behind her as she stepped into the store. Since he''d been instructed to watch the door he stepped out to enquire.


    "Excuse me, miss. How can I help you?" he asked, quickly wiping his hands on the cloth he kept tucked into his belt.


    Keeping your hands as clean as possible was the first rule he''d learned from the Butcher, one that the stone-faced tradesman enforced with fanatical intensity. Hearing his voice the girl turned and gifted him a dazzling smile.


    "Oh, hello. I''m here to work. Are you a new apprentice? I''m Madeleine."


    She stepped forward and extended her hand for him to shake. Tyron stared nkly for a moment before something in his brain clicked.


    "You''re Mr Hakoth''s daughter?" he smiled stiffly, scarcely believing his own words.


    "Mr Hakoth?" she giggled, "he must <em>hate </em>that."


    Her hand was still extended between them and Tyron''s eyes flicked down to it as if it were a deadly viper before he nced back up to her <em>far</em> too pretty face. He was supposed to believe that she was rted to Hak?! Some things simply weren''t gically possible!


    "Too smart to shake hands with my daughter are you?" a deep voice rumbled from just over his shoulder.


    Moving a little unsteadily Tyron lifted his hand and gently grasped the dainty hand extended before him for a brief second before he released it, stepped around the imposing Butcher behind him and made his way back to the low seat with the sharpening stone embedded in it. Madeleine giggled again at the wooden disy and looked up at her father who smiled and winked.


    "Customers here soon, lovely. Make sure you''re ready."


    She rolled her eyes and shooed her father back through the door. Did he really think she needed to be told that? Soon after Tyron managed to recover his senses he heard the bell sing out again as the first of what would be a steady flow of customers entered the store to engage with Madeleine, who would disy both charm and canny business sense as she closed deal after deal for her father. Quite impressive for a young woman who, if he didn''t miss his guess, was a year younger than him and therefore hadn''t awakened yet. Not that it was any of his business! In fact, he had little time to think about the Butcher''s shockingly attractive daughter since the man was even more determined to work him to the bone than he had been the day before.


    <em>Is this because I shook her hand</em>? He couldn''t help but wonder as his arms and legs shook from exertion as he unstacked another wagon of meat.


    The sheer volume of animals that passed through this one butchery was almost enough to make his head hurt. Was every day like this? But when he thought back to something his mother told him, it made a kind of sense.


    "yers are simple creatures, most of them, that is," she said with some level of distaste, which shocked him considering both she herself and the man she married were yers.


    "<em>Most</em> of them," she emphasised with a smile when she saw the look on his face. "There are exceptions to every rule, and it just so happened that two such people managed to find each other. The rest of them?" she waved a dismissive hand, "not worth the time. Like animals, all they want to do is fight, feast and fuck. If you actually want to progress in the profession, it''s best to avoid most of the people in it."


    Tyron had picked up enough titbits of information around town to know that there were roughly a thousand yers in the keep right now, with another thousand out in the field at any given time. The entire economy of Woodsedge revolved around those thousand people, which was why half the town consisted of healers, weaponsmiths and armourers, and the other half taverns, inns and brothels. Hakoth was not the only local Butcher and it was likely no exaggeration to say that every one of them did the same level of business that he did. By the end of the day Tyron was even more exhausted than he''d been the previous one, but he grit his teeth and farewelled the gruff man at the door before he turned and staggered back to his inn. Some food and water helped him recover and then he went up to his room to collect his notes and back out into the town. He didn''t have much time left.


    The next two days passed as a blur to the harried young man. Sleep was hard toe by and he leaned heavily into his constitution and Night Owl feat to push through. Every morning he would be standing by the door as Hakoth arrived to work and he would leave a shaking wreck at the end of the day. He did his best to ignore Madeleine''s attempts to draw him into conversation whilst not being impolite, he got the feeling she just wanted to tease him and annoy her father a little but Tyron was perfectly aware that he would be the one to suffer if he engaged. At night he continued to work on his project, writing copious notes and doing his best to unravel the magick until finally he felt that he might be ready.


    Hisst status had been a stark warning, one that he wouldn''t ignore. He had no idea who or what the ''Abyss'' might refer to, but anything powerful enough to voice its displeasure through his status ritual was not something he wanted getting too ticked off at him. He felt strongly enough about it that he had decided to take some risks in order to do something about it.


    His legs throbbed with pain as he crouched low, keeping a close eye on the patrols. Luckily these weren''t official marshals, just private mercenaries hired by the merchants office but getting caught would stillnd him a painful spot. He waited for the right timing, when the guard stepped around the corner of the far warehouse and then he stole forward a few metres, listening intently. When the footsteps had faded enough he checked behind himself again, making sure the other patrol hadn''t deviated from their usual pattern. When he saw nothing he steadied himself with a deep breath before he rose slightly and broke into a light run, still bent at the waist to reduce his profile.


    He weaved his way through pallets of goods and crates containing goodness knows what, probably more meat for him to unpack tomorrow before he reached his goal and knelt down as he leaned against the wood panels to catch his breath and massage the cramps out of his legs. He could see the glow from themp carried by the second guard now, growing stronger as he approached the ce Tyron had been hidden only a minute before. He quieted his breathing as he waited long seconds before the second guard arrive back on this side of the warehouse. As they drew closer the two men paused, the light of theirmps melding together as a low conversation broke out between them and Tyron rolled his eyes.


    <em>Stop gossiping and get back to work, idiots! I can''t wait here all night!</em>


    Only thirty metres separated him from their position and he wasn''t prepared to move a muscle while the two of them were still there, so he waited until ten minutester when the two finally decided to continue their routes. The moment the two were out of sight he rose and made his way around the other side of the building where he found the window he''d worked on during his previous visit. He carefully checked it and found it still open, so he pulled it wider before hopping up onto a box he''d positioned and carefully wiggled his way through the gap.


    It''d be nice if there was a wider opening he could use, but part of what made this space perfect for his purposes was the very few ces light could leak out, which meant small windows were a definite plus. As he continued squeezing himself through he put his hands down and found the hard wooden surface he was looking for, supporting himself with his hands as he pulled his legs through. Good thing he was still fairly slender, he doubted someone with more meat on them like Rufus would be able to fit at all. The thought of his old friend caused a sour expression to wash over his face but he pushed the emotion away, he had no time for it right now.


    Gathering his bearings in the dark, he fumbled about until he found the nket and pinned it over the window, being sure to pull it closed first. Only when this was done did he create a soft globe of light and look about. He''d been lucky to stumble on this ce during his first night of explorations. With the frankly huge amount of goods moving in and out of Woodsedge it only made sense that there was a sizeable depot for the merchants to receive and send off merchandise. This collection of warehouses and storage was exactly what he needed, and when he found this particr building, basically a shed for storing wagons or carts, unused and covered in a fineyer of dust, he''d decided it suited his purposes.


    He moved with caution, conscious to try and keep any noise to a minimum as he ced three more soft lights around the space to give him the illumination he needed to continue his work from the previous night. He tiredly rubbed at his eyes before he pped himself on both cheeks and looked down at the dust on the floor, or more urately, the mostlypleted spell circle he''d drawn. When he''d reached Anathema level two he''d been given the choice of three spells, Dark Communion, Appeal to the Court or Pierce the Veil and he''d chosen thetter. Just like with Raise Dead, the selection granted him a measure of knowledge, ced in his head by the universe itself, that would allow him to cast the spell. However, just like with Raise Dead, the knowledge he was given did not also grant understanding, ore close to the full extent of what could be known about the magick. He was given the basics, an introduction, and it was up to him to learn and develop the rest.


    Which he''d tried to do. Pulling out his notebook he flicked through several pages of notes where he''d tried to break down the fundamental principles of this spell. He summoned another globe of light just above his head to better allow him to see the pages as he frowned down at his own work.


    It wasn''t enough, not even close. This magick wasplex, almost as difficult as the Raise Dead spell itself and that was the most intricate spellwork he''d evere into contact with. There were elements to Pierce the Veil that he had simply never seen before, some that were a little familiar and others that were utterly bizarre, breaking his own understanding of how these things should work. Tyron was honest enough to admit to himself that he was quite talented when it came to magick, especially on the theory side, but even he wasn''t confident of a sessful cast. Under better circumstances he would spend weeks practicing the separate parts of the spell, unpacking the theory and examining the spell forms until he had mastered as much as he could without performing the magick, but he didn''t have the time.


    With a long, slow breath he focused himself, consulted his notes once more and then got back to work on the circle on the ground. The pattern needed to be as precise as he could make it, each line a channel for arcane energy that would help fuel the spell and hopefully guide it to its sessful conclusion. He tried to work without making sound as he paced back and forth, adding a stroke here, correcting a curve there,paring his notes to the collection of half-memories in his head. As far as he could tell, the circle itself acted as a kind of anchor, a steadying barrier that locked itself and everything inside it within a point of space and time. The rest of the spell was far more esoteric and involved a ''reaching out'' and as suggested by the name a ''piercing'', but what exactly he would be poking through, he had no idea, nor what he would find on the other side.


    He could only assume that the entities that had granted him the Anathema ss did so to help rather than hurt him. From the messages he''d seen so far, he got the feeling that was the case, but he couldn''t be certain.


    One more time he walked around the circle, bringing the light lower to inspect his work once more before he sighed and snapped shut his book. It was as good as he could make it under the circumstances, there wasn''t much point dying any longer. He ced the book down on the side bench with care and then withdrew two items from his inner pocket. The first, a waterskin which he took a long draw from, careful to wet his throat, this would be a long cast and he wanted to ensure he didn''t lose the power of speech at the end. Likewise the second item was to protect him from running out of resources, mage candy.


    He took another deep breath, centred himself before he stepped with great care into the centre of the circle, ensuring he didn''t scuff any lines. With that done, he extinguished each globe in the room, returning his surroundings to total darkness.


    Then he began to speak.

 Chapter 19: Beyond the Veil

    Chapter 19: Beyond the Veil


    Words of power rolled sonorously from his mouth as he concentrated on each syble, ensuring that no errors were made. At the same time he split his focus, directing a portion of his attention to the circle beneath his feet into which he began to direct a steady flow of magick. The power built over time as he continued to speak, the sweat already beginning to bead on his brow and he tried to remain hushed without breaking the flow and enunciating correctly.


    "Remember Tyron," his mother told him, "a misspoken word can be as good as a death sentence with high level spells. Diction. Saves. Lives."


    As good as the advice was, he pushed the memory away, he <em>had</em> to focus.


    Beneath his feet a dark purple me began to flicker around the soles of his feet, causing shadows to dance along the floor and walls, dimly at first, but with growing intensity as the me spread through the channels he had created with such painstaking effort. As he continued to intone the spell the fire grew, directed by the circle he had drawn. The ethereal tongues of me spread through the pattern with deliberate slowness as he controlled the trickle of energy.


    Sweat had already begun to drip from his face as he maintained his dual focus, speaking the words and empowering the circle at the same time. He knew he had to control the pace of the spell with great care. If he advanced too quickly without the proper activation of the circle the spell would fail, with disastrous consequences, but if he ignited it too early, he wouldn¡¯t be able to maintain the drain of magick, causing it to fail when he needed it most. Already the drain on his reserves was beyond the point he would have been able to sustain before he''d received his ss. Without the precious levels he''d gained, this spell would have been impossible for him to cast. In fact, if he only had ess to the Necromancer ss and not the bonus stats from his two levels in Anathema, he''d have no hope either.


    Moving with tremendous care, he brought the arcane crystal in his hand up to his mouth as he continued to speak, waiting for a pause between sybles to slide it under his tongue. For one horrible moment the crystal shifted in his mouth and his tongue twisted to prevent it from sliding loose. He managed to settle it just in time as he sucked in a quick breath and continued, only the slightest hitch detectable in his otherwise steady voice.


    Even so he rubbed his palms across his shirt to try and prevent them from shaking. That had been close to a disaster.


    For the next minute he concentrated only on speaking and drawing deeper, steadying breaths in the breaks and only once he felt he had calmed down, when the pounding of his heart in his chest had settled, did he once more begin to channel power into the circle.


    To an outside observer the scene would have been equal parts beautiful and disturbing as the young man stood rock still, lit from below by purple fire that oh so slowly drew an intricate pattern of loops and whorls on the floor that turned, connected and broke in a never ending dance that entwined itself in a neat circle that spread in a two metre radius from his feet. Perhaps more disturbing than that was the vague darkness that had begun to form, wavering in the air directly in front of the youth. It was so thin, and blended with the shadows so well, one could be forgiven for thinking it was nothing more than a trick of the light, but how then to exin the strange sense of foreboding that began to permeate the room.


    Tyron felt it, how could he not? He was the one actively summoning it.


    He wouldn''t be distracted. He closed his eyes and spread his hands wide as the words continued to roll from his mouth, giving form and shape to the magick that flowed from him in a steady stream. Wary that the trickle of energy he drew from the candy was no longer enough, he split his focus once again to draw on the crystal more actively,pensating for the resources he was losing to power the spell.


    His calves burned, his shoulders ached, a headache pounded in his temples and his throat burned, but Tyron refused to bend as he continued to direct the flow of power, forcing it to bend to his will. Before he had received his ss, such a feat would have been beyond him, but now he could barely manage. He waged a constant battle as the minutes ticked by, each element he sought to control growing more unruly, more difficult to contain as more power fed into them.


    <em>Why the hell wasn''t I given any nice cantrips to cast from these damn sses?</em>


    The thought flickered on the outskirts of his awareness and he paid it no mind as he directed the spell. By now the me had permeated all through the circle he had drawn, the patternplete as the fire danced around his boots. With the protectionplete, he was free to move into the final phase of the spell which he did without hesitation. He couldn''t afford to waste time, even now the reserves of magick within him were falling low, despite the inflow from the candy under his tongue.


    His eyes still shut, he spoke the words, each one ringing in the air, infused with power as they added to the shape that continued to form in the air.


    After another five minutes through which Tyron mastered himself time and time again the vague and indistinct shape had be more clear. A wafting curtain of pure darkness hung in the air, rippling as if brushed by a wind that none could feel. It wasn''trge, barely a metre wide circle, but from that unnatural cloth came an aura that soaked the room in dread. Still Tyron continued to speak, his hands drawing closer to his chest as he focused, crafting the final aspect of the spell as he fought to maintain the disparate elements he had created.


    Sweat flowed freely down his face, dripping into his eyes and mouth, another hurdle that he had to adjust for in order to pronounce each word with perfect rity, not daring to shift his posture at this key moment.


    Slowly, slowly, the final piece began to form as he raised both hands into the air in front of him, reaching out toward the drifting curtain before him without touching it. Then, slowly, slowly, he drew his hands down again, lowering them from the level of his eyes down to his waist, and this time the spell responded to his action. As his hands fell, the cloth parted. As the final words rolled from his lips the darkness solidified.


    <em>Pierce the Veil.</em>


    It was done.


    Wrung out, Tyron drew a ragged breath as he tried to still the trembling in his limbs, but he did not shift from his position, nor did he allow the flow of magick to the circle beneath his feet to falter.


    For a long second nothing happened until Tyron slowly opened his eyes to glimpse into something that should not be seen.


    In an instant his mind was assaulted as a voice forced its way into his head, babbling incoherently in anguage he could not recognise. He rocked back on his heels, both hands flying to his head as the pain intensified a hundred fold. Unknown to him, blood had begun to flow from his nose and ears as the voice scratched and wed within his skull.


    <em>Allo''kruak al''atha! Shub grinu''ak kal''kragg oleth a''lel orrani''kk!</em>


    An endless scream of one voice that quickly became a chorus, each pushing,<em> stretching</em> inside his head until Tyron could contain it no longer and a long groan leaked out his mouth as he fought the presences in his head. On and on they babbled as he felt as if his headache might split his forehead open right in the middle, but he did not move from his spot anchored to the centre of the circle and he did not cut off the flow of power.


    Which saved his life.


    As he continued to fight for his sanity, the dread aura within the room only intensified, the shadows deepening to a perfect darkness that suppressed the light of the mes until they barely seemed to illuminate anything at all. Tendrils of <em>otherness</em> stretched through the opening, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence as they met no resistance on the other side. What started as one quickly became a dozen, then a hundred, than an uncountable number as they writhed through the air like roots seeking water. As if sensing the life within the young man, they homed in toward him, drawing ever closer as he continued to battle the voices.


    With a shout Tyron threw his hands down, palms facing the floor before he bit down on the crystal, shattering it in his mouth and cutting the underside of his tongue. He grasped hold of thest flow of power from the gem and flung it down to the mes through his hands which he then clenched into fists.


    At this motion the fire roared, climbing up until it licked against the wooden ceiling without burning it. This wasn¡¯t a fire designed to consume the mundane, the building was in no danger from it. The tendrils on the other hand, reacted immediately, pulling back from the fire as a frustrated shriek vibrated through the veil and rattled against Tyron''s consciousness. As the purple me roared, the Necromancer once again found his mind clear, the voices forced out for a few seconds and he acted decisively.


    He squeezed out thest ounce of power within himself as words once again echoed from his torn throat. With a deliberate motion he brought his hands wide before he forcefully brought them together in front of his face. He felt resistance, but he didn''t allow it as with arge surge of mental energy he forced the veil to close.


    Then it was all gone. The fire, the veil, the strange presence and voices, all of it, vanished. Tyron stood, swaying on his feet as he continued to leak blood down over his mouth and from his ears, utterly exhausted.


    It would be so easy to copse right here. So easy. Part of him yearned for it even, for the hard times to be over, but that wasn''t his path and he had turned away from it before.


    He almost sobbed as he forced himself to move. First one step, then the next, until he reached the bench, he gathered his book before he stumbled back and did what he could to drag his foot through the circle he had drawn, obliterating the lines. With thest of his energy he climbed onto the bench, uncovered the window and pushed himself out, almost uncaring when he flopped hard onto the ground on the other side. Hey there for a few minutes to collect his breath and had to pinch himself to dy the onset of sleep.


    When he was ready he gathered himself and began to make his slow way back to the inn. With any luck he''d get some sleep before he had to be at the butchery the next day.


    <em>Within the yer keep.</em>


    "What the zing <em>fuck</em>?!"


    Rogil sat up instantly in bed and reached for his de, crashing through the door into the lounge of his team''s group suite a few secondster. Only the Lowlight Vision feat prevented him from mming his shin into the low table in the centre of the room as he cast his eyes about, seeking out the danger.


    "Dove?" he barked, "talk to me!"


    "<em>Fucking</em> fuck!" the voice echoed from the mage''s room and Rogil leapt to the door and ripped it open, tearing it off its hinges in the process.


    Inside he found the bearded man staring directly into a wall, magick circles ignited above his eyes as he stared at something nobody else could see and continued the steady stream of curses. From the other rooms he could hear the sounds of the rest of the team waking up and rolling from their beds, far too slowly for Rogil''s liking. He''d drill them on itter.


    "What is the danger, Dove you idiot?!"


    "Wha- <em>fuck</em>, what?"


    "Is there a threat?!"


    "I should <em>fucking</em>¡­ oh good lord, it''s gone. Thank <em>shit</em>. Thank you holy goddess. Thank your pure melons and your blessed, firm ass."


    "Dove," Rogil ground out, "can you stop spheming long enough to tell me what''s going on, or am I going to have to pound you into a bearded pile of goop first?"


    The magick faded from the Summoner''s eyes as he finally seemed to realise his team leader had arrived in the room, followed by the rest of the team as they gathered outside his door.


    "Are you telling me you didn''t feel that? Are you fucking kidding me?"


    "DOVE!"


    "An abyssal!" he threw his hands in the air. "Someone tried to summon a <em>fucking</em> abyssal! Here!"


    "In the keep?!"


    "No, in town somewhere. They failed, thank goodness. Can you imagine¡­" the mage trailed away as he shivered.


    "What is going on and why can I see Dove''s balls?" Aryll the scout drawled as she peered over Monica''s head.


    Dove looked down at his exposed genitalia, only realising in that moment that he''d gone to sleep with a shirt on, but no pants. Deciding to lean into it, he turned toward the door with his feet nted firmly apart.


    "Allow me to exin," the Summoner gestured with his hand, managing to brush his nightshirt out of the way of his junk in the process, "what is going on, is I felt someone perform a ritual somewhere in town, a ritual that tore the veil. As to why you''re looking at my balls, that''s because you''re a raging pervert, but it''s okay, we love you anyway."


    Rogil rolled his eyes.


    "I couldn''t care less about your dick <em>or</em> your balls. Try to imagine for a moment that none of us are specialists at pulling weird creatures from even weirder ces and break this down a little for us?"


    "And put on some pants, <em>please</em>," Monica begged, her hands firmly cupped over her eyes.


    "Fine!"


    Dove strolled back to his bed and found his pants as the rest of the team lit a few candles and took a seat in themunal lounge, Dove joining them a few momentster.


    "Okay. In basic terms, it''s like this. There is a barrier that separates our reality from some truly heinous shit. That barrier is called the veil. Someone in Woodsedge poked a hole in the bloody thing and something truly heinous tried to creep through it."


    "You mean they tried to open a rift?" Aryll frowned, "they were summoning rift-kin?"


    The Summoner pped a hand to his forehead before he looked up again.


    "Actually, it might make sense to exin it that way. Yeah. Think of the veil as something behind which a particrly horrendous brand of rift-kin lives, except under <em>normal</em> circumstances, rifts do not form between here and there. Ever. Think of it as the walls being too thick, or the destination being too far away. Got me?"


    "I think so," Rogil nodded.


    "So the only way to bring these particr rift-kin over is for someone to manually create the rift and <em>let</em> them through. It''s a big no-no. One of the biggest no-nos. If I did something like that I''d be strung up by my testicles above the keep gate <em>before</em> they started torturing me."


    Aryll winced.


    "Of course, this is a simplification, abyssals are <em>not</em> rift-kin, they are much worse, and bringing them here is both easier and harder than opening a rift."


    "You said they failed?" Rogil said.


    "Yes, they failed. Would I be sitting here in my nightclothes if there was a fucking abyssal wandering through town?"


    "You''re sure?"


    "Of <em>course</em> I''m fucking sure! By the perky spheres -"


    "Dove," Monica warned.


    "¡­ <em>ahem</em>. By the perfect name of the goddess. Yes. I''m sure."


    Each of them sat back in their chairs as some of the tension drained out of the room. Except from Dove. The Summoner sped and unsped his hands as his leg bounced up and down.


    "So what happens now?" Rogil turned his mind to the future. "Is this going to impact the team at all?"


    Dove frowned.


    "Maaaaaybe?" the pitch of his voice rose toward the end of the word. "I can say a few things for sure. I''m not the only one who felt that summoning, not by a long stretch. There''ll be guards swarming through town as we speak, looking for the ritual site and trying to kneecap the summoner. It''s possible that the Keep might prevent expeditions leaving for the next few days¡­"


    "Don''t give me that shit! We were heading out in three days!" Aryll swore.


    The Summoner raised his palms.


    "I know, I get it. But I can tell you this for free, the first suspect is going to be the yers, which means I''m likely to get my ass dragged off to jail before the night is done."


    "What? Why?" Rogil blinked.


    "Summoning a <em>motherfucking</em> abyssal is serious business. Serious. Business. You think some punk kid can pull that kind of magick? No. Someone with levels did this. Probably not too many, otherwise they likely would have seeded, but levels nheless."


    "Which means yers are the primary suspect, as always," Aryll said.


    "What are you going to do?" Dove shrugged. "There aren''t many people with the kind of control and power needed to pull this kind of shit. <em>I''d </eme knocking on my door first if I was looking for a culprit, and there''ll be a few others dragged out of the keep tonight as well."


    At that moment a deliberate and urgent knock rang out from the door, several raised voicesing from behind it.


    Dove stood casually and straightened his nightclothes before spreading his hands towards the other members of his team.


    "How do I look?"

 Chapter 20: Lessons Learned

    Chapter 20: Lessons Learned


    "You look like shit."


    Hakoth looked at the kid who stood leaning against his door as if he might fall over if the wood weren''t propping him up. He knew he''d been pushing him hard, but he didn''t think he''d been pushing him <em>this</em> hard. He almost felt bad. Almost.


    "I still expect a full day of work out of you," he warned thed.


    Tyron just nodded, he didn''t have the spare energy to bother trying toe up with a clever or even polite response. Instead he just shuffled to the side so the Butcher had room to open his shop and took slow measured breaths to try and settle the food in his stomach. He''d made it back to the inn, somehow, and practically crawled up the stairs before slumping into bed, dried blood all over his face. He''d woken up three hourster feeling like burnt death, washed himself as best he could and staggered into town for his shift at the butcher¡¯s.


    At least he''d managed to put on fresh clothing, what he''d worn yesterday would likely need to be tossed into a fire, it was in no condition to be seen in public and wouldn''t ever be again. Which meant more expenses. He sighed. He''d need to start earning money soon, and to have a better chance of that, he needed this Butcher to teach him something.


    He worked through the day in aplete daze, moving on autopilot more often than not. He managed to summon enough focus to avoid any major errors, but he was still reprimanded by an irritated Hakoth on several asions. After he''d cut himself for the third time whilst sharpening the Butcher cursed him and sent him out of the shop on delivery, but not before he carefully bandaged the wound with a poultice he kept in his work station. Tyron didn''t really fancy being out in the sun, or in public, but at least he wouldn''t be able to actively harm himself with sharp objects.


    He blinked repeatedly to try and clear the grainy feeling from his eyes as he stood in front of the desk, Madeleine looking back at him with a concerned expression on her face.


    "Tyron? Are you okay?"


    "I''m just really tired," he tried to smile and failed utterly, looking more like a grimace.


    "Maybe you need to take the day off? I can talk to dad about it if you want? In fact I -"


    "No, please. It''s fine. I just need to push through the day, get some sleep tonight and I''ll be right as rain tomorrow, I promise."


    "If you''re sure¡­"


    "I am."


    He leaned to the side a little too far and almost fell over before he caught himself.


    "For real," he added.


    "Rrright," she said.


    She looked down and rummaged through the neatly organised stack of pages next to the ount book on the bench, causing Tyron''s weary gaze to drop down almost against his will.


    "Here," she said, pulling out a note and handing it too him. "This delivery is to the Gilded Swan, it''s three streets over and all they''re after is a couple of hams. The food is good at the Swan and I don''t expect you back for at least an hour."


    She leaned forward to make sure she had his attention.


    "Got that?"


    He blinked. Slowly.


    "You forgot to carry the four here," he pointed at a particr line in the ledger before he grasped the note and wandered toward the back of the shop. After a few long seconds a thought bubbled up in his head. "Hm? Oh. Ah, thank you," he said, turning back to Madeleine with a bob of the head as he finally realised what she''d done for him. Under the watchful eye of Hak he gathered the hams from the cool room, carefully packed them before he hefted the box under his arm and walked out through the front door, passing the butcher''s daughter who was busy double checking her figures.


    Though it was only a stone''s throw away, in his befuddled state it still took an embarrassing amount of time for Tyron to find it. Once inside he delivered the meat to the kitchen before he slumped into a chair and took a moment to rest his eyes.


    "Did you hear about the marshals? The merchant Fillus was arrested for questioning this morning!"


    "Oh my!"


    Tyron''s eyes snapped open and he sat up quickly in his chair, <em>too </em>quickly as it turned out, almost falling off and catching himself at thest moment. His antics naturally drew the eye of the two serving maids gossiping near his table.


    "Almost went on a trip didn''t you?" oneughed. "You alright there, love?"


    "Yeah thanks," he didn''t need to pretend to be embarrassed at his slip, "must have dozed off there. Any chance I can grab a te¡­ possibly an ale?"


    "Sure thing. I''ll be right back."


    The older of the two smiled and took his order back to the kitchen as Tyron turned to the other.


    "Sorry to intrude, but I heard you were saying something about a merchant getting arrested?"


    Her eyes widened and she leapt at the chance to continue to discuss thetest scandal.


    "Yes!" she leaned in conspiratorially. "I haven''t heard why, but my cousin Eustace is a secretary for the crown records at the customs depot and <em>she</em> said the entire ce was turned out by the marshals in the early morning. Dozens of people were dragged off to be questioned, including Fillus, which is just <em>shocking</em>."


    Her expression said that he should share her amazement but he had no idea why.


    "Sorry," he grimace/smiled, "I''m pretty new in town, who''s Fillus?"


    "Oh! He''s the richest merchant in Woodsedge, moves goods for the yer Keep, monster parts and rare materials as I understand it. Apparently they homed in on his warehouses most of all and he was dragged out of bed and hauled down the street! I would have <em>killed</em> to have seen it myself!"


    <em>Sorry Fillus</em>.


    Looks like the poor man must have been the owner of that empty building in the corner of the lot that he''d usedst night. The serving girl continued to provide a steady stream of rumours and guesses as to the root cause of it all whilst Tyron tried to suppress the shiver running down his back. They turned up in the early morning? Exactly how long after he''d gotten out, barely functioning, did they arrive? He might have escaped discovery by a matter of minutes. And he wasn''t out of the clear yet! He had no alibi forst night!


    "Here you are love. House ale and a steak. Ought to put a little meat on your bones."


    He nced up to see the other girl had returned to his table and ced a frothing mug alongside a te loaded with meat, gravy and roast vegetables. The smell was fantastic, yet his stomach churned with the thought of his perhaps imminent arrest.


    "Thanks so much," he managed, "I appreciate it."


    "Come on Liz, let''s leave the young fellow to his meal," she reached to grab her co-worker and the two of them moved away through themon room, taking orders and clearing tables as Tyron sat, his thoughts buzzing in his head.


    <em>May as well eat. Think about everything elseter.</em>


    He hadn''t been eating enough over thest few days, pretty much only a full meal for dinner. Despite his suddenck of appetite, he forced himself to clear the te and drink the ale. He wasn''t normally a drinker, but after the night he''d had, something steadying was just what he needed. Didn''t hurt that the house brew had a light fruity vour, quite opposed to the heavy, dark stuff his father preferred to drink. And did he detect a bit of honey?


    After finishing his meal he waited another fifteen minutes for his stomach to settle before he thanked the girls and paid before he made his way back to Hakoth''s. He''d been gone a little over an hour as it turned out, but Madeleine merely waved him in as she continued going through the books. The Butcher only grunted when he reappeared and gave him more jobs to do. For the rest of the afternoon he continued to work but he felt as if the gruff man was going easy on him. It was possible that his daughter had a word with him, despite being asked not to. As it was he still feltpletely drained at the end of the day but as before he waited for Hakoth to lock up before leaving.


    "I''m sorry about today, Mr Hakoth. It won''t happen again," he assured the butcher as he locked the door.


    He got a grunt as a reply, which was what he''d expected. He turned to leave only for the man to speak before he''d taken a step.


    "See you tomorrow," he said.


    "See you tomorrow, Mr Hakoth."


    Another grunt and the two parted ways, moving in opposite directions as night fell over the town. Despite everything he wanted to do, Tyron knew he was at the end of his rope. After another hearty meal that sat heavily in his stomach, he climbed the stairs, locked the door behind him, kicked off his shoes and made himselffortable in bed. He hadn''t had to do it for a while, but he decided this was the perfect moment for a sleep spell, which he cast easily thanks to his improved stats.


    The moment the magick waspleted he felt his eyelids dragging down as all thoughts of marshals and arrests faded to nothing and sleep imed him.


    <em>Elsewhere in Woodsedge</em>.


    Marshal Langdon looked down at the dust covered floor of what at one time had been a shed used to store Fillus Moran''s coach and was now the centre of a major investigation. The acrid tang of magick was still in the air, so thick he could almost taste it, even all these hourster. He frowned as he crouched down and settled on his heels as he looked over the remains of what had surely been a ritual circle. The caster had done well to obscure most of their work but the tell-tale signs were still there, including the burn residue of what had been an arcane me. Factors such as this could help them determine the exact spell that had been cast, which would help them drill down to a potential ss and level of the caster.


    "Langdon?" a voice called from behind him.


    "What is it Wallir?" he replied without taking his eyes off the ground.


    "The Summoner is here, the one I told you about this morning. He was cleared by the captain an hour ago so I brought him straight over."


    "Good. Send him in."


    Some low voices exchanged words before the sound of soft footfalls entered his ears. Acute hearing was a very useful feat for an investigator to have. He didn''t turn as a new presence made itself known behind him.


    "Hole-ee-<em>shit</em>. Are you telling me this maniac just drew his protective circle in <em>dust</em>? That''s insane. Certified insane. If I didn''t see it for myself and someone told me I''d have punched <em>both</em> of us in the face."


    "Mr Levan, I presume?"


    "Please, call me Dove."


    "Of course, Mr Levan."


    The Summoner sighed. It was going to be like that, was it?


    "All right, may as well get on with it. Let me know what you need so I can get myself back to bed. No offense intended, but this hasn''t exactly been a good day for me. As far as cells go, it wasfortable enough but being innocent and incarcerated just rubs a man the wrong way, you know?"


    "As refreshing as your levity might be, Mr Levan, I find the concept of an abyssal summoning and the hundreds, likely thousands of deaths that would result from such an act of slightly more importance that a day of your freedom."


    "And if I didn''t agree?"


    "I wouldn''t give a shit. Now that you''ve been cleared of possible involvement you can offer your expertise as the highest level Summoner in the area and then, as you say, go back to bed while we try and prevent this from happening again."


    The marshal had not turned around once during his conversation, he remained crouched low, his eyes roaming over the remnants of the circle as he spoke. After an awkward pause where Dove stood idly swinging his hands together, he decided to step forward.


    "Well, I can take a look, but it might help if you can tell me what you''ve worked out already. That might save us both some time."


    The marshal began pointing at several things of note.


    "The suspect is likely male, judging by the size of the foot and length of the stride which you can measure there, and over there. The circle was drawn with the index finger, most likely right hand based on the angle of the impressions. Entry to this room was gained through that window, no teleportation or apparition magick used. The guards neither saw nor heard anything, which leads me to conclude that the suspect either utilised a dampening spell or the guards are ipetent, likely both."


    He shifted his position to get a better angle on the centre of the circle.


    "It doesn''t seem that the culprit was here for long. Two, maybe three nights were spent setting up the ritual, which speaks of bothpetence and confidence. My estimate is a mage, likely with a level in the mid-thirties to forties, a little shy of six feet tall, right handed and with extensive experience in summoning magick."


    Dove listened patiently only to have his face sour as the description went on.


    "Balls. I''m still under suspicion, aren''t I?"


    The marshal finally stood and turned to face him.


    "What do you think?" marshal Langdon asked him.


    "I think that every time some shit goes down your morons find the nearest yer and start rattling their cage."


    The marshal sighed.


    "How often do you think a yer goes rogue out here, Mr Levan? Take a guess."


    Dove just stared back at him, refusing to answer.


    "Two per year, at least. There are always casualties. Innocents caught up in the fray, when one of you snaps. And you know something? Most of those innocents are other yers, murdered out on the job, or killed in their sleep. It''s very hard to see iting. I''ve never been able to. One day a perfectly fine yer, maybe getting a little too close to the next rank-up just decides to go out with a bang."


    The Summoner didn''t blink.


    "I find it a little hard to me them sometimes," he admitted. "Knowing what we know. Do you?"


    "No. I don''t."


    The two men stared at each other for a long moment before Dove shrugged and stepped around the other.


    "Well, let me take a look. The faster we catch the prick who did this the faster I get my name cleared and go back to doing what I truly love: killing rift-kin to keep fine,w-abiding citizens like you safe."


    After a moment magick ignited just beyond his eyes, two rings of green light that rotated and red as he carefully looked around the room.


    "Well, I can tell you that whoever did this is batshit crazy. Drawing a circle by hand, in the dust? That is the act of someone with truly, <em>truly </em>pendulous nads, or someone with an extreme level of skill. It''s also smart. No ritual mediums? No wardings? No arcane focus? The spell residue is all kinds of fucked up, I can''t read a thing, and that''s because there was no container for it. The moment the spell copsed it all went to nothing, which is clearly a deliberate choice on the part of the caster."


    "Why do you think the spell failed?"


    "Well, I take it we''re confident that the caster survived?"


    The marshal nodded.


    "Well that rules out the most likely theory. If the spell was in fact a summoning, then it could have failed for a number of reasons,pse in concentration, ran out of juice, something spooked him or he just ran out of time and ended the spell in order to make a getaway."


    "You said <em>if</em> it were a summoning?"


    "It''s possible that the caster merely wanted to <em>contact</em> the abyss, as opposed to summoning an abyssal. From what I know there''s all sorts of creepy shit you can learn, though as I understand it most mages go mad when they try it. He may also have wanted to try and establish a contract with the creature, possibly for a summoning in the future."


    He paused for a moment and rolled his eyes.


    "Which would be <em>another</em> reason that I''m suspect. Selene''s <em>tits</em> this is a pain. Right. No teleportation magick also makes sense, you wouldn''t want to do it anywhere near your ritual site since any disturbance to the dimensional weave could disrupt the spell. Whoever did this knew what the fuck they were doing, that''s for sure. They also had to know that their spell would be detected. Which means they must have nned out a response to what will follow."


    "You don''t suspect a cultist?"


    Dove waved a hand dismissively.


    "Hell no. This kind of spellwork is <em>hard</em>, and more than that, takes a damn tough mind. A cracked in the head lunatic doesn''t have what it takes to pull this off and the better put together ones have no reason to antagonize the authorities and do it in the middle of a town. Not unless there is something going on much deeper than what I can understand."


    The marshal paused thoughtfully.


    "Any idea what sort of ss might have done this?"


    Dove shook his head.


    "Impossible to say. A Summoner could, but they would have to be taught the spell since, as I''m sure you know, it isn''t a ss choice avable to us. Dark Summoner on the other hand, definitely <em>does</em> get ess, but they sure as heck don''t advertise themselves. Tricky one would be a Dimension Mage. They''re the real experts when ites to spellwork like this, what I do is of a very different vour, though they''re both wine I suppose. As you suggested, an Arcane Cultist of some variety could have ess to the spell, I sure as shit wouldn¡¯t know. Other than that, literally any mage with big enough balls to need a wheelbarrow to go walking and someone to teach them."


    "What about a Necromancer?" the marshal asked.


    "A what?" Dove turned to face him, surprise on his face.


    "Reports came in of a young man who unlocked Necromancer in his awakening a week ago. In Foxbridge. Went rogue, currently missing."


    The yer''s face went ck for a moment as he gaped at the marshal, turned back to the circle and then back to the marshal once more.


    "Are you seriously suggesting that an eighteen year old kid who had his ss for a week would be capable of something like this? <em>Seriously</em>?"


    Langdon didn''t reply. Dove pushed a hand through his wild and unkempt hair.


    "Alright, look. As far as I know a low level Necromancer can''t do shit except create basic undead. If one were somehow able to learn this spell and pull it off under these circumstances then they would have to be the reborn god of fucking magick, Tel''anan himself."

 Chapter 21: Satisfaction

    Chapter 21: Satisfaction


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>Your attempts at Stealth have increased proficiency. </em><strong>Sneak has reached level 3.</strong>


    <em>Concentration has increase proficiency. </em><strong>Concentration has reached level 4.</strong>


    <em>You have performed a sessful cast on the first attempt. Pierce the Veil has increased proficiency. </em><strong>Pierce the Veil has reached level 3.</strong>


    <em>You have continued to please your patrons. The Dark Ones revel in the chaos you stir. The Court delight in your madness. The Abyss is pleased with the taste of your mind. <strong>Anathema has achieved level 4. You have received +2 Intelligence, +2 Constitution and +2 Willpower. New choices avable.</strong></em>


    Name: Tyron Steelhand.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 10)


    <strong>ss: </strong>


    Necromancer (Level 4).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ol><li>Anathema (Level 4).</li><li>None</li><li>None</li></ol>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    22


    Intelligence:


    28


    Wisdom:


    18


    Willpower:


    26


    Charisma:


    13


    Maniption:


    11


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)


    Handwriting (Level 4)


    Concentration (Level 4)


    Cooking (Level 1)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 1)


    Skill Selections Avable: 1


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 1)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 1)


    Death Magick (Level 1)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 8)


    Sleep (Level 4)


    Mana Bolt (Level 1)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 3)


    Bone Stitching (Level 2)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 3)


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    <em>Anathema Level 4. Please Choose an additional Spell:</em>


    <em>Dark Communion - Beg intercession from the Dark Ones.</em>


    <em>Appeal to the Court - Attempt tomune with the Scarlett Court.</em>


    <em>Air of Menace - Surround oneself in a dread aura.</em>


    <em>Suppress Mind - Attack another''s will.</em>


    Pleased to touch his mind, huh? Tyron shuddered. If he never had to deal with the damned Abyss again he''d be more than happy. The entire experience had been a nightmare. The spell had pulled more out of him than he''d expected, how he''d managed to finish it he had no idea. If he''d attempted the spell shortly after he''d attained it he''d have had no chance and whatever had reached out to im him would no doubt of seeded. The memory of that alien presence within his mind, wing at his consciousness as <em>something</em> reached through the veil was enough to give him nightmares for days toe.


    <em>Guess I''ll be relying on the Sleep spell for my shuteye in the near future.</em>


    After he woke up feeling much refreshed he''d decided to perform the status ritual and check for any changes. He was unsurprised he''d earned another level in Anathema after what he''d managed. Whoever these patrons were, they seemed to be enjoying themselves at his expense, when they weren''t trying to kill him. Still, the stats were nice to have and who knows what might have happened if he''d waited longer to cast the ritual? Would things go even worse for him? If he''d never cast it, would those voices have found a way to punish him regardless? He had no idea. Worse, he had no way of finding out.


    "Rx," he told himself as he took deep, slow and steadying breaths. "You''re still alive."


    Had the situation in Woodsedge gotten worse? Absolutely. But he had survived another trial, gained another level and as of this moment, he wasn''t in prison awaiting execution. Look for the positives.


    He sighed.


    Good to see Sneak gain another level, considering how much of a workout it''d had recently. Butchery still at level one stung a bit, but he hoped that would start to pick up soon, he needed money, badly. His two Necromancer Skills still being stuck at level one pained him much more. He knew that ss skills were key to raise and as much he wasn''t looking forward to ''preparing'' a corpse, the thought was almost enough to make him physically sick, but he knew it would be a keyponent of what would make him sessful in his ss. Other than that, Pierce the Veil had increased in level, not that he intended to cast it again anytime soon. If ever.


    He could think that way for now, but there was little doubt that their messages through the status ritual would be insistent again eventually. When that happened, he would have to choose to enact the spell once more, or take the risk that they could not harm him. At least if he did summon the courage to attempt to cast Pierce the Veil again, the added levels would make it easier. With more research he might be able to build better protections into the magick as well. Some sort of barrier for the mind? He had no idea how to construct such a thing, but with study¡­


    He shook his head. Already he was considering how to cast it again safely. Was he even sane anymore?


    He was lucky the modifications he''d made to the circle had worked to his advantage. His mother dabbled on the edges of summoning magic at times and the texts he''d read spoke repeatedly and urgently on the importance of some sort of defensive measures being built into the spell. Something else that was emphasised most strenuously was the importance of being able to end the spell when you wanted to. Neither of those elements had been present in any form he understood in the base spell that had been nted in his mind, so he''d been sure to add them as best he could. It hadn''t worked perfectly, but it had worked well enough.


    But now he had another choice to make: Anathema level four spells. The two choices he''d passed over previously were still here, as expected, along with two new choices. Air of Menace sounded¡­ odd. Some sort of intimidation magick? A dread aura? What the hell would be the point of that? Her was trying to keep his head down as much as possible, not advertise his presence through some area spell. At his level, even someone like Hakoth would likely be able to shrug off the effect and cave his head in, let alone an actual yer. This choice didn''t appeal to him much.


    Suppress Mind. This one left a poor taste in his mouth. Cast a spell to attack someone''s mind? That felt a little too much like what had happened to him when he''d performed the ritual, having his thoughts invaded and disrupted had been a horrible experience, one that he wouldn''t wish on anyone. If he had to pick one of the two new abilities though, he might just reluctantly pick this one. He could at least see it having a use as opposed to the other.


    He also had the option to choose another contact spell, but after what had happenedst time, he didn''t think he''d be doing that. He had no reason to assume that he''d get a better reception from the Dark Ones of the Scarlet Court than he''d gotten from the Abyss and the thought of going through that again scared him, he could admit that to himself.


    No, those are out. Suppress Mind it is.


    He marked his choice with blood before he ended the ritual and allowed the changes to roll over him. Growing stronger wasn''t something he was likely going to get bored of any time soon and feeling his new power settle in his mind, along with the fragments of his new Spell he couldn''t help but smile and feel that his recent risks had been worth it. Hopefully he could now ignore the Anathema sub-ss for a while and devote himself to more Necromantic pursuits in the near future. Though first, he had some butchering to do.


    Once he''d steadied himself and grown ustomed to his new self, he disposed of the status sheet in the traditional way, by eating it, before he headed downstairs to wash it down with some proper food and drink. With that done, he waved goodbye to the kitchen staff who were surprised the gesture, used to the young man sliding more or less silently in and out of the inn, before he ran over to Hakoth''s shop just in time to beat him to the door.


    "You''re lookin'' better," the butcher greeted him gruffly.


    "I''m feeling better. Just needed a good night''s sleep," he replied, standing as tall as he could.


    That got an amused grunt from the man and the two of them headed into the store for another long day of work. Despite his moreplete rest his muscles still ached fiercely and the more physical tasks he was set to still hurt, but with his head so much more clear than the previous day it was aparative breeze. He thought he might have gotten an approving nod from the butcher at one point, though he only caught it out of the corner of his eye as he shifted crates around. When she arrived, Madeleine poked her head through the door into the back room to check on him and he thanked her again for what she''d done for him the day before.


    Despite the hardbour, the day went by quickly enough and by dusk he once again stood outside the door, rung out as he waited for the butcher to lock up. The two said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. This time when he got back to the inn Tyron took a little time to speak with the staff and enjoyed his meal in themon room, trying to establish himself as ''Lukas Almsfield'' in the minds of a few more people. If he wanted to blend in and appear less suspicious then he needed toe out of his shell a little and start talking to people. With his meal done, he retreated upstairs once more but instead of going directly to sleep, he decided to use the time to practice another Spell he would likely need in the days toe.


    He hadn''t had much cause to cast Mana Bolt ever since he''d earned the Spell. Teaching oneself magick wasn''t an easy task and it had taken him over a year to get the hang of it, or at least learn it well enough that his status acknowledged his ability by having appear in his ''general spells'' list. It had been a gruelling effort of trial and error, mostly error but it had been worth it for the smile on his mother''s face when he''d finally revealed it. He smiled at the memory before he focused himself on the here and now.


    Concentrating, he channelled the magick, spoke the words of power and thrust his palm forward, carefully managing the amount of energy he pushed into the spell. There was a sh of light as the spell manifested directly from the centre of his palm, flying in a straight line forward until if puffed harmlessly out against the wooden wall of his room. Just to be sure though, he walked over and carefully inspected the boards. It wouldn''t do if he was to scratch obvious spell marks into the walls of his room when he was trying to keep his head down.


    Satisfied there was no damage, he walked back to the other side of the room and concentrated again.


    There were several aspects to the spell that had challenged him a great deal when was trying to learn it. The first of which was forming magick into something more corporeal that you could then project to smack into something. It was in the formation of this ''projectile'' that most of the difficultyy, actually shooting the thing out wasn''t hard at all. The palm gesture wasn''t strictly necessary, merely an aid to concentration, though he''d need to work on eliminating it if he wanted to lookpetent. Proper mages never needed to wave their hands around in a fight, using the prodigious power of their minds to achieve all that they needed. He''d certainly never seen his mother have to thrust out a palm or fist, she could unleash her entire arsenal of spells standing stock still.


    For now, he didn''t worry about it, he was much more focused on improving the formation of the projectile itself. For a perfect cast, it should be almost invisible, none of the energy wasted on light or heat, and it needed to be quick, fast enough that he could snap it out in the heat of battle. So he continued to practice, cast after cast, pausing every now and again to make notes in his book as he worked on his proficiency with the spell. He needed to be able to cast it much faster and under pressure for it to be useful and there was a lot of work to go before he achieved that level.


    Deep into the night he continued to work, the slow, repetitive grind was soothing to his otherwise troubled mind and he kept at it until atst exhaustion gripped him and he slipped into bed.


    Despite his immense physical and mental fatigue he struggled to fall asleep. The memory of the abyss crawling through his head, like someone scratching at the inside of his skull, refused to go away. He tried to distract himself, to think of other things, but that didn''t help either. He thought of his parents, where were they? What were they doing now? Had they found his note? How did they react? shes of memory bubbled up without his prompting. He remembered the tear streaked face of Elsbeth as he brushed past her in the mausoleum, the shit eating grin on Rufus'' face as he pressed down on Tyron''s sword.


    Filled with anger, fear and regret he finally gave up and cast Sleep on himself, allowing the magick to pull him down into the darkness where dreams and nightmares could not touch him.


    <em>The next day.</em>


    CHOP!


    With one ham sized fist Hakoth brought his cleaver sharply down, the power of his ss and skills behind the strike giving it almost supernatural precision and power. Flesh and bone parted beneath the knife like paper as the leg was sheared from the carcass so cleanly that if you held the two parts together it would be almost impossible to see that they''d been cut at all. Hakoth knew this for a fact, since it was the test his old master Beg had demanded he pass before he''d been able to leave and establish his own shop.


    Across the room thed leaned over the grindstone, focused on his work, aye, but even so the Butcher could tell that he kept sneaking the odd nce at him as he worked, trying to pick up the tricks of the trade through observation alone. He tried to contain a snort and kept working. If it were possible to learn by just watching then the kid would be the one to do it. He was smart as a whip and never made the same mistake twice, something that the old man appreciated since he hated having to exin himself more than once. He had a bright future ahead of him thatd, or at least he would have had.


    Once again he felt his heart sink a little in his chest as he contemted whaty in store for young Lukas. Too many young ones went down that road, and so few came back.


    He shook his head. It wasn''t any of his business. Tyron wouldn''t be the first to try and learn his skills only to go and get himself killed in the brokennds and he sure as hell wouldn''t be thest. Being young and a false sense of invincibility went hand in hand after all. It wasn''t like Hak couldn''t remember feeling the same as a youth. It was just such a damn waste.


    He drew back his hand for another clean slice only to be interrupted by a powerful knock on the front door. Interrupted mid-swing, he threw down the knife with a muttered curse and stomped out of the work area and into the front of the store. Madeleine wasn''t in today, busy helping her mother so he was forced to man the desk himself, something he hated doing. Despite his best efforts, he could never manage to hold onto decent staff for long. Apparently he was ''difficult to work with'', whatever that meant! Barely trying to keep the irritation off his face he yanked open the door to see a young man dressed in spattered and filthy armour on the other side.


    "What?" he growled.


    The yer shed a quick and easy smile despite the clear signs of weariness and fatigue around his eyes. Clearly he''d been out on the rifts for some time.


    "Got sumfin'' for me?" he rumbled to the man stood waiting outside.


    "Hey there Hakoth. Remember me? I''m Tin, the Shieldguard."


    Hak grunted and peered at him for a moment.


    "Two months ago? Big armour bug?"


    Tin grinned.


    "That was us. Got another one for you if you''re interested. A runner this time."


    Hak raised a brow.


    "Pay?"


    The Shield guard''s smile slipped a little.


    "Same as before?" he offered.


    The Butcher grunted and turned to walk back through the door.


    "Bring to tha back door," he called over his shoulder.


    "Already done!" came the cheerful reply.


    When he opened up the double doors at the back of his shop, sure enough he found the rest of the yer team who he vaguely recalled, with their kill on a sled. It looked fresh, which meant they likely came across it on the way back. He took a deep breath through his nose and felt the tell-tale sting of magick burn his skin. Even the kid could sense it, Hak could see his head jerk up from the corner of his eye. The ''runner'' they''d brought was a nasty critter from Nagrythyn, weighed over a ton but was quick as the wind. The two ded arms at the front were sharp enough to slice through a fully armoured man with enough force left over for the man next to him.


    "How long?" he asked.


    "No rush on it," thedy who no doubt had pulled the sled, judging by the size of her, said. "We won''t be out again for a week most likely."


    "''Aight," he rumbled.


    Ignoring the yers, he stepped forward to grip the reins at the front of the sled and with a monumental effort he slowly pulled it into the shop. Used to his attitude, the weary fighters brushed it off and headed back to the keep with a wave. After he''d positioned the monster, Hak closed the double doors and locked them before he turned back and sized up the beast once more. It was a big one, not asrge as the critter he''d donest time, but that had been a different variety entirely. This one was a killer, no doubt about it.


    As he slowly stepped around the creature he could see the kid was fascinated with it, though he tried to keep his head down and at his task he kept sneaking little nces at it when he thought he wouldn''t be noticed.


    For a long moment the Butcher pondered until finally he let out a long and weary sigh.


    "Come on thend. Git here," he rumbled and waved him over.


    Confusion flickered over the face of the boy before he carefully ced down the knife he''d been working on and stepped away from the grindstone.


    "Yer daft enough to go an'' git killed tryin'' ta fight sumfin'' like this?" he gestured to the horrific killing machine on the sled in front of them. "Yer a hard worker, an'' smart too. Way too smart ta waste on runnin'' errands for yers. You sure you wanna do this?"


    Theds brows rose as the Butcher unexpectedly tried to talk him out of his course of action, but there was never any hesitation in his eyes. Without bothering to defend his decision, he simply nodded.


    "I''m sure," he said.


    Hak was surprised to feel a slight pang in his chest at those words, but he quickly shook it off. He must be getting soft in his old age.


    "''Aight then. Time you learn sumfin'' about it then."


    The kid hesitated.


    "Are you sure?" he asked. "This soon?"


    Hakoth stared at him.


    "Ya <em>want</em> me ta work you harder first?" he drawled.


    The boy came to his senses and shook his head emphatically which pulled a chuckle from the old butcher.


    "Then let''s see here. What sorta monster we got here then?"


    "Warrior caste cutter. Often referred to as a ''runner'' due to their speed. Fastest monster out of Nagrythyn," thed rattled off.


    Taken aback, Hakoth peered at the kid for a moment.


    "''Kay, Lukas. If yer so smart, what do ya think is the valuable parts o'' this ''ere beastie?"


    "I have no idea," Tyron shrugged.


    "Guess."


    "Probably the de arms, they look useful. Some of this chitin might be good, looks like the sled might be armoured with something simr. The core obviously, but I''m not sure where it might be. If any of the organs are useful for alchemy or anything, I don''t know, though I suppose they would be."


    "Aye," the Butcher nodded. "The tendons in the legs are good, strong and flexible, use ''em fer bows n'' such. The chitin here, here and here is a good shape for a chest te. Dependin'' on size the sections here can make thigh n'' arm guards. We''ll get to organs tomorrow. Bring me the cleaver you was workin'' on and I''ll show you how ta get started on these critters."


    Filled with enthusiasm Lukas, jumped to obey whilst Hakoth just felt old and tired. Another young one set on running to the rifts who likely wouldn''t make it back. Too many heard of the brokennds and all they could think of was the glory, the money, the levels and power. The Butcher had been around long enough that all he associated with the brokennds was death. No ce for a young man two weeks from his awakening. If he lived long enough, hopefully Lukas would learn the error of his ways. When you see enough dead bodies, people usually worked it out.

 Chapter 22: New Way

    Chapter 22: New Way


    Silence reigned around the table in the Renner household and Elsbeth felt like she could scream. She wanted to leap out of her chair and run out the door, or shake her father, or break down and cry, or plead for forgiveness, but she did none of those things. Frustrated and hurt, she kept her head down and finished her food, not looking anyone in the eye for the duration of the meal. When she was finished, she pushed her chair back and stood, carried her empty te to the bench where she ced it in the tub to soak, turned and walked to her room without anyone saying a word to her.


    The moment the door closed behind her the urge to scream and stomp her feet was almost overpowering, but she held it in, barely. What would be the point? Almost by instinct she began to repeat the litany of Selene in her mind, a calming exercise she had been taught by the sisters when she was just a little girl, fascinated by the strange miracles that these robed women wielded, and the universal respect they garnered.


    <em>Holy mother shelter and guide me,</em>


    <em>Let your light fall upon me,</em>


    <em>When I walk in your grace none can harm me,</em>


    <em>Keep me pure as you are pure,</em>


    <em>Lest we -</em>


    The words fell to tatters as she nked, struck by the knowledge, the <em>sure</em> knowledge, that in the eyes of the Goddess she was no longer pure, no longer worthy.


    She had been rejected. Judged not able to serve the being she had devoted herself to her entire youth.


    The shame and guilt threatened to well up again but she shoved it away before it could overwhelm her again. She had wept so many times since that day, and so many more since Tyron had left. When she thought back to the day of awakening now all she felt was bitterness. The hope that had blossomed in her then had since turned to ashes, everything had gone wrong.


    <em>Perhaps it wasn''t the awakening that ruined everything. Perhaps it simply brought to light the ws that were already there.</em>


    The traitorous thought flittered to the forefront of her conscious mind before it retreated back into the shadows before she could squash it. There it would remain, resonating with ufortable truth that ate away at what she had believed to be true.


    Tyron was a Necromancer, on the run from thew.


    She couldn''t believe it. He''d always been quiet and studious, but she would never have thought the pantheon would see fit to grant him a ss such as that. She could remember the wild look in his eyes that night, and the terrifying me that burned in the empty sockets of the skeletons. It was as if her old friend had vanishedpletely, reced by something colder and darker. Then Laurel. And Rufus¡­


    She shivered and realised at some point she had sat on her bed and was staring at the wall. She was so tired. So numb.


    She nced out the window. It was close to midday. They''d be leaving soon. Did she even care anymore? Would she ever care about anything again?


    Unable to convince herself one way or another, she mechanically stood and changed her clothes,bing her hair as she prepared to head out. When she emerged from her room the house remained quiet and still, as it had been for over a week now. When she walked through the kitchen her father remained at the table, face stony as he traced the lines of the grain in the table surface. When she walked in he stirred himself and spoke.


    "Elsbeth¡­" he began.


    She didn''t stop and walked through, calmly opening the door and shutting it behind her. She thought she should feel something as she ignored her father in this way, but curiously she didn''t. She felt nothing at all. A few stepster she was out into the street and walking towards the smithy. There were few people in the streets right now, few enough that she barely had to move in order to move around them. A pall hung over Foxbridge and had since the day that the Sterms hade home.


    "Elsbeth," someone hissed from her left. "What are you doing child?"


    Surprised at being addressed, she turned to see the mayors secretary, Jenin peering out her window.


    "Mrs Barbury?" she said. "What''s wrong?"


    "Are you mad, girl? What if they find you?"


    "Who?"


    "The Sterms! If they see you you''ll be killed!"


    Elsbeth felt only confusion at this sentiment but the deadly seriousness of Mrs Barbury''s tone forced her to think on it.


    "But¡­ why would they kill me? I was Tyron''s friend¡­"


    "Everyone knows you went to arrest him!"


    "I did not!" she flushed, a hint of anger breaking through. "And the Sterms left town, nobody has seen them since that day."


    "Are you willing to bet your life on that?"


    Elsbeth looked at the woman, really looked at her. In her eyes she saw concern, but more than that was fear. Fear that Magnin and Beory had put there. In that moment she realised that this was the same fear she had seen in everyone''s eyes over the past days. They were terrified that the powerful yers might decide they were no longer satisfied with just tearing down buildings andnd, they mighte for the people next. In disying the might of a high level yer, the Sterms had allowed the fear that had lurked in the heart of every citizen of Foxbridge to boil over.


    Yet she didn''t feel it. She might not agree with what Tyron''s parents had done, but anyone who had seen them with him like she had knew that he was the only thing in this town that they cared about, asides from Worthy and Megan. Some might have felt that they didn''t care about their son, considering how often they left him behind, but she knew that wasn''t the truth, they doted on him.


    "Yes," she said and turned away to continue walking.


    Perhaps people weren''t avoiding her because of her rejection, perhaps it was because they feared she was marked for death by yers. She could only shake her head. As if people needed <em>another</em> reason to iste her. She hated it. She hated this town. She''d volunteered her time and energy to help for <em>years</em>, treated the sick, cared for their children, and they turned on her this quickly. When she looked around at what should be familiar sights, buildings she had known her entire life, instead she felt like a stranger.


    She didn''t nce at the temple as she strode past and soon enough she found herself on the outskirts of town, the cobblestone road giving way to hard packed dirt as the smithy came into sight. Rufus already stood out the front waiting, Laurel nowhere to be seen at this time.


    When she realised it would just be the two of them, Elsbeth almost turned around and walked back home, but something inside her refused to back down and after a moment of hesitation she firmed her resolve and walked forward. When he saw hering Rufus smiled a crooked smile and she felt a sh of anger in her chest.


    "Hi," she said, stifling her emotions.


    "Hey ''beth," he said as he moved to walk towards her but paused when she took a sharp step back. He sighed. "I suppose you didn''t change your mind and decide toe with us?"


    She stared at him as if he were mad.


    "No," she said coldly. "Sorry if that ruins any of your carefullyid ns."


    The man''s face hardened.


    "Don''t believe everything that <em>shit</em> had to say, ''beth. I''ve always cared about you, you know that, right?"


    As a matter of fact, she didn''t. When she heard the venom in his voice when he referred to their missing friend, she realised that perhaps she had never known her friends at all.


    "Why do you hate him so much?" she wondered aloud, "what did Tyron ever do to you?"


    When she said his name a ripple of anger overtook Rufus'' expression before he could hide and suddenly it was as if he could no longer be bothered to conceal it. He spat to the side, the contempt in on his face.


    "Because he''s a worthless piece of shit who had everything he ever wanted handed to him on a silver te. Because he looked down on all of us his entire life. You might not have noticed, but I sure did. He thought we were trash the day we met him when we were six years old and that never changed."


    Shocked at his tone, Elsbeth could only shake her head in denial.


    "You felt this way about him? This whole time? You were this <em>jealous</em> of him?"


    "<em>Jealous</em>?" Rufus spat. "Of course I was jealous! While I lived under the thumb of a dead beat FUCK!" he turned and hurled the curse back at the unkempt smithy, "who beat me as often as he fed me, that <em>prince</em> lived under the protection of the two most powerful people in the province."


    Elsbeth nced toward the building warily and Rufus sneered.


    "He''s passed out drunk. I put a bottle on the table after breakfast and he snatched it up like a fish going after bait."


    "What about your mother?" Elsbeth asked quietly.


    If he was angry before, he was now incandescent with rage.


    "Don''t talk to me about my mother!" he bellowed before he gathered himself. "She''s tougher than you think. She''ll be fine until I get back and take her away from this shithole."


    Rather than sympathise, Elsbeth felt her heart grow cold as she looked at this person who only a few short days ago she had held hopes of a future together with.


    "So that''s it then," she said slowly, "you just wanted to get out of town, get out from under the thumb of your dad, and make it big as a yer. You befriended Tyron and me because you thought we could help you. I could turn out to be a powerful miracle healer and Tyron might be a mage or he might just help out with money and contacts. You never cared about any of us."


    <em>You never cared about me.</em>


    Rufus stared at her for a long moment.


    "Pretty much," he admitted. "It''s not like you wouldn''t get anything out of the deal. Power, money, fame. You''d get to help people by fighting off the rifts and keeping everyone safe. Isn''t that what you wanted?"


    "What I <em>wanted</em>," she spat, "was to serve Selene! Something <em>I can''t do anymore.</em>"


    "I never heard you say no," he smirked.


    Boiling hot rage burned in her veins in that moment, so hot she could barely think, barely see, but along with it came the shame. He was right. He may have led her on, but she had willingly gone. She''d thought he''d felt something for her, thought they might be together. Now those dreams were all dust, along with those na?ve feelings.


    "You''re a bastard," she ground out, surprising herself with her own anger. She wiped the tears from her eyes with her sleeve as she red at him. "I hope I never see you again."


    The grin slipped from his face and the handsome Swordsman sighed once more. He hadn''t wanted things to turn out this way, but it was what it was. From that point on the two pointedly ignored each other as they waited for Laurel to arrive, which she did shortly after, but not from the direction they expected.


    "Hey, Elsbeth," she called with a longnguid wave. "Didn''t expect you woulde."


    "I''m not sure why I did," she replied.


    If her tone had any effect on the huntress, it didn''t show. Laurel just shrugged and nced at Rufus.


    "You ready?" she asked.


    "Yep. Where did youe from?" he asked, wondering why she''de from the opposite direction from her house.


    "I went and took a look at the Arryn farm," she said and the two looked at her, surprised. "What? It''s incredible, the whole ce is ttened."


    "That''s¡­ good, to you?" Elsbeth asked.


    "Good?" Laurel seemed to chew the word over for a moment. "I don''t know if it''s ''good'', I don''t really care either. It''s impressive. Two people did that. Two."


    The idea seemed to spark something in her, Elsbeth looked at her and thought her smile seemed almost¡­ hungry.


    "Is that why you''re going, with him?" she tilted her head to the Swordsman who she still refused to look at. "So you can be powerful?"


    Laurel looked at her for a moment before she nodded.


    "Of course," she said, "I just don''t want to stay here forever. I''d die of boredom. And I refuse to be weak in a world ruled by the strong. Are you really telling me you''d have been happy staying in this ce your entire life? ving away to help people who refuse to help themselves?"


    "Yes," she whispered.


    It had been her life calling.


    "Then out of the two of us, I think you''re the one whose nuts," she shrugged and hitched her bow more tightly over her shoulder. "Imagine what would have happened to us if we''d actually caught Tyron and brought him back. Do you really think that they''d have left us alone? We''d have been dead without even seeing the blow that killed us. I''m not going to be powerless in this world, Elsbeth. I refuse."


    For a moment the normallyzy eyes of the huntress lit with fire, but then the moment passed and she turned to Rufus.


    "Come on then, meathead. Time to hit the road."


    Behind her Rufus grabbed his pack off the ground, along with the rough looking sword in the well beaten scabbard he''d leaned against the stone fence. Doubtless something he''d stolen from the smithy.


    "See you Elsbeth," he said, "good luck with everything."


    "Just go away," she said.


    She didn''t wait for them to leave, instead she turned on her heel and strode back into town, leaving them in her wake. As she watched her go, Laurel smiled a little, thinking that the Priestess might have finally grown a little spine. Then she pushed her from her mind and focused instead on what wasing next. The yer College.


    Avoided by the rest of the townsfolk, the two began the long journey east as Elsbeth walked home, her burned emotions congealing in her stomach in one queasy mass.


    "Elsbeth. Stop right there," her father demanded as she strode through the door. "Don''t you dare ignore me again."


    "Oh? Like you''ve ignored me for a week?" she retorted.


    The fire in her words took her father back, too used to his sunny, obedient daughter. Spurred on by his reaction, she kept going.


    "In the time when I most needed you, when I was most hurt, you turned your back on me, and now you want me toe to heel? You want me to curtsy and be thankful?"


    Her voice grew louder and louder as she spoke until she was shouting and her red-faced father bellowed back at her.


    "Foolish girl! You think you cane here and speak to me like this after what you did?!"


    "Fuck you," Elsbeth spat and as her speechless father recoiled from the unexpected vitriol she stomped out of the house.


    A few minutester she found herself pounding on the door of the Sterm Inn as baffled townsfolk watched from their windows. The inn had been closed since Magnin and Beory had left, but Elsbeth wasn''t to be dissuaded and continued to smack her fist into the wood until it was red raw.


    Finally it creaked open and a devastated looking Worthy looked down at her through the crack.


    "What do you want Elsbeth?" he asked, his voice so, so weary.


    Suddenly the righteous fire leaked out of her and she just felt sad. Against her will the tears welled up in her eyes and she tried to blink them away but they wouldn''t stop.


    "I-I''m sorry. I''m sorry about Tyron. And what happened. I didn''t know what was going on and I was so <em>worried</em>. A-and now, I don''t have a ce to stay and I was h-hoping I could sleep here tonight," she stammered as the tears began to flow freely.


    As he looked down on the poor girl, Worthy''s expression softened. Of all of Tyron''s friends, he''d always known that this was the good one. Too bad she was caught up with the others.


    "Alrightss. Come on in. We can put you up tonight and tomorrow we can go have a word with your parents, alright?"


    He pulled open the door and called for Meg and before she knew it, Elsbeth was tucked into bed, a full meal in her belly and no more tears left in her.


    And then she dreamed.


    She dreamed of the gods. Of Selene, of Hamar, Tel''anan and Orthriss. Four figures seated on golden thrones, bathed in light. Their radiance was so bright she shied away from them as they turned toward her, judgement in their eyes. In her dream, she fled. Through the realms, down roads and into forests, until she was no longer running but <em>pulled, </em>faster and faster as was drawn deeper, further, away from the light, away from those thrones that burned. She felt calm wash over her as she fell through the world, through time itself, until she found herself in a ce beyond, a ce that <em>reeked</em> of age.


    It was a forest, one that groaned under the burden of its years, where every bough was weighed down by time and even the shadows had history.


    <em>I don''t think I''ve ever been somewhere like this</em>, she mused to herself as she turned, finding only foreboding woods in every direction.


    "Of course you haven''t, child of the four," a voice came to her from amongst the shadows. "They desperately wish that all mortals would forget this ce, to expunge it from their minds as if it had never been, but still it persists. The old things are like that. They are difficult to remove."


    Still that strange calmy on her. Deep down she felt a bubble of fear, she ignored it.


    "Where am I?" she asked dreamily.


    "You have been invited, child, a very rare boon indeed. There are so few who get the chance, these days, you should feel blessed."


    "I do," she smiled as she turned and looked at the ancient world around her. Phantom nails began to w at the inside of her mind. Her own. "But I don''t know where I am. Or to whom I should feel grateful."


    "Of course, I would be honoured to correct this. Where you abide right now has had many names, but I fear none will be familiar to you. Think of this realm as the Dark Forest. As to whom you should extend your gratitude, well now. That is quite the tale as well. The Old Gods are not ustomed to introducing themselves, so I will take the task upon myself."


    "And who are you?" she said, a soft frown creasing her brow as her stomach churned with a distant panic.


    A scream welled up in her throat, only for it to disappear as suddenly as it had appeared.


    "There is no need for your fear," the voice purred, "the Dark Ones do not need your fear, they have drunk deep on the terror of mortals. It is your <em>devotion</em> that they crave."

 Chapter 23: Rumour and Run

    Chapter 23: Rumour and Run


    "Did you hear about the Necromancer on the run?"


    Tyron''s ear jerked and he nearly dropped his cutlery when he heard that. He tried to act calm and pass it off with a cough, but he doubted he''d be winning any awards for his acting skills. He continued to eat as he turned his head to better eavesdrop on the couple seated behind him in themon room.


    "I hadn''t. A Necromancer you say? Isn''t that a rare ss?"


    "Very. What''s more, you know the Sterms?"


    "Of course."


    "It''s their son!"


    "You''re shitting me¡­"


    "Wace! Watch yournguage!"


    "I apologise my dear, you took me by surprise. Are you sure of this?"


    "I am! You can see the notice posted on the bounty board outside the marshal¡¯s office."


    "Well¡­ that''s quite an unfortunate thing. Imagine dedicating your life to protecting the kingdom and having your own child ouwed¡­ just terrible."


    "Oh it gets worse," the woman''s voice lowered as she leaned into her husband. "From what I was told, the Sterms were charged with arresting the boy."


    Tyron sucked in a breath so fast he almost inhaled his cutlery and immediately erupted in a fit of coughing that resounded throughout the room. A number of people turned to see what the disturbance was and he waved weakly to them once he managed to get his breathing under control, but within his heart was pounding to the point he felt his ribs might break.


    His parents, sent to hunt him down?


    It was so cruel. So needlessly cruel. There were hundreds of people they could have sent to do it, why did it have to be them? Wouldn''t it be a ridiculous waste of resources to have literally the two strongest people in the entire province hunt down a low level, newly awakened like him? It was insane!


    It was also hopeless.


    Frustration and despair welled up inside him as he realised what this meant for him. They would have to obey, Magnin and Beory. Tyron didn''t know how, or why, but he knew that it wasn''t possible for the high level yers to refuse orders, which meant they woulde for him eventually, even if they put it off as long as they could, they would stille for him. And what was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to fight back against them?


    His hands curled into fists on the table as he realised the hopelessness of the situation.


    No matter what he did, he was going to get caught. There was nowhere he could go where he could avoid them, there was nowhere he could run where they wouldn''t find him. He may as well try and run from the wind, or hide from the air. He''d studied his parents career as only an admiring child could, he knew what they were capable of better than almost anyone, he had absolutely no illusions about his ability to avoid them. Which meant he would have to fight them if he wanted to remain free.


    Which was¡­ a joke.


    How was he supposed to fight his own family? Impossible. And even if he could bring himself to do it, what difference would it make? He may as well try and defeat the sun. They were so far above him, even the yers in the keep here, each and every one of whom could snap him like a twig, would stand no chance against either of them, let alone both.


    The young Necromancer fought back tears as he tried to stifle the overwhelming feeling of frustration that burned in his chest. Just like that, his future had been cut off. Despite the risks he had taken, and the effort he''d put in, it no longer mattered, had never mattered. He was on a clock. Eventually he would be caught, dragged in and sentenced, it was only a matter of time. The only thing left to determine was what he would do with the time he had remaining.


    "Are you alright?" a concerned voice came from behind him.


    "Ah, wha-" Tyron jumped and turned to see the couple who had been speaking regarding him with worried expressions.


    "I was wondering if you were well, young man, you had a coughing fit and you''ve sat trembling ever since," the husband told him.


    With a start Tyron realised it was true, even now on the table in front of him his two fists were visibly shaking. He snatched them into hisp under the table and tried to force a smile.


    "I-I''m alright," he said, "I just¡­ just had my food go down the wrong way. A-and I was surprised to hear what you were talking about. Something about the Sterms arresting their own son?"


    The wife, Yasmin he thought her name was, nodded emphatically as he asked about their discussion.


    "Yes, scandalous! From what I hear there was almost a break here in Woodsedge and what does the Baron have his two tinum yers doing? Forced to hunt for their own child! How terrible¡­" she grimaced and the husband, Wace, nodded sympathetically. "From what I heard through the post, they didn''t take it lying down though, smashed an entire farm and half a graveyard after being given the orders. The marshals are outraged, but what are they going to do? Arrest them?"


    The look on her face suggested she''d like to see them try whilst Tyron tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Of course they did. His heart went out to Mayor Arryn, but he knew Magnin and Beory, they were always going tosh out when given an order like that.


    He couldn''t help but allow a wry smile to crease his lips as he thought of the two of them throwing their tantrum.


    "Well, thanks for sharing," he told the couple as he gave them a polite nod and turned back to his own table, piling his cutlery neatly in the bowl before he pushed back the chair and stood, being sure to push the seat back under the table before he left.


    Worthy would clip his ear if he made life hard on the serving staff by blocking their paths with his ownziness.


    As he walked toward the butcher''s shop, his mind spun with what he had learned. When he tried to think of what he should do, he felt numb, as if the future which had not long ago been a difficult road filled with challenges was now a void, as if it had never been. His path had been severed so sharply he couldn''t even feel the pain of the cut. He''d always known that someone would be sent to hunt him down if the marshals failed to find him, but he''d assumed he would have more time. He''d assumed that a regr yer team would be given the job, not the Century yer and the Battle Witch! It was like snapping a twig with a battle axe! Without even realising it Tyron had been stuffed in a cage that he couldn''t hope to break out of, all that was left for him was to rattle the bars until his inevitable capture.


    Obviously his parents weren''t happy about it either, judging by what they''d done in Foxbridge.


    If there was one thing in the world that those two hated more than anything else, it was being told they <em>had</em> to do something. He''d long suspected the reason they''d based themselves so far away from the centres of power and wealth, despite reaching the rarefied heights of tinum ranked yers was that they avoided being told what to do more often than not. Certainly they were asked to take care of this problem, close that rift, kill this monster, but those were the sorts of things they would have done anyway, even if nobody asked them. Roaming about the ce fighting rift-kin was basically the <em>only</em> thing they liked.


    Besides each other. And him.


    He could only imagine the rage they must have experienced. He felt terrible that he had forced them into that position. Though¡­ in truth it wasn''t really his fault. He hadn''t asked for this ss after all, only made the choice that he would keep it. He felt confident that Magnin and Beory supported that decision, it was what they would have done in his ce, of that he had no doubt. Whatever means had been employed to force his parents to obey must be dreadful indeed if even they couldn''t ovee it. He desperately hoped that they didn''t suffer.


    No wonder they had unleashed such destruction upon the mayor, no wonder they had lost control to the degree they did. He could imagine their need to unleash their anger. Despite their great power, and innumerable good they¡¯d done protecting others, his parents were selfish creatures, their desire to smash the nearest thing they could when they were enraged was perfectly understandable to him, the person who knew them best.


    When he thought of that destruction, his feet stilled on the road for a second as a thought struck him, before he resumed his pace. Magnin and Beory had thrown a tantrum and taken their revenge against Mayor Arryn in one fell stroke, but was there more to it? The more he considered it, the more he felt that this level of retribution, the scale of the devastation seemed excessive, even for those two. Doing something this obvious, this loud, was always going to reverberate around the western province. In another week there probably wouldn''t be an inn or tavern in even the smallest vige which hadn''t heard of it. Perhaps they were trying to reach him? What if they''d been trying to send him a message?


    <em>Fight.</em>


    They were going to fight against their fate, they wouldn''t ept it lying down. He could believe that of them, they were the least controble people he''d ever heard of, not even their love for him was enough to keep them pinned in one ce. Trying to force them to hunt him against their will? They would fight it every step of the way, and they showed that immediately byshing out at Mayor Arryn. They would fight against it, which meant he should do the same.


    He had little faith in his own ability to ovee the odds, but those two? They''d been doing it their entire lives. Perhaps he''d been wrong to despair so quickly. There was still hope, still a chance. He might see it now, but they would, which meant he had to be ready. They would buy him the time he needed, so he had to keep pushing and perhaps, just maybe, somewhere down the line, an opening would present itself whereby he could continue to be free.


    Slowly the hopelessness leached out of him and he was left feeling drained of emotion, weak from the waves that had rocked him one after the other. But there wasn''t time to lose, he couldn''t stand around doing nothing. If his family was going to risk everything in order to buy him time, then he couldn''t afford to waste a second. Once more filled with purpose, he lengthened his stride toward his destination, determination welling up. When he finally arrived at the butchers, Hak was already there, slotting his key into the door. When he saw Tyron striding up to him he paused as he recognised something different in the boy''s eyes.


    "Already?" he shook his head as thed stopped in front of him, "ya mean ta break your word so soon?"


    "I don''t want to break my promise, but I do feelpelled to get out there," he replied in a measured tone, "you''ve been patient and more than fair. What you''ve taught me over thest few days is something I never would have been able to learn on my own."


    And he meant it. Working together with the experienced Hak dismantling had been a fantastic learning experience, the man had been an endless stream of good advice, tips and tricks as well as detailing ways to make the work easier in the field.


    "I''d be more than happy to make up the rest of the time I promised you when I''m in town," Tyron offered, "I don''t want to short change you."


    Hak snorted.


    "Ta be fair, the reason I keep yer here so long is ta try an convince ya not to throw yer life away. Don''t look like that''ll work, will it?"


    Tyron chuckled and shook his head.


    "Was never going to."


    The Butcher shrugged.


    "Can''t me an'' ol'' man fer tryin''," he rumbled.


    He was a good man, Hakoth, and under different circumstances Tyron would have been more than happy to finish out his time learning how to properly butcher before he moved to the next part of his n, but what he''d learned this morning meant he just couldn''t afford the time. He didn''t want to rush, but the world wasn''t going to wait for him.


    "Right then Lukas," the big butcher extended his hand, "I''ll see ya at work when ya get back."


    "Thanks Mr Hakoth."


    "Shut up."


    The two shook hands and then Hakoth turned back, stepped into his shop and was gone, leaving Tyron standing in the street in the early morning with a heck of a lot to do all of a sudden. It was still early in the morning, likely there wouldn''t be any yer teams heading out into the brokennds any time soon, so he had some time to prepare. His mind started racing as he considered all the things that he needed to organise and it took him several long seconds to realise that despite all the thinking he was doing, he still hadn''t moved a step.


    "Shit!"


    His wits about himself once more, he sped off to the Iron district, only to realise halfway he hadn''t brought his money, which necessitated a sprint back to the inn which left him gasping and wheezing. He really needed to work on his fitness¡­


    His coin purse in hand, he returned to the market and engaged in a spending spree that left his finances in a dire state when he was done. For the expedition toe he would need to supply his own equipment and the more he could bring, the more attractive he would be to potential employers. He just hoped he hadn''t forgotten anything in his rush.


    He hauled back the goods to his room and immediately set about packing. His bedroll and other assorted travelling gear were inspected minutely before being stowed away, along with his newly acquired butcher¡¯s gear, travel rations and a small stash of mage candy. Sword on his hip, brand new stave in his hand, he ran through his mental checklist one more time and found nothing amiss.


    Stepping out he locked his door before rushing down the stairs and out the door before the serving girls had a chance to ask him what the rush was. Off he ran through the streets towards the north gate a glimmer of childish excitement budding in his chest. To be a yer like his parents and stride the brokennds, battling the creatures of the rifts was the first dream of just about everyone he''d ever met and if he was lucky, he might just be stepping out there this very day. It was hard not to get excited.


    Heart thumping, he barely noticed the change in scenery around him as he drew closer to the gate. There were fewer pedestrians and shops, the few merchants operating in the area specialising in either emergency medical treatment or weapons. Here too could be found the four temples in Woodsedge, such that the yers would pass them by as they left the keep and made their way out of the town.


    When the gate finally came into view Tyron also got to see something else for the first time: hispetition.


    Lining the road he could see a hundred, perhaps even more, young adults, just like him, the newly awakened hopefuls who''d rushed to the border in the hopes of making a new life for themselves, gaining levels bit by bit until they finally qualified as full yers, graduating from these streets into a life of danger and glory up in the keep.


    He slowed down as he drew closer and tried to take it all in. There were all sorts assembled here, young men and women in patchwork armour wielding beaten up swords and axes alongside other hopefuls in robes or even rags. Some held signs dering their skills and qualifications painted with varying degrees of mastery over spelling.


    Some of them would be farmhands, unwilling to resign themselves to their fate of working thend, others would be young mages, rangers or fighters who couldn''t afford any sort of education, submitting themselves to a baptism of fire in order to transform their lives.


    He could sympathise on multiple levels.


    His arrival did not go unnoticed and many others eyed him with disgruntled expressions. He realised immediately that he stood out from the others in a few ways, the quality of his gear and clothing did not mark him immediately as poor, unlike almost all of the others, not to mention the clearly expensive de on his hip. Rather than a desperate newly awakened hoping to join a yer team as a hired hand, he looked like a merchant''s son.


    He almost considered heading back to the inn to change, but decided against it at thest minute. He was here now so he might as well stay and see if he managed to get himself hired. He set his teeth and strode forward, aiming for a less crowded area where he couldfortably stand without taking up someone else''s space.


    It definitely appeared as if the area of the street closer to the keep was the most hotly contested area, which made sense since those were the people the yers would see first on their way out. Of this stretch of road he ended up cing himself two thirds of the way to the gate, towards the tail end of the crowd. As he took up his position and tried to lookpetent but not expensive, the girl to his right smiled up at him from her position, sat in the grass.


    "First time?" she asked after a few awkward minutes had passed of Tyron maintaining the same pose and expression to the point of cramping.


    "That obvious?" he sighed.


    "Oh yeah," she grinned. "Not to worry, I was pretty much the same at the start. Fucking desperate to make the right impression I was."


    He looked down at her lounging posture on the ground and frowned.


    "So¡­ what changed?" he asked, curious.


    "Oh, you still need to make the right impression, don''t get me wrong. But if I''m going to be out here in the sun all bloody morning then I''m going to make myselffortable. When a teames out of the keep, you''ll have plenty of time to make yourself look presentable before they reach here, trust me."


    Tyron eyeballed the distance and figured she was probably right. From where he stood, the milling crowd of hopefuls blocked sight to the keep anyway. Sighing, he rolled his pack off his shoulder and sat down. The girl smiled at him and extended a hand.


    "I''m Ci," she said, "wee to Victory road."

 Chapter 24: The Road

    Chapter 24: The Road


    Ci turned out to be a talking and likeablepanion as the time whiled away. The two continued to chat as those around them cast them odd nces and continued to stand at attention as much as possible.


    "So, I thought this was called Northgate street," Tyron asked, "but you called it Victory road?"


    She smiled, her dark brown eyes twinkling in amusement.


    "That''s something I got from the yers. That''s what they call it, not sure exactly why. Apparently just about every keep has a ''victory road'', a glorified name for a street that takes them straight to hell. Morbid fuckers."


    Tyron nced up and down the rather in cobbled road and solid, but ordinary looking gate at the end of it.


    "Little ordinary looking for a gate to hell, don''t you think?"


    She looked at him sideways.


    "You''ve never been out there, right?"


    He had to shake his head.


    "No, I''ve never set foot in the brokennds."


    He''d heard about it his whole life though, from two who knew it better than most.


    "It''s hell out there," she told him emphatically. "Let me tell you, most of these pricks haven''t gone out yet and a good chunk of those who manage toe back won''t ever go twice."


    Surprised, Tyron''s brows rose and he contemted the people around them.


    "Truly? They quit after their first run?"


    An udylike snort erupted from Ci.


    "Abso-fucking-lutely they do. Those that make it back anyway. Around half don''te back at all."


    She turned and leered at him.


    "It''s a graveyard out there, Lukas. Make sure you don''t piss your pants."


    He rolled his eyes.


    "My pants are perfectly dry," he said, "but I am surprised to learn that so many don''te back."


    "Weak," the young man rumbled from beside them. "Too weak for the job. Fatass farm boys who should have stayed home milking cows."


    He leaned over the road and spit.


    "Lukas, this is Rell," Ci introduced him with a hand on his back. "He''s been around for a few months and gone out three times already. Too stuck up to sit with us riff raff though."


    Rell frowned.


    "You never know when the yers might be watching, they could have people scouting the road right now."


    "I highly doubt it," she replied, "they give roughly zero shits about us at the best of times and I''m rounding up."


    Although he didn''t say anything, Tyron nodded, since that lined up with what he knew. yer rats, or just rats, hirelings that proper yers took out into the rifts with them were there to do the dirty work that they couldn''t be bothered or didn''t want to do themselves.


    "Whatever. You do things your way and I''ll stick to mine. How many times have you been out anyway?"


    "Uppity cunt. You know I''ve only been out once."


    "You''re still here at least."


    "Damn right I am."


    "You''ve been out there?" Tyron asked, failing to mask the surprise in his voice.


    Ci flicked him an angry nce.


    "Yes. Why? You didn''t think I was good enough?!"


    He raised his hands quickly in defence.


    "No, no! I just figured most of the people here hadn''t so the odds were against you. I can''t say if you''re good enough or not, I know nothing about you!"


    His exnation seemed to mollify the fiery girl and she sat back to make herself morefortable with a huff. Not bothering to hide it, Rell gave her the finger before he straightened his posture once more. Tyron realised then that the two didn''t advertise themselves in the same way that others did. They didn''t have any crudely drawn signs, boards or bits of paper with their status and skills scrawled on to show their qualities like so many who lined the road did. Curious, he remarked on it to Ci and she barked out a harshugh.


    "Like whores on night street. I swear to the four, it''s demeaning. If we have to be here hanging on the goodwill of the yers then we might as well have a little dignity about it."


    "Dignity? That''s a little riching from you," Rell sniped.


    "Shove it, Rell," she replied easily, "shove it in deep until you start to like it. To answer your question, no, Lukas, I don''t bother with that garbage and neither does Rell because we have something that the othersck."


    "Which is?" he prompted her when she didn''t continue.


    She grinned at him.


    "A team that is willing to hire us again. I did well enough my first time out that they said they''d take me out again. It''s not a guarantee, since our employers are kier than a bakery, but it''s better than waving a sign around and pping my ass while the teams walk past."


    Tyron whistled in appreciation.


    "I can see how that makes a difference. If that''s the case though, why are you here at all? Won''t they contact you directly?"


    Rell snorted, but refused to borate.


    The girl beside him reached out a hand to nt it on his shoulder as she gave him a pitying look.


    "Lukas, you need to remember what you are to them: a rat. You''re not quite the shit on the bottom of their boot, oh no, you''re the garbage monkey that they pay to lick it off. Contact us directly? We''re lucky if they even tell us what day they''re going to head out."


    "So if you aren''t here when they leave¡­"


    "They just take someone else."


    "That''s¡­"


    "Shitty?"


    "I was going to say poor form, but yeah. Shitty."


    "That''s just the thing, Lukas. It isn''t. That''s how you treat rats and a rat is what you are now. Your life is as cheap as bread and you are one of the most receable chumps in the entire province. How many fresh faces do you think we get every week here, Rell?"


    "Can''t you leave me out of it?" the young manined.


    "You''ve been here longer so you have a better idea than me. Just spit it out."


    "I''m going to line up further down next time, I swear it. Look, the awakening happened recently so there''s at least a dozen new faces every day. They''ll probably keep trickling in for months as kids decide to throw down their tools and run away from their apprenticeships to try and make a new life killing rift-kin. When I got here it wasn''t nearly as busy as it is now."


    "It doesn''t look <em>too</em> crowded," Tyron said as he peered up and down the line.


    "Hah! Half of us aren''t even here yet," Ci grinned. "Give it a little time."


    So saying, sheid back, her head resting on her pack as she prepared to while away the time and Tyron had little choice but to wait.


    And wait.


    As the hours ticked past and the sun rose higher overhead, her prediction proved more than correct. A steady flow of young faces, some more weathered than others, made their way to the side of the road until it became quite crowded on <em>both </em>sides. The air of desperation and hunger in the air was palpable as the rats jostled for position and snapped at each other over the slightest thing. By the time the sun reached its zenith, Tyron was hot, bored and three fights had broken out.


    Two teams had returned in that time, the only events that broke up the monotony. A shout from the guards above the gate was the first hint something was happening, followed by the gate creeping open just wide enough to allow the bedraggled and weary yers inside, whereupon the heavy wood beams mmed shut behind them. In these moments, Tyron found that the gathered rats became still and respectful, not wanting to make a bad impression to a potential future employer.


    From his observation, he didn''t think it mattered much. The yers looked tired, injured and in no mood to deal with the horde of wannabe killers who lined the street. He wagered that anyone who actually attempted to bother them as they made their way back to the keep or to a healer was likely to get a leg lopped off for their trouble.


    Two hours after lunch and now he wasn''t just hot and irritated, he was hungry as well. He even thought of taking out some of his rations but decided against it. If he didn''t end up getting hired today, a prospect that appeared increasingly likely, then he could fill up when he got back to the inn.


    "Are there usually so few teams leaving?" he finally asked his twopanions, exasperated. "We haven''t seen a single group leave in thest four hours!"


    "It''s a bit unusual," Rell admitted, still standing next to where Tyron sat. "But not super umon. Sometimes you might go a whole day or two with nobody heading out only to have half the keep run out the gate the next morning."


    "And we wait here the whole time?"


    "We do if we want to get hired."


    Tyron sighed.


    As it turned out, there was a team that leftter that day. A hushed whisper of excitement rippled down the line of waiting hopefuls from those closest to the keep and Tyron looked up to see the others straightening themselves and putting their best foot forward. Before he realised it, Ci had leapt to her feet and assumed a more disciplined posture, no sign of her earlier lounging to be seen. She looked down at him and winked.


    "Show time, Lukas! Up you get."


    He blinked a few times before it clicked and then he scrambled to his feet. He wasn''t sure how to hold himself so he ended up folding his arms across his chest in an attempt to look as if he might actually know what he was doing. A few minutester the yers themselves walked past, a group of five bedecked in armour, packs on their shoulders and weapons polished to gleaming. They nced here and there at the gathered crowd, but didn''t bother speaking to anyone and soon the gate mmed shut behind them.


    Ci sighed and slumped back down to her seated position.


    "They didn''t even take anyone? Rude."


    "Probably on a longer trip so they picked up a loose yer to fill out the team," Rell observed.


    "How could you tell?"


    "Emblem on the sleeve. Not all teams have one but they did. The guy at the back didn''t have one so I think they might have roped him in to help with the dirty work."


    "Sucks for us," Ci sighed.


    That was the only team to leave that day and as dusk fell Tyron bid farewell to his two new acquaintances and made his way back to the inn where he dly filled his stomach and exchanged gossip with the staff before heading to his room to practice mana bolt until he cast Sleep on himself and passed out.


    Undaunted, he awoke the next day and checked his status, pleased to see he''d managed to raise the spell to level three, not bad for a non-ss skill with only a few nights practice. His speed was improving along with his efficiency. How well would he do with a moving target? Hard to say, but at least the magick felt morefortable than before. With a little luck, it might even be usable in a fight.


    Although he didn''t rush over like he had the previous morning, he was still there before the bulk of the crowd, which meant he was able to secure a simr location to the day before and soon enough he weed both Rell and Ci back with a smile and a wave.


    "Nice hat," Rell observed.


    "I think I got burned yesterday," Tyron admitted sheepishly.


    "You are unusually pale for a rat," Ci poked at his arm. "You allergic to the sun or something?"


    "Just spent a lot of time indoors. I''m a bit of a night owl as well."


    The three chatted on and off as there continued to be little action throughout the morning as the crowds continued to build. Just before lunch something finally happened when a team made their way out of the keep. As before, Tyron stood and tried to appear capable as all around the rats did the same. When the yers came into sight he could feel a rush of excitement from his right as Ci seemed to swell up on the spot, a grin stered on her face despite her efforts to hide it.


    Tyron was confused, but his questions were soon answered as the woman who led the team wandered a little closer when she spotted the girl waiting.


    "Ci you useless lump," the yer shook her head. "Ready to go kill some rift-kin?"


    "Hells yes!" she cheered. "I''ll even help carry your shit, that''s how gracious I am."


    "Damn right you will," the woman replied, a hint ofughter in her eye. "Come on then, let''s get to it."


    Filled with energy, Ci grabbed her pack and practically leapt out onto the road to join the group. Tyron didn''t have a chance to wish her good luck before she ran off down the road and through the gate, on her way to the brokennds. When the gate rattled shut behind them, he settled back down with a sigh.


    "That''s Marion''s team," Rell told him, "same group she went out with the first time. Good group, good rep. Hopefully she''ll be fine."


    "I never asked what level she was," Tyron realised. "Is she really strong enough to fight against the monsters?"


    Rell grimaced.


    "Look, it''s kind of rude to ask people what level they are, and if you ask the people around here, they''re going to lie to you nine times out of ten, there''s just no need to inform yourpetition. As to fighting the rift-kin, hell no, we aren''t really expected to fight them. Offer support, chip in if there''s an emergency, sure, but not go toe to toe. Usually the yers will let the rat fight a couple of weaker creatures as part of the payment, helps them get some experience, develop their skills and gain levels, which makes them more useful rats."


    "Usually?"


    "Well, you can negotiate your price, a little, with the teams. The more cash you want, the less they''ll feel inclined to help you fight. You need to make a call as to whether you want money, or to help develop your status."


    "Doesn''t that just mean you have to go without pay if you want to be a yer?"


    "Pretty much."


    Ouch.


    "The more I learn about it, the more I think this system sucks," he observed.


    The other man rolled his shoulders and sighed.


    "There isn''t a single person here who isn''t desperate, Lukas. If you can''t hack it, then you''re better off somewhere else."


    Tyron just shrugged.


    "I think I fit right in, Rell. I''ve got nowhere else to go."


    The two didn''t say anything else for a long time, instead they settled in to wait.


    The rest of the day passed in much the same way, as did the next. Tyron struggled with the wasted time, a sense of urgency growing inside him with each passing moment. He had to get out there, he had to <em>improve</em>. More than once he considered just slipping outside of the city and rushing into the brokennds by himself, but he knew deep down he would more than likely die if he were to try. He was far too weak to chance it, the monsters of the rifts would tear him apart. He didn''t even have minions to fight on his behalf, without them he was worse than useless. No. He had to wait.


    Thankfully, the fourth day proved more promising than those that had gone before.

 Chapter 25: The Shattered World

    Chapter 25: The Shattered World


    "Tell me you aren''t serious, Dove."


    "You think I''d joke about this? By the sweet melons of Selene I wish it wasn''t true, but unfortunately the local marshals have ''requested'' my assistance for another week. A week! These fucking pricks!"


    "So what are we going to do? Sit on our arse around the keep for even longer? That''s bullshit, Rogil!"


    The team leader sat in a chair that groaned under his broad frame, his hands rubbed slow circles around his temples as the group bickered in the sitting room of their suite. Too much time spent cooling their heels wasn''t good for the group, they''d lose their edge if they stayed here for much longer. Already people were getting on each other''s nerves, they needed to vent.


    "We''re going to head out," he finally said after the others had finally gone quiet. "Not for a full trip," he held up a hand to forestall the protest ready to burst out of Dove, "we''ll do a four day patrol, work out the stress, pick up some coin ande back. By the time we get back, rest up for a couple days, Dove should be done with this nonsense and we can gear up to head through the rift. Sound good?"


    "No," Aryll snorted, "but it''s better than hanging around here."


    Monica didn''t look convinced. She massaged her forehead as she pondered their options.


    "I don''t know about this Rogil¡­ we head out with only three we are going to be worse than shorthanded. We won''t even have the summons to help out."


    "I''m aware of that. We''ll grab a rat or two on the way out to pick up the ck, and I specifically said a patrol, did I not? If things get tense we can pull right out and return to town, I don''t want to take unnecessary risks."


    "Fine," the mage sighed. "I just worry is all."


    Dove sulked, his knees pulled up to his chest as he sunk into his chair.


    "This is fucked," heined, "I get dragged all over town to prod every piece of horseshit with a trace of magick in it and you guys get to hunt rift-kin. If I ever find out who performed that ritual I''m going to carve out their guts and eat their heart like an apple."


    "Sounds like dark summoner talk to me," Aryll murmured.


    "Oh fuck off!"


    "We are sorry, Dove," Monica tried to soothe the testy Summoner, "we would all rather you were free and able toe with us. Who could have predicted the marshals would be this stubborn?"


    The thin man sagged even further into his chair if it was possible, the tension draining out of him as he surrendered to his misery.


    "It''s getting worse and worse since they can''t find any leads. There''s no traces of whoever cast the stupid thing, we haven''t found anyone with a ss that might learn the spell, or teach it, or any motivation for the ritual in the first ce! It''s as if whoever''s responsible did it just to stick a finger up at the marshals and then went to ground."


    "Doesn''t that mean you might be free soon?" Rogil asked hopefully. "If they aren''t getting any further in their investigation¡­"


    "As far as that prick, Langdon is concerned, not finding anything just solidifies me as a suspect, even though he''s <em>literally</em> seen my thrice cursed status!"


    "If he''s seen that¡­" Aryll said.


    "He thinks I might have falsified it, which obviously someone with ess to evil magick fuckery would likely be able to do¡­" Dove said, sounding tired beyond belief.


    Rogil raised a brow.


    "I''ve never heard of it being possible to fake a status ritual."


    "Oh it''s possible," Dove told him, "but it''s more than a little illegal, and you need to be digging into some rather awful sses to be able to do it. When they find someone who can do it they usually get palmed off to the magisters so they can make an example of them. It ain''t pretty."


    "How have I never heard of this?" Aryll wondered.


    Doveughed a little bitterly.


    "This is usually mage business, Aryll, no offense. This is stuff we learn pretty early on."


    Silence hung in the air for a long moment as each of them dwelled on their thoughts until Rogil broke the spell by pping his thick hands together.


    "That''s it," he spoke sharply, "get your stuff together. I want to be out the door in one hour, no excuses. Anyone who doesn''t meet the deadline is ontrines for the whole trip. Dove, you might as well get yourself down to the barracks and report for duty. The only thing you can do to clear your name is keep showing up and proving them wrong. If they try to move on you without evidence, I''ll bring the whole keep down on their damn heads."


    "Me first," Dove smiled with far too many teeth.


    In short order the team was packed and ready to go, sans Dove who had sulked his way out the door under escort ''for his safety''. In a foul mood but pleased to be out of the keep, Rogil and the other members filed their paperwork and set out, the brokennds awaited.


    "Team?" the guard on the keep gate asked as they approached.


    Rogil palmed his face in irritation.


    "Travis, I''ve walked through here with my team a hundred times, do you really need me to say it?"


    The old man with the pinched face just squinted at him.


    "Regtions are regtions, as well you know. You have to identify yourselves so I can sign you out. Team?"


    "Hammerblow."


    "Wasn''t so hard was it? Take it easy out there Rogil, been more activity than normal."


    "No shit," with a jerk of his head Rogil directed Monica and Aryll forward.


    "If you were going to be so hung up about it, you should never have let Dove have a say in naming the group," Monica admonished him.


    "I still think ''Melon Smashers'' was the best choice," Aryll drawled, "we would have got it over the line if you hadn''t burned your veto on it."


    "If I was going to have to be part of a group called the Melon Smashers I wouldt have just left, started a new team and then recruited you all into it, leaving Dove behind," Rogil growled. "Now keep your eyes peeled for a rat and let''s get the hell out of this town. I need to kill something."


    The moment the three yers stepped out of the keep they were mobbed on both sides by urchins and thugs, each with the stench of desperation hanging over them. Monica''s lip curled as she beheld the unwashed masses. She might be used toing home reeking like shit, but she was less used to heading out that way.


    "Move aside," Rogil growled as a few too many hopefuls drew close and thankfully they listened.


    Technically they weren''t allowed to cut people down in the streets, but it was also illegal to obstruct a yer in the course of their duty, which team Hammerblow, having filed their paperwork, were now officially doing. Rogil kept his eyes forward, not looking left or right as he marched purposefully toward the gate and Aryll had her head in the clouds, which meant the responsibility for finding help would fall onto Monica''s shoulders, as usual.


    She frowned and bit back her temper as she tried to find someone in the crowd she could live with, but as she scanned the dozens upon dozens of faces she found noone who appealed to her. It wasn''t a good idea to be picky when hiring a rat, but if she could find someone who at the very least wasn''t <em>dirty</em> that would be a win. As they rounded the corner and the gate came in sight she still hadn''t found someone and she could tell from Rogil''s determined stride that he sure as hell wasn''t going to stop. Monica bit her lip as she looked left and right and the press of bodies and faces that lined the road all seemed to blend together into one sweaty mass of unwanted flesh. Out of time and annoyed she determined that she may as well throw a finger out and pick someone at random and damn the consequences if they proved useless. If the others weren''t going to help then they could hardly me her!


    Then she spotted a face.


    Slight, clean, with tired, yet intelligent eyes, the young man stood with his hands sped in front of him and a small smile on his face. When he noticed her nce he nodded slowly and tried to stand a little straighter. He was so different from the regr crowd of farmboys and brawlers that he instantly caught her eye, even as she wondered how useful he might be. With a scrawny build like that, would he even be able to carry his weight?


    She stepped toward him.


    "What''s your name?" she asked him directly.


    "Uh, Lukas. Lukas Almsfield."


    "You don''t look much like a rat, Lukas. A runaway merchant''s boy? I''d rather not hire someone if their family is going to hire idiots to attack my team in a futile act of vengeance should you fall to the rift-kin."


    At the mention of family she could see him tense, there was a story there.


    "My family are involved in the, uh, industry," he said, flicking his eyes up to the keep, "and they encouraged me on this path. Nothing like what you describe would ur, I assure you."


    She half believed him, he sounded genuine.


    "Do you have any relevant skills? Or the requisite strength? We are only out on patrol, but this will be hard and dangerous work for you."


    "I have a much tougher constitution than it might appear. I''ve learned the butchery skill here in town and have my own set of knives for any work you might need done. I''m still new to it, but I spent time in a local shop to learn a few tricks. I''m also well ustomed to working with little sleep and have spent a good amount of time camping in the wilds. I won''t slow you down."


    He spoke with absolute confidence and a clear eye. She was warming to thisd.


    "Can you protect yourself?" she asked him.


    He raised a brow and she nodded permission to his silent question. He paused for a moment, his face a mask of concentration before he thrust a palm forward toward the road. A colourless streak of energy sted from his hand before scattering over the stones. Monica assessed the spell critically. He''d cast it fast, and the projectile was close to invisible, as it should be. He had some skill.


    "Terms?" she asked him.


    His smile was filled with relief. Her question was an admission that he would be hired.


    "No experience, only pay," he said.


    She raised a brow.


    "Hard up for money?" she was surprised. Most rats would cut their pay down to the bone in order to demand a greater share of the kills in order to help level their sses.


    "I need money more than levels right now," he shrugged.


    "Consider yourself hired. Let''s go," she said and turned to find her two teammates were already at the gate waiting for it to open.


    With a soft growl she picked up her pace, trusting that the rat would follow along on her heels.


    "He looks scrawny," Rogil said as she approached, looking over her shoulder.


    "If you want a say in the help we hire, then you would need to open your mouth and participate," she said curtly. "I think he has potential."


    By the time the gate was open, the hired help had caught up to them, his pack firmly tied on. Monica nodded to him encouragingly and ushered him through the opening before following behind. Once they were all on the other side the gate creaked mightily as it swung shut with a dull boom. They were out.


    _________________________________


    Despite everything Tyron couldn''t deny the bubble of excitement welling up inside him the further they left the city behind. He''d heard about the rifts his entire life, his parents had made themselves famous for the many victories they''d won in ces just like this. His uncle Worthy had done the same, earning enough coin that he could buy an inn and settle down with plenty left over. Even more than that, these were the ces where people became strong, where they could polish their skills and level their sses against the unending flow of monsters who flooded through the rifts.


    "First time out to the rifts?" the woman, Monica asked him.


    Tyron tried not to blush.


    "Is it that obvious?" he said.


    "A little," sheughed, "not to worry. I can remember the feeling the first time I came out here. No matter how much you know, it''s never quite enough to prepare you."


    She reached out and ced a hand on his shoulder.


    "Don''t worry. We''re just skirting around the edges on this trip. It''s an ideal situation for someone like you, a chance to fight some monsters, see the brokennds for yourself without having to jump through a rift."


    A snort came from behind them.


    "Tell me you aren''t hitting on the rat, Monica. He''s <em>eighteen</em> for goodness sake," the scout, Aryll drawled.


    The mage narrowed her eyes and slowly withdrew her hand.


    "I was <em>trying</em> to reassure him. Not all of us are so thirsty we see ulterior motives in every interaction."


    "Both of you shut up," the leader growled, anger clear in his tone. "Eyes out, no mistakes, that includes you kid. Time to work."


    Properly chastened, Tyron snapped his gaze to their surroundings as they continued to walk. An hour ago they''d left the town behind and already the road was gone, naught left but a wide dirt track that wound its way through the trees. He was reminded of his final desperate journey through the forest before he''d reached Woodsedge, when he''d fought rift-kin again and again until his minions had fallen in his defence. Against even weaker monsters his two skeletons had proven to be unable topete, against the true terrors of the rifts, he had no illusions as to how he would fare. The only reason he could travel in this area with any semnce of safety was because of thepany he was keeping.


    A tense silence descended on the four figures as they continued to follow the trail, each of them eyeing the woods with weapons drawn until Rogil brought up a hand.


    "We''ll break from the trail here and circle to the west. Aryll, stealth up and range ahead, no more than two hundred metres, all right? We''re short-handed, so keep the formation tight."


    "Got it."


    By the time Tyron had turned around, the scout was already gone, invisible to his eyes as she slipped away, making use of her skills to slip between the trees, moving from shadow to shadow to hide. Palms a little sweaty, he brought a hand up and tried to focus on the mana bolt spell. Cautious, his eyes flitted between the trees and he tried to find any sign of monsters before they descended on him.


    Rogil led the group away from the path and they were soon deep between the trees, no sign that the worn trail had ever existed. With his broadsword in hand, he walked forward at a steady pace, Monica and Tyron stepping carefully in his wake.


    As if they crossed an invisible line Tyron felt a ripple pass over him, like a shiver and he gasped out loud and looked around himself in wonder.


    Something didn''t feel <em>right</em>, suddenly. He stretched out his hand in front of him and it felt like it was kilometres away, instead of right in front of his face. When he drew it back the seconds dragged out until it felt like minutes had passed before it returned to his side.


    "What is happening?" he whispered.


    "It''s a rift," Monica answered, her voice low. "The border between worlds is thin here. It can do strange things to your perception. Focus."


    They continued to advance and gradually he grew used to the strange sensation. Time and distance just didn''t feel as they should, they were bent, or warped in some strange way. As he struggled to adapt, the trees became thinner around them and things began to open up. Rotten logs, smashed branches, and huge gouges in the dirt became moremon, Tyron saw a boulder, shattered into a thousand pieces wedged into the dirt as they stepped around it.


    One didn''t need to be the son of the Century yer to realise that these were the remnants of battles between yers and monsters. His heart began to pound in his chest and he took deep breaths to stay calm. He could understand what Ci had been saying now, that only a half of the rats would make it back. Despite knowing as much as he did, it was still disorienting and intimidating when you actually set foot here.


    "Kid, get up here."


    He was snapped out of his meditative thoughts when Rogil called him. The team leader stood atop a small rise beside a broad oak tree, eyes forward as he waved Tyron forward with a hand. He nced toward Monica and she met his eyes and gave him a quick nod. Encouraged, he walked forward, his eyes tracking from nk to nk as he watched for trouble.


    "What is it?" he asked quietly.


    Rogil pointed forward.


    "Take a look kid, something you can''t see anywhere else. Drink in the view of our shattered world."


    Tyron frowned and turned to follow the line of the yer''s arm and gasped. He knew about it, how could he not? He''d read about these ces, listened to every story that his parents had to tell with rapt attention. Despite that, he was still shocked by what he saw.


    Over the rise the world was¡­ wounded. The trees grew thinner until there were none and what remained was a tortured and crackedndscape that pulsed with strange energies that faded in and out of view in a mind bending disy. Overhead the sky roiled and twisted, a permanent storm that wrapped around itself like a den of snakes. Worse still were the fleeting glimpses of alienndscapes that ovey thend in front of him that stung his eyes and he felt a headache form the longer he looked.


    Then there were the monsters. The rift-kin crept over thend or railed within their doomed worlds as they sought a way to cross over.


    "So many¡­" Tyron whispered.


    Rogil grinned.


    "Means we''re never out of work. Wee to the brokennds, kid. Try not to die here."

 Chapter 26: The Ones That Were Left Behind

    Chapter 26: The One''s That Were Left Behind


    Rogil bellowed, his war cry little more than a guttural roar that rattled the leaves overhead as he brought his greatsword down in a mighty sh. The monster squealed before him, its rage and desperation palpable in the air but he didn''t hesitate. He''d seen too many hesitate, they didn''t usually get a second chance.


    CRUNCH.


    The sword, over a hundred kilograms of enchanted steel, shattered the monster''s defences and cut deep into the flesh beneath. With a final, rattled hiss the rift-kin breathed itsst and copsed in a heap. Undeterred, he drew back his sword and drove it forward, deep into the body of the creature. When it didn¡¯t react he withdrew the weapon, satisfied that it was indeed dead.


    Tyron tried not to click his tongue. He understood not wanting to let the creature y dead and jump you from behind, obviously it was better to be safe than sorry, but it was rather difficult for him to extract anything valuable from the remains if they were so heavily mutted. He prepared another bolt and held it ready in case it was needed, but as he swept his eyes around it appeared as if nothing remained alive to fight.


    "Talk," Rogil barked, his tension still high.


    "Clear," Monica replied.


    "Clear," Aryll called from amongst the trees.


    "Any injuries?" Monica asked.


    "Got a scratch," Aryll replied, still hidden.


    "Come and get it checked then, you know not to take any chances with these creatures."


    "I''ll scout then," Rogil nodded and turned to move into the woods. "Ten minutes then we''re on the move again. Get to work kid."


    Tyron was already kneeling in front of the monster Rogil had yed, his pointed carving knife in his hand. Looking over the body, he didn''t think there would be much he could retrieve other than the core. The chitin was cracked all over thanks to Rogil''s rather brutal fighting style, and he likely couldn''t separate any tes in ten minutes anyway.


    With a sigh he looked for the biggest gaps between the segments close to the centre of mass and began to carve. In two minutes he''d managed to find a grape-sized circr gem of pure white that glowed with magick in his senses. Being careful not to touch it, he extracted the gem with the iron tweezers he''d purchased for this purpose and dropped it into the bag tied to his waist.


    He had enough time to tackle a few more rift-kin so he surveyed the scene of the fight and picked out the nextrgest monster. Size didn''t always equate to power, but it did often enough that he''d found it was a safe bet to harvest thergest first when he was pressed for time.


    As he worked, Monica sat with Aryll inspecting a nasty gash on her arm. The ''scratch'', he presumed. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the mage rummaged through her pack and withdrew a needle, thread and ointment.


    "It''ll take a few days for this to patch up," she warned the scout as she got to work cleaning and disinfecting the wound. "You''ll need to be careful to ensure you don''t reopen the wound."


    Aryll pulled a face.


    "It''s not going to scar, is it?" she asked.


    "No. I''m skilled enough to take care of that!"


    "Shame. Scars are hot."


    She caught Tyron''s eye and winked sciously. He tried not to blush and focused on his knife work whilst Monica continued to patch the mouthy scout. She wasn''t able to perform miracle healing like a priest or priestess would, instantly curing the wound by drawing on the power of her divine patron, but she was surprisingly effective considering she was only utilising a sub-ss. Basically every team needed someone like that, a member with some capacity to cure injuries.


    Usually that would be someone with a healing main ss, like medic, apothecary or doctor, andbat subs to keep them safe, or someone like Monica, who had abat main and had chosen a utility sub in order to help her team. People capable of drawing on the power of the four were exceptionally rare in yer circles, which was the reason Rufus was so desperate to get Elsbeth to follow him out of Foxbridge.


    Tyron stalled for a moment as he remembered his old crush. She''d always been so kind to him growing up, one of the few who were prepared to reach out to ''their'' son, despite his reclusive ways, he almost couldn''t help falling for her. Then the awakening happened and all those childish concerns fell by the wayside. Still, he hoped what he''d told her was enough to cure her of any attachment to Rufus. She deserved better than being exploited by that bastard. And not having her to help him made Rufus'' life that much harder when he tried to be a yer, which was also a nice bonus.


    The core he was working on prised loose with a ''pop'' and he ced it in the bag before shifting to the next monster. When the ten minutes was up, he''d managed to collect five cores and Monica had finished her stitching. Aryll ran her hand lightly over the treated wound as she inspected the cut.


    "Don''t get sloppy," Monica warned her, "we''re a member down, we need to be careful even if we are only on the outskirts."


    "I know that," the scout muttered.


    She looked as she might have more to say but at that moment Rogil strode back into the clearing.


    "Let''s move. There''s more packs in the area and I don''t want to tangle with them. We need to retreat a couple of hundred metres. How many cores?"


    Thest he asked of Tyron without looking at him.


    "Five."


    "Not bad. Pick up the pace next time. Let''s go."


    He''d gotten used to Rogil''s attitude by now. No matter how many he managed to grab, he would get the same answer. The group quickly picked themselves up and got moving. They made good time through the sparse woods that bordered the devastation of the true brokennds as Rogil ranged ahead, leading them around monsters he thought they couldn''t fight as he marked rifts that seemed more active than others and steered them clear.


    Tyron had learned that this team usually had a Summoner along as their fourth member, and without the powerful summons and utility that the ss provided they were understandably reluctant to engage in anything more dangerous than picking off stray groups of rift-kin. For capable and mid-level fighters like these, it was a lot like swatting bugs, generally not worth their time but he could definitely understand the caution.


    An hourter they finally came to a halt as the leader crept back to meet them.


    "Any issue?" Monica whispered when Rogil drew close enough.


    He shook his head and waved them away from the rifts. The others sensed his caution and crept along behind a few hundred metres until they felt morefortable.


    "What is it?" the mage pressed him.


    "There''s a rift in there that doesn''t look too stable," Rogil pulled a face and ran a hand over his bald head as he stared into the distance, as if watching the rift through the trees. "Too many rift-kin there for us to get close enough to take a better look, but we should report it when we get back. Things have been a little hairy out heretely, I don''t want to take a chance and have a break ur."


    "No shit," Aryll grunted.


    Tyron agreed. A break wasn''t in <em>anyone''s </em>best interest. Not only would a horde of rift-kin break through, therger ones that normally couldn''t pass into this world would appear, which could be devastating. This was the sort of thing his parents would be called in to fix and they happily would, diving through the rift and ughtering everything they found on the other side, except right now they were busy hunting him.


    The other consequence of a break was that it further eroded the wall between the worlds in that area, which meant more and stronger rifts would appear from that point on. Without a method to stabilise the brokennds, a break brought everyone closer to the day when the rift-kin overpowered the yers and wiped the world clean of life. For now, such a possibility was so distant that no one seriously considered it, but it was a reality of life nheless.


    "Do we keep patrolling?" Monica asked.


    Rogil nodded.


    "Yes, but we''ll have to avoid this side. We''ll backtrack and switch our patrol path to the east side. How''s the wound, Aryll?"


    "It''s fine. Give me a little while and I''ll be back to full mobility."


    "She should avoid moving at her best for two days," Monica broke in and Aryll shed her an irritated re.


    "She''s doing her job," Rogilforted the scout and ced a steadying hand on her shoulder, "rx and take your medicine. If you''re going to be pissed about getting injured, then don''t get hit in the first ce. The mistake is on you."


    "I know that," she grumped, slightly mollified.


    Tyron knew enough that his input wasn''t required here. The grownups were talking, he was supposed to keep his mouth shut and look attentive, which he did, until he shifted his foot and felt something sharp under his boot. He looked down and raised his leg to look and stared for a few long seconds as he processed what he was looking at.


    "Oh shit," he said as he hopped awkwardly to one side, nearlynding t on his arse.


    "What is it?" Rogil was there in a sh, eyes flicking from side to side as he drew his de.


    "Oh, nothing. Nothing. Just didn''t expect to see, uh, <em>that</em>, under my foot," he stammered a little as he gestured to where he''d been standing.


    The team leader nced down at the grinning skull poking through the dirt and sighed as he sheathed his weapon.


    "You''ll find plenty more of those out here, kid." He turned back to the others. "Where were we¡­"


    As they continued their conversation Tyron took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He''d been shocked to see the empty sockets staring up at him, of course, but he was also surprised to find what he was looking for literally underfoot when they stopped. Without drawing attention from the others who continued to converse nearby, he reached into a pocket in his pack and withdrew a simple map he''d purchased in town. After a few moments of estimation he marked their current location with a lead before he rolled the parchment and stowed them together with the pencil.


    He might not be able to get back here anytime soon, but that was one ce he could find the remains he needed. There were sure to be hundreds more out here.


    "Let''s move," Rogil said, standing straight once more as the others finished their discussion and began to jog back the way they''de.


    Being careful not to fall behind, Tyron kept pace, his eyes watching the surrounding trees with care, but also, every now and again, he nced down to the ground. There would be more.


    <em>In Woodsedge</em>.


    Stillness and silencey over the cemetery. A fine mist, the only presence that moved amongst the gravestones, caressing the worn engravings and fine moss that decorated those faces. Illuminated by the light of the waning moon, it was a peaceful scene, if a haunting one.


    "My balls itch," Doveined.


    Marshal Langdon stifled a sigh and tried to maintain his vigil. His ''partner'' seemed determined to ensure that such a thing was impossible.


    "I think it''s the moisture in the air," the mage said, "its soaking straight through my cks. I suppose I should get better quality clothing. I usually don''t bother since I''m usually either roughing it, or slumming about the keep, in which case I don''t usually wear pants. You wouldn''t be able to rmend a tailor, would you?"


    The marshal took a deep, slow breath, before he replied.


    "I''m aware you find our work to be beneath you, Mr Levan, but I''d prefer it if you were to stop talking. I am trying to focus on our stakeout."


    "I''m trying to avoid getting some sort of fungal infection, which I think is of vastly greater importance than what we are doing here. How have you even been allowed to pull me into this crap anyway? What does this have to do with the abyssal summoning? Nothing! That''s what! My team is out there in the brokennds, risking their lives and fighting and doing other cool shit, whilst I''m here worrying if my blessed testicles are going to rot! No, marshal Langdon, I''m not going to stop talking. I''m going to bitch and moan until you either let me go, or exin what in the name of the hells I''m doing out here!"


    "I''m out here doing my job, Mr Levan, watching the cemetery for signs that a Necromancer has been at work, or catch him in the act. You are here, I suspect, because everyone you have met since the night of the incident has found you to be an insufferable asshole and will go out of their way to make you suffer because they believe you deserve it. Your constant moaning and whining is like music to their ears and they will never grow tired of it. I did not ask for you to be here, nor do I want you here. Since you are, perhaps you can actually be useful and help me try and track a criminal instead of acting like a spoiled child."


    The two men sat in silence for an extended period as Dove contemted the words of the marshal. There was some merit to what the man said, he <em>had</em> been acting like a prick over thest few days, annoying the officers, being less than useful when inspecting scenes, napping frequently, which no doubt led many of the marshals to delight in his suffering. On the other hand¡­


    "Remember when you guys arrested me without cause, locked me up and made me run around town looking for a culprit that you believed was me the entire time? I''ve cooperated in good faith as much as I possibly can, but you are yanking on my <emst</em> chain. You <em>know</em>, just as well as I do, that this Necromancer kid didn''t do the summoning. There''s no shot. No fucking shot. So why are we even out here? A level one Necromancer is <em>nothing</em>, what the hell are we doing out here Langdon?"


    The officer sighed and stood, stretching his back as he did so. It was clear there was no point trying to remain hidden so long as the Summoner was going to run his mouth.


    "Let me be candid with you, Mr Levan. I don''t think you are responsible for the summoning incident, but that matters little since my superiors are determined to piss you off for as long as they can. We''ve run out of leads trying to run down the person responsible so I''ve been told to keep an eye out in case the Necromancer, who is most likely level two since we have witnesses to a sessful cast of Raise Dead, makes an appearance."


    "He managed to cast it on his own?" Dove whistled. "Impressive."


    The marshal stared at him levelly for a long beat.


    "No," Dove gasped, "you haven''t given up on that theory? You <em>can''t</em> be serious. Raising the dead is tricky, I''ll grant that, but busting through the veil? Peering into the abyss? It''s a totally different level and you fucking know it!"


    "You don''t know what his name is."


    "How in the hell would that matter? Unless his father pisses magick and his mother''s teats dripped arcane crystals then I don''t think it''s relevant."


    "Magnin and Beory Sterm."


    "Ohhhhhhhhhhh SHIT."


    Dove stared at him.


    "SHIT," he repeated before he turned around and strode through the cemetery, his hands pressed to his temples. After a moment he came back, the shock still in on his face.


    "Fucking SHIT balls!" he swore.


    "I understand that you''re surprised."


    "Are you kidding me? This is a joke, right? The Sterm''s kid is a rogue? A Necromancer? That is¡­ mother¡¯s melons that is¡­ SHIT."


    Marshal Langdon rolled his eyes as the Summoner continued to splutter and curse. After five minutes or so, he finally ran out of steam.


    "Well, first thing. If the kid is smart enough to raise the dead without any help then he sure as hell isn''t going to be caught rummaging around cemeteries. That''s Beory''s kid for fuck''s sake."


    "There''s no reason not to be cautious."


    "I suppose I see that. See if he trips himself up..."


    "And you know very well that whilst a level one Necromancer isn''t a threat, a level forty one is¡­"


    "A bit of an issue."


    Langdon raised a single brow.


    "A <em>lot</em> of an issue," the mage conceded, "I get that. But this is the child of two of the greatest heroes the western province has seen since¡­ ever? Those two have in more rift-kin than anyone, and held back the tide basically on their own for <em>decades</em>. Decades! Doesn''t that mean anything?"


    "Are you suggesting we allow someone with a forbidden ss to run free?"


    "Yes! Why the fuck not?! If for no other reason than to keep those two on side! They deserve at least that much!"


    "The magisters don''t agree apparently."


    "Those <em>fucking </em>ghouls! It''s not enough that they need to burn their sadistic brand into us, they want the kid dead? For what? Who has he hurt, huh?"


    "He did raise the dead from their rest," the marshal replied sharply.


    "Who gives a fuck?! They''re dead!"


    "I think the family would have a different view."


    "Oh I''m sure they''re pissed, but does that mean the kid deserves to die?"


    Langdon''s expression hardened.


    "He will pay the penalty for the crime of refusing to relinquish his forbidden ss, as well you know. Those sses are forbidden by decree and I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t need to remind you why."


    Dove threw his hands in the air.


    "It''s bullshit and you know it! The magisters look the other way all the damn time. It''s illegal to have the Thief ss. So why the fuck are there so many thieves?! Why do bandits still exist? Huh? Don''t get me started on the shit the nobles are rumoured to get up to with sses."


    The marshal paused. He couldn''t argue with much of what the Summoner had said. Stamping out illegal sses wasn''t a huge priority, it was true, but even if he rightly pointed out a Necromancer had infinitely more potential for harm than a Thief, it wouldn''t get through to the irate mage.


    "Either way, it''s not going to matter," he sighed, "the kid isn''t going to make it past the next few months."


    "You''re that confident are you?" Dove asked. "I suppose it''s just a single kid, you''ll track him down eventually."


    Langdon hesitated to say the next part, but it wasmon knowledge, it was only a matter of time before Dove found out anyway.


    "Not quite. The magisters ordered some high level yers to track the boy down and bring him in. It''s only a matter of time until they find him."


    Dove was silent for a moment as realisation slowly crept up on him.


    "Who was it?" he said finally, his voice t. "Who did they send?"


    The marshal looked him in the eye.


    "Magnin and Beory Sterm."


    Dove stared at him, his face a mask of frozen rage as his hands clenched into fists by his sides.


    "Those sick <em>fucks</em>," his voice sounded strangled in his throat.


    Abruptly the Summoner turned on his heel and stalked away.


    "All of you can fuck off," he grated over his shoulder. "Your office can either arrest me or burn in the pit for all I care. I''m going back to my team."

 Chapter 27: Old Bones, New Treasure

    Chapter 27: Old Bones, New Treasure


    Tyron started awake and found the indistinct outline of Aryll standing over him.


    "Come on rodent, you''re on watch."


    He blinked a few times as his thought slowly caught up with the situation. Right, he was on watch tonight so the others could rest. He nodded in the dark and the scout patted him the shoulder before she moved away to find her own bedroll. He shook his head a little as he sat up, trying to clear the fog in his head before he pulled himself out of his nkets and threw his cloak over his shoulders before he strapped his sword back onto his waist. It wouldn''t be much use in his hands against an actual monster, but it was better than nothing and gave him a slight sense of security.


    With the fire still crackling, he walked to the edge of the light and found a stump he couldfortably park himself on as Aryll nestled down into her roll behind him. The three yers had been pushing themselves hard over the past few days and even with their superhuman endurance, they needed rest. If they were tired, Tyron was exhausted. Without his unusually high constitution for a person of his level, he would have likely passed out ages ago and forced the others into pulling back.


    This level of fatigue was still something he could deal with, so he sat and wrapped his cloak around himself as he tried to keep watch for anything that might want to kill them. They''d pulled a long way back from the rifts before making this camp, in truth they were no longer within the brokennds at all, which gave him some sense of security. Even so, he''d been able to find rift-kin kilometres away from here, on the other side of Woodsedge, so there was bound to be many crawling through the area. He just had to hope they wouldn¡¯t find him before he could alert the others.


    The light of moon broke through the foliage above in patches, creating a shifting pattern of pale silver on the ground that revealed the bark, leaves and rotting vegetation of the forest floor in fleeting glimpses. Though he had the Night Owl feat, which helped him stay alert during the night, he had nothing to provide more vision in the dark, which meant the shadows were almost imprable to him as he tried to stay alert.


    All in all it was an unnerving experience and his pitiful collection of skills and spells didn''t feel nearly as praiseworthy when he had nothing but himself to rely on.


    Everything would be different if he had minions. He''d be able to fight, he''d have extra eyes to look out, he''d be able to safely, or at least <em>more</em> safely move through these woods to find the resources he needed. He nced behind him to see Aryll was ensconced in her bedroll, hopefully already asleep before he pulled his map out of his cloak.


    "Light," he whispered.


    He barely charged the spell, providing only enough energy to produce the faintest of lights, so weak he could barely see the ink on the paper despite holding the globe a scant few centimetres away. Seven locations were now marked on the paper, ranging over the west and east sides of the rift. Finding remains had not been nearly as difficult as he''d feared, just by sweeping his eyes over the ground as they''d travelled he''d turned up more than enough bones he could return for.


    This was what he''d been aiming for all along, a source of materials that nobody would miss, or even realise were gone. It was the only way he could practice his craft and improve his status without anyone realising what had taken ce, which was the only way he could keep himself safe. What he hadn''t expected was for there to be <em>so many</em> dead out here. Hakoth hadn''t exaggerated when he''d talked about how many died out here in the brokennds.


    He didn''t know if the bulk of the bones he''d seen belonged to yers or rats, he supposed it didn''t matter. Once the patrol waspleted he''d return to town and then have to find a way to get back out here safely to retrieve the remains he needed. The first would be the hardest, he''d bepletely on his own after all, but once he had a single minion it would be easier to get the second, then the third. He estimated he probably couldn''t support more than three right now, which might change when he reached Necromancer level five and achieved his first ss feat.


    Something shifted in the dark and Tyron''s breath caught in his throat as he froze, only thinking to extinguish his light a momentter. With the globe gone the only source of light became the fire behind his back and the moon high overhead. He readied a magick bolt and pushed a hand out, palm at the ready should anything emerge from the darkness.


    For a few tense moments he waited, his eyes darting from side to side but gradually, when no threat manifested itself, he rxed his stance and lowered his hand. He waited a minute longer before he summoned the light again, a little brighter than thest time, and peered out into the shadows cast by the trees and fallen branches across the forest floor. With the globe hovering above his open palm, he swept his hand out, hoping to catch a glimpse of any rift-kin but met only disappointment when he saw nothing moving.


    Then he caught a glimpse of a jagged edge, peeking out from under a log only a few paces away from where he stood.


    Tyron immediately felt a slight tingle crawl over his scalp before he turned to check on his threepanions, rolled in their nkets behind him. To all appearances, they were sound asleep, though he moved closer to be sure before he returned and approached the log, stepping carefully to minimise any noise. As he drew nearer, he saw that he had in fact been correct in his earlier assessment, that broken edge that emerged from beneath the rotting wood was in fact, a bone. What''s more, a human bone, possibly a shin bone, though he was still no expert when it came to a human skeleton.


    He would need to be an expert, he reflected to himself. A more thorough understanding of bones and how they were put together would be important information. He wouldn''t always have ess to human remains that wereid out neatly in a grave, in fact he''d basically given up on gaining ess to exactly those burials when he''d decided to avoid cemeteries. No, he''d be piecing together his minions the hard way from this point forward.


    Would he be able to buy a medical text of some sort? It would be expensive, no doubt, but perhaps his pay from this excursion would be enough to cover it? Or would it be too suspicious for a young man, clearly not far past his awakening, to be purchasing a volume about the skeletal system?


    As he considered this question, he moved closer and dropped down to more closely inspect what he had found.


    It was definitely a human skeleton, though a damaged one. The bone he''d seen poking out from underneath the wood had actually been a forearm, snapped off somewhere near the wrist. Unfortunately, the hand was nowhere to be seen, but as he leaned in and peeked underneath he found an almostplete set of remains, albeit with significant damage. No weapon was nearby, though there were signs of rotted leather armour amongst the leaf litter. Probably crushed by the tree as it fell during battle, he surmised, which wasn''t a great way to go.


    <em>Not that there is a such a thing as a ''good'' way to go when fighting rift-kin. Dead is dead.</em>


    Heart quickening, he paused to take a deep breath and sweep his light in a broad circle once more. He was still on watch after all and couldn''t afford to be too distracted, yet with the chance to utilise his skills and progress his ss sitting in front of him for the first time in over a week, he simply couldn''t resist. In the back of his mind, the fact that he was locked into a race against time was a constant source of pressure and stress. Here was finally a chance to get some relief.


    In particr, there were two things that he really wanted to focus on, the two skills he''d been given when he had received his ss in the first ce: corpse appraisal and preparation. The two skills felt vague and undetermined in his mind, the fragments the Unseen had given him didn''t have all that much to say. As he cast his eye across the bones, he felt he knew more about them than he otherwise should.


    The condition of the bones wasn''t great, having been left in the open air and under the weather for goodness knows how long. Thepleteck of flesh clinging to the remains had something to say for how long they''d been here, or perhaps had more to do with the industriousness of vermin in the area, or perhaps the monsters, than anything else.


    Frowning, he tried to focus on his skills and what they were telling him and found that other than slightly more detailed surface information, he wasn''t getting much, which frustrated him endlessly. Surely this wasn''t enough to improve the skill and level it up? Was it really the case that if he stared at enough bones and thought about them he''d level it up? It just didn''t seem right. He felt something was missing.


    He fell into contemtion for a moment he ran his eyes over the bones he could see, the yellowed brown shade glowing softly under the light he held over them. Necromancy was the process of magickally animating the dead, be they zombie, skeleton or some other, more advanced variety. Did it really make sense that he would be expected to appraise and prepare corpses with this eyes and hands?


    Or was there a chance that magick was involved in these skills also?


    He hadn''t been provided with the outline of a spell when he learned the skill, but there were many examples of techniques and methods that employed magick yet weren''t ssified by the Unseen as ''spells''. Perhaps this was one such application?


    Tyron crouched down and settled on his heels as he stared at the bones before him, searching inside his own mind in an attempt to stir those fragments of knowledge to guide his actions. How to reach out? How to utilise his magick to assess these remains? There <em>had</em> to be a way, he felt sure of it.


    The utilisation of magick was a mix between an art and a science, this was one of the first things his mother had taught him. The energy that permeated the world came through the rifts and could be drawn inside a person, forming their own pool or reserve of magick and it was this that mages drew on to perform their feats. There were several ways to control magick. The words of power, discovered thousands of years ago, were amonly epted method. Tyron had no clue if thenguage had existed before the rifts opened, or if it had a name at that time, but over the centuries it hade to be known as Magespeak, or just as the Words of Power. For more powerful spells that required precise control,plex weaving and a firm mind, the words were by far the best method of casting, thenguage itself helping to shape and direct the arcane energy, reducing the burden ced on the mind.


    For smaller, simpler spellwork, gestures could be enough. His mother had told him of schools of magick that relied entirely on a lexicon ofplex symbols and shapes performed in series with the hands. Supposedly the ambidextrous feat was a requirement for such practitioners if they weren''t born with the gift or able to train themselves to do it. He himself utilised his hands in casting, though only in the simplified manner he had learned in his lessons.


    The final, and perhaps most important aspect of casting was the ability to direct and focus the energy using the mind. One''s own magick responded to thought, so long as they were backed by a strong enough will. With a powerful enough mind it was possible to perform evenplex spells, but those required the high stats that came with a significant number of levels.


    Unsure how to proceed, he simply directed the magick within himself and extended a tendril toward the bones. Under his focused control, the invisible thread of energy touched the edge of what he believed was a shin and then dissipated.


    He frowned. Magick wouldn''t just flow into a foreign object on its own, it had to be forced or infused, he knew that. He concentrated and tried again, using more magick this time he extended it toward the bone and held in there, pressed against the surface. It was a crude working, but he was feeling his way forward. As he held the arcane energy against the remains nothing happened, but he was patient, his focus razor sharp as he sensed for any change. A minute passed with no response, then five, but still he persisted. He was no expert, but he knew that infusing magick into an object was a slow process, one that shouldn''t be rushed.


    After ten minutes he finally saw a reward. An infinitesimal amount of his magick began to seep into the calcified bone, like water soaking into a rock. His eyes widened with excitement and he leaned forward, even if the process was invisible, only to frown again a few secondster as something pushed back against the energy he provided. There was <em>already</em> magick inside the bones, only a bare trace of it, but it was potent. What''s more, there was a strange feel to it, as if it were, dark, or hungry, tainted in some way.


    <em>Is this death magick?</em>


    A rush of air and a snap just behind his head broke his concentration and brought him back to the present.


    "Shit," he cursed as he sprang to his feet and red the light in his hand.


    A small monster, norger than knee high was revealed, a bizarre creature of legs with too many joints and ovepping chitin tes. He concentrated, using his mind and simple gestures to shape the basic magick bolt before his thrust the palm of his open hand forward. The spell darted through the air before it struck the rift-kin in the side, tearing a shallow gash through its shell and sending the creature tumbling to the side.


    Eager to follow up, Tyron stepped forward to keep the monster in his sight, another bolt prepared and ready to fling a few secondster, but his attacker was swift and righted itself in moments, darting into the foliage and out of view. He cursed softly as his eyes darted across the brush and the pounding of his heart filled his ears. Faint rustling sounds could be heard in the darkness as the rift-kin skittered through the fallen leaves and branches but he couldn''t see a thing, even when he held the light above his head and red it bright.


    He took slow, measured steps back toward the fire. If he couldn''t deal with the creature himself then he''d best wake the yers. Such a weak creature might be a challenge for him, but it was trivial in their eyes. He nned to move slowly, so he could shake one of them awake. If he were to shout, during the night, who knows what he might call down on their heads? Best to be safe.


    Not for the first time he wished he had his minions. Perhaps he''d be too ustomed to his ss in such a short time, but he didn''t feel safe fighting without a skeleton to protect him, not to mention he wouldn''t advance his level without one, no matter how much fighting he did. A faint noise to his left drew his attention and he turned, his light covered palm forward as his breath caught in his throat.


    There was nothing.


    This stupid critter was ying him like a fiddle! He grit his teeth and took another cautious step backward toward the low burning fire behind him. A few more and Monica would be within his reach. Then he had a thought. Perhaps there <em>was</em> a way for him to win. He hadn''t tried the new spell he''d earned from the Anathema ss, he hadn''t even studied it due to his vague distaste for the premise of it, but it might prove to be just what he needed in this situation. He might not be able to see the rift-kin, but that didn''t mean that he wouldn''t be able to strike at its mind.


    He reached internally for the fragments of knowledge he''d been granted and began to pull them together into a coherent framework. Compared to Pierce the Veil or even Raise Dead, this spell was child''s y, but even so it was risky to attempt a spell for the first time in abat situation. He could still reach behind him and awaken a yer, leave the situation in their hands, but somehow he didn''t want to. If he could deal with it himself, then he could return to his study of the bones for the rest of his watch.


    He stared out into the forest as he worked to arrange his thoughts on Supress Mind. After a few long seconds he felt he was ready to make an attempt. It wasn''t a long cast, but the spellwork was intricate, forming a conduit between himself and the target creature through which the spell would attack their consciousness directly.


    He held the light high and used his free hand to form the gestures he needed as he whispered the vocalponent and directed his magick with his thoughts. Oncepleted, he held the spell at the ready, hoping that it would work as he hoped.


    That sound again, from the right this time. He spun quickly to see the monster rushing at him from under the brush just before it leapt at him. He threw himself forwards, turned to his left and flung the readied spell at the monster. Immediately he felt it connect and something strange happened.


    The spell encountered the crude awareness of the monster and a war began as it tried to fight back and he fought to press the spell down and crush the monster''s thoughts. The physical form of the rift-kin thrashed and writhed as he drove the spell home before he finally felt its resistance break and the monster grew still.


    Tyron''s mouth twisted with distaste. The sensation of breaking the creature''s mind with his own wasn''t pleasant, but for now it was unable to move or resist in any way. He drew his sword slowly and stepped forward, ending the monster''s life with a quick thrust through the head.


    He breathed out heavily. Only a small, weak creature, and it had given him this much trouble. He needed minions, higher quality ones, urgently. He checked the fire to see the three slumbering forms hadn''t moved since the fight had started. Letting out a small sigh, he walked to his pack and quietly pulled out his butchering knives. He might as well see if this thing had a core.

 Chapter 28: The Return

    Chapter 28: The Return


    "Wake up youzy sacks of bones. Time to get moving."


    Rogil emphasised his words with a few targeted shoves with the side of his boot. Not enough to cause any harm, but enough to get his team moving. When he reached the rat''s sleeping roll, he was pleased to see the young man already awake andcing up his coat. That''s how the young ones should be, especially if they wanted to make the jump from an untrained nobody to a qualified yer. When the kid looked up at him he met his eye and gave him an approving nod before he stepped to his own things and started to pack them away with sharp, efficient movements.


    The boy¡­ Lukas, was his name wasn''t it? He''d held up surprisingly well over thest few days, maintaining a respectable level of performance despite the long days and short nights. By now most rats would be out on their feet, more asleep than awake and dying the team. Even a lot of newly graduated Iron rank yers would be struggling at this point, so the team leader had nothing bad to say about his fortitude.


    His knife work may have been sloppy, but it was better than most, those few levels and basic training in butchery saved a lot of time cutting out cores and they''d built up a reasonable, if small collection of high quality chitin that the armoury could make use of in the keep. What had been a short trip to keep his team on edge and blow off steam had turned into a nice little earner, their rat had paid for himself multiple times over. Even better, they hadn''t had to baby him through fighting monsters. Rogil was more than happy to part with extra coin if it meant that he didn''t have to waste time helping some kid il away at a dismembered rift-kin. Itcked dignity.


    Today was the final day of their nned patrol and he was determined to bring his friends andrades back home safely. Almost all the worst incidents tended to happen towards the end of an expedition. People got tired, then they got sloppy. Rogil refused to allow himself to get sloppy.


    "Arryl, finish your pack and get out there in one minute, I want eyes in the trees. I''ll carry your gear."


    The scout gave him a quick nod as her hands flitted about her roll, securing ties and checking pockets faster than his eyes could follow.


    "Monica, check your supplies and give me an inventory. If we''re short on anything I want to know."


    "Leader," the mage confirmed as she began to carefully check her medical bag, eyeballing each pouch, container and vial against the list she''d pulled from her waist pouch.


    "Rat, you''re with me, once you''ve got your gear sorted we''ll be standing guard until Monica is done."


    "Got it, leader," came the reply and before long the kid was up and standing over the more experienced mage, spell ready in one hand and eyes scanning the woods for threats.


    <em>Where did this kide from? </em>Rogil wondered. <em>He''s way too good for a first timer. I guess Monica got lucky when she pulled him out of the crowd.</em>


    It only took Monica a few minutes to finish running through her supplies and report there was no meaningful shortage of any supplies. With that done, the team left the campsite and set off on theirst patrol.


    "We¡¯ll be keeping to the east side of the brokennds today as well. The west is still looking a bit too dicey for my liking. We''ll move close enough to have a good look at the rifts before we backtrack and cover ground further out. Once middayes, we''ll start the trip back to Woodsedge. Anyone not clear on the n?"


    Everyone voiced their understanding and Rogil grunted before he marched off into the woods and the others fell into line behind him, Arryl still stalking through the trees. It took a little over an hour for the group to reach the edge of the brokennds and another ten minutes to get close enough to get a clear view of the rifts. As expected, the activity of the rift-kin had increased, despite the work of the teams in the field. Rogil spent some time taking notes as he peered out over the shatteredndscape and blurred horizon before he turned back and ordered the group to return the way they came. They ran into several packs of monsters in short session on their way out which tested their skills and had Lukas sweating as he was interrupted multiple times whilst trying to extract cores.


    Shortly after they ran into another team and briefly exchanged words before the two groups continued on their separate ways.


    An hour after, Arryl emerged from behind a tree next to Lukas and called out.


    "Leader. I''ve spotted something you probably want to see."


    "Trouble?"


    "Depends on your definition?"


    "No bullshit in the field, Arryl," he snapped.


    "Check for yourself."


    She pointed up and Rogil followed the direction of her finger to find a strange blue bird staring down at them. The colour of the plumage was far from thest unusual feature of the creature, it possessed three eyes, each of them red as a ruby, and the light shimmered around it giving it an ethereal quality that made it seem as if it wasn''t of this world.


    Which of course, it wasn''t.


    "Wow. Is that an astral?" the rat wondered aloud as he stared up at the obviously magickal entity watching them from above.


    "Eyes on the woods!" Rogil ordered before he leaned to the side and spat on the ground. "Stupid bastard couldn''t wait half a day for us to get back? Typical."


    He thought for a moment.


    "Get some rest. We''ll rest here for ten, I''ll keep watch. I doubt he''s far away if Farran is watching us."


    "Okay," Monica replied and Arryn nodded.


    Tyron looked confused as he nced from the bird to the group and back again.


    "It''s our fourth member," Monica took pity on him and let him know with a smile, "he''s a Summoner and Farran is the bird''s name. He was caught up investigating the ritual that happened in town a while back and couldn''te out with us, that''s why we''re only doing a patrol rather than tackling the rifts head on. Since he''s here I assume that his work in town is done."


    For whatever reason the team''s rat looked a little embarrassed at her words and she moved tofort him, cing a hand on his shoulder.


    "Don¡¯t worry about it. To be honest, Dove''s a bit of a pain anyway, it''s been nice to be out in the field without him."


    "You know I can hear you through the bird, right?"


    A man''s voice echoed out from the creature above.


    "Of course," Monica looked up to smile pleasantly at the summon.


    "Just checking."


    The mage turned her attention back to Tyron.


    "It''s been wonderful to get out and stretch our legs. Rogil thinks it''s bad luck for a team to spend too long away from the field."


    Tyron nodded.


    "Yes I''ve heard the same thing from - ¡­ experienced people. That yers who are out of action are toothless tigers."


    "I''ve never heard it described that way," Monica chuckled, "but I do agree. This isn''t the kind of work where you can afford to be even a little short. It only takes one mistake to get yourself killed, and then there''s one less person working to contain the rifts."


    "You take this work very seriously, don''t you, Ms Monica?"


    "Oh please, just call me Monica," she smiled, "and of course I do. We are trying to save the world!"


    "You can take your hand off his shoulder now," that strange disembodied voice rang out again from above.


    "Shut. Up. Dove," the mage ground out.


    "Hey, it''s not a crime, but I''ve heard some say it should be. Young people, only recentlye into their ss are susceptible, vulnerable even, to wily older people with designs on their innocence. The youth need our guidance and protection, Monica, not our lu-"


    The mage flung a hand out and Farran, the unfortunate summon was immediately engulfed in mes that somehow left the branches and leavespletely unscathed, even though Tyron could feel the heat from where he was standing.


    "Stupid fucker," Monica ground out before she gave his shoulder a final squeeze and stepped away. "Don''t worry about Farran, he''s back in the astral and Dove can summon him again in a day or so."


    "R-right," Tyron replied.


    Behind them Arryl had buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking from the effort of trying to contain herughter. The group sat and didn''t converse much until five minutester they heard a loud rustling, followed by an irate looking man in mage robes who stomped into view.


    "Monica, you FUCKING cow-ape! Why''d you burn my precious boy?! Farran is a treasure."


    "He might be a treasure, but it''s a shame he''s attached to someone as vulgar as you, Dove."


    "Vulgar?!" the man gaped. "From you?! You were practically <em>molesting</em> that poor boy!"


    "I''ll burn you, Dove. Don''t think I won''t."


    "You know she''s not joking, Dove," Rogil dered as he strode back into the clearing, "and if I ever have to rub ointment on your backside again because you couldn''t keep your mouth shut I''ll thrash you myself."


    The new mage, Dove, held his hands up to the sky for a brief moment, as if to say "<em>Why me?</em>" before the four yers stepped towards each other and shook hands, pped shoulders and weed back their errant member while Tyron stood awkwardly to one side.


    "I can''t believe they let you go," Rogil chuckled as he roughly shook Dove by the shoulder, "I thought you''d be in irons receiving heinous torture by the time we got back and we''d have to mount a daring rescue to bust you loose."


    "It nearly came to that I think. I was told that some of the marshals were less than pleased by mypany and intended to make life difficult for me. Can you imagine?!"


    "Oh, I think I can," Monica chuckled, her earlier ire evaporated. "Wee back Dove."


    "Good to be back. Arryl got injured while I was out?! What the hell have you been doing out here, woman? Don''t tell me you''ve also been distracted by the young meat."


    "I prefer mine a little more seasoned¡­"


    "Old and wrinkly more like," the mage cackled. "But I shouldn''t be rude."


    Dove brushed past hisrades and approached Tyron, his eyes sweeping up and down the youth in one swift motion.


    "A right hander I see, put her there," he extended a hand for the rat to shake.


    "Ah, how did you know?" Tyron frowned as the older, skinny mage pumped his hand with far too much vigour, then realisation hit. "My scabbard, obviously."


    "Unusual to keep your de where you''re forced to draw with your weaker hand," Dove chuckled.


    "I don''t remember you being so observant, Dove," Arryl drawled.


    "You pick up a few things hanging aroundw enforcement, my dear friend," he turned back to Tyron. "As you''ve no doubt heard, I''m Dove, a Summoner and the fourth to this point sadly missing member of the team. Wee aboard young¡­"


    "Lukas."


    "Lukas. I''m a little surprised to see they picked you up, we don''t usually pick up rats for the trip, they tend to not make it back from the ces we usually go."


    "This one might well just," Rogil walked up andplimented the young man. "He''s been surprisinglypetent. Handy with a spell and a few levels in butchery to boot."


    "Really? Not many are willing to spent a point on a skill they see as beneath a real yer," Dove nodded, impressed. "Not many sses synergise with it either. That''s a bold choice you made, kid."


    "Ah, thanks?" Tyron smiled, unsure how to respond to this rare praise from the team leader.


    Dove looked the young man in the eye for a short moment before he turned back to the others.


    "Well, now that I''m back, how about we go and kick some monster butt and let off some steam. Who fancies a trip into the rifts? We can kill something big, get a fatass core ande home rich and happy."


    Rogil smiled but shook his head slowly.


    "No can do, and you know it. We only took supplies for a few days and you sure as <em>hell</em> know I won''t poke my nose through a rift without a full scouting report and proper preparation. I''m sure you''re pissed off and frustrated, but that doesn''t mean we get careless and take risks. I want you pissed off and <em>alive</em> rather than satisfied and dead. Got it?"


    "You are a rigid stick <em>all the way</em> up my arse, leader. I get it. I don''t like it, but I get it."


    "Come on then," Rogil threw an arm over his friend''s shoulder, "let''s head on back, get pissed and then we can start arranging our next sortie. Something with a little more meat on the bones, I''ve had enough cleaning up the small fry, that''s Iron rank work."


    With a little more cajoling, Rogil managed to get his team focused and on their way back to town, though now Tyron definitely felt like a third wheel as the others slotted so seamlessly together that there was essentially nothing for him to do, or a gap for him to slide into the conversation as the others bickered with the easy fluidity of very old friends. This didn''t bother him too much, he was eager to return to Woodsedge and begin nning his own trip back out into these woods. A far more dangerous venture where he would attempt to recover whole skeletons from the sites he''d marked on his map, while dodging rift-kin.


    "You''d never believe the shit I heard in town," Dove was saying to the others as they walked, their eyes constantly scanning the forest around them, "apparently there''s a Necromancer on the loose in the western region."


    "Really?" Monica replied sceptically. "I think I heard about them in academy. Isn''t that ss exceedingly rare?"


    "Yep, but it can cause such a shit storm that people tend to remember it."


    The change in topic was so sudden that Tyron nearly tripped over himself, caughtpletely unawares by the now dangerous conversation.


    <em>They have no reason to suspect me,</em> he reassured himself,<em> just stay calm. I might even learn something.</em>


    "What makes it so dangerous?" Arryl asked, not really paying attention.


    "At the lower levels it''s shit," Dove replied, "basic undead, the kind you can find in any ce with too many dead and too much magick. If it gets levelled though, the number and type of dead that they can support starts to rocket up. ording to what I know anyway."


    "How do you know so much about it? And isn''t this basically what you do? Bring in minions to do your dirty work?" Monica asked.


    "First of all, most minion based sses learn about Necromancers at some point, it''s a notorious ss, and second, <em>no</em>! This isn''t remotely like what I can do. I can summon three entities, <em>tops</em>, and each of them is going to be better than a fucking zombie, but it''s possible to control literally <em>thousands</em> of zombies at a time. They can rip through viges and poption centres single handed and never show their face. When they get strong enough, they can raise the remains at close to the strength they had when they were alive. But that''s only at the tippy top level of Necromancer."


    "Sounds ridiculous. How many times has something like that actually happened?"


    "Once in thest two hundred years."


    "Once?!"


    "Once was enough, apparently. The ss was cklisted even before that happened, but they <em>fucking hate</em> Necromancers now."


    Tyron kept his head down and tried not to look too much like he was listening, but he was focused on every word the skinny Summoner said.


    "So what? Some illegal went rogue and now they''re going to hunt them down? Happens every year, doesn''t matter what the ss is."


    "Oh, ho. But this is where it gets juicy. Do you know<em> who</em> that kid is? <em>Tyron fucking</em> Sterm."


    "Who? No, wait. You aren''t serious¡­"


    "Oh I am<em> very</em> serious."


    "That''s fucked up. The Sterm''s kid? Illegal?" Arryl seemed particrly angry upon hearing the news and Tyron carefully watched his step as his heart pounded in his chest.


    In a way, he wished Dove would stop talking, but also desperately wanted to hear, to learn whatever he could about his ss, about his family. He fought to keep his breathing steady and his expression nd as he continued to walk in silence.


    "You think that''s bad? Wait till I give you the kicker. The magisters took this threat quite seriously. So seriously, they put their highest rank yers on the task of hunting him down."


    "That''s bullshit!" Arryl exploded. "Are you fucking serious? They want them to hunt down their <em>own kid</em>?"


    "They''ll do more than that. They''ll <em>force</em> them to it with the brand."


    "That''s horrific," Monica gasped.


    "At this point I marched out of Woodsedge, gave the marshals the finger and caught up with you guys. I knew the magisters were sick fuckers, don''t get me wrong, but this takes the fucking CAKE. The whole cake as well, sprinkles and frosting included. I was literally boiling with rage. I had to stick my balls in a barrel of cold water just to cool down."


    "Dove, this is serious shit, can we <em>please</em> not bring your balls into it? <em>Why</em> do your balls always have to be mentioned?!" Monicained.


    "Just because they have too much hair on them for your tastes, doesn''t mean they don''t have value to others!"


    "Shut up!"


    "I think a lot of people aren''t going to be happy about this," Rogil observed quietly.


    "What do you mean?" Arryl asked him.


    The team leader sighed heavily before he replied.


    "Think about it. The Sterms are heroes. The yers in this province worship the ground they walk on and hate the magisters with a passion. There''s going to be a lot of pissed off, powerful people when word of this gets around."


    "Oh, I''m telling everyone I fucking see," Dove assured him.


    "Tensions are already high. The rifts are ying up more and more. Taking the two best killers off the table and have them trying to hunt their own child at this time is idiotic at best and self-sabotage at worst. I don''t see this ending well."


    Silence descended over the group as they continued to walk and Tyron was happy for it as his mind whirled with what he had just learned. There were so many implications to this information he couldn''t hope to process it in one go. He needed to sit. He needed to <em>think</em>.


    After ten minutes of quiet, Dove finally spoke up again.


    "Well, the marshals are getting serious about looking for him since he hasn''t shown up yet. When I left they''d started demanding a status reading of everyone going in and out of Woodsedge."


    The others in the team cursed, irritated by the dy caused by this bureaucratic nonsense but Tyron stopped walking and for a beat, standing stock still.


    Status readings? He couldn''t go back into town at all?!


    He stood frozen for a long moment before he realised what he was doing was immensely suspicious and started walking again, flicking his eyes up to see if anyone had noticed hispse. To his horror, he found the Summoner staring back at him with wide open eyes.


    Dove nodded slowly to himself before he turned forwards again alongside hisrades. The group continued in silence until the walls of the keep came into sight, peeking through the foliage as Tyron thought desperately for an excuse to separate himself from the group. If he just ran, he''d look suspicious as hell, he needed a reason, but the harder he thought, the less usible anything sounded to him, and the more panicked he became.


    At that moment Dove stopped and spoke to the others.


    "You guys go ahead. I want to have a quick word with the kid before we get to town."

 Chapter 29: Little Talks

    Chapter 29: Little Talks


    Tyron froze under the cool stare of the mage and the others turned to him with differing levels of confusion on their faces. Monica went to say something but Rogil cut in first.


    "Keep it short. We''ll wait for you inside the gate."


    "No need for that," Dove smiled, "I''ll catch up with you guys at the keep tonight. I''ve got a little <em>business</em> with a fewdies in town, if you know what I mean. Do you know what I mean?"


    Aryll rolled her eyes.


    "Yes, Dove, we know what you mean."


    The Summoner looked around the group with a smirk on his face.


    "I mean sex," he rified.


    "Shut up, Dove," Monica threw her hands up and turned to walk toward the gate. "Just don''t do anything weird to Lukas, he''s been very helpful."


    "Nobody''s worried about <em>me</em> doing anything weird to the kid, Monica."


    "You''re insufferable," she dered without turning around as she continued to stalk towards the gate.


    Dove chuckled and caught Tyron''s eye before giving him a wink.


    "By ''something weird'', I mean sex," he said and nodded solemnly.


    Rogil fished around in his pack for a moment before he approached his young hireling and held out his hand, a small stack of silver in his palm.


    "Pay for the trip, with a nice bonus thrown in. We don''t usually hire rats, but if you''re avable, we might consider you for another trip. You weren''tplete garbage."


    "High praise," Aryll drawled, then reflected for a second. "Actually, from Rogil, that <em>is</em> high praise."


    "Yes, yes, yes. All very nice, now will you lot <em>piss off</em>? I have some important words to share with this young man."


    Rogil reached out and shook Tyron''s hand.


    "Don''t let him talk you into doing anything illegal," he said seriously before he pped him on the shoulder, causing Tyron to stagger and then walked away.


    "See you around kid," Aryll waved before she too turned and headed for the gate.


    In no time at all, the two of them stood alone, the Summoner and the Necromancer. Dove looked calm, a slight smile on his face as he kept his gazezily focused on the youth, whereas Tyron was a nervous, sweating wreck. He battled to keep his hands from shaking and the nausea from overwhelming him but a deep rooted sense of despair had taken hold of him. This was it, he''d already failed, his parents had suffered for nothing. He''d escaped for nothing. He wouldn''t get even a chance to explore his own potential, to help people, to make his name heard. His world was crashing down around him and all he could do was stand and stare.


    Dove held up his hands.


    "Just rx, kid. Nothing''s been decided yet, okay?"


    He was so overwhelmed, it took Tyron several long seconds to process what he''d heard.


    "W-what?"


    Dove continued to stand in ce, his hands held loosely up by his shoulders.


    "I''m saying that it isn''t all over for you, so there''s no need to get emotional on me, I don''t do well with that. I''m not going to kill you and I''m not going to hand you over to the marshals right now, okay?"


    "Why would you hand me over to the marshals?" Tyron feltpelled to try, but his heart wasn''t in it.


    Dove looked at him with pity.


    "That''s a sad attempt, kid. I mean, I''ve seen some sad shit, Monica''s love life, for example, but holy hell, that takes the cake."


    "Fine," Tyron growled, "I''m the Necromancer. I''m Beory and Magnin''s son, Tyron, is that what you wanted to hear?"


    The Summoner rolled his eyes and hung his head.


    "Now that''s just dumb. What if I was bluffing, huh? You just spilled every bean in the tin!"


    Tyron stared at him.


    "You weren''t bluffing," he said.


    "No. No, I wasn''t. But I fucking could have been!"


    Silence fell between the two figures. They stood almost ten metres apart and for a brief moment, Tyron considered running. The mage was older, though not visibly stronger. Dove appeared to be a thinnish man in his thirties, without much in the way of muscle definition showing through his loose mage robes. How fast could he be? Except it didn''t matter how fast he was, it only mattered how quick his summons were. Without any minions, there was no hope for him to fight back against the contracted creatures that could be put on his trail in moments.


    Eventually Dove sighed and rubbed a hand through his thin blonde hair.


    "Look, I don''t usually deal with this kind of thing, I''m a fairly straight forward person. See rift-kin? Kill rift-kin. Get paid. Repeat from the top. I get to livefortably, raise my level, polish my skills and get all of my homicidal urges out in a nice, legal manner."


    He crouched down.


    "Now, the reason I spoke about your situation with the others was twofold. I wanted to see how you would react, and I wanted to let you see how <em>they</em> responded."


    "¡­ what do you mean?" Tyron asked cautiously.


    "Did you see how pissed off they were? How unsatisfied? The truth is, the people might worship yers like fucking gods, but we are ves to the magisters, each and every one of us, and we <em>hate</em> it. You know about the brand?"


    "¡­ a little."


    "Then you know it''s a <em>bitch</em>. I''m only silver rank, and it''s already a piece of shit. Point is, most yers aren''t happy with the management, and that''s putting it lightly. As for me? I <em>fucking</em> hate them with every bone in my body. That''s the main reason I''m not going to turn you in."


    Tyron''s mind spun. From the depths of despair, hope was once again kindled in his chest, but he just couldn''t trust that it was real. Was this wiry mage telling the truth? Was he really just going to walk away after being caught? It seemed like madness, the direct opposite of everything he''d expected to happen.


    Dove watched the young man try to think through the situation and gave him some time to process. He could remember himself at that age, just a few weeks after receiving his ss, basically a newborn. He''d been one of the lucky ones, with a powerful starting ss and the resources to put himself straight into a reputable yer academy. Trying to imagine himself in the kid''s shoes was painful due to just how easy it was. A Summoner and a Necromancer weren''t that different, fundamentally, except that one had been ouwed by the agents of the five divines and the other hadn''t.


    The practice of Necromancy wasn''t inherently evil. Shit, being able to put the dead to good use might be just the thing they needed to help fight the rifts. If the magisters got out of the way, maybe the yers would be winning the war, rather than slowly and painfully losing it.


    "What''s the catch?" Tyron eventually asked, his eyes steady. Dove hid his smile. This kid reminded him too much of himself. Good head on his shoulders, liked to think his way through problems and was up front when he didn''t have the answers.


    He spread his hands.


    "No catch. I don''t want anything from you, I''m not going to ask you to do anything for me, other than keep my name out of it if you happen to get caught. In fact, the opposite is fucking true, <em>I''m </em>going to help <em>you</em>. I warned you about the status check on the gate, didn''t I? Isn''t that a <em>tad</em> helpful?"


    "That could be a lie."


    Dove snorted.


    "That''s the easiest thing in the world for you to confirm, just watch me go through the gate and you''ll have all the confirmation you need. You''re locked out of town for the time being, kid, which means you''re going to need some assistance if you want to survive."


    Without borating, the mage stepped back and brought his hands together in front of his chest before he inhaled slowly, then snapped his eyes wide open as they shed with magick. Sonorous words of power rolled from Dove''s mouth as his hands flowed from one movement to another with the ease of a true practitioner. Tryon could recognise a few phrases here and there, but the bulk of the spell construction wasn''t familiar to him, exposing how little he knew of dimensional magic, which was the heart of Summoning.


    In a rtively short time, just over a minute, Dovepleted his spell and thrust his hands down to the ground in front of him. A portal took shape in seconds, a swirling vortex of blue energy that connected this world to another realm, and from it rose a huge wed paw that smashed into the dirt before it flexed, enormous muscles bunching as the creature pulled itself through.


    Tyron''s heart was hammering in his chest as a massive wolf head appeared, followed by the rest of its body. Easily the size of a horse, this creature would be able to rip him to shreds in seconds, no matter what he tried.


    "A star wolf," he murmured.


    "You recognise it?" Dove sounded pleased as he raised a hand and ran it through the beasts fur. "Was an absolute fucking nightmare trying to contract this bastard, but I managed it in the end. Currently my best and strongest summon forbat. He''s going to follow you around for the next two days."


    The young man stared at the intimidating creature for a long moment.


    "You want it to protect me?"


    "Bingo. Two days should be enough for you to get some minions ready to go, enough to protect yourself at least. I''ll meet you back here then, make sure you hide the fucking zombies, obviously, and I''ll hit you up with some supplies to keep you going. I''m doing a lot for you here, kid, so don''t go psycho and burn down the kingdom or whatever, alright? Do some good, help some people, level up, piss off the magisters, it''s all good. Try not to die and do your folks proud."


    Dove threw out a quick thumbs up.


    "Now fuck off, I wasn''t joking about that brothel."


    He moved to turn around and then froze and turned back.


    "One other thing. I don''t want to know how, or why, or any of that shit. I just want to know, was it you who cast the ritual in town? The Abyssal summoning?"


    There was a short pause before Tyron nodded. Dove stared at him for a moment.


    "Fucking hell," he swore and turned around, shaking his head as he went. "That''s just¡­ fucking¡­ great."


    Tyron watched him go, scarce believing he was safe, then turned to look at the wolf, who stared back at him with barely concealed impatience and a hint of hunger. If it was going to eat him, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, so he disregarded the creature and tailed the Summoner from a distance, confirming for himself the ritual he was required to perform just inside the gate.


    It was a massive blow. Perhaps the measure would be lifted in a week? It would be difficult for him to survive outside the walls much longer than that, even with the support of someone inside. This wasn''t just any wild country, he was on the edges of the brokennds, there were monsters everywhere. The star wolf had padded along behind him and now sat on its haunches, it''s tongue hanging as it breathed, that same contempt in its eyes. He would have to depend on it for the next two days, as long as Dove kept his word, then the creature would protect him until he had the ability to protect himself.


    He was tired, sore, hungry and in desperate need of a bath, but he wouldn''t be getting rest any time soon. He stood with a sigh, there wasn''t any pointining about it, his parents had suffered through far worse on their rise. Determined, he turned and began to stride back toward the rift. He had a variety of locations marked where he could find remains. He''d originally nned oning back out to retrieve them anyway, this just pushed his timetable forward.


    "Come on then, Tyron," he muttered to himself, "time to do some magick."


    Though he wasn''t aware of it, the light in his eyes burned bright as he strode back toward danger.


    Any reservations Tyron had about the star wolf Dove had lent him faded after the first hour. In that time he was found by roving packs of rift-kin not once, but twice, and each time the vicious summon had ripped them apart in short order. He wasn''t keen to get close enough to check, but judging by eye alone he''de to the conclusion that the wolf''s fangs were longer than this leg was thick, even at the thigh. He''d managed to recover a few cores at least, putting his butchery skills to good use. If he were ever allowed back into Woodsedge, they''d sell for a good price. Perhaps he could get Dove to sell them for him? He dismissed the thought. The Summoner had been true to his word so far, but that doesn¡¯t mean Tyron was about to hand over his money.


    The frequency of the attacks had shocked him at first. When he reflected on it, he felt that he''d been underestimating just how much work Aryll and Rogil had done for the team while they were out, avoiding groups they didn''t want to fight and keeping the group safe. He had no such protection and would have to blunder through as best he could.


    <em>I''ll leave the heavy lifting to my undead army,</em> he wryly thought to himself.


    Dreams of a legion of undead servants felt a long way off when he didn''t have so much as a single minion to his name, nor even a finger bone to work on. Soon, he would fix that. After another hour, he came to the first location he had marked on his map with only one more stop along the way. This was the furthest site from the rifts he''d found and hopefully it would provide enough for him to raise a minion, or at least get close.


    It took longer than he''d wanted to get the exact location, his map wasn''t nearly as precise as he would have liked, but eventually he found it. The dried brush crunched under his shoes as he approached the tree, looking down on the two skeletons huddled together at the base, vines and moss creeping through the gaps between bones. He didn''t know the story behind these two, couldn''t guess why or how they''de to be here, together at the time of their death, but it didn''t matter to him and he pushed such concerns from his mind. He had a limited amount of time to work with and he couldn''t afford to waste it.


    "Study, document, gather and move on," he told himself as he squatted down beside the bones. "Keep an eye out, please?" he asked the wolf, who studiously ignored him as it prowled impatiently amongst the trees.


    <em>No harm in trying to be polite</em>, he shrugged. <em>Alright then</em>, <em>better try this</em>.


    As he had the night he''d been on watch, he extended a tendril of magick toward the remains and began to attempt to saturate them, letting his own energy seep in. It was slow and taxing, but eventually he felt the same response as before, the dark tinged force that pushed back at him. In fact, it felt stronger here, and he leaned closer to see if he could find out why.


    Not that getting closer did anything to help, since he was sensing through his magick, but he did it anyway. He frowned. The more he concentrated, the more he felt the energy within the bones was ¡­ active. As if it were moving, or resonating, but on such a small scale as to be almost impossible to detect. He withdrew his probe and instead pushed it toward the other set of remains. After five minutes of careful application of energy, he found the same phenomenon, but the movement seemed to be in a different direction.


    He puzzled over it in his head before realisation came and he palmed his face in exasperation. The two sets of remains were sharing energy with <em>each other</em>, of course the movement would feel different, it was going in opposite directions. The amount was so minute that he never would have felt it if not for his Unseen granted affinity for death magick, which this energy had to be.


    This most likely exined how natural undead urred. In a ce with enough death, enough remains and sufficient magick, the energy would be shared amongst the corpses, magnifying over time until it became sufficiently saturated that the bodies rose of their own ord, fuelled by the death energy they contained. Such creatures were almost always bound to the location in which they were created, since they had no other source of magick to draw on, unlike his own minions, who he sustained with his own reserves.


    But that also posed certain questions. Since it was possible for undead to share magick between each other, would it be possible for him to create the same feedback loop in his own minions? Or perhaps devise a way for them to draw on energy in the environment when it was avable? Come to think of it, if he were to simply provide a set of bones sufficient death magick, would he be able to then perform a much simpler version of Raise Dead, since he would only need to create the conduit and mind construct, rather than fuel the process from the get go?


    Too many questions for which he didn''t have answers and didn''t have time to learn. He shook his head in frustration. Having to use shortcuts and half-baked methods rubbed him the wrong way, but he had no choice at the moment. He bit back his negative feelings and started to go over both skeletons. He needed to know which bones were here and which were missing before he could pack them away. By the time he set up camp for the night he wanted at least one full set he could raise for the second day.

 Chapter 30: Raise Dead

    Chapter 30: Raise Dead


    The cave barely deserved the name, only ten metres deep from the narrow entrance, but it provided the space he needed for his work sheltered from the environment. Luckily he''d caught a glimpse of the entrance behind a split boulder as he was walking past. The star wolf pointedly refused to enter first no matter how it was cajoled so he crept in, a magick bolt held at the ready just in case, but the inside was surprisingly roomy and blessedly free from rift-kin. A few light spellster and he had a dark, damp hole in the ground he could use for his work.


    <em>I suppose it''s fitting, in a way.</em>


    Necromancers were probably forced to operate in these sorts of conditions whenever they popped up. Even so, this was a still a downgrade from his first workspace.


    <em>Which was a tomb.</em>


    How is it even possible to downgrade from a tomb? Yet he''d managed it somehow. With a weary sigh he slung his pack off his shoulders and slumped onto the uneven floor. With a groan he tried to rub some life back into his legs without sess before he drank what little remained of his water and chewed on some preserved meat. It''d taken the better part of the remaining sunlight to gather the materials that he needed and store them here. The tension from travelling under constant threat of attack, his fear of discovery by a yer team, his existing fatigue from being on patrol, had all built up to the point his chest felt constricted from the stress. Even worse was the physical fatigue. Once again he thanked the Unseen for the constitution he gained from both the Necromancer and Anathema sses. Without it he''d have copsed days ago.


    <em>No rest for the wicked, as father would say. Better get back to it.</em>


    Muscles creaked as he crawled over to his pack and removed thest few bones he needed. With great care, he carried them to the only t section within this hollow, where two skeletons had beenid out side by side. The two sets of remains had been the closest toplete he could find while staying as far as possible from the rifts. It was frustrating that he still didn''t have an urate picture of the exact bones and their cement in the human body, which was a ringpse that he had to correct as soon as possible. No matter how good he became at Bone Stitching or casting Raise Dead, his minions would still perform poorly if they were missing parts that they needed to move properly.


    It grated on him immensely that he was still so poor at his craft. He had sacrificed everything for it, he had to be as close to perfect as it was humanly possible to be, otherwise he would fail. The standards that his parents had reached were impossibly high, but if he didn''t aim to climb that high, then he might as well surrender himself now and not go through all this pain.


    In the dim light of the cave, Tyron grit his teeth and ced the bones as best he could before straightening and examining his work. As far as he could tell, the skeletons wereplete, but he couldn''t be sure. No matter what he wanted, things weren''t going to get better than this, so he leaned forward once more, his fingers flexing as ghostly strings of magick began to dangle from his fingertips.


    It was painstaking work and Tyron was forced to take regr breaks to massage his fingers and refocus his mind. It took him six hours toplete it and by the end he was filled with mixed emotions. The quality of the threads may have improved sincest time, but his condition was so poor that he felt the work wasn''t up to standard. He had the skills and the levels now to produce a much finer result, but he was so pressed for time. He bit his lip hard before he was finally able to push his emotions down. This wasn''t the time, he needed a cool head if he was going to seed. He had a golden opportunity in front of him and if he squandered it there likely wouldn''t be another.


    It was close to the middle of the night by this time so he wrapped his cloak around himself and grabbed his pack for use as a pillow. The stone floor was ufortable to say the least and despite his shattering fatigue, he couldn''t sleep knowing the rift-kin roamed outside of the cave, even if he had the star wolf watching over him.


    As usual, he was forced to cast magick on himself to rest, even if only for a few hours.


    It was still before dawn when he woke and despite the protests of his muscles or the pounding in his head, he pushed himself to standing with an eager smile on his face.


    "Time for magick. Time for minions," he chuckled to himself before he stumbled and caught himself on the uneven floor.


    He had a new series of aches and pains where stones had jabbed into his sides and hip as he slept but he did his best to ignore them as he rummaged in his pack for his notebook. He conjured a few fresh globes of light and began to flick through the diagrams, invocation patterns and various theories he''d scratched across the pages. His eyes took it all in before he snapped the volume shut and carefully returned it to his pack. It was time.


    He strode forward with confidence and stood at the head of the first skeleton. He paused, took a breath and then raised his hands before he began to speak.


    He wished he had more time. He wished he could have conducted more research on how to infuse the bones with magick, or investigated the strange resonance they exhibited, but he couldn''t. He only had another day before Dove''s summon would vanish and he would be left on his own. In order to protect himself from that point on, he had to have minions!


    The words rolled sonorously from his mouth as hishands moved in broad gestures. He hadn''t been wasting his time as he waited on the side of Victory Road, he''d spent every quiet moment thinking of only one thing, Raise Dead. His signature magick, his golden ticket. He had to make every improvement he possibly could.


    For an hour he cast without pause, straining every bit of arcane energy within himself and pouring all of it into the bones on the cave floor in front of him until finally the spell wasplete. A dark purple light grew within the hollow eyes of the skull and once again he felt that tenuous connection form between himself and another entity, servant to his will.


    "Finally," he wearily sighed, a slight smile edging the corners of his mouth.


    He paused to catch his breath and stretch before he pulled out a piece of mage candy and popped it in his mouth. He was running low of the precious stuff and couldn''t afford to rece what little he had, but he needed to squeeze as much work into the next day as he possibly could. He sat and rested for ten minutes before he began the second cast, utilising all of his focus and magick to perform Raise Dead once more, the glittering form of the star wolf watching with unblinking eyes from the side.


    When the cast wasplete, Tyron copsed to his knees, drained of all his reserves. He drew ragged breaths into his dry and burning throat, allowing the now empty chunk of arcane crystal to fall from his mouth to the cave floor. He extended a shaking hand and gathered it up. No need to leave any evidence of his presence if he didn''t have to.


    When he could, he pushed himself back to his feet, gathered his pack and slung it back over his shoulder, staggering under the weight of it.


    <em>I''m a mess.</em>


    His eyes were raw fromck of sleep, his hands trembled and he rasped with every breath. He really was scraping against his limits, but it would be worth it, after all.


    "Rise," he said.


    There was no need to say it out loud, the minions would respond to mentalmands through the link that they shared, but he feltpelled to speak. The light in the eyes of the undead ignited as they drew on his magick, the bones pulling themselves together and moving with eerie silence. With slow, deliberate movements, Tyron drew his sword and passed it to the closest skeleton, the skeletal fingers closed around the hilt and he felt the drain on his reserves increase as it exerted strength to hold the de aloft.


    "Time to head out minions. I need to level up."


    <em>Don''t talk to the minions, idiot. I''m way too tired.</em>


    It was dangerous, but he needed to make the most of his time until the star wolf left him. By the end of the day, he hoped to have retrieved more remains and have fought enough rift-kin to level his Necromancer ss to five. Perhaps his first ss feat would give him a clearer path forward.


    The skeletons staggered out of the cave first and Tyron followed behind, the wolf emergingst of all. The strange group gathered themselves together and made their way out into the woods.


    Back in Woodsedge, Dove allowed the glow to fade from his eyes as he ceased to share the senses of his wolf. He let out his breath explosively as he slumped back in the bath. The kid was mad. Completely fucking mad. Or perhaps he possessed a set of balls sorge he didn''t need a chair, he just folded those bad boys back and plonked his backside on them. Actually, that raised a question: at what point did recklesslyrge nads just be insanity? Casting suchplex ritual magick in that condition¡­ Dove could only shake his head. Even in his wild and carefree youth, when he''d felt invincible and nothing would ever harm him he wouldn''t have tried it, not for a million gold imperials.


    Then again, his circumstances had never been as desperate as the kid¡¯s.


    For the hundredth time he wondered if he''d done the right thing not reporting Tyron. Turning over the child of two heroes just because he wanted to keep the ss he was given seemed monstrous, but if Dove was honest with himself, it wasn''t anything strange. In fact, it happened all the time, every year a swath of poor helpless saps would try to hold onto their forbidden ss and some would escape, but most wouldn''t. There were only two points that separated Tyron''s case from the masses, the ss he received, and who his parents were. Realistically, what would happen if he turned him over?


    Having a ss burned out was supposed to be excruciatingly painful, not to mention leaving the individual crippled, unable to take a new main ss except in rare cases. There wouldn''t be anything like that for the kid, though. The first thing Dove had done on returning to town was check the warrant posted for his capture. No second chances for the son of the Sterms, he was for the chop as soon as he was brought in. And what would those two do once their precious bouncing baby boy was executed by the people they''d protected all their lives?


    It wasn''t hard to guess.


    Everyone had heard about what they''d done in Foxbridge. Finding someone <em>not</em> gossiping about it was fucking impossible at the moment. When they found out who had turned the kid in, they''d burn the ce to a fucking cinder, he had no doubt. As the only two top ranked yers in the entire province, there wasn''t a single soul who could stop them outside of the capital. By the time the brand brought them down they would have ughtered an entire city. If someone wanted to turn the kid in, they better spend that reward money as fast as possible, they wouldn''t have long to enjoy it.


    Which was probably the whole point of their disy in Foxbridge. They wanted everyone to know what would happen if they went against their son. The thought of going against the brand to that extent made Dove shrivel to nothing. The pain it gave him was soul crushing when he brushed against the vows, if he outright vited them? He <em>literally</em> couldn''t imagine how bad it would be.


    "Monsters," he muttered to himself.


    Swearing softly, then loudly to himself, he pulled himself out of the bath and started to dry himself. No matter how he twisted this, something just didn''t add up right. How the hell had Tyron ended up getting such a rare and dangerous ss? There were rumours that the process of Awakening could be influenced through the crystals, but Dove had always considered that to be conspiracy theory bullshit, but now he had reason to pause. If it were true¡­ the implications would be absolutely boggling.


    It would almost make sense though, another lever of control the magisters could level against the poption.


    But if it were true, why would Tyron be targeted? Because of his parents? That didn''t make sense either, they''d done more in the war against the rifts than anyone. Dove paused for a second. Yes, literally fucking anyone, when he thought about it. Most yers who reached their level of power retired to pces and only came out in emergencies, living lives of luxury, unlike the Sterms who just kept ripping through rifts with barely a day off. The number of yers who owed their lives to ast second rescue from those two was in the thousands.


    The skinny Summoner shook himself like a dog.


    "I don''t fucking know!" he roared to nobody in particr before he started to get dressed with angry, jerking movements.


    Rather than some ridiculous conspiracy, it was more likely the kid was just a natural Necromancer and the Unseen had given him the ss best suited to him. The reborn god of fucking magick? After seeing the kid in action for himself, he had to admit he hadn''t been far off the mark. Considering his piss poor level andck of stats, Dove couldn¡¯t deny that Tyron was a natural mage. His pronunciation was perfect, his control of diction, volume and tempo, wless. That stuff was such a <em>bitch</em> to get right. He could remember the endless days and nights he''d spent reading the words of power out loud, getting clobbered over the head every time he tripped over a syble. And the kid was self-taught? Absolute bullshit.


    Being born with that kind of talent was unfair.


    Not to mention the focus and concentration required to cast in that condition. Absolute <em>fucking</em> bullshit.


    "Monster,"'' he muttered to himself, then heughed out loud.


    He was just a little baby monster right now, but if he managed to raise his ss over the level twenty threshold and advance it, then something truly incredible might be born. If that happened¡­ who knows what the response would be from the higher ups? It''d be like dropping a fire stone into a pot of stew.


    Dove <em>loved</em> stirring the pot.


    Fully dressed, he rushed out of the bathroom and past a surprised looking maid before he barrelled into themon room and out into the street. He''d told the kid he''d give him a supply drop and so that was exactly what he was going to do. Food, water, mage candy, fresh paper, camping gear, outdoor gear, all at the finest quality avable in town. He even yoinked a few supplies from the yer Keep, just for the irony. By the time he was done he''d amassed a small mountain of gear and spent half his savings, which frankly he didn''t give a shit about.


    Saving was for the future and people with a future were fucking cowards.


    He was immensely pleased with himself as he looked down on the neatly tied packages he''d stacked in a pile in themon room of his team''s suite.


    "Dove," Rogil asked from the doorway of his room, a resigned look on his face. "What in the hell are you up to now?"


    Dove grinned.


    "Being a pain in someone''s ass," he dered proudly.


    Rogil grunted.


    "Same as every other day then."


    "You fucking know it."


    Out near the rifts, Tyron dragged himself through the narrow cave entrance before he copsed on the other side, panting. It was a miracle he hadn''t been seen and frankly, it had been the height of idiocy to go roaming around with a pair of skeletons on his heels. However, he''d seeded, somehow. He shrugged off his pack and fell backwards as his two minions silently stalked in behind him, followed by the star wolf. The two skeletons were both somewhat banged up, bones cracked, somepletely split, and there was nothing he could do for them. He''d managed to secure enough remains to produce another two skeletons, hopefully, as well as scavenge some rusted weapons that they could hopefully use to some effect.


    He had almost six hours until he would need to leave and make his way back to meet up with Dove. Hopefully the Summoner would be true to his word, Tyron hadn''t managed to find anything to drink since he''d left the cave and his throat ached something fierce. He would need to drink and eat soon, but first, he had to sleep. When he woke, he could perform the status ritual and if the gods were kind, raising his current minions and the fighting they''d done would be enough to push him to level five.


    Not that he could depend on the gods right now¡­


    "Sleep," Tyron muttered and immediately his eyes fluttered shut as the spell took hold and dragged his consciousness away.

 Chapter 31: Quite a Feat

    Chapter 31: Quite a Feat


    When Tyron woke he judged a little over four hours had passed by the shadows on the walls. He felt weary and filthy, yet still ted. He''d finally taken steps to advance his ss after such a long time. Raising minions and getting them to fight were the only ways he could progress and doing either of those things had been incredibly difficult as an illegal. Where was he to find the remains he needed if he couldn''t ess graveyards or travel safely? Where would he find monsters he could have his minions fight?


    The easy way would be to find an isted vige, raise a bunch of zombies and sic them on the local farm houses one by one, collecting fresh corpses along the way. Roaming around the far flung areas of the province like a demon, annihting every settlement he came across might be the fastest way to level up for a Necromancer, but Tyron couldn¡¯t choose this method for obvious reasons. He wasn''t capable of such horrific acts for a start, and second, he hoped to one day prove he was not only productive as a defender of humanity, but a powerful one who could be forgiven his ss for the service he provided.


    It would be more than a little difficult to receive such a pardon if he had thousands of deaths hanging over his head.


    He''d chosen the hard road, but it had paid off in the end and he stretched out his aching body with a wry grin on his face. He couldn''t wait to get begin the status ritual but he forced himself to be patient. He finished stretching, ate some food and checked on the area outside the cave before he sat and calmed his mind.


    Only then did he feel ready to engage the ritual and make the life altering decisions it would most likely include.


    He carefully tore a fresh page from his book, cast an additional light spell to chase away thest of the shadows, then pricked the end of his thumb on the tip of his sword before he pressed the digit into the paper. As he muttered the words everyone had learned as a child he felt the sickly feeling of blood flowing from the shallow wound to form the words that would make up his new status.


    When he felt the leaking cease, he carefully lifted his thumb from the page before he wrapped it in hisst clean cloth.


    <em>Holy shit I''m nervous</em>.


    His hands were literally shaking as he took a slow breath, then leaned forward, eyes wide, as if trying to suck every word on the page into his retina at once.


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>Your attempts at Stealth have increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>Dismembering remains has increased your proficiency. <strong>Butchery has reached level 3.</strong></em>


    <em>Use of the Magick Bolt spell against a living creature has increased your proficiency. <strong>Magick Bolt has reached level 4.</strong></em>


    <em>The study of the dead has increased your proficiency. <strong>Corpse Appraisal has reached level 2.</strong></em>


    <em>Your creation of new undead has increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>Dominating the minds of those weaker has increased your proficiency. <strong>Suppress Mind has reached level 2.</strong></em>


    <em>Use of the Bone Stitching technique has increased your proficiency. <strong>Bone Stitching has reached level 3.</strong></em>


    <em>You have raised minions and they have fought on your behalf. <strong>Necromancer has reached level 5. You have received +2 Intelligence, +1 Wisdom, +1 Constitution and +1 Maniption. At this level you may choose a ss Feat.</strong></em>


    <em>Your dark patrons continue to watch with great interest. They urge you to continue to act, lest they grow bored and revoke their favour. The Abyss desires to hear your call.</em>


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 10)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Necromancer (Level 5).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ol><li>Anathema (Level 4).</li><li>None</li><li>None</li></ol>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    25


    Intelligence:


    33


    Wisdom:


    19


    Willpower:


    28


    Charisma:


    13


    Maniption:


    14


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 4)


    Concentration (Level 4)


    Cooking (Level 1)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 3)


    Skill Selections Avable: 1


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 2)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 1)


    Death Magick (Level 1)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 4)


    Magick Bolt (Level 4)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 3)


    Bone Stitching (Level 3)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 3)


    Suppress Mind (Level 2)


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    There was so much for him to unpack. He''d been busy since hisst status ritual, and it showed in his gains. Butchery had levelled up, magick bolt had levelled up, even Corpse Appraisal, which showed he was finally on the right track with one of his key skills. It was unfortunate he hadn''t done enough to level Raise Dead, but a level in Necromancer more than made up for it. Level five! He''d finally reached the first milestone!


    Filled with eagerness, he dropped his eyes down the page.


    <em>Necromancer level 5. Choose one of the following:</em>


    <em>Low Light Vision - Increase the ability to see in poor light conditions.</em>


    <em>Death Sense - Sense the presence of nearby death magick.</em>


    <em>Grave Cloak - Hide more easily in dark environments.</em>


    <em>Magick Battery I - Increase the natural capacity for Magick.</em>


    <em>Skilled I - Choose two General Skills to increase the maximum level from five to ten.</em>


    <em>ss Focus I - Choose an additional Necromancer Spell or Skill.</em>


    <em>Efficient Minions I - Allow your minions to require less Magick to move.</em>


    <em>Death Eater - Consume Death Magick.</em>


    <em>Skeleton Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.</em>


    <em>Zombie Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Zombies.</em>


    Tyron let his gaze run through the options several times before he sat back, chewing on his lip. As expected there was a mix of generic, low-level choices that most base sses had ess to. Skilled I led to Skilled II, the two choices allowing someone to essentially convert general skills into ss skills, increasing their maximum level from five to ten. This was crucial for some sses that synergised well with certain general skills, but he didn''t think it would be useful for him. What would he even choose? Butchery? It was useful to have certainly, but he didn''t need it at level ten for it to serve his purposes.


    Low Light Vision wasn''t an umon choice, the utility of being able to see in dim light was immense and Tyron was sorely tempted to take it. It would work well with his Night Owl racial feat and help him avoid detection by roaming at night. Also it sometimes led to the much more rare Night Vision, which would allow him to see in even darker conditions, at which point he could possibly be nocturnal.


    The only thing holding him back was that he knew for a fact there were spells which could produce the same effect, though they were difficult to master. Mages who were willing to put in the time and effort could get a simr effect to the feat, essentially for free. Tyron had very little time to spend, but he was loath to weaken himself for convenience.


    Death Sense would allow him to sense nearby death magick. It took Tyron a few seconds of thinking to realise that meant he would be able to find any nearby remains, since they umted death magick naturally. This would make hunting for bones easier, though he wasn''t certain it was necessary. How far away would he be able to sense them from? The amount of death magick in bones was miniscule, the value of this feat would greatly change based on the fidelity of the sense he gained from it.


    Grave Cloak had plenty of utility in the short term, being able to hide while conducting his business at night was important, he didn''t want to be found while digging around for possible minions. He was hesitant to select this option however. In the short term, it might help him stay hidden, but in the long term? Also, it did nothing for his minions, which were the key focus of the Necromancer ss. Not getting caught was great, but in the future he hoped to be powerful enough that he wouldn''t need to be skulking about. In the event that the need for him to be personally sneaking everywhere was gone, the feat would be a dead selection, something he could ill afford.


    Death Eater was another choice that he had mixed feelings about, mainly because the Unseen never saw the need to provide details. Consuming death magick meant what, exactly? Would he be able to absorb it and convert it into his own natural magick? Wasn''t he trying to <em>insert</em> death magick into things, not the other way around? Or perhaps removing it created less tainted undead? If he were operating in an area with abundant death magick, a graveyard or battlefield, then perhaps this would allow him to replenish his magick rapidly and cast his spells quickly.


    Tyron grit his teeth.


    He would literally kill someone, raise them from the dead and kill them again to get his hands on a Necromancer ss guidebook! Well, perhaps not literally, but he felt hisck of knowledge keenly. Regr sses like swordsman were so well studied that Rufus could map out his build from level one to sixty withouting across a choice he hadn''t read about. Only from that point on would he enter territory where knowledge was more restricted. For Tyron, he had no clue what wasing next, what the requirements for ss advancement were, or even how many feats existed in a series.


    Skeleton Focus I was a perfect example. It improves the quality of skeletons? How? Where they faster? Tougher? Did it effect their minds? Harden their bones? Increase their coordination? And if he were to choose Skeleton Focus I, there would obviously be a Skeleton Focus II, but was there a third? Or fourth?


    He would only get four feat choices in his current ss, one every five levels until he reached level twenty and chose his new ss, so he couldn''t afford to waste any of them. If Skeleton Focus went all the way to four, he might take all of them, only to find he moved onto a different set of more powerful minions after advancing his ss. What those minions might be, he had no clue. He knew other types of undead existed, of course, but whether or not he would be able to create them, or at what stage of his advancement he would be able to create them, he simply didn''t know.


    Magick Battery Ibined with Efficient Minions I seemed to make a temptingbination. If he used his four choices to improve both of them to the second stage, then he would most likely be able to support far more minions than he currently could. His concern was that he might be able to produce a simr efficiency gain by improving the Raise Dead spell, and his inted intelligence meant he was packing more magick than he reasonably should at level five already.


    Having more minions would always be a good thing, but Tyron felt it might be better to take quality from his feats and look for other ways to increase quantity.


    At least Zombie Focus I was easy to rule out, along with ss Focus I. Right now he didn''t have any tempting choices to make in his Necromancer ss. That would likely change by the time he reached level twenty, but for now he could safely disregard it.


    He sat back, folded his arms across his chest and began to think.


    He had to consider what he knew about sses and their progression. There were almost always clear pathways that lead to differing advancement paths for every ss, ways to synergistically choose abilities and feats that would lead to a logical progression. Looking at the feats, he could see certain builds bing apparent. Grave Cloak and Low Light Vision would obviously work together hand in glove to create a stealthy Necromancer who could operate well in the dark, <em>especially</em> if Night Vision opened up further down the line.


    The Efficient Minions and Magick Batterybo was a clear roadmap to some kind of horde setup, which would likely have its own ss advancement. At least, that''s was how these things usually went.


    The other paths he spied was one of skeleton or zombie specialisation. Efficient minionsbined with either skeleton or zombie focus would likely lead to a ss advancement that focused on one of those two types of minions. Tyron was in two minds as he considered this, well, as he considered skeleton focus. It <em>could</em> be a mistake to specialise in a type of minion that may one day be obsolete. He knew other, more powerful undead existed, wights, spectres, spirits and mentions of other, unnamed terrors could be found in his parent''s bestiaries.


    But he wasn''t deterred from considering the possibility, for several reasons. Firstly, he needed more powerful minions, that would always be useful to him, now and in the future. As to his skeletons bing redundant, he wasn''t sure that would ever be the case. The only historical record he had of a high level Necromancer, one strong enough to control an entire army, still fielded thousands of skeletons in their ranks. He may rely on other types of undead to do the heavy lifting in the future, but he felt confident he would always have a ce for skeletons.


    He also knew there was a huge amount of improvement left in his skeletons. Bone Stitching wasn''t close to reaching its maximum level at ten, and he was sure there were a myriad of things he could do when preparing the remains to produce a better minion. Even his Raise Dead spell wasn''t close to reaching its full potential, there were a number of areas he felt he could still improve his casting. His skeletons had a huge amount of growth potential even without this Feat, but the bonus he received from it would be in addition to, rather than rece, those gains.


    <em>Never take a Feat for something you can do yourself.</em>


    The golden rule. Many Feats were convenient, or helpful, but covered things that could be taken care of in other ways. Grave Cloak would help him hide, but he already had Sneak, and it would be possible for him to learn a spell in the future which might hide him just as well. Improving the quality of his minions though. He <em>could</em> and <em>would</em> do that himself, but the Feat would make them <em>even better</em>.


    The more he considered it, the more he liked it. He felt it would be beneficial in the short term, but not a wasted selection in the long term.


    With growing confidence, he ced his thumb next to Skeleton Focus I on the page, then ended the ritual.


    He braced himself. Gaining a Feat was always an experience.


    Tyron awoke with a start and picked himself up slowly.


    "My damned back," he muttered as he dusted himself off and took stock of himself.


    He didn''t feel all that much different, a little fuzzy in the head, but that was normal forpleting a status ritual in which he levelled up, he wasing to find. As soon as he felt steady he hopped toward his two active minions and studied them minutely for any change. The two skeletons stood silently as their master shifted around them, leaning close to inspect every bone, and pass his hands over them as he tried to sense the magick they contained within.


    "Nothing," he groaned.


    It had been expected, but he was disappointed nheless. Perhaps these two minions would still prove to be improved in some way, but he doubted it. The most likely scenario was that his new Feat would only apply to any minions he raised <em>after</em> he received it, the benefits being imbued during the creation process. Luckily, he had two sets of remains ready to go.


    Sorely tempted to start working on his next two minions immediately, Tyron stuffed his hands into his armpits as he mastered himself, lest he start threading the bones before he could help himself.


    "Let''s go see Dove, then I cane back and get to work," he ordered himself.


    With sheer force of will, he started packing his bag for the trip.


    <em>Soon</em>, he promised the two sets of bonesid out on the cave floor. <em>Soon</em>.

 Chapter 32: Dabbling in the Dark

    Chapter 32: Dabbling in the Dark


    "What do you think?" Dove grinned as he spread his arms wide over the mound of gear he''d piled onto a rickety sled.


    The kid looked askance at him before he nced back down at all the loot.


    "It seems like¡­ a lot?" Tyron said.


    "Is that all the gratitude I get? You <em>shit</em>. I was all over town getting this stuff together! Come over here and let''s see if it fits."


    Tyron was hesitant to approach, mainly due to his surprise at what the Summoner had done than anything else. He wasn''t sure what he''d expected from this meeting. Betrayal, most likely, instead he found Dove sitting atop a pile of camping gear and preserved food, waving enthusiastically the moment he''d drawn near.


    As the Necromancer walked closer, the wiry mage paid hisck of gratitude no mind as he bustled from one pack to the next, whipping out the new boots he''d ordered, along with the cloak and a few changes of clothes.


    "You want me to try those on, now?" the kid asked.


    "Don''t be fucking daft, kid!" Dove eximed, "I don''t want you to whip your balls out in the middle of the damned forest and get changed. The watch would see your nads through the trees for one thing. Just hold ''em up and we can eyeball the size. Doesn¡¯t matter if it''s too big, but anything too small is going to chafe something awful, not an issue that you of all people can deal with right now."


    Still bemused, Tyron stood still as Dove passed him item after item and he held them against himself whilst the Summoner clucked about the fit.


    "Good enough," was the final judgement and Dove nodded, pleased with himself.


    A soft whine came from behind him.


    "Yes, yes, you''ve been a good boy," he turned and embraced the head of the star wolf as the normally dignified creature revelled in its Summoner''s attention for a brief moment. "Well done you big fluffy bastard," he cooed, "now go on home to the Astral and have a nap. I won''t make you hide in caves with stinky bones again, okay?"


    Tyron sniffed. His skeletons did <em>not</em> stink. They were entirely fleshless! How <em>could </em>they stink?


    With a simple wave of his hand and a few muttered words, Dove undid the binding that held his wolf onto the mundane ne, releasing it back to its home in the astral and turned back to the kid.


    "Can''t do that with a heap of bones now can you?" he smirked.


    "I wouldn''t know," Tyron sighed, not rising to the petty bait, "I have no idea what sort of Spells or Feats are avable to this ss, or how it will advance. For all I know, summoning skeletons from other nes of reality is more than possible."


    The Summoner raised a hand, paused, then thought for a moment before he replied.


    "You know you might be onto something there. Given that the ss is forbidden, there''s no such thing as documentation, but there are a few historical records that talk about powerful Necromancers."


    "Like Arihnan the ck?"


    Dove snapped his fingers.


    "That''s the prick. He had all sorts of shit going on. Razed a few cities, nasty stuff. You can thank him for your poor rtionship with thew. You should see what you can dig up on him and use that as a reference. You can learn a ton from historical references if you put your head to it."


    "But aren''t there ces where Necromancy isn''t forbidden?" Tyron asked, a little desperate, "surely they have texts and guides for anyone with the ss?"


    "No shot," Dove shook his head, "the magisters are paranoid fuckers, they''ll ice any material thates into the empire along with the people who brought it in."


    "Then maybe I can go to them? Travel outside the empire?"


    "It''s not going to happen, kid, you''ve got to let it go. To leave the empire you''d have to travel beyond the brokennds and I''d give you a snowball''s chance in my undies that you''d make it through."


    "In your undies?" Tyron muttered.


    "What? It gets hot in there."


    Tyron tried to shake the sudden despondency that fell upon him. He''d almost resigned himself to having to figure everything out on his own, but the reality of it hadn''t quite set in. With the older and more experienced mage all but confirming he was cut off from all sources of knowledge, he couldn''t help but feel a little defeated. The choices you made along your path would have huge consequences by the time you reached the end, to the point where most of the luminaries who reached their third advancement were the only ones to possess that particr ss in the empire.


    Dove noticed the hangdog expression on thed''s face and quickly reassured him.


    "Look, don''t worry about it. You''ve got a good head on your shoulders and for the time being, you have me for advice. Between the two of us we ought to be able to work out what to do. Now help me pack all of this shit and swap your boots over, I might be able to get a couple of coins for those in town.


    Grumbling to himself that hadn''t actually <em>asked</em> for any of this stuff, Tyron was secretly very grateful that the scrawny mage had gone so far out of his way to secure much needed supplies for him. The new boots were stiff, but very well made, as was the cloak and other items of clothing. Even better, the preserved food and fresh canteen of water Dove gave him. It was all he could do not to rip the top off and start downing the sweet liquid there and then.


    "There''s a purifying charm on the inside as well," Dove boasted, "great for when you''re out in the wild and can''t be sure if a water source is pure. In a pinch you can piss in it and the charm will clean out the salt."


    Tyron almost gagged before he turned a wide eyed stare at the yer.


    "Hey, <em>I''ve</em> never done it!" Dove defended himself. "I''m just saying it''s possible!"


    All of the stuff together must have cost a fortune and Tyron was staggered by the generosity on disy, to the point he found it difficult to trust it.


    "Why are you doing this?" he asked, "really, why are you doing this? I''m a criminal, and so are you if anyone finds out what you''ve done."


    The mage stilled his hands and ceased stuffing a pack as he heard the seriousness in thed''s tone. He stood tall and looked the young man in the eye as he answered him.


    "Tyron, I told youst time we spoke that things aren''t really what they seem when ites to the yers and the work we do. To be honest, it isn''t that important you understand why I''m helping you, only that you trust me when I say I''m on your side. I could have turned you in any number of times. I could have been waiting here with marshals ready to grab you, collected my reward and gone whistling on my merry way. That didn''t happen and there''s only one reason why that could possibly ever be the case."


    He looked at Tyron expectantly.


    "Because¡­ you''re sincere?"


    "Exactly! I knew you weren''t a total loss. Speaking of which, I''ve seen you cast magick kid, you''re a natural, if a bit stupid."


    Not expecting to be insulted, Tyron stared for a moment before the indignation kindled in his chest.


    "Stupid?" he''d been called a lot of things, but stupid wasn''t one of them. "You watched me cast Raise Dead, right? I put that spell together with no assistance and you think I''m dumb?"


    He had a lot of pride in how well he''d been doing figuring out his new magick, to have his efforts looked down on didn''t sit well with him.


    "Don''t get me wrong," Dove grinned, "you''ve got talent. A fucking boat-load of talent. I don''t know how much help your mother gave you, but your foundation is rock solid. What I''m talking about is the risks you take. Casting a spell thatplex in the condition you were in? You''re lucky it didn''t copse and burn the magick out of you."


    "I know the risks," he snapped, "in case you didn''t notice, my situation doesn''t really allow me to take my time."


    "Hey, there''s being in a hurry, then there''s drawing magick circles in <em>dust</em>. One is understandable, the other is begging to have your brain pop."


    Some of the fire in Tyron guttered out as he absorbed this very valid criticism.


    "I was¡­ on a bit of a clock at that time. I didn''t have ess to the resources I wanted."


    Dove held up a hand.


    "I get it, and I don''t want to know the how or why of you getting your hands on a spell like that or feelingpelled to actually cast it. If you want my advice, I would never perform that ritual again, but if you <em>had</em> to, I''d be taking <em>much</em> more rigorous preparation, right? At very least a basic ritual focus for fucks sake."


    A ritual focus <em>would</em> be very helpful, it could help him cast Raise Dead even.


    "By any chance¡­" he started to ask.


    The skinny Summoner wordlessly pulled a palm sized object wrapped in cloth from within his robe and held it out.


    With hesitation, Tyron reached out and took it.


    "Thank you," he said softly. "I appreciate everything you''ve done for me."


    "You better," Dove scoffed, "I''m the fucking <em>best</em>."


    After he promised to return in another two days, Tyron left, collected his two skeletal minion and made his careful way back to the cave, pulling the small sled covered in supplies with him. He had a lot of thoughts in his head and not enough time to process them all. Dove had proven to be everything he''d imed he would be, an ally, a valuable source of materials from Woodsedge when he himself couldn''t ess the town, and a source of advice. Considering his position, it was more than Tyron could possibly have hoped for. If he''d been discovered by someone else¡­


    He shuddered.


    The thought of being handed over to his own parents for execution was enough to have him shaking in disgust and fear whenever he tried to sleep. Right now it was only one scrawny, foul mouthed Summoner who has helping him to avoid that fate. It was hard to trust, given his circumstances, but Dove had earned at least some faith from him.


    He thought back to the warning he''d received from the other mage before they parted ways.


    "Be careful out there. The rifts are acting up and nobody is sure why. To make things worse, the keep is being restricted from sending out too many teams while they continue to lock down the town. It''s a shit show and it''s going to get a lot more dangerous out near the brokennds than it is right now."


    Moving his hiding ce further away from the rifts over the next two days would probably be a good idea if things were going to be as bad as Dove had suggested. He knew from stories his mother and father had told him that activity within the rifts tended to fluctuate heavily as the magick waxed and waned in those worlds. In the worst case scenario the rifts would stabilise and hordes of powerful rift-kin would flood through, finally able to escape from their dying realms. When that happened, the yers would deploy en-masse to try and prevent widespread destruction. If they failed, the monsters would ravage thend past Foxbridge and halfway to the capital by the time they were repelled.


    Normally this would be the time his parents would receive a missive, a ro-wnding in their yard with a summons attached to its leg and they would eagerly pack their bags and ride out of town to fight, leaving him behind.


    Angrily, Tyron shoved all of these distracting thoughts from his head. He had shit to do, to borrow a phrase from Dove, and couldn''t afford to waste time worrying about anyone else. If the rifts were going to be more dangerous, then he had to be more careful, amass more, higher quality minions, and take steps to keep himself safe.


    "Light."


    Once inside the cave he illuminated it and began to shift his new possessions inside by the armful, since the sled was too wide to fit through the narrow entrance. Once he''d finished unloading it, he picked up the sled and carried it sideways through the gap, leaning it against the wall when he was through.


    He had a lot to do, categorising everything he had been given, examining the ritual focus and working out how he would incorporate it into his casting, working on his spell theory, and numerous other concerns, but he couldn''t be bothered with any of them. Instead, his eyes turned greedily to the two sets of bonesid out on the floor.


    <em>Time to study</em>.


    With a spring in his step that he didn''t consciously sense, he moved toward the remains and sat at the feet of his soon to be minions. He could get started on the threading right now if he wanted to, but there was so much he needed to learn before he began that step. His two primary ss skills, Corpse Appraisal and Preparation remained painfully low and he knew he wouldn''t seed if he didn''t find a way to fully utilise these two abilities. They were foundational after all, given to him at Level one along with Raise Dead. It stood to reason that they would be simrly important.


    He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, once more extending the magick he held within his body toward the bones in a messy, uncontrolled mass of arcane power. Without words or gestures to control and shape it, the magick acted like an invisible cloud of gas, directed only by his will. In terms of spellwork, it was sloppy and wasteful, not really a spell at all, by a ssic definition, but Tyron didn''t know a spell for sensing in the way he was hoping to, and the Necromancer ss hadn''t seen fit to provide him with one.


    Which led him to believe he wouldn''t need to construct a proper spellform for what was needed, so he didn''t try.


    Instead, he began to feel his way across the bones using his formless power as his sensing implement, attempting to gain some insight into the remains in any way that he could. He was patient, despite the sweat that soon began to bead on his brow. It was slow going, the effort required to maintain and direct his ''cloud'' of arcane energy taxed his mind, but he persisted.


    He was getting feedback, of a sort. It was fuzzy and unclear, but he <em>was</em> able to sense things about the bones, however faintly. There were imperfections, cracks, bumps and ws riddled throughout just the exterior of the skeletons. He didn''t know if they would impact the quality of a minion or not, but they pained him nheless. What''s more, he had a vague sense of energy, of movement, but he wasn''t able to identify it.


    With a frown, he expelled more raw, unformed magick and added it to his primitive sensor, the added strain wearing on him even faster. He hoped that a more dense cloud would allow him to ''see'' more clearly, and to his delight he was correct!


    Not only was there death magick contained within the bones themselves, but outside them as well. As he shifted and pressed his apparatus against the remains again and again, he began to gain a crude understanding of what was happening. Small imperfections, both physical and magickal, were allowing the umted death energy to escape, tiny amounts of power seeping into the air and being dispersed. Despite the loss, the amount of death magick within the bones was slowly increasing, but the rate was pitiful. When he shifted his attention to the second set of bones, he found the same issue.


    Another puzzle to solve.


    Tyron sat back with a heavy sigh and rxed his mind, allowing the gathered magick to fade into nothing as he no longer controlled it. That''d been hard, but at least he''d learned something. Exactly what he''d learned, or how it would apply to creating stronger minions, he wasn''t sure.


    His current understanding was that remains with sufficient death magick infused in them would rise on their own as undead outside of the control of a Necromancer or any other individual. Such creatures weremon enough to have their own entries in a bestiary ofmon monsters, and generally considered low threat. This posed Tyron with a question. If he were to find a way to seal these ''leaks'', for want of a better phrase, and then find a way to increase the amount of magick within the bones, would the result be a better, stronger minion?


    Or would it be worse? Somehow independent of his control?


    He had no idea. But he did have a way to find out.


    First he would need to find a way to infuse arcane energy into the bones, then he would need to find a way to do it evenly throughout the entire skeleton, <em>then</em> he would need to find a way to somehow close over those miniscule gaps. It was going to be a challenge, to say the least.


    He leaned forward, a broad smile on his face.


    He''d best get started.

 Chapter 33: Flight from Dreams

    Chapter 33: Flight from Dreams


    She awoke in a cold sweat, again.


    With a faint shake in her hand, Elsbeth wiped her hair back from her forehead and sat up. The same dream, every night. She gripped her shoulders, arms crossing in front of her chest as she took deep breaths until her shivering ceased.


    For a week, she had seen the same thing whenever she closed her eyes. The Dark Forest, so heavy with age that the very air groaned under the weight of forbidden secrets, the Messenger, a creature of shadow and guile, who guided her through those woods each night. No matter how she struggled, or tried to protest, or to flee, she couldn''t. That same nkety across her mind that she experienced on her first visit and she had been powerless to resist it, wandering in a daze through the woods as the Messenger dripped honey in her ears with its sibnt voice.


    <em>What do they want with me?</em>


    She asked herself the same thing every morning, and always arrived at the same conclusion. It wasn''t a secret after all, she had been told, over and over again, they wanted her <em>devotion.</em> They wanted a priestess.


    But who were they? She had never heard of these entities who invaded her dreams uninvited. And why did they want <em>her</em>? How did they even know who she was? Troubled in her heart, she rose and prepared herself for the day. Perhaps if she could ignore it long enough, it all would go away, the dreams would cease and she could move on with her life.


    Downstairs, she found Worthy and Megan busy in themon room, setting tables and lighting the fire.


    "You''re opening the inn?" she asked, surprised.


    Megan looked up at her and smiled.


    "Yes. We felt we''d beenzy long enough."


    "Wouldn''t want the regrs to abandon us," Worthy chuckled as he wiped down the tables.


    "Let me help!" Elsbeth said as she jumped down thest few stairs, eager to be of assistance.


    The three set to the task with good cheer, a positive air bloomed within the Sterm Inn for the first time since she had been staying there. Soon enough, the room was ready, the food was bubbling in the pot and Worthy had polished the bar to a mirror shine. With a broad grin on his face, Worthy threw open the door and let the cool morning air into themon room.


    No customers were waiting outside the door, hardly a surprise after they''d been closed for a week. In the lull, Elsbeth sat down to eat breakfast and talk.


    "Did you manage to talk to my father yesterday, Worthy?" she asked hopefully as she tucked into a te of Megan''s porridge.


    Worthy paused in his stride, before he sighed and nodded.


    "Aye,ss, I did."


    "And?" she asked nervously.


    "He''s a stubborn old bastard, your dad, no doubt about it. I tried to talk some sense into the man, but he refuses to see sense. I think this whole thing has been a shock to him and he''s trying to get control back the only way he knows how."


    "As if he''s had it worse than I have," she said bitterly.


    Worthy nted a huge, calloused hand on top of her golden head.


    "Don''t be too hard on him. His perfect daughter is suffering for the first time in his life and he doesn''t know what to do to make it right. He wants what''s best for you, believe that, if nothing else."


    She teared up and looked down at her bowl before she nodded and resumed eating. Her father woulde around, he had to. She couldn''t imagine not being allowed back into her own family home. The thought of it terrified her. She wished she could go and talk to her mother, or her brothers, but she knew going home would only result in another fight.


    "I think I''ll go and visit the temple today," she forced herself to smile and said cheerfully. "It would be nice to visit the sisters and pray."


    "Sure thing,ss. Take your time."


    Despite his misgivings, he gave her onest pat on the head before he moved behind the bar, ready to greet any visitors who darkened his door. It didn''t take long, Elsbeth still hadn''t finished her meal before the first customer of the day poked his head cautiously through the entrance.


    "Oi, Worthy! You open today?"


    "Clyde, you old dog. Come in and let me get you a drink."


    "Thank god. I''ve been dry all week."


    In moments the two men were engaged in friendly banter andughter rang out in themon room for the first time in seven days. Elsbeth smiled as she felt something in her heart lighten. Despite everything that had changed, it was wonderful for something as mundane as this to return as it had been before the Awakening.


    She finished her breakfast in peace, thanked Meagan in the kitchen and eyed the stew she was already preparing for lunch, before she washed up and made her way out the door.


    A subdued atmosphere still hung over Foxbridge, the shaken nerves of the townsfolk couldn''t be restored in seven short days after what Magnin and Beory had done. It was difficult to reconcile the friendly and outgoing adventurers she had known all of her life with the two who had torn the Mayor¡¯s farm asunder and cast such a pall of fear over everyone.


    <em>Nobody had ever crossed Tyron before. Maybe now I know why.</em>


    Her friend had made it easy to avoid stepping on his toes, being as quiet and studious as he''d been.


    She shied her thoughts away from considering the Sterms. She had no intention of dwelling on Tyron or her dreams today, she simply wished to enter the temple and pray. In the back of her mind she''d been thinking of her status all week and she intended to ask the divines for guidance. She hadn''t performed the status ritual since the Awakening, as she knew she would be required to choose a Divine to serve when she did.


    The streets were quiet as she made her way through the centre of town.


    "Good morning, Elsbeth," she heard a voice call.


    She turned to see Mr Patterson heave a board full of fresh loaves onto the outside disy as he groaned with the effort.


    "Good morning. When did you decide to open up again?"


    The old man shrugged his shoulders as he brushed excess flour from his hands.


    "Can''t keep the ce shut forever now can I? People need bread. At least, I hope they do!"


    She smiled at him and he gave her a wink.


    "Looks like the town isn''t going to get knocked down any time soon, so we might as well get back to it. We''re surprised to be frontier folk out here, aren''t we? We shouldn''t scare so easy."


    "You''ve been shut for a week," she reminded him gently.


    The baker waggled his eyebrows at her.


    "I didn''t exclude myself! I need to harden up too! Now if you''ll excuse me, I''ve got more bread to put out."


    She walked away with a little more spring in her step until she rounded the corner and beheld the temple, when her feet froze.


    <em>Don''t think about it.</em>


    "Don''t think about it, Elsbeth," she said out loud.


    She decisively pushed aside all memory of her previous visit and stepped forward, walking inside the low stone wall that surrounded the temple and through the open double doors. A sister stood at the entrance and Elsbeth did not nce at her as she walked past, instead she chose to keep her gaze focused forward. She was not here for the sisters who had rejected her.


    She was here for the gods.


    Inside the central chamber she felt immediately at peace. The cool stone floor, the columns that supported the vaulted roof high overhead, the five statues depicting the five divines, each with their own candlelit altar. She had spent so much time here, assisting in the day to day running of the temple, preparing for festivals, tending to those in need. She''d felt she could have lived her whole life here.


    In the centre of the far wall, in pride of ce and looking out over the chamber with imperious serenity stood Selene, her altar dominating the space as was only fitting since this temple was dedicated to her. Elsbeth steeled her nerves and looked up at the statue, meeting the goddess'' gaze.


    Depicted as a wless beauty, the Goddess wore a long gown that flowed over her form, a me cupped in her left hand, a wreath in the other.


    In the past she had always felt a sense of wonder and warmthe over her as she prayed under the visage of Selene, had always felt that the divinity supported her with a strong hand on her shoulder. That feeling was gone now. She felt nothing but cold.


    "She doesn''t want you."


    Elsbeth schooled herself and managed to not flinch away.


    "I''m aware of that," she replied without turning.


    "Then why are you here?" she didn''t need to see the face of sister Kiria to picture her sneer. What hurt the most was the sheer venom the woman packed into that short sentence.


    "Is the temple closed to those who seek the wisdom of the divines?"


    "¡­no."


    She almost rolled her eyes before she turned and faced the sister. Kiria drew back, as if surprised that Elsbeth would dare look her in the eye, her eyes widening, though the curl of her lip didn''t diminish at all.


    "Am I allowed toe and pray, or would you rather I leave?"


    It was clear which of them she would prefer, but Kiria didn''t rise to the bait.


    "Things are different now you''re not Mother''s little pet, right? You can''t go swanning around as if you''re better than us now."


    Elsbeth stared at her.


    "Better than you? I wanted to be one of you," she said, bbergasted. "All I ever wanted was to join this temple."


    "One of us? Rule over us, more like. You''d fancied yourself the next Mother, don''t even bother trying to deny it. Everyone knew."


    To emphasise her point she stretched out a finger and poked Elsbeth on the chest.


    "You must have been so pleased when you Awakened as a Priestess, not a <em>humble</em> Sister like us."


    "I was."


    "Would have worked out for you too, if only you''d have managed to keep your legs shut," the sister hissed.


    She closed her eyes and tried to stop the tears from welling in her eyes. To think that ever this ce had changed so much. Or perhaps it had always been like this, and she''d simply never seen it. The jealousy and ill-will hidden from view so an unawakened child wouldn''t be exposed.


    When she looked again she could see the glint of triumph in the older woman''s eyes. She knew she''d hurt her, and was pleased.


    "I remember when Dalroy, the farm boy, broke his leg during calving season. Do you? He was only nine, red faced and bawling. It wasn''t even the pain that bothered him the most, but the fear, I think. Maybe it was the sight of the blood, or maybe it was the first time he''d ever experienced something like it, but he was <em>so</em> afraid."


    Elsbeth looked Kiria in the eye as she continued to speak.


    "You sat with him the entire time he was here. You soothed him, helped take away his pain and let him cry on your shoulder until he finally fell asleep, hourster. Do you remember that?"


    The Sister frowned.


    "I do."


    "You were so sympathetic, you couldn''t stand to see that little boy in pain and did everything you could to help it go away. So why¡­"


    She stepped forward, ring through glistening eyes at the other woman.


    "¡­ the <em>fuck</em>, are you getting so much joy out of my pain?"


    Kiria recoiled and spluttered but Elsbeth didn''t give her a chance to reply.


    "And if you care to, you might remember who <em>else</em> sat with Dalroy that day, who was inspired by your devotion, and who hoped they might grow up to be just like you one day. If any speck of the Kiria I looked up to remains in you, then go away. Go away, and let me pray."


    Despite her best efforts, her voice broke at the end, and the tears she had tried to hold onto finally spilled over and began to run down her cheeks but she refused to wipe them away, instead she red at her once-friend until Kiria looked away, ufortable.


    After a long pause, the Sister spoke again.


    "Just say your prayers and go."


    So saying, she turned and walked away, leaving Elsbeth to wipe her cheeks and collect herself before she walked to the nearest shrine and prepared to pray. She did her best to put the confrontation behind her, she hade for a purpose and nothing could be allowed to distract from that.


    The shrine to Tel''anan was the closest and she knelt to pay her respects to the fallen god of magick. Like most ces of worship dedicated to him, the statue atop the plinth showed him weeping, his eyes closed and void in his chest where his heart would be. She felt nothing as she sped her hands and opened her mind to the presence of the god, Tel''anan was no longer there tofort the faithful who came to him, but she still tried out of respect.


    To the right of the dead god''s shrine stood that of Orthriss, the steadfast defender and guardian of civilisation. His statue showed him as a hearty and powerful warrior, an enormous tower shield held in front with his broadsword still held across his back.


    Orthriss was considered a kind god, one who valued strength of mind just as much as strength of arm, though a fierce warrior when called on. He was the deity most followed by priests who fought and served among yers, battling the rifts to protect the people. She wasn''t confident she would ever be a warrior, but perhaps Orthriss would find use for her service?


    Heart beating with anticipation, she approached the shrine and knelt, opening herself to the will of Orthriss.


    But, she felt¡­ nothing.


    She frowned for a moment before she closed her eyes and concentrated, as she''d learned to as a youth, focusing on the will of the divine so that she might sense their presence. Except it wasn''t there. She tried again. Then again. Nothing.


    Perhaps she was too disturbed by Kiria to find the proper focus?


    She tried to assure herself that was the likely reason, but inside a traitorous voice whispered that she had been abandoned by all of the divines, that none of them would deign to listen to her. She squashed that impulse and stood before she walked across the temple to the opposite wall.


    The two remaining shrines in the temple represented Hamar and Lofis. Hamar the agile and clever, Lord of games, music, roads and invention. Lofis, the mistress of seasons, harvest, growth and death.


    She had never felt close to either of the two divines, but now she knelt before the shrine to Lofis, desperate to feel the warm presence of the deity.


    Perhaps she had expected it, but theck of response she felt crushed her all the same. She knelt and prayed to Lofis for half an hour before she rose, defeated, struggling to contain herself. She felt certain that Hamar too would reject her, but she couldn''t leave without at least trying to earn his favour. But he too was silent and unresponsive in the face of her pleas.


    Defeated, Elsbeth choked back her emotions and strode from the temple with all the dignity she could muster. Her vision became blurry as she reached the street outside, but she fought against the tears all the way back to the Inn. When she stepped inside, she could contain herself no longer. She rushed through themon room, past a surprised looking Worthy and ran upstairs, into the room they had lent her, where she copsed into the bed and wept herself to exhaustion.


    When it felt as if there were no tears left in her, finally she fell asleep.


    And dreamed.


    Of the creaking woods, and ancient winds of the Dark Forest.

 Chapter 34: Whispers in the Dark

    Chapter 34: Whispers in the Dark


    A cold feeling settled in her stomach as she took in the increasingly familiar surrounds of these ancient woods. It took her a long moment before she realised that her emotions and thoughts were not suppressed as they had been in the past. She was here as her normal self.


    The change gave her courage, but also warned that something had changed, so it was with a wary eye that she nced around the foreboding trees and looming shadows.


    "Wee child," a whisper slithered out of the darkness before the Messenger appeared.


    Wreathed in shadow, their features concealed, the chosen spokesperson, or spokes<em>thing</em>, of the forest cast an unknowable figure, their shape <em>almost</em> human, but something within told her that was simply a mask that it wore. A long tattered cloak covered it''s frame and hung low over its face, though two points of dark light stared out of those depths at her.


    She stepped away from the unknown entity and folded her arms across her chest.


    "What do you want?" she said. "Why are you bringing me here every time I sleep? What do you <em>want</em>?"


    Her voice had started calm, but became strained at the end. Being here, in this ce, in her right mind, everything felt so much more eerie and oppressive than before.


    "I have never lied to you, young one," the Messenger said, "far from it, my words have always been the truth. You are in the Dark Forest, a realm held between the waking and the dreaming world. It is here that the fears and thoughts of those that fill this world filter through to feed creatures far beyond their understanding. The Old Gods, not I, have called you here. As for why, that too I have told you. They desire your veneration and service, your <em>devotion</em>."


    "They want me to worship them?" she said slowly. "I have never heard of them. I don''t know if this is even real."


    "It is very real. I think you know this. As to why you do not know them, well."


    She could hear the revulsion that crept into the voice of the Messenger, as well as his anger.


    "The false idols, creatures of mortal birth that you call <em>gods</em>, have ensured that you would never learn of those that they deposed."


    "What are you talking about? Everyone knows that the Five Divines began as mortals and that they ascended through the aid of the Unseen."


    "Oh did they?" the Messenger said contemptuously. "Is that what they would have you believe? That if you rue enough levels, you too will achieve apotheosis and rise to stand at their side? I think not. Those with power seldom share it, young one, a lesson that the five knew very well, since they wrested it from those older and more deserving than they."


    The creature gestured to her with a hand to follow as it turned and walked away into the trees. She was reluctant, but she followed. What else could she do, trapped here in this dream?


    She stepped alongside the Messenger as they moved between the trees and stepped over the gnarled roots that carpeted the ground. They walked in silence for a few minutes and more and more she could feel the woods pressing in around her.


    "There was a time, on this world, before the rifts, before the Unseen, when Awakenings did not decide a person''s fate."


    "This is heresy," Elsbeth gasped.


    "This is history," the Messenger corrected her with sibnt hiss. "In that time, in ages past, gods were not made, they were born. In the deep and dark ces of the world, three such beings came to life. Existence was primitive and desperate in those eras and the Dark Ones were gods to match."


    They fell silent as she digested what had been said. She''d never heard of any such history, the Divines had been worshipped for over five thousand years. The calendar and the church had been founded in that year as the gods had made themselves known and lent their aid to push back the rifts. As far as she knew, there <em>was</em> no history from before that time. The ascension of the Five had marked the moment civilisation had stepped out of the shadows.


    "The truth that they have hidden so desperately, to prevent others from following in their footsteps, is that their godhood is a stolen thing. With the aid of the Unseen, they came to this very forest and took from the three a portion of their divine nature. Only then were they able to achieve their aim and supnt their betters. Then they spent a thousand years stamping out all memory and sign of the gods who hade before them. Even so, the memory and worship of Old Gods persists even to this day."


    Elsbeth shook her head.


    "How am I supposed to believe you? What you''ve said is directly contrary to everything that I''ve ever known. Perhaps this ce, this <em>dream</em> is your own invention, and you''ve abducted me here for your own amusement. You cannot expect me to ept <em>anything</em> that you say after what I''ve been through. This is the first time I''ve been brought here without you suppressing my mind! I have no trust toward you or anything you have to say."


    She gathered steam as she spoke, the anger building in her chest and beating back the cloying stench of old magick that clung to the trees and the fear it inspired. The Messenger listened to her speak with patience, but she felt a sly amusement from the creature as her usations mounted. When she''d finished, the Messenger halted their walk and indicated a new direction for them to travel, to the right of their original heading. After a pause, she followed.


    "You seek evidence of my ims. This is a sensible request. Of course, I will prove to you that what I have said is true, in a way that you cannot deny. You will feel it soon, and I ask that you heed this request, if you are overburdened, tell me, and we shall turn back. This is not something your soul is able to bear."


    As he warned her, the Messenger turned his face toward her and for a moment she glimpsed the shifting mockery that could not be described as a face that was concealed beneath his hood. Then he straightened his posture and the sight was gone, though it remained with her for a long time afterwards. No longer did the two speak as they travelled, for long minutes that dragged on they picked their way through the overgrown forest. The shadows seemed to shift and dance as they travelled, turning and bending in the corner of her eye even as the roots and branches themselves groaned and sighed at their passing.


    It was unnerving, but soon a new feeling blossomed that helped to chase away her unease. Holiness. Divinity. She could feel it, here, for the first time. That sensation she had longed for but been denied in the temple was <em>here</em> in the forest! Her feet moved quicker almost unconsciously as she began to speed toward the source of that bittersweet ache that sang to her very soul. The Messenger easily kept pace at her side, his speed rising to match hers as she began to stumble in her haste, but she didn''t care. She <em>needed</em> this.


    The faint glow of divinity strengthened as she drew closer, until it had be a piercing ache, as she were a moth that had drawn too close to the me. She pressed on, determined to reveal the divine in its full glory, to embrace that which she knew, which had been a part of her for her entire life.


    All the while the Messenger moved at her side, watching.


    She burned. The power that radiated in front of her as bright as the sun, as endless as the sky and it burned her, but she could not turn away from it. It sang to her, and she was powerless to resist that call until the Messenger reached out and ced a hand on her shoulder.


    "Enough," he said.


    "But.. I¡­" she gasped.


    "Any closer and you will not survive, your soul will be extinguished. It matters little, you can see him from here."


    And with a wave of his hand the trees <em>bent</em> out of the way and she could. Despite the distance, the face captured her attention first. Perfect, angled features, crystal blue eyes and long blonde hair that cascaded over his shoulders and down his back.


    She <em>knew</em> that face. She''d seen it so many times before.


    She fell to her knees as she stared uprehendingly at the impossible vision before her eyes. It couldn''t be real. It <em>couldn''t</em> be real. But she could feel it, even now that form radiated with such irresistible, painful power.


    Robes of gold and white encased the still form of the figure, the embroidery so familiar to her that it didn''t matter if she couldn''t see the details, she knew them anyway. And the staff, the eagle-headed staff with its azure jewel of purest magick that throbbed with power, warping the very air around it.


    "Tel''anan," Elsbeth choked out and began to hup with broken sobs as she knelt in the sight of the fallen god of magick.


    The Messenger knelt with her, keeping its hand on her shoulder as it helped to protect the fledgling soul he had brought here. She couldn''t say how long she remained there, how long she cried as she mourned for a Deity long dead. She only knew that she had been brought to an unspeakably holy ce, and that she was not worthy. Eventually the Messenger pulled on her shoulder.


    "Come, you can remain here no longer."


    "No¡­"


    She gazed longingly toward Tel''anan but the strength of herpanion could not be denied and he drew away. They retreated until the pressure on her abated enough that she could resist it without aid and the Messenger spoke to her once more.


    "The fallen god of magick," it intoned solemnly, mockingly and she red at it in fury.


    "This ce is sacred!"


    "This ce was sacred for ten thousand years before your divines ever drew breath," it rebutted, "but you have asked for evidence and so I have provided it to you. Compelling, was it not?"


    She drew back from the creature.


    "I''m not sure what you mean."


    It was hard for her to think, to process what was being said. She had just witnessed one of the divines with her own eyes. Tel''anan! That was Tel''anan!


    Anger tinted the tone of the Messenger as it rebuked her.


    "Focus your mind, or I will be forced to suppress you once again. I am loath to do it at this juncture, but will if you cannot listen."


    Her mind recoiled at the memory of that fuzzy, indecisive and controlled state. She tried to calm her hammering heart and settle her mind.


    "You can hardly me me -" she began to say.


    "I can and I will," the Messenger returned smoothly. "Though mighty, the figure beyond holds no great meaning to me. If your thoughts are clearer, then look again, more closely."


    They were further away now, how far it was hard to say, the air itself appeared to warp as she looked once more at the form of the fallen god. It was more obvious now, somehow, than it had been before, but he was obviously no longer living. Those eyes that seemed so bright and glowed with such energy were sightless, staring at nothing. His body, so majestic, hung in the air, suspended by gnarled roots that stretched from the trees around him to curl around his limbs and pierce his flesh. She hadn''t seen it before, so blinded had she been, but the expression on that perfect face was heart wrenching. Overwhelming sorrow twisted the features of Tel''anan, such that it pierced her heart.


    "Yes. You see it now, don''t you," the Messenger hissed. "Not all is right with this picture, is it not? How did he die? Why does he mourn so? And how came he to be <em>here</em>, in the realm of the Dark Ones? I think the truth is beginning to touch you? Hmmm? Can you sense the truth of your gods yet?"


    She continued to gaze upon the suspended form of the lost god of magick, her emotions torn between devotion and curiosity. The spell was abruptly broken as the Messenger began to drag her away, roughly now, by the arm.


    "Hey. Let me go!" she demanded. "You''re hurting me."


    "Then keep up," the creature said, "and <em>listen</em>."


    She was forced to do just that as the divine radiance faded into the distance behind them while the Messenger ranted, seemingly not caring if she heard it or not.


    "They came like skulking thieves, dancing around the edges as they pushed the boundaries. The Old Ones were amused at first. Entities of endless appetite, they crave stimtion, and the arrival of the rifts along with the influence of the Unseen had changed everything. Suddenly the mortals were more interesting, more <em>powerful</em>, than ever before. Locked in an endless struggle against the maddened creatures who tormented them, the gods grew fat on desperate pleas and sacrifice, but soon even this bounty began to bore them. The five were something new. Something <em>different</em>. Mortal creatures, <em>humans</em>, who had risen to such a precipitous height, such an apex. Like children who had risen to toddlers, the three were intrigued by these strange new creatures. Until finally the five grew powerful enough that they were able to enter the dark forest, and finally they set foot here, in this world, and for the first time they felt the direct touch of the divine."


    Real anger boiled from the Messenger as he continued to drag at her arm as it strode unerringly through the woods. She tripped and stumbled often, pulled forward by the creature''s irresistible strength.


    "They did not seek an audience with the three, but once they had felt that power, they were addicted. Like dogs they sniffed around the borders of creatures who were far greater than they. Testing, probing, endless stalking. They thought they were clever and quiet, as if they could hide from <em>gods</em>. They tried to conceal themselves, to amass yet more power amongst themselves as they sought desperately for a way to snatch that which was never destined to be theirs."


    Elsbeth may have been rejected by her gods, but she could not stand to hear them disparaged in this way, described as thieves and cowards.


    "And yet they are divine, aren''t they?" she retorted as she used her free hand to mber over the roots and correct her bnce. "Whatever happened between them and the Old Ones, they <em>won</em>."


    To her it sounded as if the Five Divines had done everyone a favour by banishing these older gods from memory. They had fought to liberate humans and all mortal kind by their actions, much better than these fickle and uncaring existences.


    "Won?" the Messenger gleefully cackled. "I suppose you might describe it that way," the creature went on, and her righteous fire was instantly quenched.


    "Not even a god has endless patience, much less the three, and they grew tired of this skulking game. With theirbined power they dragged the five before them and pressed them t into the ground, demanding that they speak their desire and be done with it. It was Selene who replied, she who demanded that the three surrender a portion of their divinity. Orthriss was less strident, begging that the three use their power to intercede on behalf of the mortals against the rifts, to save the people who suffered. The three had no desire to do this. They had love for mortal kind, but it was cold and hard, as that was how they had been made. If the mortals were to be saved, then they had to save themselves. If they failed, they deserved to die, and the three would fade with them. Tel''anan tried to use his magick against the three when they refused, but it faded before them like drops of water before a raging volcano. The Dark Gods are of this world and their beings are woven into its very fabric. Magick is not of this realm, a thing of the rifts, it can have no effect against them. The threeughed then,ughed in the faces of the five who burned with anger but where helpless to act."


    A hint of bitterness had entered the voice of the Messenger as it went on.


    "This was when the three offered a bargain. This was their way, capricious and chaotic in nature, they would often act against their own interests. They agreed to part with a portion of their divine spark, but in return, the five would need to sacrifice one of their number. They agreed so quickly. Then the three revealed the full fate of the sacrificed one, and they were no longer so eager. Nevertheless, they still agreed. It was Tel''anan who drew the short straw, though he too was able to touch divinity before the forest imed him. The others were banished, never to return and though they try, they are yet to step foot in the Dark Forest again."


    Suddenly, the trees were gone as they stepped into a wide clearing, in the centre of which stood three massive stones at the points of a triangle. From her current angle, she could only see the face of one stone, on which she saw an borate carving of a figure that she couldn''t quite make out.


    The Messenger turned to face her once more as he finally stopped pulling on her arm and grasped her by the shoulders, forcing her to look up into his hood.


    "Ever since that day the divines have meddled, interfered and stifled the mortals who worship them. They give aid, just enough to hold against the rifts, but they crush any who would strive to reach the heights that they themselves have achieved. Even now they stalk the borders of this ce, desperate to prevent any from doing as they did and rising to glory. Anyone or anything who brushes against their true nature, even unwillingly, is rejected utterly."


    She shook her head numbly.


    "I can''t take this in," she stammered, "it''s too much, I have to think."


    "You no longer have time to think," the Messenger was remorseless. "For this has impacted you directly. The Five Divines have rejected you utterly, yet Selene was the first to turn her back. Why?"


    "B-because¡­"


    "Is sex forbidden to those who serve Selene?" the Messenger''s eyes bore into her own, seized her focus and refused to let it go. "Is celibacy one of her divinemands?"


    "N-not ex-explicitly," she said.


    It was true. Celibacy was not a requirement to serve Selene. As the goddess of purity, her followers were encouraged, strongly encouraged, to reflect her nature and restrain themselves, especially before and during their training. But it was not a hard and fastmandment.


    "You think your dalliance with that fool boy have defiled you in some way, caused the goddess you served so faithfully to revile and spurn you. Oh yes," it grinned as she turned away, embarrassed, "I know what has happened to you. You are wrong in your assumptions. So very wrong."


    "You mean, it wasn''t¡­ Rufus?"


    "No. It was Tyron."


    "Tyron?!" she said, shocked. "He didn''t¡­ I mean¡­ he didn''t do anything!"


    "I know. Nevertheless, he has touched upon their real face, their true nature, and they cannot allow it. Since you were close to him, they have ruined you as well. That is all."


    "That. That can''t be true. Can it?"


    Bewildered she felt the storm of emotions inside her rising ever higher to the point where she felt they were no longer in her control. She swayed on her feet but the Messenger steadied her and drew her to the centre of the three great stones.


    One depicted a woman, young and beautiful whilst aged and hideous.


    One depicted a bird both wise and cruel.


    One depicted a tree bursting with life and decay.


    "Crone, Raven and Rot. Serve them, if you wish to see the truth. They are not kind, but they will never abandon you if your service is faithful, in this, I do not lie."


    She looked up at her guide, shocked by the hint of kindness in its tone. Was it a trick? Was everything else a lie?


    "Tomorrow night, a merchant wille to the outskirts of Foxbridge. If you choose to serve, you will leave with her and you will not return."


    She awoke.


    Drained and shocked, shey in bed and stared at the roof for over an hour. When Megan came to check on her, she apologised numbly and ate as the worried woman watched over her. So many thoughts and emotions rolled through her that she felt as if she could never focus on one long enough to deal with it before another leapt the fore and stole her focus, leaving her dazed and distracted. She went through the motions of helping at the Inn, tidying up and cleaning her room.


    After lunch she found herself staring at the door of her family home. She knocked. Her father answered. His eyes widened as he saw her standing on the step and she watched as several expressions flickered over his face before he settled on disapproving.


    "Are you sorry?" he said.


    "I am. Are you?" she replied.


    For an instant, she felt he might say yes, then his face darkened and he growled.


    "You cane home when you are ready to show proper respect," he said and shut the door in her face.


    She stood on the step for a minute before she turned and walked back to the Inn. Once inside, she walked upstairs to her room and performed the status ritual for the first time since her awakening. That night, she walked to the edge of town where she found a lone wagon hitched to two horses who stamped the ground impatiently. A woman stood next to the wagon dressed in simple clothes.


    "Let''s go," she said.

 Chapter 35: Death Rising

    Chapter 35: Death Rising


    <em>I might be starting to get used to this.</em>


    After another few days in the wilderness, sleeping in his bedroll and enduring the istion his profession had forced on him, he was beginning to see that he might be more suited to this life than he''d originally thought.


    Was he a spectacr outdoorsmen? Not even remotely. What he was, what he could do, was endure istion dly, and though theck offorts bothered him more than he''d like to admit, Tyron found he very much liked being left to his own devices.


    No one to bother him when he was thinking. No tasks, no errands to run. No expectations or pressure bearing down on him. No one seeing the shadow of his parents every time they looked at him.


    In fact, he found that the only people he really missed were Magnin and Beory. He also found he increasingly looked forward to his conversations with Dove. The wiry Summoner was a foul mouthed example of precisely what his mother had warned him about, yers who killed all day and indulged in vice the moment they returned to civilisation.


    Even so, he''d proven to be a knowledgeable andpetent mage when it came to matters of minion based magick. During the supply drop he''d picked up yesterday, the two had discussed the ins and outs of Tyron''s spells in depth, and the older man had been more than helpful.


    As he trudged through the woods in the fading light, he cast his mind back to their conversation on spirits. It was a topic the mage had been happy to share his expertise in.


    "Spirits are pricks," Dove had confided sagely. "And I''m not just talking about the Astral spirits that I deal with, I mean all of them. Universal pricks. The main difference between the entities I summon and what you might call a ''ghost'' or ''spectre'', is that Astral Spirits aren''t dumb as fuck."


    Tyron had been surprised.


    "I thought Astrals were considered quite intelligent. Aren¡¯t you being a bit harsh on them?"


    "No," Dove snorted. "You give them <em>far</em> too much credit. With training and under the influence of a Summoner of great talent like myself, they''re capable of far more than they are on their own. Ghosts on the other hand, are in fucking stupid."


    "You''ve seen them before?"


    "Of course I have! I''m a yer aren''t I? If you find a group of people more likely to hang around ces that reek of death than yers let me know."


    Tyron stared at him.


    "Necromancers don''t count."


    "Right."


    "This is beside the point I was trying to make! What I''m getting at, is that your minions are going to be stupid. Right now your bony friends are running on constructed intelligence, right?"


    "I-¡­ I''m not sure what that is. You mean they have instincts that I created through magick?"


    "Doesn''t even know what it is¡­ you''ve done it well enough anyway, haven''t you?"


    Dove stared at him as Tyron shrugged ufortably.


    "Fuck you."


    "What?!"


    "You just piss me off sometimes. Where was I? Right. Constructed intelligence. Obviously you can get a lot better at it and a ''mind'' made using magick can be quite sophisticated, you ever heard of golems? They run into them sometimes in the south, I think the desert people down there make them. They can be quite smart,paratively. Even so, you won''t reach the level of thinking a real person is capable of. That''s where the spiritse in."


    "You''re not suggesting I use the soul of a living person are you?"


    Tyron leaned back at the suggestion. This was exactly the kind of forbidden practice that caused Necromancers to be so reviled in the first ce. If he ever hoped to return to society one day, then he couldn''t rely on such crutches.


    Dove simplyughed.


    "Living? Of course not. They have to be dead first."


    "I won''t do that!"


    "By the sweet spheres of Selene, why the fuck not? Ah, look, it probably doesn''t matter. All I''m suggesting is that you be on the lookout for ways to get bigger brains in your minions. If you have to micromanage them all the time then you won''t be able to build out your numbers the way that a Necromancer is supposed to. Leave the quality to us Summoners. Yours is a numbers game."


    They were words that Tyron had thought on frequently in the past day, and not just on Dove''s callous disregard for the souls of his potential victims. He did indeed want more minions, but he couldn''t help but see every use of remains to raise a sub-standard skeleton as a waste. He was still learning and improving so much in his application of what he knew, let alone when he made new discoveries. A skeleton was already weaker than the best he was capable of the moment after he''d finished raising it.


    "Here we are. Shuffle on in, troops."


    <em>Don''t talk to the skeletons, idiot.</em>


    His current mighty horde, consisting of three skeletons, filed into his new hideaway. Convenient caves were hard toe across, but he''d remembered something that his father had taught him and created a bungalow by tying low hanging branches together. The foliage was barely thick enough to provide the coverage he needed, but he''d been lucky to find a spot with several trees in close proximity. He had enough over his head to keep the elements off and had stacked branches along the sides to give privacy.


    There wasn''t a lot of room though, and once under the shelter he ordered his skeletons to lie down stacked atop each other. It was almostical the way the three animated bone creatures sidled in and awkwardly piled into a heap. Hopefully this time they wouldn''t get tangled. He''d nearly had to disassemble them before they could get up and walkt. He settled back onto his bedroll with a sigh. The new gear that Dove had pushed on him was definitely showing its value. Most of the camping gear he''d taken from home, whilst well made, had been old and ill fitting, whereas now everything fit like a glove.


    He wanted to study some more, but he hesitated. His new shelter might befortable enough for sleeping in, but it didn''t lend itself to a peaceful environment for study. In that respect, the cave had been far superior, but he couldn''t keep staying there. As the Summoner had warned him, activity around the rifts continued to climb and the number of rift-kin had increased dramatically. With the number of yers being allowed to leave the keep restricted, patrols and excursions to the rifts were more dangerous than before, which reduced the number of teams able to perform them even further. This led to the activity of the rifts rising even further.


    "It''s a shit show out there," Dove had cursed. "I have no fucking idea what the higher ups are thinking, but unless I miss my guess they are shitting their pants the same as the rest of us. Only the Magisters are so crooked they''d put so many people at risk for bullshit reasons. Those pricks can''t even piss straight. I swear to god they''re so corrupt the streames out on a right angle. Get way back from the rifts and cool your heels, there''ll be plenty of monsters for you to hunt. I''m heading in with my team tomorrow to see what we can get done, so I won''t be able to meet up for five days after this. Keep your fingers crossed Ie back alive."


    The mage''s twisted grin appeared in his mind as Tyron checked the position of the sun. Rogil and his team would have reached the brokennds now. He hoped they would be alright. He hoped even more they could do something about the rifts.


    If a major break urred, he might be as good as dead if he remained where he was. Not for the first time he considered just leaving. He had gained quite a bit during his time here. He had minions, he''d learned a great deal about ways to progress, he''d earned his first feat. If he headed southwest, followed the border and kept away from the foothills he''d reach Moss Keep in three weeks. With the monster cores he had, he''d probably be able to barter for supplies along the way, if not, he had enough preserved food to make half the journey, thanks to Dove.


    But he couldn''t. He was finally in a position to earn levels at a good pace and he was loath to give it up. The worsening situation in the brokennds was helpful to him in this regard, since so many rift-kin were leaking beyond where the yers would regrly patrol. He''d moved more than five kilometres back, to the point that Woodsedge was closer to the rifts than he was right now, and still he found plenty to hunt without having to expose himself. He''d not checked his status since gaining his feat, but he was hopeful he''d gained as much as two levels since then. He was reluctant to perform the ritual too many times, since he was concerned the Abyss would start threatening him again.


    With a defeated sigh he put his books away and settled back onto his nkets. It was early evening now, a full night''s sleep was overdue and he could resume hunting in the morning. Another day, possibly two, and then he could check his status.


    He closed his eyes but quickly realised his mind was abuzz with too many thoughts and concerns to easily find rest. Amon urrence.


    "Sleep," he uttered, the weave of the simple spell taking shape in an instant.


    He slept.


    He didn''t cover much ground the next day, he didn''t need to.


    His fingers danced in the air as he flicked out a series of gestures before he thrust his palm forward, sending a magick bolt shing through the air. The rift-kin he aimed at was struck in the side and sent skittering through the underbrush and he directed his minion to pursue it before it could recover. He turned as the others swiped with clumsy, broad strokes, their crude weapons hitting nothing but air as the smaller and more nimble creatures danced out of their reach.


    <em>Too damn slow</em>.


    He''d lost several skeletons and raised several new ones over the previous few days, but for some reason the two he''d created before he''d gained his feat had refused to die, despite being objectively worse than the others. Slower, less responsive to hismands, less durable, they were inferior in every way, but because of that he was more conservative with them, keeping them together whilst his more impressive minions were sent to handle difficult prey on their own.


    In an irrational way he disliked his two stubborn minions. They reminded him of his failures when he wanted to move forward and make new discoveries. Yet he couldn''t help notice the difference his conservative handling of them made for their longevity. He needed more skeletons and then he had to utilise them in groups, only then would he get the best of his abilities.


    As the two skeletons lurched forward to chase their far more nimble prey his hands began to move once more as he spoke words of power, shaping a new spell that he unleashed the moment it was ready.


    <em>Suppress Mind</em>.


    His consciousness reached out and smothered that of the rift-kin, crushing its enraged mind and holding it still whilst his two skeletons closed the distance. The two undead raised their crude clubs high before bringing them down on the creature and Tyron felt the spell dissipate as the mind faded from within his grasp.


    He tasted bile and spat in disgust. The sensation was unpleasant to say the least and he hated having to do it, but it was effective. Weaker rift-kin such as this were easy for him to dominate with the spell he had earned from the Anathema ss and it made hunting with his clumsy skeletons so much easier.


    With that portion of the battlepleted he returned his attention to the morepetent of his skeletons and frowned when he realised it was struggling.


    <em>Dammit, I''m not losing another one</em>!


    Having the two ck sheep survive whilst yet another of their more capable siblings perished would be too humiliating. He hurriedly directed the two to the aid of their better and instructed the superior skeleton to pull back and defend until help arrived. His magick continued to drain as his minions drew on his reserves to fuel their movement, closing in on the wounded rift-kin from three sides before one finally managed to catch it with an unwieldy swing. As the monster staggered, the other two skeletons stepped forward and struck home, ending the creature''s life.


    Tyron released a breath as the tension drained out of him. He''d engaged in a number of these small scale fights recently but the nerves still remained. There was so much potential for things to go wrong. Every minion lost was many hours of work down the drain, and if his skirmish attracted something he couldn''t handle then he risked losing everything, even his life. Yet this was the fastest way to progress and he was someone with very limited time. The best he could do was try to pick his engagements carefully, yet more often than not he stumbled into them due to hisplete and utterck of scouting ability.


    Sneak provided him some ability to hide himself, but his skeletons had no such benefit, they stomped through the forest like very thin bears.


    He ordered his minions to be still as he sat down to recover his magick. As he waited he pulled out his map and tried to determine his position more urately. If possible, he''d rather not get this close to the rifts considering everything that was going on, but he needed to continuously gather new resources to keep making minions. His capacity for magick continued to grow as he levelled and utilised it, he felt he could possibly maintain as many as five skeletons now. With that many minions, his ability to retain them would go up since they could work together and cover for each other.


    All in all, he was more than pleased with the improvements his choice of Feat had granted him. His new skeletons weren''t suddenly twice as good as before, the difference wasn''t that dramatic, but a general increase in performance in multiple areas made for quite a difference when it was taken as a whole. They were more responsive to hismands, moved more fluidly and drained less power for the movement that they used. It was even more tempting for him to take the follow up feat if it was avable when he reached level ten. Combined with the strides he was making in Corpse Preparation, Bone Stitching and Raise Dead, the servants he created were getting stronger every day.


    A certain tang in the air reached his nose and Tyron froze on the spot, before he dropped into a crouch and ordered his skeletons to the trees. He moved cautiously to cover, his senses alert for any sign of danger before he began to creep forward. He knew that smell, after working for a short stint in a butcher shop, he didn¡¯t think he would ever forget it.


    Blood, the air was thick with it.


    The metallic taste clung to the back of his throat as he breathed and Tyron grimaced. He could already hear the flies buzzing, what he would find wasn''t going to be pretty. The chance that there may be cores he could extract kept him moving forward. He lived the life of a scavenger at present and he couldn''t afford to turn down free money. If a team of yers hade through and left a pile of dead rift-kin for him to rummage through, he was in no position to turn it down.


    And frankly, he was getting used to dealing with the dead. It was amazing what a person could get used to, given the right circumstances.


    He continued his reserved advance, not wanting to startle any remaining monsters that might have wandered into the area. As he progressed, the signs of battle became more and more obvious. Scorched trees and rents in the ground wider that a person and metres deep were all he needed to be convinced that high level warriors and mages both had been involved in the conflict. Whatever they''d fought, it must have been a serious opponent. The thought chilled him. This wasn''t that far from his bungalow. If more powerful beasts had alreadye this far out¡­


    He shook the thought as he bent back a branch in front of him, trying to get a peek without making a sound. His hand was steady as he nced about. More evidence of fire, even the rocks were ckened. They were lucky the fire hadn''t spread, even if me produced by magick was far less likely to propagate itself. The heavy rainfall a week ago may have helped with that.


    He was about to emerge from behind the bush when something caught his eye and he froze. Beneath the rubble over there, it almost looked like, a boot. A chill raced down his spine as he confirmed it. Yes, it was a boot, he could see what he had originally thought to be leaf litter was in fact brown pants. He swallowed thickly and stepped closer. It was a yer, dead, eyes lifeless and staring at the forest canopy as the flies crawled across an unmoving face.


    He''d died with his de in hand, a horrific puncture wound in his side. The stench was horrendous. Tyron gagged before he brought his hand up to cover his mouth and nose. It helped, a little.


    There were remains from dozens of rift-kin in the area of varying sizes, from the little scuttlers he''d been fighting himself, all the way up to horrific, horse-sized nightmares of des and chitin that would cut him apart in seconds should he face them in battle. Things like that couldn''t even get through the rift in Woodsedge normally.


    <em>Things are far from normal right now</em>.


    He stared down at the dead yer in a daze before he shook himself and continued to look around the area. The fight here had been intense, it was rare for teams to take on this many at once unless they were operating in arger group. Either multiple teams had swept through the area or something had gone very wrong.


    He found the second body on either side of a tree. He only looked at it long enough to recognise what he was seeing before he turned and staggered away, sweat breaking out across his brow. His stomach heaved but he managed to hold onto it.


    <em>Divines. That''s¡­ not right.</em>


    Nobody deserved that, least of all someone who fought to protect the weak for a living. He took several long steadying breaths before a memory tickled at the back of his mind. He''d only seen the face for an instant, a rictus snarl frozen on features covered in blood, but did he recognise that face?


    "No, no, no," he groaned.


    He didn''t want to. He hadn''t. These were all strangers to him. They had to be.


    He tried to convince himself as he began to move around the site of the battle faster, hoping not to see what he thought he might.


    Another body, then another, back to back. They must have gone down fighting together.


    <em>A confident grin, teeth shing white under the sun. Short cut hair. The woman with the hint ofughter in her eye.</em>


    He could remember the words that Rell had said and they rang in his ears as he stumbled around one carcass to the next.


    <em>"That''s Marion''s team. Same group she went out with the first time. Good group, good rep. Hopefully she''ll be fine."</em>


    He found herst. She''d been caught in the back and fallen forward. It looked as if she''d been running toward the fight, instead of away from it. Reckless courage. She probably wouldn''t have survived even if she''d run. Probably wouldn''t.


    Tyron stared numbly down at the lifeless body of Ci, the girl he''d met on Victory road. She''s probably been dead for two days, he thought. Maybe three.


    <em>She''d been so confident.</em>


    He didn''t know how long he stood and stared. Perhaps it was only a minute. It felt like an hour. Eventually a thought wormed its way into his unfeeling brain.


    <em>You need remains</em>.


    He twitched as the thoughtnded. A slight shake of the head. He thought of the butcher tools carefully stowed in his bag.


    He ran to the side and vomited until nothing came up.

 Chapter 36: In The Rifts

    Chapter 36: In The Rifts


    He couldn''t do it, in the end. There wasn''t much he could do, but he did his best to bury Ci a short distance away from the site of her death. Even with the help of his skeletons, it took hours to shift enough dirt, not that their bony hands were much help. Once the hole had been dug deep enough that he judged scavengers wouldn''t try to dig her up, he unceremoniously took hold of her body and ced her in it.


    It felt wrong. As if he weren''t treating her remains with enough respect, but everything that had made her the person she was no longer remained in the lifeless husk that she had left behind. He knew better than the reality of what remained after death. Even so, he tried to arrange her body with some semnce of grace and dignity before he scooped the soft earth over her, covering her frozen expression of terror and pain with loam.


    A simple stick was nted to mark the grave, he wasn''t handy enough to fashion anything more decorative.


    Job done, he stood for a long moment in silence looking down on what he''d done, thinking of the person who nowy before him, several feet deep under loose soil. Then he turned away. He had things to do.


    He couldn''t bring himself to raise Ci as a minion, to strip away her flesh and make use of her bones, but the others were still fair game. He''d been foolish remaining in this area as long as he had when clearly there were powerful rift-kin roaming this far out and he didn''t want to stay any longer than he had to.


    He found two leafy branches and stacked four bodies on them. Even after stripping them of their armour they were still too heavy for him to drag without the aid of his minions. Having his skeletons help pull made the burden on his arms lighter, but it increased the drag on his magick, forcing him to stop and rest before he''d even reached halfway back to his resting ce.


    He grabbed one of his diminishing supply of arcane crystals and ced it in his mouth, under his tongue, to help recover his energy faster. He wanted to get further from the rifts quickly. Things were clearly deteriorating faster than he had anticipated.


    After half an hour he felt ready to try again and this time he managed to make it back to the bungalow before he copsed, dumping the thick ends of the branches on the ground which caused the four bodies to roll unceremoniously onto the dirt. He didn''t care, he was exhausted in every way a person could be. Arms shaking from fatigue he opened up his pack and unwrapped some provisions, desperate to get some energy back into his body. Then he sat on his nkets and studied, pouring through his notes on Raise Dead, marking out potential improvements and changes to the arcane symbols used in the spell.


    He tried to convince himself he was making good use of his time but deep down he knew he was just avoiding what was going toe next.


    If the four bodies he had recovered were going to be turned into skeletons, then they needed to <em>be</em> skeletons. Which meant they could not have any flesh on their bodies.


    He''d known this was the case back when he took the Butchery skill. Not only would having a basic knowledge of the practice make him a more attractive hire to prospective teams, but actually taking the skill with one of his precious general skill selections would help him improve faster. As a secondary benefit, he''d be able to prepare remains in exactly the way he was nning to, but now that it came to it, he was far more squeamish than he''d expected.


    His stomach churned unpleasantly and he tasted bile in his throat but he resolutely ignored it as long as he could as he tried to immerse himself in the study of his signature magick.


    It was helpful that Raise Dead was a fascinating andplex piece of spellwork. Hundreds of sigils ced in a precise orderid out the verbalponent, with additional markings written alongside for the corresponding gestures. It was a potent and flexible spell, truly intricate in its application, far more difficult to perform and understand than the basic cantrips he''d managed to teach himself. With this one pattern, he could raise two different types of undead, skeletons or zombies, and he believed that with the right preparation, even more variants would be possible.


    The spell itself was adaptable, responding to the remains that were presented to it, the difference maker was what he did beforehand rather than what he did during the casting itself.


    Which gave rise to an interesting line of thought. It may be possible for him to excise, or at least modify certain portions of the spell, streamline the process in order to specialise it for raising only his preferred type of undead. He had no intentions of creating any zombies for the time being, or perhaps in the future, it was an inefficient use of his time and materials, doubly so considering his choice of feat. Such spection would require an in-depth breakdown of every single portion of the spell as he attempted to interpret each individual slice on a granr level.


    He didn''t have the time for that right now, not when the benefits were nebulous at best or didn''t exist at worst. He would be better served continuing his attempts to modify the spell by improving the three mainponents of its makeup: the artificial mind, the link with himself and the infusion of magick that animated the remains.


    For now, he had little idea on how to improve the mind, it wasplex and involved many elements he didn''t fully understand, but his work on improving the efficiency of the link, as well as achieving greater saturation of magick were improving steadily.


    Finally he sighed and snapped his book shut. He couldn''t put it off any longer, the light was beginning to fade and if he didn''t start now it''d be too dark to work. Thest thing he wanted to do was create light out in the open and paint a target on his back in these dangerous woods.


    Better to get the work done, then relocate further back again. If he was lucky he might find better shelter in which he couldplete his work and create his four newest minions. Right now he wouldn''t be able to sustain that many, but if he were lucky and gained a few levels in his Necromancer ss, perhaps even one in Anathema, then he might be able to sustain it.


    Enough distractions. He walked to his pack and pulled out his butcher''s tools before he hesitated. After a pause to firm his resolve he turned and walked to the remains, still where he had left them.


    It had been several days since these yers had fallen and already they stank. Perhaps the task might have been easier if they were in a more advanced state of decay, they may have been less recognizable as people. As it was he could recognise them at the yers who had recruited Ci and walked out of Woodsedge not so long ago.


    His hand tightened around the hilt of his cleaver as his stomach heaved.


    <em>I really don''t want to have to do this.</em>


    For a moment he wavered, and reached desperately for other options. Surely there were other remains he could ess safely. If he looked around his current location, he might be able to track some down. Anything he''d found on patrol with Dove''s team was off limits unless he was truly desperate. Searching his current location would take time. Too much time. He''d already been hunting around his bungalow for two days and found nothing.


    He had to do it.


    Face set in grim lines, he moved to the first corpse and dragged it to a clear patch of ground. Then he dug a hole to one side, and after a moment''s thought, dug another using his small hand spade. He''d thought to have a ce he dispose of the flesh when he was done, but figured he might need another for the contents of his stomach.


    <em>No way I get through this with the contents of my stomach</em>.


    With one final grimace, he took hold of the knife and got to work.


    <em>Within the brokennds.</em>


    "On a scale of one to fucked, how bad is it?" Rogil asked as he stared out over the Rifts.


    The portals to Nagrythyn crackled with an energy that they hadn''t possessed thest time they''de out. The size and number of rift-kin who loitered around was greater also. Even worse, in the hazy, mistedndscape beyond the rifts the gathered hordes of rift-kin railed, pressing against the boundary between one world and the next.


    "We are beyond fucked," Dove reported, his usual flippant manner nowhere to be seen. "You guys were here basically a week ago and already it''s turned to this? The instability of the rifts is rising, fast. To find out why, we''d need to go through to the other side, but I''m not sure that''s a good idea right now."


    "If we were to go through, what are the odds you''d be able to pinpoint the issue?" the team leader asked him, still studying the distant rifts.


    "Not that great. I may be dimension mage <em>adjacent</em>, but I don¡¯t'' know as much as they do about the important stuff. Honestly? In normal circumstances I think the Sterms would already have been called toe and deal with this."


    The sturdy fighter nodded as his eyes continued to flick from detail to detail, taking in the environment and using his decades of experience to filter what was important from the dross. Finally he closed his eyes for a brief moment.


    His team was strong, close to promotion, but pushing through the numbers below without any support would be pushing it. Nagrythyn was considered on the lower end of rift worlds in terms of threat, the kin that emerged from the rifts were usually knee to waist high insect-like creatures that could be threatening in numbers, butcked the punch to deal with more powerful yers. With the state of things right now, too many were able to cross over, and therger kin were bing toomon. As tall as a person, or even a horse in some cases, they were much more dangerous. Harder to kill and deadlier, such creatures were the threats that even old heads like Rogil needed to be careful around.


    If the <em>really</em> big ones came through, then they would need gold ranks to take care of it, and there were none within a hundred kilometres.


    "You don''t think Magnin and Beory will be sent? Even if we ask for their help?" he turned to the mage and asked.


    Dove hesitated before he went ahead and spat it out.


    "What I''m worried about is that they <em>won''te</em>, even if they are asked. Why would they risk their necks out here while their only child is on the run?"


    "They would deny the brand?" Rogil said, as if stating that they would explode the sun.


    "Rogil, they are already doing that."


    The mage let his words sink in for a moment before he continued.


    "Do you seriously think that their kid wouldst more than a day or two if they were seriously looking? Think about who we''re talking about for one fucking second. If they wanted to catch him, he''d be caught by now. I have no idea how, but they are holding on. How long they can do it, I have no clue, but they are doing it all the same."


    "You really think they''d leave us out here to die?"


    Even in the dire situation they found themselves in, Dove couldn''t help butugh.


    "Fucking what? You know as well as I do that those two don''t give a shit, not really. What they''ve done, they did for themselves. I respect the hell out of them, but I''m not blind to reality. You know that''s the case, Rogil, don''t tell me otherwise."


    The older man nodded slowly and hung his head as he thought.


    "Let''s get back to the others," he said as he stood.


    The two crept slowly through the undergrowth until they found Aryll and Monica hidden in the shade of a broken tree.


    "How''s it look?" Monica whispered nervously.


    "Shit," Dove replied.


    She flicked an irritated nce at the Summoner before she turned to Rogil, the question in her eyes.


    "Really shit," the team leader confirmed in his deep, rumbling voice. "The rifts are going out of control, and fast. If nothing is done, they might tear in as little as a week."


    "A week?" Monica nched. "You can''t be serious."


    The fighter nodded.


    "I''ve seen it before. Once the buildup starts, if you don''t jump on it straight away, it''ll escte quickly."


    "What are we going to do then?" Aryll broke in. "Are we going to sit on our backsides or are we going to go through and fix it?"


    The scout looked impatient, but underneath the surface Rogil could sense an undercurrent of nervousness that she tried to hide. She was scared, as anyone would be.


    He looked her directly in the eye as he spoke.


    "It''s too dangerous for the four of us to go through on our own. It''s not happening."


    He repeated himself as Aryll looked to interrupt him. He red until she backed down and was prepared to listen.


    "But we do need to move fast. This is what we are going to do. We''ll sweep this area clean, try to release the pressure around the rifts before we head back to the keep and get multiple teams out here as quick as we can. Then, with enough numbers, we can push through and try to clear out the other side. I have to warn you, the number of kin loitering around the rifts is high, it''s going to be a tough fight just to thin them down."


    Dove nodded in confirmation.


    "So we go hard, we keep it clean and by the books. We can''t help if we''re dead. Got it?"


    The others indicated their agreement and Rogil quickly sketched out a n of attack before they broke off and headed to their positions.


    Crouched behind a fallen log, Dove looked out over the twistedndscape of the brokennds, the curling storm overhead no stranger to him after long years as a yer. He mentally ticked down the time as he readied his summoning rituals. One minute before the agreed five had passed he began to cast. He might not be as talented as that damned kid, but he knew these spells like he knew the palm of his hand. Extremely well.


    The words of power rolled continuously from his tongue as he reached out to connect with the Astral and enact the contracts he had forged there.


    As they always did, his partners, his friends, answered his call.


    A gigantic, glittering wolf formed by his side, followed by a coiled, hooded serpent that entwined itself around him. Overhead, a harsh birdcall sounded out, alerting the others that he had finished preparing.


    "Go get ''em," he encouraged his summons and the intelligent beings from another ne responded to his words, the wolf dashing forward with blistering speed, faster than the eye could follow before it fell on the nearest monster and began to rip it to pieces with its powerful jaws.


    The snake looked at him for a moment before it hissed softly and began to follow in the star wolf''s footsteps at a more sedate pace. Once it crested the ridge overlooking the rifts, the snake reared up, its hood ring as bolts of pure astral magick began to appear in the air around it. The energy shimmered in ce for a moment before it streaked through the air, punching holes in the chitin of every rift-kin unfortunate enough to be a target.


    Dove watched his two strongest summons go to work through the eyes of the hawk above, but he didn''t rest on hisurels. Sitting back and letting his allies do all the work was the first mistake many a young summoner, himself included had made. Already his hands were forming patterns in the air as he spoke, conducting another ritual.


    As Rogil''s blurred form streaked from the tree line, his de shing out with inhuman speed and strength to bisect arge monster in a single blow, Dovepleted his second spell.


    A hundred metres above his head, a portal span into existence that emanated a dark blue light which seemed to expand, creeping outwards each moment the shining circle existed. The Astral Gateway. Had taken him ages to master this magick after he''d hit level forty. Dove looked up at it with satisfaction as stray, wild astral creatures began to poke their noses through. The moment they caught sight of the rift-kin below, they went wild, rushing through to throw themselves on their hated foes with savage abandon.


    Dove grinned.


    "Time to feast!"

 Chapter 37: Breakthrough

    Chapter 37: Breakthrough


    Tyron copsed with a groan, the bones wrapped in his old nket rattled within his pack and slumped to the ground. He desperately wanted to sleep immediately, even for someone used to going several days without sleep, his activity over thest week had been especially draining.


    Physically, he was a mess. He was never particrly unfit, he continued to be on the thin and unmasked side, something Magnin frequently ribbed him for, but he''d never put on excessive weight. But his lifestyle had been sedentary for the most part. He was a bookworm who didn''t exercise much, that was something he couldn''t deny.


    Now he found himself hauling a heavy pack through a forest for hours and hours on end every day. He simply wasn''t built for it, despite the improvements his higher constitution brought to his hardiness. His calves burned, his thighs ached, his shoulders protested every time he raised his arms.


    He was a wreck.


    And there wasn''t much of a chance that things would improve any time soon. It wasn''t as if he could take three days off to rest his body, he simply didn''t have time to waste. He could only hope he would adapt to it eventually. He leaned back, his head resting against his pack and just let himself breath.


    He''d been lucky to find this ce. After the butchery, which had taken far longer than it should, the light had been all but gone, but he''d refused to wait and had packed his gear immediately. After stumbling through the woods for long hours he''d eventually noticed this abandoned building rotting away in a small clearing.


    There were holes in the roof, the floor practically didn''t exist, but the walls were surprisingly solid, better than he could have hoped for. If he were to guess, someone had begun construction on a farm or holding out here where thend was extremely cheap but had been forced to abandon it when they couldn''t hold off the rift-kin.


    Their loss was most certainly his gain.


    Despite his exhaustion, Tyron was desperate to keep his mind turning. The less time he allowed his mind to dwell on what he''d done, the better. Rather than sleep, he reached into his pack and withdrew the bundle of bones he''d carefully ced inside. He tried not to notice the way the bones were still stained from the flesh he had so recently removed as he unwrapped them and began toy out theplete skeletons on the ground.


    He''d had to mix and match a few bones here and there, due to damage sustained in the fight that had killed the team, but after his efforts he''d been able to put together fourplete skeletons. Under the light of a magick globe, he patiently put each bone in its ce. His research was paying off and he no longer confused arm''s with legs, or fingers with the tiny bones in the feet.


    As disturbing as the task was, he found it oddly soothing, as if he werepleting a puzzle. He tried not think about what each piece actually was, or where he had got it from, and so long as he did so, he was able to rx. By the time he was done, it was deep into the night. His remaining three skeletons stood watch outside the ruined cabin in which he worked, the dark fire flickering in their eyes as their dull minds searched for something to kill.


    When the four former yer remains werepleted on the ground before him, Tyron smiled. When these four werepleted to the best of his ability, he would finally feel that he was in a stable ce. The growing danger around the rift was worrying, but with four brand new skeletons to protect him, he felt he''d be safe enough to continue hunting in the area.


    Hopefully he''d be able to meet with Dove when he returned to Woodsedge.


    He shook his head, thinking of the Summoner was pointless, he couldn''t do anything to help him right now. Rogil''s team were high levelled and well disciplined. If anyone was going to be able to fight their way out of the rifts, it would be them. He would be much better served worrying about himself.


    There were a number of things he could do now. He could start to analyse and prepare the remains, or he could jump straight to Bone Stitching, preparing the remains to be raised. He still had several avenues he was exploring that might improve his mastery over the Raise Dead spell.


    He was also tempted to perform the status ritual on the spot. With additional levels and the higher stats that they gave, he would put himself in the best possible state to perform the important work of creating his four strongest minions to date.


    That thought led to another which didn''t disturb him as much as it should. If he wanted to be in the best condition, and to gain as many levels as he could, then there was a way he could practically guarantee he would level Anathema again, giving him the level five feat and very useful stats.


    <em>Don''t decide when tired, </em>he told himself. <em>Better to sleep and sort it out tomorrow.</em>


    He unpacked his bedroll and ate a quick handful of dried meat before he stripped off his boots, folded his cloak for a pillow and rolled into his nkets.


    "Sleep."


    The sun rose the next day on a predictable scene. Tyron had cleared and swept one side of the building he upied and stood over a half drawn magick circle.


    "This is a bad idea," he told himself.


    Dove had warned him repeatedly against trying to perform such a dangerous ritual without proper preparation. In fact, the Summoner had warned him against performing this ritual ever again. Tyron didn''t have good memories of thest time he''d cast this particr spell, the creeping dread of watching some strange entity reaching out, trying to invade his mind, was a horrifying experience. He''d had nightmares about it.


    But he was in a better ce to deal with it now. He had more levels, better stats, his skill at casting Beyond the Veil had improved, and he now had a ritual focus, a fairly basic one, but a focus all the same. Thanks to his foul mouthed benefactor, the polished chunk of crystal would help him focus the arcane energy needed to shape the ritual and give him anotheryer of safety should something go wrong.


    Tyron walked to his pack and dug about until he found the carefully wrapped and padded bag that contained the focus and removed it, unwinding the soft purple cloth that swaddled it. Exposed to the light, the crystal glowed softly, which illuminated the delicate script that had been etched into the metal bands that circled the gem. Aplex piece of enchanting, a ritual focus existed to help a mage in castingrge and demanding spells. By using it as a filter that sat between the caster and the spell it added ayer of stability and control which gave him further confidence that he would be able to pull this off.


    The more he thought about it, the more determined he became.


    <em>It''s fine,</em> he assured himself, <em>I can be careful</em>.


    And surely, as far from Woodsedge as he was, no one would detect the ritual as he was casting it. Even the yers on the rifts were kilometres away. He would be safe from detection, at the least.


    He returned to drawing the circle, referencing his notes extensively as he used his finger to draw theplex shapes in the dust. Several times he had to make slight adjustments when the alignment was less than perfect, but he proceeded swiftly, his hand steady as he worked with confidence. The ritual circle took shape rapidly under his hands. The broad circles, the connecting lines, the sigils of protection and a host of other shapes and symbols wereyered one on another.


    Tyron stepped carefully as he moved around the room, two globes of light ced overhead to eliminate any trace of a shadow that might obscure part of the circle. This was a hell of a lot easier than the first time he''d done it, working furtively in the dark. At least this time he didn''t expect anyone woulde along and disturb him as he was casting.


    After four more hours of careful work, the circle was done, but he didn''t begin the ritual immediately. First he inspected every inch of it carefully, making sure he didn''t miss anything. Only when he waspletely satisfied there were no mistakes did he gather up his new focus. Even then he didn''t begin, instead he walked outside of the cabin to inspect conditions outside. His three skeletons remained perfectly still, watching the surrounding area for any sign of a threat. The sky overhead was clear for the time being and there was no wind. That was a major concern he wouldn''t have to worry about. If water disrupted the circle, or a stray breeze shifted the lines as he was casting it would spell disaster.


    With a final check of his notes, Tyron stepped into the centre and took several measured, deep breaths.


    He was extremely nervous. If he had the choice, he would <em>not </em>be casting this ritual again.


    <em>Let''s do this</em>.


    With one final intake of breath, he began to speak.


    As they had before, the words of power rolled sonorously from his mouth as his hands swept from one gesture to the next, giving shape and purpose to the power that flowed through him. On and on it went, the ritual focus drawing all of the magick he released through it and then directing it to the spell, refined and purified.


    It was a long and difficult ritual, but even as he focused his whole mind on the spell Tyron could recognise that he was progressing more smoothly than before. His experience counted for a lot and he didn¡¯t falter for a moment as the energy continued to build and the veil began to appear.


    The circle beneath his feet had ignited by now as the ethereal curtain that separated this world from the Abyss materialised before him. As he had done the first time, Tyron progressed through the ritual without pause or dy, reaching out with his hands to open a hole into the unknown.


    He almost stumbled, in that final moment.


    As he drew his hands down, the memories flooded him. The whispers that tore into his mind, the dark limbs that reached for his flesh. The <em>hunger</em> of the Abyss. The terror of it returned to the forefront of his thoughts and for one horrible moment he felt his concentration begin to waver, the words almost slipping as he spoke. He teetered on the edge of annihtion in that moment. A new fear was born that quickly rose to overwhelm the others. What if he failed? What if he died an ignominious death here, failing to cast a ritual? What would his parents think? Tyron''s eyes burned red as he felt his mind begin to crumble.


    <em>No</em>.


    With an inhuman force of will, he shoved it down. The fear, the memories, the uncertainty, all of it.


    Like a poison that he had isted, he gripped the negative emotions that gued his mind in an iron fist forged from his will to seed and throttled them before he cast them away. His concentration firmed, his voice continued, steady and he drew his hands apart, piercing the veil once more.


    His face was cold and hard and no emotion could be read from his eyes. To a bystander, he may have appeared as a statue, without feeling, without thought, illuminated by the flickering arcane fire that traced the patterns on the floor.


    When the voices came, he was ready.


    Once again they wed at him, a mour of thousands of voices that tried to sink into his brain and tear it apart. Whispers in an aliennguage flooded and overwhelmed him as they boxed him in from all sides. Pressure quickly built in his head until a splitting headache pounded in his temples.


    But it wasn''t the same as it had been the first time. The ritual focus protected his mind, gave him an additionalyer of protection against the assault of the voices. Having experienced this once before, he''d modified his inner circle of protection also, strengthening its defence against any attack on his mind.


    The voices gnawed and wed, chewed and scratched at the edges of his sanity, urgently whispering in his ear, but he held them at bay, if only just, and in doing so he learned something new. He couldprehend them. shes of knowledge, slices of information, blurred pieces of arger image, the voices each tantalised him with secrets and visions that he could not grasp.


    <em>This is the knowledge that they offer.</em>


    The voices, the entities in the Abyss, they knew things that nobody should know, understood secrets that would ruin a mortal mind, had mastery over spells that would rot a human soul. They held it all just out of his reach, feeding him tiny drabs and they danced closer and closer to him, pressing themselves against the protections around his mind as they whispered more and more desperately.


    Tyron grappled with them as much as he fought with himself. The temptation to reach out and take what they offered was overwhelming, but to do so he would open himself up to them, allow them into his mind. If he could just take hold of them, if he could just <em>understand</em>.


    With a start he wrenched his consciousness back to his body and sight returned to his eyes. The tentacles had almost reached him, a thousand, thousand splitting lines of thread that stretched from beyond to wrap themselves around him. Within the gap he had created in the veil, an eye stared out at him. Dark red. Unknowing and unknowable, it stared at him as he stared back trying to see through the fractal nature of what he saw. Within the eye was eye within the eye inside the eye which was within an eye within an eye that was within an eye that trailed on and on and on and on.


    Tyron snapped his hands down, his fingers rapidly flicked from one sigil to the next as he barked out five words of power, each rumbling into the air, filled with the unknowable strength of the Arcane.


    It all receded. The whispers began to recede, the eye faded and the veil closed and disappeared from view. Tyron was left standing in the centre of the circle as the mes guttered out, no sound but the rasping of hisboured breath.


    "Holy shit, that was a dumb idea," he choked out before he slumped to his knees.


    Almost drained of magick, his throat ruined and his thoughts in turmoil. That hadn''t gone as well as he''d hoped. He''d learned something, and traumatised himself all over again in the process. He instinctively shied away from remembering what he had seen and heard. There would be time to dwell on itter. For now, he needed to rest.


    For the next few hours, Tyron did just that. When he had enough energy, he packed away his ritual focus, cing it back in its bag and then carefully wrapping it before cing it in the bottom of his pack. He swept away the ritual circle until not a speck of it remained, checked on his skeletons before he sat and ate a simple meal and had drank his fill from his water skins.


    His throat was raw from speaking and he would need it in top condition if he was going to Raise four new minions.


    Deciding he needed it, he decided to sleep, despite the fact is was only early afternoon. He would need to be in top condition for what came next. To think about what he had learned from the ritual, and to perform the status ritual so he could harness his gains before he took the first step to forging his undead legion.


    Once again, hemanded himself to sleep and the world faded to dark as his magick stirred.

 Chapter 38: Anathema

    Chapter 38: Anathema


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>You have forged rtionships and felt emotion for your fellow humans. </em><strong><em>Race: Human has reached level 11.</em></strong>


    <em>Use of Suppress Mind against a living mind has increased proficiency. </em><strong><em>Suppress Mind has reached level 3.</em></strong>


    <em>Your use of the ritual Pierce the Veil has increased proficiency. </em><em><strong>Pierce</strong><strong> the Veil has reached level 4.</strong></em>


    <em>Your attempts at Sneak have increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>Dismembering remains has increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>Focusing your mind to its limit has increased proficiency. </em><strong><em>Concentration has reached level 5 (Max).</em></strong>


    <em>Use of the Magick Bolt spell against a living creature has increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>The study of the dead has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Corpse Appraisal has reached level 3.</em></strong>


    <em>You have investigated and tested ways to improve the condition of remains. </em><strong><em>Corpse Preparation has reached level 2</em></strong><strong>.</strong>


    <em>Your creation of new undead has increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>Use of Sleep has increased Proficiency.</em>


    <em>Dominating the minds of those weaker has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Suppress Mind has reached level 4.</em></strong>


    <em>Use of the Bone Stitching technique has increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>Your use and study of Death Magick has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Death Magick has reached level 2.</em></strong>


    <em>You have raised minions and they have fought on your behalf. </em><strong><em>Necromancer has reached level 7. You have received +4 Intelligence, +2 Wisdom, +2 Constitution and +2 Maniption. At this level you may choose a Spell.</em></strong>


    <em>The Abyss had heard your call and delights in the dance of your thoughts. Chaos swirls around you, pleasing the Court and the Dark Ones. Your patrons are satisfied their interest has reaped rewards. So far. </em><strong><em>Anathema has reached level 5. You have received +2 Intelligence, +2 Willpower, +2 Constitution. At this level you may choose a ss feat.</em></strong>


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 11)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Necromancer (Level 7).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ol><li>Anathema (Level 5).</li><li>None</li><li>None (Locked)</li></ol>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    29


    Intelligence:


    39


    Wisdom:


    21


    Willpower:


    30


    Charisma:


    13


    Maniption:


    16


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 4)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 1)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 3)


    Skill Selections Avable: 1


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 3)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 2)


    Death Magick (Level 2)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 4)


    Magick Bolt (Level 4)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 3)


    Bone Stitching (Level 3)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 4)


    Suppress Mind (Level 4)


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    <em>Anathema level 5. Choose one of the following:</em>


    <em>Blood Magick I - Convert a portion of blood to magick.</em>


    <em>Rot Aura - Promote decay in an area around you.</em>


    <em>Abyss Flesh - The extremities of your body be malleable.</em>


    <em>Drain Life - Striking a living foe with a damaging spell will heal the caster.</em>


    <em>Skillful</em><em> Tongue - Increase persuasiveness modified by Maniption.</em>


    <em>Repository - Gain a Ritual to tie magick to an object.</em>


    <em>Scent of Sin - Find others who are aligned to your patrons by scent.</em>


    <em>Storm Vision - Enhance the sensitivity of the eye to magick.</em>


    <em>Wall of Thought I - Improve defence against intrusive mental effects.</em>


    <em>Favoured Child - Learn all three Commune Rituals.</em>


    <em>Necromancer level 6. Choose an additional Spell:</em>


    <em>Commune with Spirits - Speak to the remnants of the dead.</em>


    <em>Death des - Temporarily grant your minions Death Magick attuned weapons.</em>


    <em>Flesh Mending - Repair dead flesh.</em>


    <em>Please choose an additional Skill:</em>


    <em>Empower Servant - Feed mana to your minions.</em>


    This summoning ritual was <em>dense</em>. Tyron was drained by the sheer volume of blood that poured from his hand onto the page as the words continued to form. His initial surprise was on finally receiving another level of Human. It had been years since hest levelled his race and he was almost more shocked about that than anything that followed.


    <em>Formed bonds with other people? I guess that doesn''t happen often for me.</em>


    In order to level as a human it was necessary to meet and interact with others. Tyron has always been bookish and stuck to the same group of friends and his close family, which meant he missed out on a lot of opportunities to push his race level higher. As it turned out, his friends had stabbed him right in the back and he''d abandoned his family, so basically anyone he met and grew close to was going to provide him experience on this front.


    He''d been forced into it by circumstances, he supposed. Ultimately it was a good thing. Every second human level he would gain a general skill choice and if he reached level twenty he would gain ess to the coveted third sub-ss slot. The great advantage given to the short lived humans by the Unseen, the additional stats and skills provided by that third sub-ss allowed them to rise in power quickly and contend with those who had been honing their power for hundreds of years.


    With one of his slots taken by Anathema, he prized the possibilities of that third selection even more. He had no idea what possiblebinations he would consider going forward, what would pair well with his Necromancer ss, or how he would get ess to the training he needed, but that was something he needed to consider in the future when he had more opportunities.


    As his achievements continued to appear on the page, Tyron clenched his free hand in triumph. Not only had he levelled Necromancer to seven, he''d reached his goal of increasing Anathema to five. Not only would he be able to select another feat, but the stats alone were massively important to him at this stage. With an increase of <em>six</em> to his intelligence, his odds of being able to sustain another four minions skyrocketed.


    Everything else was like Aunt Mary''s gravy, deliciousness spread on top. He''d increased his core Necromancer skills, an important milestone. The additional Constitution, Wisdom and Willpower would also give him a significant boost. Maniption he was somewhat ambivalent about, but perhaps he could find a use for it at some point in the future.


    The triplet nature of the Unseen was something he had understood from a young age. The characteristics of the body divided into three categories, each separated into power, finesse and defence. With his Intelligence reaching the height it now had, he possessed the raw power he needed to fuel his rituals and maintain a higher number of minions.


    And he had selections to make, important ones. The Anathema feat list was an important milestone, one that could give him a clue as to the nature of these ''patrons'' who seemed to intrude on his thoughts and delight in his suffering. In truth, he was more excited for the next Necromancer skill selection. A chance to further his mastery of his core ss and peel back the curtain on possible methods to progress.


    He eagerly leaned forward over the page, bringing his summoned globe of light closer to better read the dark red characters on the page, keen to see the new selections he could pick for his ss.


    Flesh Mending and Empower Servant remained and as before he was not tempted at all with Flesh Mending. If anything he would rather have a spell that did the opposite and dissolved flesh, saving him from having to go through what he had done the previous day ever again. Although, even if such a choice appeared, he would probably eschew it. He had used a precious general skill choice on butchery and he couldn''t afford to let that be a waste.


    Empower Servant was still an interesting choice and one that he wouldn''t mind choosing, but he wasn''t sure if this was the right time. He was about to add four new minions to his burgeoning skeleton army and it was entirely possible that despite his current surge in power he wouldn''t have the magick to empower anything. This would likely be something he woulde back to in the future.


    <em>Though I''m starting to wonder if I can ever have enough magick to satisfy the demands of being a Necromancer. The more I gain, the more I want. Possibly a sub-ss can solve that issue? Don''t get distracted.</em>


    He turned to his new options.


    Commune with Spirits made him sit straight before he slumped again to stare at the page on the ground. Obviously being a Necromancer was one thing, but a spell that would let him speak with the dead was a whole new steppared to raising lifeless minions from the remains of humans. It was somethingpletely different, on a whole new level of power andplexity. If he were topare it to any of his current abilities, it would be more like Pierce the Veil. A spell like this was breaking through a barrier to something that normally shouldn''t be within reach.


    The idea fascinated him. Also, there was a good chance it would lead to other, more interesting options down the line. If he chose this spell, which allowed him tomune with the ''remnants of the dead'', it wasn''t difficult to imagine what might be opened for himter. Ghosts and spirits were other, lessmon forms of undead that could be found. When he considered it though, who would he actually want to talk to? If he gained the ability to speak with those who had passed, was there anyone he actually needed to speak with?


    <em>If I could talk to Arihnan the ck, that might be useful.</em>


    He froze.


    <em>Could</em> he talk to Arihnan the ck? The man had died so long ago, would there be anything left to talk to? His biggest need, his most desperateck, was information about his ss. He couldn''t find any living that could help with the specifics of his ss, but what about the dead?


    He quickly tried to temper his expectations. There was no chance of him being able to try and track down the grave site of the long dead necromancer. He''d fallen in his final climactic battle close to the capital, in the central province, hundreds of kilometres away. Even if he was able to track down the location, and somehow contact the spirit of Arihnan, would it even be safe tomune with such a powerful necromancer?


    Better to not think about it.


    The other option, death des, was another way that he could utilise his magick to empower his minions, this time using Death Magick to improve their damage. This was a good option for several reasons, for one, it gave him another way to level Death Magick, which was important since he definitely wanted to max that skill before reaching level twenty. It suffered from the same issue Empower Servant did, though he was tempted to choose it anyway. He may not be able to use it right now, but it would surelye in handy soon.


    Both options tempted him, for different reasons.


    He was inclined to choose Commune with Spirits. The potential it represented was tempting to him, and gaining any chance to study the magick required to speak with the dead was an incredible temptation.


    Death des would be more useful sooner, but in the very short term, it would likely bepletely useless to him.


    He went back and forth on the decision for longer than he''d like before he gave up and decided to inspect the feats on offer from the Anathema ss.


    It didn''t take long of inspecting the list to realise that the feats were themed around each of the three different factions his ''patrons'' belonged to. Blood Magick, Drain Life and Scent of Sin were clearly from the Court, Abyss Flesh, Repository and Wall of Thought were Abyss, and Rot Aura, Skillful Tongue and Storm Vision were of the Dark Ones. The final feat Favoured Child, was clearly a generic offering, essentially giving an additional two ss spells, but only specific ones.


    Despite being the least interesting feat, Favoured Child did pique his interest. The title and the effect screamed to him of unlocking an interesting ss evolution. He''d considered selecting all three of the starting rituals for this purpose anyway, and this would allow him to take them with one feat selection instead of two spell choices. It would only be worth it if the feats themselves were less interesting and he could spare one of his four selections.


    Several were immediately interesting to him.


    Blood Magick could potentially provide him at least a partial solution to his magick woes. Trading his own blood didn''t sound amazing, but his extremely high Constitution gave him the ability to endure punishment a normal mage couldn''t hope to survive, and this feat might be a way for him to leverage that advantage. Wall of Thought I tempted him dearly, particrly after his recent experience with Peirce the Veil. Being able to create anotheryer of defence around his mind would be extremely wee, though doing so through a feat¡­


    It may be possible for him to create such a defence using other means. His focus and the changes he''d made to his ritual circle had been of immense help. If he continued to develop his understanding of magick as it pertained to the mind¡­ this could be a dead feat.


    He reluctantly turned away from Wall of Thought and considered Skillful Tongue. He had no real interest in being persuasive. It certainly wasn''t something he naturally excelled in. There were some sses who could literally talk the birds from the trees and their ability to manipte others bordered on mind control. At least, he''d heard of such things from his parents. Apparently the restrictions around such individuals were extreme.


    The only reason he considered this feat at all was that it would give him some outlet for his Maniption. At the moment he gained no real benefit from it and had no idea why it increased with each Necromancer level. He supposed he would find out eventually, the Unseen didn''t do anything without a purpose. Hopefully whatever came up would be a better outlet than this, he didn''t think he''d choose it.


    Rot Aura¡­ was odd. Although it would perhaps give him a way to remove flesh without having to resort to butchery, he''d already decided he wouldn''t take anything for that reason. Other than that, wouldn''t this make him a target? If fruit went off when he walked by, or dead animals dissolved to nothing in his presence¡­ Tyron could see a good reason to take this selection, which likely meant it was more powerful than he was giving it credit for. Unusual choices were often more potent to make up for theirck of apparent utility. Even so, he couldn''t waste a slot on it.


    Storm Vision was fascinating, but was another example of a feat that was frustratinglycking in description. What exactly did it mean? Would <em>seeing</em> magick make him better at casting in any way? If not, why would he care?


    Scent of Sin would help him identify others who were loyal to his ''patrons''. He didn''t want to depend on the beings who had put the Anathema sub ss on him, but he couldn''t deny that being able to find others who might be willing to go out of their way to help him wasn''t tempting. He was essentially a pariah from society the moment anyone identified him and he couldn''t go anywhere or do anything that would require him to produce a status. This would give him a way to find potential allies, which may very well save his life. He would consider it forter.


    Repository. This was fascinating. A feat that provided a ritual. It wasn''t umon, and the rituals that were granted in this way were often powerful. As someone who loved intricate spellwork, he was exceptionally tempted despite the fact he had no real clue what the ritual would allow him to do. Bind magick to objects? In what way? Could he pour his own magick into an object and then draw it out againter, creating magick storage? Such a thing would be exceptionally useful. If he had a reservoir of power to draw on, he could use it to fuel abilities like Empower Servant or Death des when his minions were in a pinch.


    Or perhaps he could use it to fuse magick into the bones of his minions as he prepared to raise them.


    He was intrigued.


    Drain Life was another feat with a great deal of utility. He wasn''t capable of healing himself. If he were injured, he would be in real trouble, since he couldn''t return to town he''d be on his own to try and fix whatever had happened to him. With this feat, he''d at least have a way to repair himself, even if it was a slightly distasteful method.


    Tyron frowned to himself.


    A lot of the options provided were good. That was unusual. Generally speaking, sub-sses were inferior to main sses, but Anathema had proven to be strong in its own right. The choices he''d been given at level four were strong spells, and now the feat list had a number of valid and strong abilities. Even the bonuses per level were higher than they should be, giving the same number as his main ss.


    He couldn''t refuse such benefits in his situation, in fact they''d likely saved him multiple times already, but he distrusted anything that was better than it should be. Even so, it wasn''t as if he could refuse to make a selection.


    Ultimately, he ced a mark next to Commune with Spirits and Repository.


    They seemed like the selections that would most likely lead to him being able to create better undead, and ultimately that was his primary focus. No doubt as he levelled he would give serious consideration to the abilities he''d passed on today, but for now they were left alone.


    As he finalised the ritual, the vast rush of power the Unseen swept into him and he fell backwards, his vision failing as his consciousness faded away.

 Chapter 39: Skeleton Army

    Chapter 39: Skeleton Army


    A bedraggled, wild eyed Tyron stood over four neatly arranged skeletons on the ground. His hair was messy and beginning to knot, the dark circles and the bloodshot streaks of his eyes evidenced hisck of sleep. For two straight days he hadboured. Without rest or pause for even a moment, he had continued to work toward raising the best possible minions he could, and finally he was done.


    For a dizzying moment, he swayed on his feet before he caught himself.


    "Water," he rasped.


    He tried to flex his aching fingers as he staggered to his pack and removed thest of his water skins. He''d need to refill very shortly, and his supply of fresh food was starting to run low as well. It was possible to survive for a long time on salted and preserved meat, but it was far from ideal.


    He didn''t know if he could get back into Woodsedge yet, and he couldn''t be sure Dove would survive to make their next rendezvous. He hoped that the Summoner would be there, but he couldn''t depend on it.


    He gulped down the lukewarm water and then slumped down against the wall of the crumbling cabin, leaning his head back to rest against the wood. His hand shook as he fumbled some hardtack from his back and put it in his mouth.


    The status ritual had been a big one, the change he went throughrge enough to knock him out once again. He''d awoken to find a wealth of new knowledge seeded in his memory by the Unseen, as well as the extensive changes done to his mind.


    With his Intelligence as high as it was, hismand over magick and his own thoughts had only grown stronger than before. He could even feel it resonating with his mystery, there was perhaps a chance of it developing in the near future, something that would enhance his growth even further.


    The ritual he had learned from the Anathema feat had beenplex beyond belief. The bare edges of it that he could understand so far were intimidating. Although he wouldn''t be able to master it, or even properly learn it in time to apply to his next four minions, he had high hopes that the knowledge he would gain would help him dramatically in the future.


    Plugging the leaks and sealing the Death Magick within each bone had been one of his main thoughts when he''d selected the ritual, he''d been hoping it would provide him the means to turn each bone into a ''container'' to prevent any magick inserted from escaping.


    He may eventually be able to do that, but for now he didn''t have enough of a grasp on the new words of power or sigils that he had be dimly aware of. He certainly couldn''t perform an extended ritual over every individual bone.


    So he''d applied the methods he''d been developing, sensing each skeleton piece by piece, attempting to smooth out irregrities and promoting the development of Death Magick naturally urring within the remains.


    With four skeletons so close together, he made use of the opportunity to study the unique interaction they had with each other. The miniscule traces of energy that jumped from one to the next frustrated him no end. He couldn''t find the connection that allowed the energy to move, he didn''t know <em>why</em> it was happening, or how, or even if it was a good thing!


    He did everything he could to pour over each skeleton, studying, attempting to fix mistakes, saturating them with arcane power. Then came time for the intricate and painful task of creating the stitching required to make them move.


    Tyron was quite pleased with the final result. His work around the joints in particr had improved a great deal. That <em>should</em> result in smoother and more efficient movement for his minions, which would lessen the drain on his energy and make them more deadly in battle.


    The more he progressed, the more Tyron had begun to appreciate just how connected each part of his new profession truly was. Proper preparation, the stitching, casting the spell, each element bled into the next and had a huge impact on the final quality of the minion. Only when he hadpletely mastered all of the techniques he was learning would he be able to create the best servants.


    Until then he was just wasting the materials that came his way.


    Once he felt better, Tyron checked his notes and focused on recovering his energy. He had to get through four casts of Raise Dead before he could rest. He''d already lost too much time, who knew what the rift was up to by now? If there were more rift-kin out there, then that was experience he could be hunting.


    He''d been interrupted three times during his work to help his skeletons repel monsters. Luckily they''d only been smaller critters and they hadn¡¯t run into anything he couldn''tfortably handle with a little undead assistance..


    But it underscored the point. He needed more minions and he needed to get out there as soon as he could. He was already a level seven Necromancer, if he reached ten, he''d have another two spell choices and an additional feat to choose. That represented another fundamental growth in power.


    He keenly felt the need to elerate and move faster. There wasn''t time to hesitate.


    His eyes were gritty fromck of sleep, but even with the warnings of Dove ringing in mhis ears, he stood and prepared himself for four consecutive casts of Raise Dead.


    The fatigue didn''t matter. His mind was focused. With each sessive use, he was bing morefortable with the ritual, his understanding of the ins and outs, the intricacies as process, was constantly improving.


    The research he''d been conducting on the words and sigils he was less familiar with was also progressing. With the changes he''d made, he hoped to see a more efficient connection between himself and the skeletons, allowing them to move more whilst draining less of his magick.


    With his mind settled, Tyron sharpened his thoughts, raised his hands and began to speak.


    Four hourster he copsed on the floor of the cavern. He didn''t even need to use a spell to put himself to sleep.


    He woke ten hourster, his mouth and throat dry and aching.


    His living conditions were certainly catching up with him. Considering the rough sleep,ck of food and water, he was holding up remarkably well, but he couldn''t go on like this forever.


    Despite his fatigue, Tyron felt invigorated. The moment he became conscious, his awareness expanded to include the connection that he shared with his minions. His <em>seven</em> minions. Even standingpletely still, he could feel them, and the minute drain they put on his energy by simply existing. With all of them moving and fighting, he would struggle to maintain the drain for long, but he was excited to see how well histest four would perform.


    He rose and stretched, trying to get the kinks out of his back before he shook it off and crammed some food in his mouth, too eager to get going to waste any more time.


    Once outside he couldn''t keep a smile off his face as he ordered his minions to gather before him.


    Instantly the draw on his magick increased as the skeletons walked in their silent, eerie way towards him, forming a rough row for him to inspect. The sight of them gathered sparked a sense of pride in the young mage. This were his minions, creatures of arcane spellwork and mundaneponents that <em>he</em> had made. He reflected that a craftsman might feel the same when gazing upon apleted work, or a carpenter at a finished building. He hadboured for hours over each one of these skeletons, performing meticulous, demanding work. It may not be the same as spending days or weeks on one grand masterpiece, but nevertheless his effort reflected in the final quality of what he had created.


    Thetest four were the apex of his current achievements. They benefited from everything that he had learned, every test and improvement he had made, along with the boost from his first feat. As far as skeletons went, they were the cream of the crop.


    Sadly, they remained unarmed.


    His first order of business should be to return to the site of the battle and try to retrieve some weaponry if at all possible. He''d been more concerned with securing the remains. For a moment his thoughts turned to what the yers would think of their bones being used to construct undead controlled by a rogue mage, but he quickly pushed the thought from his mind. He wasn''t responsible for bing what he was, and he intended to use his minions to battle the rift-kin. Hopefully the yers would be able to find peace with that.


    Actually, he <em>could </em>speak to the dead now, technically, but he resisted the urge. It was time to take his skeletal horde on the road!


    "Let''s head out," he dered to the silent row of undead.


    <em>Don''t talk to the minions you moron.</em>


    He started to lead the way, but paused and smiled when he realised he now had sufficient followers to create a rough formation around himself. After directing his older servants to pass their des to the newer, he positioned them at his rear and allowed the four strongest to be his vanguard. In this formation he marched back toward the ce where Ci had fallen.


    Being surrounded on all sides by skeletal warriors gave Tyron a certain feeling, as if now he could call himself a real Necromancer. He''de a long way since his Awakening but he felt as if he''d barely improved at all. Seven minions was a great step forward, but ultimately, was a pitifully small collection. Dove had been very clear that he needed to pursue greater numbers of servants.


    "No matter how you slice it, kid, a polished shit is still a shit. You''ll seed by burying people in it, not cutting them with it," Tyron did his best to mimic the Summoner''s droll tone.


    He didn''t agree. Forget some metaphor of hardening or polishing, he didn''t view his skeletons as destined to be weak. If sufficient effort was expended then they could be improved, and if effort was all it took then effort he would supply.


    He hadn''t been underway for long before they were intercepted. From the bushes ahead a small pack of skittering rift-kin emerged, screeching in a high pitched whine as they rushed towards them.


    Taken by surprise, Tyron cursed and begun to weave a magick bolt together, but by the time he was ready to cast, the small monsters had already reached his first minions. With sharp jaws, the creatures tried to snap at the legs of the skeletons, but Tyron''stest minions proved their worth, stepping back smoothly to avoid the strikes and swinging with their crude weaponry.


    His three remaining skeletons advanced steadily and Tryon''s mind began to ache as he tried to direct seven different minions at once. He quickly realised it was impossible and settled for generalmands that the skeletons could interpret with their very simple ''minds''. As he''d feared, supporting this many skeletons created a massive drain on his energy and he hesitated as he reached for his pocket. He didn''t have much candy remaining and he needed to get used to fighting without it. Being overly dependent on the crystal was a good way to get a mage killed.


    He grit his teeth and returned to directing the battle mentally, urging his skeletons to surround the critters and trying to direct them to better support each other.


    The rift-kin spat and snapped their jaws as the slow swings of the skeletons rained down on them. They were much faster than the walking bones that assailed them, but like all monsters, they were mad with rage and pressed forward, desperate to inflict whatever damage they could. With minimal direction from Tyron, the undead were slower to respond, and he was worried that they would be hit as a result, but his fears proved to be unfounded.


    Against just four opponents, his seven skeletons pressed their numbers advantage, harassing the smaller monsters and knocking them off bnce. Even his unarmed minions proved their worth withical looking kicks that distracted the rift-kin and prevented them from attacking his more dangerous skeletons.


    Satisfied that they couldst without him for a moment, Tyron took the time to cast Supress Mind, savagely crushing the resistance of the rift-kin and holding it still as he directed one sword wielding undead to finish it off. With one of their number killed, the remainder were even further outnumbered and quickly fell.


    Tyron was positively beaming as he reassembled his legion. Four smaller rift-kin would have been a difficult fight for him just a few days ago, but with greater numbers and superior undead, he had been able to win with rtive ease. When he managed to get weapons in the hands of all of his skeletons, things would improve even further.


    However, in the back of his mind a nagging thought demanded his attention. He was still a long way from the rift and running into four monsters already was a bad sign. He would need to be careful.


    And indeed, he ran into another small pack before he reached his destination, but his undead proved more than a match.


    The sight of Ci''s grave, where he had buried the bright girl only days before was saddening and Tyron stopped a moment to pay his respects before he scouted about the trees, hoping to find any gear that might still be usable. At first he was worried he''de up empty handed as the first sword he found was broken, snapped during the fight, but luckily a few pieces seemed to havee through unscathed.


    A mace that was heavier than he would have liked, the extra effort required to shift the heavier weapon woulde from his magick after all, but it was an effective tool against the chitinous exterior of the local rift-kin. He managed to find a shield with only a minor split in it, which would serve well enough, as well as two des.


    To his most promising skeleton, thergest of the four newer additions, he gifted both the shield and the mace. It was necessary to adjust the strap on the back of the shield to get it to fit the undead''s much thinner arm, but once that was done, the skeleton seemed able to hold it well enough. Tyron could only hope it was smart enough to block properly.


    With the rest of the weaponry, all the members of his army were at least armed. Some of the swords were in poor condition, but that couldn''t be helped. If he found the time he might perform some maintenance on it himself.


    The thought of a skeleton polishing a de was enough to make Tyronugh, but he quickly settled and began to plot his next move.


    He had two objectives. The first was to quickly gain experience by hunting down rift-kin. There appeared to be no shortage of those, even a great distance from the rift itself. This meant he had a wide area to range in with little chance of being discovered by active yers. In fact, if the level of danger was increasing, there was a slight chance that nearby settlements and farms, like the one that he''d encountered on his journey to Woodsedge, would be evacuated. So he''d be able to move across an even wider area if he wished.


    The second was to continue the hunt for materials. He couldn''t support any more minions than he had now, but it was naive to think he wouldn''t lose any during his hunt. The skeletons were surprisingly tough, imbued with Death Magick as they were, but they were far from invincible. If he ran into therger monsters, casualties would be inevitable.


    If by some miracle he didn''t lose any, he would still need more remains. As his level increased, so did his capacity to hold and regenerate magick, which meant he could support more. It fact, now that he''d reached this point, Tyron hoped he would be able to rapidly increase his power as he could hunt and gain levels faster than he could hope to before.


    "Time to get hunting," heughed to himself.


    For the first time since he had arrived in Woodsedge, he felt a glimmer of hope.

 Chapter 40: Rising High

    Chapter 40: Rising High


    Magnin grit his teeth as a fresh wave of pain wracked his body. It was unimaginable agony. Every nerve was on fire, every inch of his flesh burned. It felt as if his eyeballs were melting.


    "How the fuck is it hitting my eyes?" he groaned.


    Beside him, Beory spoke through gritted teeth.


    "It''s hurting your soul¡­ not your body. Didn''t we¡­ talk about this?"


    A low moan leaked out of her husband as he fell onto his side, his hands clenched around his forearms. Just like that, the two of them continued to endure the relentless torture that radiated from the brand. It continued for hours that felt like years as the two silently endured, drawingfort from each other''s presence. If they¡¯d been forced to go through it alone, who knows if they would havested?


    Shivering uncontrobly as her soul itself spasmed within her body, Beory remained sitting, her knees pulled up to her chest and her eyes squeezed shut. She was the first to notice the agony recede, just a hair.


    Her mind sharpened, dragged itself out of the pain induced fugue she had sunk into. She focused on her suffering, measuring the minute changes in agony as it continued to fade. She maintained this vigil for another hour until she began to feel confident it wouldn''t resurge again.


    The pain continued to fall back, returning to the constant, still agonising, but far more endurable level that they had grown ustomed to over the previous week. Magnin spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground and rose scrubbing at his face.


    "Pah! Bit my damn cheek again," he muttered.


    "Do you need healing?" she asked.


    He eyed his wife''s haggard condition.


    "Not at all," he smiled, wincing as his soul red with agony for a brief moment. "I''ll heal quickly, you know that."


    Not concerned with him after he denied needing aid, Beory copsed into their shared nkets, her skin pale and hair matted with sweat. Shey there for a long while, just breathing as she reveled in her reduced level of suffering. In the back of her mind was always the certain knowledge that it would return, but for now she tried to let herself rest.


    "Come on, darling," Magnin finally prodded her arm. "I''ve got tea and food here. Sit up and eat."


    She pouted and rolled away from him.


    "I feel sick. I don''t want to eat."


    He prodded her again.


    "And who was it who said we should make sure we eat and drink every time it fades? Huh? Who might that have been?"


    He poked her a few more times with his index finger as he spoke, his strength easily enough to make her roll with even a gentle prod.


    She swiped at his hand before she rolled back and sat up, flinching as she did.


    "It sounds like good advice, so it must have been me," she said.


    "Right," Magnin grinned. "So here, eat up."


    He passed her a tray with a steaming cup of tea and a bowl of thin broth. They''d found it difficult to keep down heavier meals during their regr remote torture appointments, but something like this they could manage.


    The two ate in silence for a moment and the atmosphere within the tent returned to a state more familiar to them. They had spent more nights together like this than they had in any other manner in their years together. More time on the road than at home.


    After they ate, the two sat infortable silence for a time before Beory spoke.


    "Do you think they''re bing more desperate? The pain hase more often than before. And itsts longer."


    "They''re definitely putting more effort into it," Magnin agreed with a wry grin. "With all of the countermeasures we put in ce, I can''t believe it still hurts this bad. Anyone else would be dead by now, surely. Even the others of our rank."


    "Don''t underestimate those old farts," she warned him, "they''ve been ying this game a lot longer than us."


    "And yet we''re the ones who were put in this position," he countered. "None of them dared to push like we did."


    Beory shrugged and nodded. She couldn''t disagree with that. As far as they knew, they were the first to try and rise above the ceiling that had been ced over their heads. As if they could stand it. The pain red inside once again and she tensed until it settled back down. It wouldn''t have been the first time they''d been hit multiple times in a short span of time. Having just eaten, she hoped for a longer gap. Covering themselves with vomit during torture offended her sensibilities on multiple levels. She fell silent as her thoughts turned darker. The relentless pain was more draining than she''d anticipated, she was no stranger to suffering after all. Perhaps she''d been naive, underestimating the brand. The Magisters had controlled yers as strong as herself and Magin for over a thousand years. Would they be able to do something that nobody else had dared to even try? Doubt reared its ugly head.


    Magnin ced his hand gently on her shoulder.


    "How long are we going to be able to hold on?" she whispered, tears beginning to drip from her eyes. "A few weeks? How much can Tyron do in such a small amount of time¡­ even he won''t be able to rise that far."


    Her husband gave her shoulder a light squeeze, careful to regte his massive strength.


    "Don''t underestimate our boy," heughed. "He''s got the best of you and me in him after all. One month and he''ll shake the foundations of the world."


    Beory sniffed and smiled before she tilted her head until she rested on Magnin''s arm, wiping away her tears as she did so.


    "If only we could buy more time."


    The mightiest swordsman in the province leaned over and embraced his wife.


    "Don''t worry," he spoke into her hair as he held her close, "we''ve done everything we can. Tyron will seed where we have failed. We have to believe in him. Alright?"


    Beory nodded into his chest.


    "Alright."


    They remained like that, holding each other close until the pain began to re once more. They separated then, careful that they didn''t hurt each other as they were wracked with agony. Itsted longer this time, but still they endured.


    <em>Elsewhere.</em>


    Poranus stepped away from the brand array with a grimace. Where each of his hands had been ced on the wall, two glittering sigils glowed red, nestled amongst hundreds of simr yet dim images, mocking him with their continued resistance.


    "Damn monsters," he spat.


    He shook his hands as he returned them to the long sleeves of his robes and turned away. He waspletely tapped out of magick. Again. He staggered slightly as he made his way out of the crucible, cursing under his breath.


    Those stubborn <em>pricks</em>. If they''d just hurry up and kill the brat, or better yet themselves, then he wouldn''t have to do this every day. Out in the corridor, he made his way slowly past a few doors until he stopped and mmed his fist into the next.


    "Herath! It''s your turn. Hurry up!"


    From beyond the thick wood came the sound of someone scrabbling before the door was pulled open by a disheveled mage, his messy blonde hair a clear sign he''d been asleep.


    "Already?" he gaped. "The four of you couldn''t hold on for a <em>day</em>?"


    The other Magister''s face twisted.


    "You know we were asked to increase the output, you cretin. Not all of us are blessed with stores of magick like you! How long do you think we can maintain this output? Now shut up and go do your job."


    "I haven''t even recharged fully yet," Herath grumbled as he shut the door to get dressed, leaving Poranus to steam in the corridor.


    When he finally emerged, the young mage was immactely dressed and presented, his robes fresh and his hair clearlybed. Poranus ground his teeth.


    "You made me wait so you couldb your hair?" he growled.


    Herath waved a hand.


    "One cannot administer the will of the gods without putting one''s best foot forward, wouldn''t you agree, brother?"


    The young Magister offered a short bow to his senior before he turned and wandered down the corridor on his way to the crucible. Despite the anger he felt, Poranus swallowed it and forced himself to walk further. He had one more report to make before he could rest for the night. Or at least, rest for however many hours the others could buy pouring all of their energy into those sigils.


    <em>How much more can you take, Magnin, Beory? I hope it''s me when you break</em>. <em>I want to feel you submit to the will of the gods.</em>


    It was unthinkable that they''d managed to hold on as long as they had, but every day surely brought them closer to the moment they couldn''t take any more. Then the threat would be eliminated and they could move on without this shadow hanging over their heads.


    It was clearly night, judging by the guttering torches that burned from their sconces on the walls. It had be hard to track the days over thest week. All he really knew were the chamber he rested in and the crucible, shift after shift, being woken whenever the rotation decreed it was his turn to feed all of his magick to the brand. He was drained, more irritable than usual, and liable to let his thoughts slip, something he couldn''t afford for his next appointment.


    <em>Be calm. Deep breaths. Focus your mind.</em>


    Once he reached the decorated door, nked by twisted gargoyle statues that watched him with cold, metallic eyes, he paused to gather himself before he reached out and knocked gently.


    "Enter," came a soft voice from the other side.


    With onest slow breath, he turned the handle and pulled the door open, straining a little as he did so. He was sure that was deliberate. There was no reason to have mages, with famously low strength, open such an obnoxiously heavy door unless it was on purpose. She wanted them to enter straining and sweating. He refused to show it.


    Attempting to act as nonchnt as he could, he braced his feet and guided the door to close softly rather than letting it swing shut. He''d heard one mage had let it m behind them, and the punishment they''d received curled his toes.


    "You asked me to report after my next shift, Lady Erryn, and so I am here."


    The office in which he found himself wasvish. Every furnishing, every tastefully arranged ornament, spoke of extreme wealth. Materials only found in the most perilous of rifts abounded. The mirror on the wall was edged with Dream Crystal. The rug beneath his fight glittered with emerald light of Fire Rubies. Even the desk was a statement of status, elegantly carved from the heartwood of a Soul Pine, it practically shined under the flickering light that touched it.


    Compared to the room, the woman behind the desk could be described as in, though to utter such thoughts out loud would condemn him to a painful death. Of middle age, her brown curls had lost their youthful bounce and her face had begun to show the lines of age, one would think the Lady was a healthy forty years old, but Poranus knew it to be a lie. She''d looked exactly the same for the decade that he''d known her.


    He approached the desk and carefully offered a low bow. His form was as perfect as he could manage. He held that position, bent at the waist, his hands spread wide and facing the floor as the woman behind the desk continued to work, the scratching of her pen and the crackling fire the only sounds.


    Sweat began to bead on his brow as he struggled to contain his position. He battled to restrain the slight shake in his arms as he concentrated on breathing softly as the moment dragged out by the will of the woman before him. His ire rose as each second passed and he fought against that too. He couldn''t lose his temper, that was what she wanted.


    "You may rise," came her soft voice, finally.


    He straightened slowly and saw that she was looking at him now. Her crystal blue eyes pierced him, and he was shocked again by just how cold they were. He almost felt as if he weren''t looking at a human at all.


    Unhurried, Lady Erryn ced her pen down and neatly arranged the papers on her desk before she ced her hands t on the table and spoke again.


    "You may report now, Magister Poranus."


    He nodded.


    "As requested the intensity of stimtion given through the Mark has been increased. As a consequence, we are draining our magick quicker than before and do not have enough time to replenish our reserves before we are called on again. As a result the gaps between sessions are beginning to grow longer."


    She didn''t reply, only continued to stare. He felt sweat begin to slide down his back. He firmed his tone.


    "If we are to continue then I suggest that more Mages be assigned to the task. A longer rotation will allow us to stimte the Mark for longer and bring an end to this affair all the sooner."


    No expression flickered across the face of the woman before him. It was unnerving.


    "Four Magisters unable to bring two yers to heel. Such a thing has never happened since the Ascension. If word of this matter were to spread, it may be enough for the aristocracy to question thepetence of your order. At such a critical time, are you capable enough to be the instrument of our will?"


    He couldn''t help a spike or indignation that red inside him.


    "We are agents of the Divines," he almost growled.


    Lady Erryn watched him dispassionately.


    "And they speak through the High King and those born of his court. As it has always been."


    Poranus quickly bowed his head.


    "Of course, Lady Erryn, it is as you say."


    Internally he cursed hisx tongue. How close to extermination did he want to treat this day?


    She let him stew for a time before she continued.


    "As I''m sure you''re aware, the Sterms are of particr interest to the Baron. This situation needs to be brought to a swift resolution so that we may turn our attention to other matters. I will assign two more mages to your team, Magister Poranus. Surely then you will have the capacity to humble a pair of yers who seek to rise above their station."


    <em>As if Magnin and Beory Sterm were in any way ordinary yers.</em>


    He wisely kept hisints to himself and bowed once more.


    "I thank you, Lady Erryn. With your leave?"


    She waved a hand and he nodded before he turned and left, not bothering to hide his struggle with the door. He was exhausted. Another two mages would help tremendously, but he had a sneaking suspicion it still wouldn''t be resolved quickly. Once back in his rooms, he took a shard of Arcane Crystal and ced it in his mouth before he slumped into his bed.


    A little rest would do him good.

 Chapter 41: Under Pressure

    Chapter 41: Under Pressure


    "I''m telling you kid, if I were you, I''d get the fuck out of here."


    Dove''s normally flippant manner was nowhere to be seen, reced by this grim faced man who looked as if he hadn''t rested in days. Tyron had a sense of the worsening situation by the frequency of rift-kin he was encountering in the forest, but he certainly didn''t think it was <em>this</em> bad.


    "Are you seriously suggesting there''s going to be a break?" Tyron asked.


    Something that rarely urred and no-one wanted to be close to when it did: a rift-break.


    "What is the keep doing? There was no sign of this happening as recently as a week ago!"


    The Summoner scowled.


    "If you think back, there actually might have been. The mission we took prior to your¡­ <em>experimental </em>ritual practice grounded me to town was definitely more hectic than we might normally expect. Activity around the rifts always fluctuates so we didn''t think much of it, but if the upswing started back then the timing checks out."


    "And the Keep?"


    "Look, the yer Keeps are run by the Magisters and nobody knows what those piss ants are doing at the best of times. The restriction on the number of yer teams allowed to be active around the rifts couldn''t havee at a worse time. Under normal circumstances, we would have put out a call for your parents to turn up and they would have, but we can''t even do that much right now."


    A shiver ran down Tyron''s spine.


    "Is this¡­ my fault?" he mumbled.


    "What? Of course it''s fucking not. I know you''ve got a lot of heft in your sack, kid, but don''t fool yourself into thinking that you alone can influence something like this."


    "But if I didn''t cast that ritual then would the yers have been contained the way they were? And if I weren''t a Necromancer, if I''d surrendered my ss, then my parents would be free toe and settle things. How is this not my fault?"


    The older man sighed and shook his head.


    "You didn''t choose your ss, so you aren''t responsible for it," he held up a finger, and continued to tick off his fingers as he went on, "you didn''t ouw the ss, you didn''t choose the Sterms to chase you down, you didn''t make the decision to lock down Woodsedge at a horrible timing, you didn''t refuse to allow your parents to help. The Magisters did all of those things, except for the ss picking bit, fuck knows how that happens. My point is, there''s no reason to take this load on your shoulders. As far as I can tell, you''ve been doing your bit to help out."


    He nodded toward the row of skeletons behind the young Necromancer.


    "You must have killed a few rift-kin with those bone-boys."


    Tyron''s expression became pained.


    "Please don''t call my skeletons ''bone-boys''."


    Dove rolled his eyes.


    "Fine. Seriously though, what level are you now?"


    "¡­ nine."


    "Really? You''re shooting up. Another eleven levels and you won''t be apletely useless chunk of shit."


    The scrawny mage grinned as he joked with him, but Tyron could sense it was at least a little forced. Dove was <em>tired</em>, and trying not to show it. The weight of the situation, along with the guilt that he could not shake, settled around his shoulders like a cloak.


    "It''s¡­ it''s really bad, isn''t it?"


    The smile faded from the face of the Summoner and all of a sudden he didn''t look like Dove, but a fatigued warrior with few options left.


    "Rogil nearly lost an arm when we tried to thin the monsters in the brokennds. That man has skin as hard as steel and some giant lobster looking bastard damn near cut through him in a single snip. It''ll be weeks before he can use it properly unless a silver rank miracle healer just happens to descend from the fucking heavens. I''ve been working this Nagrythyn rift for three years now and never seen anything like the kin I saw two days ago. Not even on the other side. Rogil has though. We''re his second team. He was the only survivor of his first group after the Illica rift to the west broke. ording to him, all sorts of bullshit starts to roll up when the rifts get toorge. Only Gold rank or higher can fight those pricks directly, and we don''t have any."


    A slow realisation was starting to dawn on Tyron and he did not like it.


    "You think it''s going to break, don''t you?" he said. "You don''t think they can hold it off."


    Dove looked him in the eye and slowly shook his head.


    "No," he admitted, "I don''t think they can."


    His admission hung in the air for a long moment as Tyron''s mind raced, flitting from thought to thought without settling on a single one. If it really broke, then Woodsedge was done. Unless help came quickly, the entire town, along with the Keep, would be swept off the map. He thought of Hak, and his daughter Madeline. Hard working and honest folks, dead. He thought of Rell by the side of Victory road, and his dream to be a yer, dead. He thought of Rogil, Dove, Aryll and Monica.


    The Summoner held up a hand before Tyron could speak.


    "Don''t even say it. Your thoughts are written all over your face. The teams are gathering and preparing right now for one final lunge toward the brokennds and there is no <em>fucking</em> way I''m backing out of that party. Besides the fact that my brand would sear me like a chuck steak if I tried, nobody became a yer to run <em>away</em> from danger. Most of the glory they throw on this job isplete bullshit. The adoration, the parades, I hate that. But when things get rough, people are going to die, I''m not going to turn tail and not a single yer would. If we seed, we are going to save tens of thousands of lives."


    "But you don''t think you will," Tyron pointed out softly.


    Dove grinned fiercely.


    "I intend to take as many of those fuckers down with me as I possibly can. Maybe that way a few of the weak and pathetic people, people like you, will survive. That''s what it means to be a yer, kid."


    A memory shed through his mind.


    <em>Magnin smiled brightly as he reached out to ruffle a young Tyron''s hair.</em>


    <em>"If you aren''t prepared to die, you have no business killing rift-kin, son. We put our lives on the line to protect others, that''s what it means to be a yer."</em>


    He drew a slow, ragged breath.


    "How long do you think we have?"


    The older mage shrugged.


    "It''s genuinely hard to know. We are setting off in twelve hours'' time. The fighting will probablyst a couple of days, three at the most. If we seed, you have all the time in the world; if we don''t, hopefully we manage to buy a few more days."


    He fidgeted awkwardly for a second before he stuck out his hand. Tyron stared at it for a moment.


    "You shake it," Dove told him tly.


    Tyron jumped before he extended his own and gripped the Summoner''s hand before they shook firmly.


    "I''m not good at this sort of thing," Dove coughed, "but it''s been good to meet you, kid. Your situation is pretty much the most fucked up thing I''ve ever seen, and I was happy I could help out in my own small way. Best of luck to you. And please, if you ever happen to meet a Magister face to face, kill him and raise him would you? That''d be fucking hrious."


    Tyron swallowed the lump in his throat.


    "I will," he promised.


    With a final pump of his arm, Dove let him go and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before he turned and began to walk back to town. Tyron watched him go, feeling a crushing mix of despair and guilt sloshing through his gut.


    Once the mage could no longer be seen, he ordered his skeletons to collect the supplies Dove had brought out and began the long trek back to his current camp. He had a lot to think about.


    <em>Back at the keep</em>.


    Rogil carefully flexed the fingers of his left arm, ignoring the twinges of pain he felt as he did so. The healer had done an incredible job, all things considered. He''d been seriously worried he was going to lose the limb, only to be told he''d be right as rain in a matter of weeks. A pity he didn''t have weeks to spare. The digits were mobile enough to grip the hilt of a weapon, which was good, but the upper bicep area where the arm had been reattached was far too weak to handle the strain of actually wielding one. He could fight one handed, he had in the past, but he felt like rushing headlong into a breaking rift wasn''t the time to have one arm literally tied behind his back.


    "I need to go and get a shield," he muttered to himself.


    "Ask and ye shall receive!" dered a loud voice from behind him, followed by a loud <em>thunk</em> as something was dropped behind him.


    The warrior turned to see a grinning Dove standing over a heavy steel-banded shield, hands on his hips and posing as if he''d just performed a most heroic feat.


    "Where the hell were you this afternoon?" he growled. "You know there was a meeting."


    "A meeting?" Dove recoiled in horror. "I never attend those, you know that."


    "I thought your policy might change on this asion."


    "You thought wrong. If I was at the meeting, how would I have found the time to snag this hefty shield?"


    "What if I don''t want a shield?" Rogil asked even as he wondered why he bothered.


    In response, the Summoner simply rolled his eyes before he copsed into the nearest chair.


    "Of course you don''t want one. Unfortunately your arm nearly got hacked off, so it''s useless for anything other than gripping a shield. Hence," he gestured to the shield, "that whole situation."


    Rogil sighed and gave up, settling back into his own chair and continuing to flex his fingers.


    "So¡­ how''d it all go?" Dove asked.


    His team leader turned a t stare at him.


    "If you want to know what goes on at the meetings then you should, I don''t know, attend them," Rogil grunted.


    "Your point is well made and my balls have shrunk into my torso from shame. Happy? Spill the beans already."


    "Fine. It went about as well as you''d expect. Magister Thuran chaired it and everyone cursed him and his family back for eight generations for the idiotic handling of the situation allowing it to get this bad in the first ce."


    "Let me guess, he smiled like a smug dickhead and told everyone to fuck off."


    "Basically. After telling us to deal with it he up and admitted that there was an ''emergency recall'' for all Magisters resident in the Keep and they would be returning to the capital immediately."


    "I wonder if there actually is an emergency recall, or if they just pretend so they can up and run," Dove mused.


    "Who cares," the warrior shrugged, "the result is the same, they won''t be around if things go badly."


    "Always there to start the boulder rolling downhill, never there to stop it."


    "Can we not whine about the Magisters? It''s not like I don''t agree, but I''ve been listening to those rants all day long. My arm hurts, I''m tired and I''d rather get some rest than piss and moan about things I can''t change."


    A little chagrined, Dove nodded and gestured for him to continue.


    "With that out of the way, we got to the business of nning. I''m going to assume you don''t care about the details. We go in, clear the brokennds and then go through the rifts. If we can relieve the pressure on the other side there''s a chance we can avoid a break. If we can''t, we stage a fighting retreat back to Woodsedge and try to get as many people out as we can."


    As if retreating through a rift on the verge of breaking was an easy thing to do. Anyone who went through wasn''t likely toe back and they both knew it. As he sat, Dove began to think over his career as a yer. The risks he''d taken, the triumphs and failures. He''d lost a lot of friends along the way, it was part of the job, but somehow he''d never thought that a situation like this would happen to <em>him</em>. Perhaps he was too conceited after all.


    "What''s it like?" he asked finally.


    Rogil turned to him, a brow raised.


    "When a break urs," the mage rified. "I''ve never seen one, and I''ve never asked you about it because I understand its a painful topic, but, right now I would like to know. If that''s all right."


    His leader leaned to the side and rested his chin on his right hand propped up on the arm of his chair.


    "It''s unlike you to be maudlin. You could have asked me about it anytime you know."


    "It didn''t seem appropriate."


    "Fair enough," he leaned back in his chair. "What do you want to know?"


    "I don''t know," Dove waved his hands vaguely in the air. "What happens? What sort of monsterse out? Were you close enough to see it happen? That sort of shit."


    Rogil chewed on the questions for a moment before he answered.


    "No, I wasn''t close enough to see it happen. I was only Iron rank back then, hardly front line material. My team was part of the rear guard and when everything fell apart we were quickly overwhelmed. A fighting retreat from a crumbling rift is¡­ not something I''m eager to attempt twice."


    He took a breath.


    "The rift-kin that emerge during the break are bad news Dove. I''m sure I don''t need to tell you about it, you''ve studied them at length I''m sure."


    He waited and Dove gave him a reluctant nod.


    "In terms of what happens¡­ it''s like the world just¡­ broke. Time didn''t make sense, up or down didn''t make sense, nothing made sense. I swear to god the person next to me turned inside out on the spot. The normal effects of the brokennds turned up a hundred times over. The roars of the rift-kin blowing up your ears, you can barely see straight, the ground feels like it''s melting beneath your feet¡­ I''ve never experienced anything close to it since. It''s terrifying."


    "How did you get out?" Dove asked him quietly.


    Rogil barked a harshugh.


    "Luck. And Gold ranks. We were close enough to the capital that they were able to arrive fairly quickly and throw back the worst of it. My team was dead by that point. A dayter the Sterms arrived and rolled the whole thing up inside a week."


    "I heard."


    The warrior shook his head.


    "I saw him do it. Magnin, I mean. Just for a little while I got to watch the century yer fight. Some huge furred behemoth had rumbled towards us, knocking over the trees as it went. I swear by the goddess this monster was as tall as a building. Eight metres at least. There were twenty of us there to hold it off and this guy just walks up to it and¡­" he trailed off. "I didn''t see his hands move, didn''t see his de at all. One minute the kin is standing in front of him and the next it just falls to the side, cut clean in half."


    Rogil''s eyes had unfocused as he stared into the past, recalling how he''d felt in that moment. He''d been so young. Still wounded and grieving, his emotions so raw.


    "He was like a god. I thought that if he could do that, what in this world could possibly harm him?"


    "And then you decided you''d climb the ranks, you''d be just like him and reach the pinnacle of the yers."


    He snorted.


    "What? No. I knew I''d never reach that level, no matter what. But I didn¡¯t have any other skills and there were expenses. Funerals for my team members, making sure their families were looked after."


    "Family, huh? You know, it''s times like this I wish I''d gotten married."


    "Dove, you would be the world''s worst husband. There can be no question of this."


    "Ouch."


    "And it''s precisely because of times like this that I never married."


    "Good point."

 Chapter 42: Preparations

    Chapter 42: Preparations


    Mind awash with conflicting emotions, there was only one thing Tyron could do to distract himself and he threw himself into it wholeheartedly. The thought that he might be responsible, even partially, for the potential disaster that was unfolding right in front of him was enough to drive him to absurd efforts. With his skeletal army in tow he rampaged through the woods, fighting every rift-kin he could find, and lost two minions before he woke up to himself.


    No matter how many of these lesser monsters he killed it would have no impact on the yers'' mission to stop the break. All he was doing was wasting his energy and getting his minions killed. Frustrated and cursing his own stupidity, Tyron grouped his forces, gathered the weapons from his fallen skeletons and began to retreat back to his current hiding ce.


    When his group moved more slowly and without looking for trouble, they didn''t find many more rift-kin on the way out. Tyron took the time to harvest them, checking for cores and pocketing a few before moving on.


    When they eventually returned to the abandoned cabin, Tyron had his skeletons put down the supplies Dove had provided and began to sort through the packs. Organising the food, water and various other niceties that the Summoner had provided, including a change of underpants.


    "How did he even guess the size?" Tyron wondered aloud before deciding he''d rather not know.


    Sorting the contents of the packs wasn''t enough to distract him for long and once it was done, Tyron turned to the next task. He felt a need to keep himself upied, to not let thoughts of the impending chaos enter his mind. He''d lost two minions, now he needed two more. Thankfully, he''d been constantly gathering remains over thest few days as he''d hunted so he still had bones to draw from.


    He poured all of his focus into preparing and raising histest two minions, even going so far as to rework and test several passages of the spell. He hadn''t had much time to study the ritual he''d received from his Anathema feat, but the inkling he''d received from the Unseen was enough to give him ideas he could use for modifying Raise Dead.


    After six hours of painstaking work, his new minions were ready. The skeletons stood alongside the others, eyes burning with purple fire. Finally done with the preparations and rituals, Tyron copsed onto his nkets, exhausted. It waste evening now, the sun falling low over the forest as the ever increasing numbers of rift-kin swarmed through the woods.


    "Damn it all," he growled to himself before he cast Sleep, dragging his consciousness under.


    When he woke, he ate, drank water to refresh himself before he considered his options.


    It wasn''t quite morning, the yers would be preparing their expedition at this very moment. Soon they''d emerge from the keep and advance directly onto the rifts. Tyron knew enough to understand that they''d likely seed at clearing the brokennds, but once they entered the rift¡­


    Fighting the monsters here in the forest was one thing, going to Nagrythyn was another entirely. It would be a one way trip and all of them knew it.


    <em>Is there really nothing I can do to help?</em>


    Tyron wracked his brain to find a solution, even allowing himself to explore wild, dangerous possibilities. Could he allow an Abyssal to cross over during Pierce the Veil? It would almost definitely kill him, and even if it didn''t, he would have no control over the creature. It would be just as dangerous to the yers as the rift-kin, perhaps more so. If he was able to level up Anathema he could learn another ritual, one that contacted a different group of his ''sponsors''. Perhaps the Dark Ones or the Red Court would be able to help in some way?


    Or they''d try and invade his mind or kill him in some other, brutal fashion. After his experience with the abyss, Tyron didn''t have a lot of trust left for the three entities responsible for his sub-ss.


    Outside of appealing to these barely understood, powerful forces, he had no way of being able to prevent disaster from urring. With seven minions he could continue to hunt packs of small fry or lone medium sized kin, but anything more than that was well outside of his capabilities. In truth, he should leave. This ce was already bing too dangerous. The stronger monsters were bing moremon every day and the odds of him encountering something he couldn''t handle rose higher every day.


    Dove had told him to go.


    It was the right move. If the break <em>did</em> happen, this entire area would be flooded with rift-kin. Woodsedge would be overrun in hours and the forest not far behind. Remaining here was out of the question, yet some part of him just refused to let it go. Despite the assurances Dove had given him, he couldn''t help but feel responsible. The restrictions ced on yers, his fault. The fact his parents weren''t avable to help, his fault.


    If he turned himself in, Magnin and Beory would immediately be free toe and help. When he thought of all the people who would be saved if he were to do so, his heart ached.


    It was the right thing to do, wasn''t it? What right did he have to save himself when he could sacrifice himself to preserve others? Ultimately, isn''t that what he''d wanted to do in the first ce? He''d run away in order to fight rift-kin, save people and be admired, just as his parents were, for defending others. If he turned himself in, wouldn''t he achieve all of his goals?


    Tyron rolled the same thoughts around in his mind over and over, trying to think of an optimal solution, but no matter what he did, doubts gued him.


    If he turned himself in, would his mother and father even make it in time to save the people here? Would his give his life for nothing? In which case, was it better for him to be selfish, run, and try to help in other ways when he''d grown stronger? The more he thought on it, the more tangled his thoughts became. Could he justify running away if there was even a chance that the people would be saved? There wasn''t, surely. There couldn''t be. And yet¡­


    Deep inside himself, where the secret thoughts dwelt, the ones that were so rarely taken out and examined in the light it was easy for a person to forget that they existed, he knew he couldn''t do it. What did he yearn for? What was the <em>real</em> reason he''d run away and devoted himself to raising his Necromancy ss?


    He''d lived in the shadow of his parents all his life. Whenever someone looked at him, it was Magnin and Beory that they saw. Tyron <em>refused</em> to live like that. Until he had risen as high as he could, until he had reached their level or <em>surpassed</em> it, he couldn''t rest. <em>That </em>was his ambition. That was what drove him even now. If he surrendered to the marshals, allowed himself to be executed, there was a chance that the people would be saved. But he couldn¡¯t allow it. How could he die with all of his things that he wanted still out of reach?


    His back pressed against the wall of the cabin, Tyron curled his fingers as he stared down at the digits. Not so long ago they had been clean and soft, the only mark a callous he''d developed from holding a pen for too long. Now they were stained with dirt, the skin rough and cracked. A person could change a lot in a few weeks, his hands proved it.


    <em>I''m such a selfish bastard</em>.


    He hung his head and felt a storm of guilt boil in his gut. He wouldn''t surrender. He couldn''t. But he would do what he could to help.


    <em>I''ve only got a few days until the expedition to the rift either seeds or fails. Between now and then, what can I do? Every rift-kin I kill will be one that doesn''t have to be foughtter if a break urs. If the yers fail, then they''ll try to fall back to the keep, and I can help them then. But I need to be stronger or I''ll just be swept aside.</em>


    With a clear purpose in mind, Tyron rose to his feet. Did he feel happy with his decisions? No. But he would live with them. With a mentalmand he summoned his skeletons, still seven strong, to his side as he strode from the cabin. If he was able to y enough rift-kin, then he would reach level ten in Necromancer, a boost that would enable him to manage more servants and select another feat. It wouldn''t be enough for him to suddenly sweep the monsters around the rift clear, not even remotely close, but it would enable him to be more than he currently could.


    Perhaps enough to find redemption.


    "Let''s go," he ordered his minions as he strode forth.


    <em>Don''t talk to the minions, idiot.</em>


    Six hourster, he returned to the cabin, exhausted, drained of magick and wounded. He issued silentmands to his remaining skeletons and they followed them in the mindless way in which they did everything. Weapons were arranged leaning against the side of the cabin, hilts on the ground to keep the des out of the damp soil. Two skeletons unloaded armfuls of bones onto the cleared floor within the cabin itself. Enough for him to replenish his skeletons, and add several more. If he were able to increase his level, then hopefully Tyron could manage up to nine skeletons. If each of his minions were as good as he could make them, then perhaps he''d be able to manage ten, but sadly, that wasn''t the case.


    Nine would have to be enough. He wanted to sleep, it was always a good idea to perform the ritual with a rested and calm mind, but Tyron didn''t dare wait. He didn''t intend to rest. He would perform the ritual, raise his new minions, and get back out there. There were so many monsters leaking from the rift that the woods were crawling with them. He''d lost multiple skeletons in fights againstrger kin, able to slice through his clumsy minions if he didn''t manage them carefully. He''d been forced to resort to using suppress mind more than he''d like; pitting himself in battles of will against the minor creatures had been easy, but these hadn''t been pushovers.


    Which had exposed a significant weakness in the spell. Once cast, Tyron locked himself and the target into mentalbat as he attempted to crush their will, but they could do the same to him. If he were to attempt it against something with a stronger mind than he had, he shuddered to think of the consequences. A lesson learned.


    Tyron retrieved his notebook, tore free a page and quickly enacted the ritual, watching as his blood spread across the page before forming letters. When the process was done he leaned forward eagerly to read.


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>Your attempts at Sneak have increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>Dismembering remains has increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>Your sad attempts to prepare food have increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>Use of the Magick Bolt spell against a living creature has increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>Your creation of new undead has increased proficiency. <strong>Raise Dead has reached level 4.</strong></em>


    <em>Dominating the minds of those weaker has increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>Use of the Bone Stitching technique has increased your proficiency. <strong>Bone Stitching has reached level 4.</strong></em>


    <em>Your use and study of Death Magick has increased your proficiency. <strong>Death Magick has reached level 3.</strong></em>


    <em>You have raised minions and they have fought on your behalf. <strong>Necromancer has reached level 10. You have received +2 Intelligence, +1 Wisdom, +1 Constitution and +1 Maniption. At this level you may choose a Feat.</strong></em>


    <em>Your patrons revel in your selfish decision to preserve yourself at the expense of others. The Court desire that you make contact. <strong>Anathema has reached level 6. You have received +2 Intelligence, +2 Willpower, +2 Constitution. At this level you may choose a ss ability.</strong></em>


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 11)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Necromancer (Level 10).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ol><li>Anathema (Level 6).</li><li>None</li><li>None (Locked)</li></ol>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    34


    Intelligence:


    47


    Wisdom:


    24


    Willpower:


    32


    Charisma:


    13


    Maniption:


    19


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 4)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 1)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 3)


    Skill Selections Avable: 1


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 3)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 3)


    Death Magick (Level 3)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 4)


    Magick Bolt (Level 4)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 3)


    Bone Stitching (Level 4)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 1)


    Shivering Curse (Level 1)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 4)


    Suppress Mind (Level 3)


    Repository (Level 1)


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    <em></em>


    <em>Necromancer level 10. Choose an additional Spell:</em>


    <em>Shorten Raise Dead - A modified version of Raise Dead that is quicker to cast.</em>


    <em>Bewildering Curse - Disorient and confuse those affected.</em>


    <em>Death des - Temporarily grant your minions Death Magick attuned weapons.</em>


    <em>Flesh Mending - Repair dead flesh.</em>


    <em>Please choose an additional Skill:</em>


    <em>Flesh Crafting - Mould flesh as y.</em>


    <em>Empower Servant - Feed mana to your minions.</em>


    <em>Anathema level 6. Choose an additional Spell:</em>


    <em>Dark Communion - Beg intercession from the Dark Ones.</em>


    <em>Appeal to the Court - Attempt tomune with the Scarlett Court.</em>


    <em>Air of Menace - Surround oneself in a dread aura.</em>


    <em>Pain - Inflict the target with severe pain.</em>


    <em>Fear - Inflict the target with fear.</em>


    <em>Anathema level 6. Choose an additional Spell:</em>


    <em>Dark Communion - Beg intercession from the Dark Ones.</em>


    <em>Appeal to the Court - Attempt tomune with the Scarlet Court.</em>


    <em>Air of Menace - Surround oneself in a dread aura.</em>


    <em>Pain - Inflict the target with severe pain.</em>


    <em>Fear - Inflict the target with fear.</em>


    When he''d reached level eight in Necromancer, Tyron had been given the choice between two curses, one that slowed those affected, the Shivering Curse, or one that disoriented them, the Bewildering Curse. Against the rift-kin he''d felt it would be far more beneficial if he could slow them down to allow his skeletons topete on a more level field. The only issue was the amount of magick the curse demanded to cast. The greatest bottleneck that he experienced continued to be the raw amount of magick he could hold; no matter how much he gained it never seemed to be enough.


    Two new skills were offered for level ten. From the ss manuals he''d studied he knew that level ten abilities were often foundational to a particr ss. Despite his high hopes, the new abilities did not match his expectations. Flesh Crafting, a skill that no doubt rted to the creation of zombies. From context, he could imagine it would allow him to ''sculpt'' the unliving flesh of his creations to createrger, or more threatening zombies. Despite the possibilities, he had no intention of straying from his earlier decision to concentrate on skeletons. This option was out.


    The second, a faster cast for Raise Dead, was interesting, but not game changing. For one, he could possibly arrive at such a ritual himself, given enough time and experimentation. He''d already modified the original version of the spell significantly and that was without any help. In addition, although it would be convenient to create minions faster, currently the bulk of the time creating his servants wasn''t in the ritual itself, that only took an hour. Perhaps if he chose this spell and mastered it he would be able toplete the spell in minutes, but that didn''t interest him. He would happily take the extra time to create a superior servant.


    He selected Death des for his ability and ced a mark next to it with his thumb. Now for the Feats.


    Magick Battery I and Efficient Minions I were both tempting choices for this reason. With a boost to the amount of Arcane energy at his disposal, his options would be greatly expanded. Even so, he was still inclined to choose Skeleton Focus II. Having stronger minions was never the wrong choice; they were the foundation of his ss after all. As long as he continued to gain experience, then he would continue to increase the amount of magick he could hold, but nothing could rece the added strength the Unseen granted his skeletons through the focus feat.


    Then the Anathema choice. The message from the Court was concerning, and perhaps there would be repercussions if he didn''t choose Appeal to the Court and use it, but in this moment he hardly cared. He wanted to try and help the yers escape if their attack on the rift failed, not risk his life calling on powers he didn''t understand. Besides, he could select both of the unknown rituals through a feat if he really wanted to. That left Air of Menace, which he wasn''t interested in at all, or the two new options, Pain and Fear.


    Pain¡­ was horrific and Tyron passed over it immediately. Fear he could tolerate.


    With little time to consider everything as well as he should, Tyron marked Skeleton Focus II and Fear before he ended the ritual. Immediately the changes took ce and he endured it silently until the process was finished, then rose and moved straight to the remains his skeletons had carried back. He had work to do.

 Chapter 43: Breaking

    Chapter 43: Breaking


    It took long hours of work for Tyron to prepare his minions, not nearly as long as he would have liked. He could almost imagine what it would be like for a new Necromancer trying to learn in an environment in which they weren''t persecuted. Taking the time to practice each technique, not having to rush each step. He could happily spend a week just testing different methods for infusing magick into the bones, or stitching a skeleton and then dissolving the threads in order to try it again.


    What would he give for that sort of rxed pace, where he could research and take his time puzzling out each and every step of the process, pushing his spells and skills to ten before he even approached level twenty in his ss. Perhaps even taking the time to pick up a sub-ss that suited him, blending the two together to create something greater than the sum of its parts. If all had gone ording to the ns he''d envisioned before the awakening, he''d be doing that right now. Holed up in a wizard academy, practicing magick and preparing his path through to level eighty where he''d join the elite of the elite, like Magnin and Beory.


    He had none of that. Instead, he did the best he could, intricately weaving the bones together, forming the sinews and joints necessary for the creature to move using threads of pure magick. His understanding of the technique had improved yet again, an achievement acknowledged by the Unseen, and he felt that gain as he worked. When he remembered how difficult it had been when he wove his first skeleton, the number of times he''d fumbled and had to redo his work. Thinking back, it was almost a miracle the final creation had been able to move at all. The joints had been sloppy, the threads not aligned correctly, the muscture misshapen at best and just in wrong at worst.


    Compare that to now, he couldpetently weave together aplete skeleton without having to stop once. He methodically moved from bone to bone, joint to joint, starting with the left leg, then the right, pulling together the ankles, toes and knees. These were criticalponents of the finished weave; if the legs weren''t done correctly, the skeleton would quickly fall apart or be crushed inbat due to being unbnced or too slow. The knees in particr needed a thorough job, bearing the weight as they did.


    With the legs done, he moved to the waist and chest before moving to the spine. The spine was by far the most tedious section to work on; each of the small bones needed to be carefully slotted against the next with incredibly fine, yet uplicated thread-work required to allow the bones to flex as they needed to. Finally the skull, strangely enough the simplest of all toplete. It made sense when one thought about it; the facial muscles needed for expressions, eating or speaking werepletely unnecessary for his minions. Very little work was done around the jaw, the most time was spent at the base of the skull where it connected to the spine.


    Once the weaving was done, he began to inspect and infuse the bones as best he could. Using an unformed cloud of arcane energy to slide along the bones, searching for imperfections and leaks before plugging them as best he could. Once that task was done, he worked to infuse the remains with as much Death Magick as he could. In ideal circumstances, he''d happily spend a week on this stage, attempting different approaches and attempting to bring things to an ideal state. Even just leaving the bones next to each other over time would allow them to foster that strange exchange of magick he''d observed in the past.


    He still didn''t know if that process continued after they were raised, something he''d love to look into if he ever had the time. As things stood, he didn''t have the time to do anything other than raise minions and fight.


    Pouring over four sets of bones in this way was time consuming and mentally draining. If he hadn''t maxed his concentration, he doubted he''d be able to focus for this length of time. It was grueling, detail oriented work, but he grit his teeth and pushed through it until finally it was done. The only step left was to cast Raise Dead four consecutive times to have his fourtest minions ready to go. He took a short break to regenerate his magick, put something in his stomach and gather his energy before heunched himself into it.


    Just like with his stitching skills, his ability to cast Raise Dead had improved dramatically since that first attempt. He was so much morefortable with the rhythms of the spell, the gestures and intonations required to shape the arcane energy into the necessary forms. In many ways the spell he cast now didn''t resemble that he had used the first time at all. Phrases had been changed, the order modified, certain sections were abridged where others had been expanded. With the aid of his ritual focus, the flow of energy was smooth and uninterrupted, pouring into the bones as he created each of the elements necessary to form a functioning undead.


    To cast four in a row unaided was too much, even for his greatly expanded pool of magick, and after the third he needed to draw on his dwindling supply of mage candy to produce the energy required. With the fourth castplete, Tyron had been working for eight hours straight, but he refused to rest. With histest advancement, these four skeletons represented the pinnacle of his achievement once again, the only four to benefit from the additional aid of the Unseen provided by his second Feat. He hated that the strength of his minions was so unbnced. If possible he''d prefer to raise entirely new skeletons, erasing the old to make way for the new, but he couldn''t afford such waste.


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    Tyron rose and exited the cabin, quickly summoning all nine of his minions to his side. Soon he had distributed the arms he had avable across each of them and it was time to leave. He''d recovered a second shield the previous day and he made sure two of histest creations wielded them. They were by far the most nimble, and the most durable of his skeletons, if any of them were going to take hits, he wanted it to be them. He tapped his pocket in which he kept a small stash of Arcane Crystal. He needed to push hard over the next twenty four hours, the yers would have already reached the rift by this time. If he was going to be of any use at all, he needed to get there quickly and do his bit to remove the monsters in the area.


    It wasn''t much, but it was all he could hope to do.


    He set off at a brisk pace and was pleased to note that the nine skeletons by his side drained his magick slower than he''d expected. It was unknown why, perhaps the second Skeleton Focus Feat reduced the cost to maintain his skeletons more than he''d expected, or his growing skill had made the process of feeding them energy more efficient. Whatever the reason, he was happy for it. It turned out he could have supported ten after all, but he didn''t regret theck of the additional minion. With the spare magick, he could utilise his other spells and begin to level them finally. It was likely that being able to cast Suppress Mind more often, or make use of his new curse, would help keep his skeletons alive more than having one more to fight with.


    Resolved to do what he could, Tyron marched forth, the silent forms of the undead arrayed around him.


    <em>In the brokennds.</em>


    In Dove''s opinion, it was a beautiful thing when yers worked together. Competitors most of the time, fighting over missions, hoarding resources and attempting to rank up before the others, cooperation wasn''t amon thing amongst their profession. Yet when it really came down to it, he liked to think that every yer knew they could count on the others to have their back. And when shit <em>really</em> hit the fan, when things were grim, they would pull together and beat the ever living fuck out of whatever they needed to or die trying.


    It was almost enough to make him feel sentimental.


    "Dove, would you stop pissing about and get your bony backside in the fight?" Monica growled at him, all trace of her usual decorum abandoned.


    "Monica?" he gasped. "To think I would hear such appallingnguage from you, when others are around to hear what you say?"


    She grunted and hurled another ball of fire toward the frontline.


    "I''ll be dead by the end of the day, reputation hardly matters now."


    "Tut-tut. Can''t have that defeatist talk here. We''ll seed! Victory is practically guaranteed! I can sense it in my left nut."


    A mixture of confusion and revulsion passed over his friend''s face as she processed his words.


    "Why the left?" she finally asked.


    Dove grinned and held up a finger.


    "Why, the left can see the future, of course, whilst the right can peer into the past."


    "And your dick can split the present. We get it. Now throw some spells or I''ll burn you to a crisp like I should have done the day I met you."


    Disappointed at being robbed of his punchline, Dove pouted before he began to move his hands and stir the arcane within him.


    "I was waiting for my magick to replenish, if you must know. Summoning takes a lot out of me, as well you know."


    "Fine, now put your sub-ss to use and throw fire at something."


    It had been a mistake to branch intobat magick with his third sub-ss. The stats were great and the additional firepower made him useful in a lot more situations, but he hated never having any down time. If he wasn''t managing his summons, he was expected to be hurling fire and ice around like a brainless iron rank on their first expedition.


    Words of power rolled from his mouth as his hands wove through the air and in moments a ball of me had appeared in the air before him. It grew hotter and brighter over several seconds before he thrust his palms forward and the me rocketed away, arcing over the top of the warriors in front to detonate amidst the mass of monsters beyond.


    "You know this would be a great opportunity to snag a few levels under normal circumstances," he called across to Monica. "Myck of aim isn''t particrly relevant in these conditions."


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    "Shut the fuck up and cast!" she hollered back.


    The noise from the battle rose and fell as spells and skills were unleashed with devastating effect. Light shed, creatures roared and hissed and battle cries rang out again and again as the massed yers pushed forward into the brokennds. The noise drew the rift-kin like a me drew moths and they poured out of the woods to descend on the humans, hissing and shrieking with rage. Cold eyed yers braced their shields, readied their weapons and shed out, cutting down swathes of the creatures but suffering wounds in turn.


    In the centre of the line and the thickest fighting stood the silver ranked yers, those above level forty in their main ss, who stood toe to toe with thergest and most vicious foes. The creatures of Nagrythyn were twisted insectoid monsters of chitin and warped flesh and now Dove saw beasts he''d never encountered, not even on the other side of the rift. Hulking bruisers the size of a house with shells as thick as a man roared and thrashed amidst the masses of smaller creatures. They could only be felled when multiple yers pushed forward to surround them, avoiding their deadly des and razor pointed teeth to carve away at the thick armour piece by piece before finally inflicting fatal damage.


    The cores of these monsters would be worth a ton of money, enough to pay for the living of every yer here for a year, especially if they were able to harvest and sell the chitin, but this wasn''t a venture for money. This wasn''t even the fight for survival, that was still toe, this battle only served to gain ess to the rift. The fight raged for hours as Dove continued to empty the magick he held throwing spells or calling on his contracts. Each of every summon he had avable was drawn out until the energy that formed the creature''s body on this ne was dispersed through damage and they returned to the astral, when he would begin to draw out the next.


    By the time the battle ended, all ten of his summons were exhausted and his reserves of magick werepletely dry. With a grimace, the mage pulled a shard of candy from his travel bag and stuck it in his mouth, an action repeated by dozens of mages along the line.


    Almost twelve hundred yers had joined the expedition to the brokennds, and looking around Dove believed it was likely they had already lost a portion of them. As hard as they tried, an Iron rank not yet level twenty was always going to be of limited use in a ce like this. Still, he saluted their courage. They had volunteered toe despite the risks. They were heroes in his eyes.


    "Dove! Get up here and take a look at this."


    Rogil''s voice rose over the tter of ongoing fighting and Dove walked towards the source of the sound where he found his friend, dripping sweat, a haggard look on his face as he stared out over the rifts.


    "By the munificent melons of the goddess, you look like shit."


    "It''s the arm," Rogil grunted. "Nearly ripped off again. Hurts like hell."


    "I bet."


    He wished he could do something, but he couldn''t, and Rogil knew nothing could be done, so they moved on.


    "What do you need?" Dove asked, unusually business-like.


    "We don¡¯t have any pure dimension mages so I wanted you to take a look at the rift. Is it stable enough for us to get through?"


    "It''s too stable, that''s the damn problem."


    The fighting hadn''t stopped, but had died down. All the rift-kin who had flooded through into this world within the brokennds had been destroyed, but there were more breaking through all the time. As they appeared, the yers took turns defeating them as the others rested and gathered their strength for the true test toe.


    Dove brought his hands up and activated his magick sight. What he saw was almost blinding, but he endured it for several long seconds as he studied the rift.


    "It''s stabilising quickly. Too quickly. We can get through, no problem, even this many. Fuck, we could have taken twice as many."


    "We didn''t have twice as many to bring," Rogil spat.


    Dove was silent and his team leader nced at him. The mage was unusually shaken, his face pale as sweat beaded on his brow.


    "What is it, Dove?" he asked.


    The summoner twitched before he looked to his friend.


    "Oh. I''ve just¡­ never seen it so close before. Nagrythyn, I mean."


    "Got a good glimpse did you? That''s what happens during a break. You know more about it than I do."


    Dove swallowed.


    "Didn''t expect to fucking see it though, did I?" he muttered, a touch of his sarcastic tone returning, "not from <em>this</em> side of the rift."


    Two realms that should never touch were drawing closer as the rift continued to stabilise. A break wasn''t caused by the rift being destroyed, or shattering in any way, it was caused by the two sidesing into contact. When it happened, Nagrythyn would ovep their own world within the range of the brokennds. In a way, the rift would cease to exist at all, and anything that walked on that cursed realm would be free to escape, to rampage in a ce that had yet to fall.


    "Alright, we can''t wait any longer. Time to push through."


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    Rogil gathered the other silver rank team captains and they organised the gathered yers. After a few minutes to regroup, they stepped through the rift and found themselves standing inside another realm. Dove looked up at the familiar sight of the acid green skies of Nagrythyn. Though this time they boiled with a fric energy he had never witnessed before.


    All around them rift-kin snarled and hissed as the yers began to fight their way through the monsters.


    But their numbers were endless, and in the distance the true behemoths approached, the ground shaking under their weight.


    Dove crunched the crystal in his mouth between his teeth and hissed as the raw magick flooded into his body. He raised his hands and began to cast.


    "Let''s fucking dance you pricks."

 Chapter 44: When Worlds Collide

    Chapter 44: When Worlds Collide


    He''d been foolish toe here, so close to the brokennds. Tyron blinked and rubbed his eyes as he breathed slowly to still his heart. Sweat dripped from his forehead and his skin felt caked in dirt. His clothes certainly were.


    He could feel the warping effect of the brokennds beginning on the edge of his senses. If he moved a hundred metres further north, he''d cross the threshold and be in the midst of it, but he didn''t dare.


    Despite the fact that an army of yers had swept through the area and ughtered everything they could, despite the fact that they''d crossed to the other side and were preventing new rift-kin from appearing, he was still under immense pressure.


    He crunched down on the arcane crystal in his mouth and swallowed the flood of magick that it contained. His hands rose and flicked from sigil to sigil as he spoke the words of power, forming a spell with speed.


    <em>Death des</em>.


    The energy flooded from his body and twisted through the air in dark trails before it infused itself into the weapons his skeletons held. Thankfully, despite the name, it didn''t matter if his minions were not in fact armed with des, the spell worked just as well on a mace or spear. His nine minions struck with renewed vigour, the additional bite provided by the spell helping to drive the surrounding monsters back and give his less nimble skeletons some breathing room.


    Along with himself.


    Tyron grimaced but didn''t hesitate to pull another shard of mage candy from his pocket and throw it into his mouth as he began yet another magick hungry spell. Combined with the constant drain maintaining his minions ced on him, repeated casts were driving him right to the brink, but he had little choice.


    Trusting in his skeletons to protect him, he closed his eyes briefly and concentrated before he began to speak once again. Another unfamiliar magick, another situation in which he had little choice but to go for it. The words of the curse were unfamiliar to him, nothing like what he''d studied in the past. When he had the time¡­


    <em>You''ll never have free time again for the rest of your life at this rate!</em>


    No, he would! He was excited to map out and develop his understanding of this new field of magick. Curious enough that he was tempted to select the Bewildering curse just to expand his vocabry.


    His hands swept through the air and at the critical moment he crunched down on the crystal again as a flood of power rushed out of him, forming a dark, glittering miasma that hugged the ground around him. ck mist littered with kes of ice expanded in a circle around him, passing around the ankles of his skeletons without effect, but clinging to the rift-kin it touched.


    As he watched the curse take effect, the mist appeared to seep into every monster it touched, visibly slowing them, which further helped to decrease the gap between the kin and his minions. No longer outssed in speed, and able to cut through the chitin exteriors of their foes, the skeletons began to make progress defeating the press of monsters around them.


    Exhausted, his throat hoarse, Tyron once again rubbed his eyes as he surveyed the skirmish around him. Information constantly flowed into his mind from his minions but he left them to fight without his direction. As fatigued as he was, trying to direct them would likely make them perform worse. Was there anything more he could do to help?


    He kept his eyes open as the melee continued to swirl around him, looking for a chance to hurl a magick bolt or apply Suppress Mind. He felt nausea rising, the sickly feeling of magick poisoning began to leech through his body and he decided to refrain. Unless one of his skeletons needed him to intervene in order to save it then he wouldn''t push. He needed to conserve his energy as much as possible.


    As he watched his skeletons fight, cutting down smaller rift-kin and grouping up to tackle therger ones, Tyron once again confronted the thought that it was a mistake for him toe here. There were too many rift-kin and they were too strong for his minions to deal with.


    If he hadn''t chewed on thest of his mage candy and used his new spells, he may well have died here, unable to escape after his skeletons had fallen. As it was, they were winning the fight, but not without some cost. His minions were sustaining damage which he had no means to repair. He wanted to stay and help the yers retreat, but if he had to keep fighting much longer, he would lose all his servants and exhaust his magickpletely.


    At that point, the yers would need to rescue <em>him</em>, which they were unlikely to do during a fighting retreat.


    Over the next few minutes, he watched anxiously as his minions continued the battle until atst the rift-kin were defeated. He hadn''t lost a single skeleton, though all of them bore cracked bones and other damage.


    <em>I''d better get a bone repair Skill soon. Can do whatever I want with flesh apparently, but no help for bones.</em>


    Clearly the Unseen was showing its bias. Or more likely, since skeletons were stronger minions, he needed to be a higher level before he would get more choices rted to them.


    Too tired to even bother trying to salvage cores from the fallen monsters, Tyron gathered his undead close around himself and tried to take stock of the situation. He was almost tapped out of energy. He was likely to suffer the aftereffects of over using crystal soon, and his skeletons were weakened.


    It would take him an hour, possibly longer, to recover his magick, and that was if his skeletons remained still, minimising their draw on his reserves. Here, on the edges of the rift where the rift-kin still roamed in numbers, there was no chance he would get a quiet hour to himself.


    He knew what he should do. He should retreat, return to the cabin, pack his things and do what Dove had told him. If he started now, there was a chance he could stay ahead of the danger. Southwest, he could hug the mountains and take refuge in the ruralmunities there. From what he knew, those were hardy, frontier folk,rgely independent from the machinations of the province. With a little luck, they may not have heard about a rogue necromancer at all.


    When the rift-kin swept through, they would torch thousands of square kilometres ofnd, but likely wouldn''t climb into the foothills. They''d follow thend to the east, into the soft underbelly where the farmingmunities of the province plied their trade. There were a dozen Foxbridges and hundreds of smaller viges, between Woodsedge and the capital, Kenmor.


    Bile churned in his gut. Despite his best efforts, Tyron had failed to purge the guilt that had gued him since his conversation with Dove. The Summoner told him that none of this was his fault, that he should run and hide until everything blew over. But could he really do that? Was he capable of turning his back on this unfolding tragedy, walking away and leaving people to their fate? No matter how he tried, he couldn''t shake the usation he levelled at himself, that none of this would be happening without his involvement. If he hadn¡¯t taken the actions that he had, if he hadn''t refused to turn himself in, all of those people, tens of thousands of them, would be safe.


    The more he thought on it, the more twisted and confused his feelings became. His desire to do the right thing warred with his urge for self-preservation. Complicating things further, he had no real clue as to what the right thing might be. He was caught in a bind, where he desperately wished he could do something to help, but was incapable of epting that he was too powerless to do so. The result left him frozen in ce, wanting to step forward despite knowing he had to turn back.


    As he stood, frozen with indecision, his eyes locked on the twisting, roiling sky over the brokennds, his decision was made for him.


    A deep groan rumbled outwards from the rift, growing in volume until it felt as if the air around him had begun to vibrate. Shocked out of his thoughts, Tyron looked up to see something he had never imagined. Another world was descending.


    This close to the brokennds, the trees of the forest grew thin, but even from further away he still could have seen it. The image was ghostly, an apparition, but beginning to ovey the storm above was a different horizon, one from a shattered world with a burning sky. As if thend itself were a bass drum struck by the hand of god, the ground beneath his feet had begun to shake. The trees around him shook, the whisper of shifting leaves rising to a deafening roar. He crouched instinctively as he looked up with horror at the apparition thickening before his eyes.


    <em>The break? Now? It can''t be! It''s much too soon!</em>


    Dove had told him there would be two days after the expedition failed. There should still be time. Then again, Tyron didn''t know what a break actually looked like, he hadn''t seen one before after all. Was this a sign it was happening right now, or that it soon would?


    He was forced to crouch to maintain his bnce as the world continued to shake around him and he ordered his servants to do the same. He could distantly hear the crack of wood as trees in the forest began to topple over but even that cmitous noise couldn''tpare with the sound of Nagrythyn approaching.


    <em>Run!</em>


    Confronted with this world shaking event there was nothing he could do. After all, who was he? A lone level ten yer with no training and no experience. He couldn''t make a difference here and he was an idiot to think he could. He tried to turn and run, but quickly stumbled. The ground was shaking far too much for him to stay on his feet. Even his skeletons were having trouble, several having fallen and pushing themselves off the ground with their bony limbs as they attempted to rise.


    If the shaking was this bad now, what would happen when the break itself urred? Tyron had a growing fear that when that happened, being this close to the epicentre, the impact itself would kill him, let alone the kin that would flood from the rift afterwards.


    "Dammit legs, move!" he growled to himself as he forced himself to rise.


    One shaking step at a time he began to move back to the forest. He didn''t dare nce back for fear of what he might see. Two skies ovepping, two furious, unnatural storms urring at once was a dizzying and terrifying sight. If it got any worse, he might just freeze in ce. He might not get far, but he had to get any distance that he could.


    <em>I''m such an idiot. Why am I even here? </em>he admonished himself.


    There was nothing to gain from regret. He would make his way back to the cabin, gather his few supplies and escape. He would survive! He refused to fall here and now.


    An ear-splitting crack exploded from behind along with a blinding sh of light that illuminated the trees all around despite the boiling clouds overhead. Tyron flinched as stabbing pain prated his ears, but he grit his teeth and kept walking without looking back, desperately trying to keep his feet. Then, he heard a roar, dimly, but it caused him to stop in his tracks. Was that a human? He halted his steps, stumbling as the ground continued to shift beneath him and waited. There, it came again, and that ringing sound, the sh of weapons?


    Softly, but growing louder each moment, detonations, war cries, weapons colliding. The yers had returned!


    Wide eyed, Tyron turned. He couldn''t see anything at first, but then shapes began to appear in the distance, rushing out of the brokennds in small packs, weaving between the trees as they fought a running battle. There he stood, surrounded by skeletons, the ethereal light of undeath burning in their eyes as the yers bore down on his position. He was to the south of the rift after all, they''d have to pass through where he stood to make it back to Woodsedge!


    He''de here determined to help, knowing it would reveal him, but now that the moment hade, he didn''t know how to react. Again he wondered just what he''d been thinking when he''d decided to do this, on how many levels could he fail to think logically?


    The first yer to notice him was a woman he didn''t recognise. Her armour, crafted from harvest chitin, was cracked in multiple ces and she bled from numerous cuts in her arms. In her hands she wielded a two handed axe, the edge glowed bright, enchanted in some way. Her eyes were weary beyond belief, but in the instant their gaze met he felt her burning desire to survive shock through him like a lightning bolt. In an instant her eyes flickered from him to his minions, then she drew breath.


    "Run for it, idiot!" she barked, not slowing for a moment. "They''reing!"


    Despite the quaking earth, she ran with ease, blowing past him in just a few seconds as she continued to shout and rally the yers around her. More of them came, rushing to safety as he began to see the vague outlines of rift-kin appearing from the mist.


    "Get off your ass!"


    "Run, moron!"


    "Come on, get up!"


    A mage stopped long enough to lend Tyron a hand,pletely disregarding the skeletons around him as he pulled him around and helped to steady him as he got him moving.


    "Head south and don''t stop, kid!" the mage barked before he turned, his hands alight with magick.


    Secondster he thrust forward his palm andunched a bolt of pure lightning that shed through air.


    "Run!" he called over his shoulder.


    Afraid, confused, and utterly consumed with guilt, Tyron did his best to run. He stammered, stumbled as tears began to drip from his eyes, obscuring his vision and making escape even more difficult. He angrily scrubbed them away as he dragged himself forward, yers rushing past him or turning to fight the monsters who drew too close. For several minutes he continued like that, though it felt like years, his progress cially slow, though he wouldn''t stop, determined to make his escape.


    Then he heard him.


    "You fucking dickhead!" someone roared behind him. "I''ll cut your damn balls off! WOLF!"


    Disoriented and blinded, Tyron almost didn''t realise it when he felt something seize him in its jaws and lift him from the ground.


    <em>That''s it,</em> he thought dumbly, <em>I''m dead.</em>


    Except death didn''te. Dazed, he turned to head to see the contempt burning in the eye of the Star Wolf, Dove riding on its back as the massive beast held him in its jaws. The mage looked like hell, hunched with one arm clutched to his gut and numerous scrapes and cuts on his face.


    "You''re not supposed to be this dumb! Let''s get the fuck out of here!"


    The wolf took off, the incredible creature able to bear the weight of two men and run, despite the ground still shaking. Tyron was dimly aware of his skeletons struggling to keep up and he ordered them to follow as best they could before the distance between them grew too great. With nothing else to do, he closed his eyes and left it to fate.

 Chapter 45: The Reborn God of Magick

    Chapter 45: The Reborn God of Magick


    "Did your brain turn to shit or something?" Dove coughed. "What the fuck were you thinking?"


    Tyron couldn''t lift his head.


    "I felt like I should help in some way, since everything that''s happening is my fault¡­"


    "Your fault? Your fault my scrawny ass!" Dove spluttered as he pressed the bandage against the wound on his stomach. "I told you to fucking run. None of this is your fault. That''s fucking moronic thinking."


    "There''s no point arguing with you," Tyron muttered.


    "Of course there''s not! I''m fucking right!"


    Dove groaned as pain red through him and he slumped to the side, his breathing rapid and sweat breaking out on his brow.


    "Try not to be so fucking dumb that I have to shout at you for a bit," he gasped, "I''m wounded."


    The two sat inside the abandoned cabin. Night had fallen, the distant rumble of the rift could still be felt as they stopped to rest. The Star Wolf had been dismissed to rest in the Astral and Tyron had slumped to the ground, legs weak after what he had just experienced. Distantly he could still feel his connection to his minions as they drew nearer. He hoped they''d all survived, though it was unlikely. As slow as they were they would have been overtaken by the rift-kin as they emerged.


    "We won''t have long," Dove said, the strain clear in his voice. "Most of the monsters would have chased the other yers back to the keep, but soon enough this area is going to be thick with them. Another ten minutes and then we get going."


    "Are you going to be able to move?" Tyron asked, concerned. "Is there anything I can do to help?"


    "Piss off," Dove tried tough but coughed instead. "Unless you''ve got some miracle healing stashed in your underpants, you can''t do shit. Just leave it, I''ll manage."


    Despite the front he was putting on, the mage was clearly in bad shape. He shouldn''t be moving around.


    "Did Monica treat it?"


    "Monica''s dead kid, Rogil too."


    Once again Tyron hung his head as the words washed over him. Those two had been good people. Why was this happening? If the guilt and shame grew any worse it may just bury him. They''d died because of him. He couldn''t be convinced otherwise.


    "Fuck you," Dove said.


    Tyron spluttered out augh as he rubbed at his eyes.


    "What was that for?" he asked.


    "I can practically smell the guilt on you. Those two, Monica and Rogil, were fucking <em>yers</em>, to the bone. Almost made it to gold rank. You know how few of us survive that long? How many make it that far? They were prepared to die from the day they signed up at the keep and got branded. It''s not your fault and<em> didn''t I tell you to stop being fucking stupid?</em>"


    The Summonerunched into an extended bout of coughing as he recovered from his outburst as Tyron tried to master himself. Too much was happening at once and he was struggling to find his equilibrium. He wasn''t this irrational or emotional normally, but then again, how often had he been put in this situation? Trying to make himself useful, he left Dove to catch his breath and began to pack his supplies as best he could.


    As he did so he felt the connection with his skeletons growing stronger, strong enough that he could determine how many had returned. He grimaced. Only four. His glorious army of nine had been reduced to less than half by his indecisiveness and stupidity. He had enough remains here in the cabin to raise one, perhaps two more, but he didn''t have the time. He might be able to have the skeletons carry the bones he needed if he wrapped them first, he had a spare nket around somewhere.


    <em>You idiot. Dove is wounded and all you can think about is raising the dead. A fine Necromancer you''ve be.</em>


    He sighed to himself. As much as it pained him, he couldn''t do anything for the Summoner, he didn''t know anything about medicine. His minions couldn''t hope to stand up to Dove''s summons, but with the mage in the condition he was in now they might be the best protection the two of them could get.


    He quickly finished cing everything into his back and storing his bedroll then moved the bones into a neat bundle that he wrapped in preparation for the skeletons'' arrival. With that done, he returned to check on Dove to find him breathing softly, his eyes closed as he rested against the rotted wooden walls of the cabin.


    "Dove, are you alright?" he asked quietly.


    "Of course I''m not. But I will be. Is it time to move?"


    "Just about, I''ve got a few skeletons on the way. They should arrive in just a few minutes."


    Dove peeled an eye open and stared up at him for a moment.


    "You look like shit, kid¡­ Anding from me that means something. What happened?"


    "¡­ too much crystal."


    Dove closed his eye and shook his head slightly from side to side.


    "You shitbreather."


    "That''s harsh."


    "No, it isn''t."


    They sat in silence for a moment as Dove continued to focus on breathing, his hand pressing a crude bandage into the wound on his belly. Tyron hadn''t seen it, but the dried blood that soaked the rag wasn''t a good sign.


    "Alright. We need to work out where we''re headed," the Summoner coughed. "If we headed back to town, they''d probably let you in, but there''ll be kin all over that ce right now. With just the two of us, the chances of us even making it there are low. Our best bet is to head south and try and get what we need from any smallmunities we find on the way. Thankfully we''ve still got time until the break, but not much."


    "Wait¡­" Tyron said," ¡­ wasn''t that the break? Hasn''t it happened already?"


    Dove let out a wet chuckle before he leaned over and spat a wad of blood onto the dirt floor.


    "Fuck no. The realms are drawing close, but they haven''t collided yet. It''s close, probably less than a day away. We need to get as much distance as possible before then and find a ce to hunker down. We won''t be able to outrun the monsters, but if we can find a ce we can hide¡­ I have some wardings I can put down to help conceal us."


    He paused for a moment to draw some slow breaths.


    "¡­ If you''re thinking about any heroicst stands or going to help defend the town, p that shit out of your head. Everyone in Woodsedge, everyone in the keep, they''re already dead. There''s no chance they''ll be able to hold, and even if they started running two days ago they won''t be able to make it out." He grimaced in pain as he sat a little straighter. "Everyone''s fate was sealed when we failed beyond the rift. Unless some mighty yers fall out of the sky, then everyone is fucked. All we can do¡­ is run and hide¡­ try to pick up the pieces afterwards."


    Tyron sat and absorbed the mage''s words in silence. As much as he wanted to help, as much as he felt he needed to <em>do</em> something, he was just a small, insignificant person in the face of the looming disaster. He knew the older man was right, and it was time he stopped acting foolish. He couldn''t help anyone if he died here.


    "I know where we can find a farm," he said slowly, "pretty isted, fenced off. They might have a cool room or cer for storing meat we could use. It''s a little less than a day south east of Woodsedge."


    Dove nodded.


    "Worth a shot. How did you find that ce?"


    Tyron''s face went nk.


    "I tried to buy water and food from them and they beat the shit out of me and stole my coin."


    Dove barked out augh and then groaned as he clutched his wound.


    "Argh, fuck! You ¡­ fucking¡­ moron. Sweet tits that hurts. You really are bad at this, aren''t you?"


    Tyron smiled and nodded.


    "Not the greatest. Good thing I have someone to get advice from right?"


    "Doesn''t hurt you¡¯re a born mage if one ever existed. You prick. I think I hear your bony boys. If that''s them, let''s get going. I''ll bring out the wolf and we can go."


    "Are¡­ are you going to be able to cast?"


    "Yes I can fucking cast. Piss off."


    Tyron went out to greet his few remaining soldiers and was pleased to note that his four newest creations were the ones to make it back, with their weapons to boot. Finally a little luck. No rest for the dead though, he quickly loaded them up with supplies and set them walking on south. Once Dove had his wolf out, he''d quickly catch up. When he came back inside he found Dove wheezing and copsed on his side as the majestic star wolf nuzzled at his cheek and licked at the cuts on his face.


    In the end he needed Tyron''s help to get back up onto the summon''s back. Once he was in ce, they began the journey. Despite the chaos that no doubt reigned behind them, their slow journey was rtively peaceful. Small packs of roving rift-kin were dispatched by the skeletons well enough, especially since Tyron had the spare magick to support them with spells and curses.


    The scrawny mage would asionally suck painful breaths as the rocking motion of the wolf caused his wounds to re. As they travelled, they would talk intermittently, Dove offering asional bits of wisdom or giving insight on particr sigils or words of power that he was experienced with. As much as he didn''t want to tire the man, Tyron was happy to get the chance to discuss magick with someone. He''d learned so much over thest week, but there were so many things he had questions about, so many new aspects of spellcraft he hadn''t had the chance to explore.


    He still hadn''t used some of the new spells and rituals he''d learned, something that pained him no end. He''d been able to think on them, scratch down a few notes here and there, but there wasn''t time for proper investigation.


    He was especially eager to attempt to speak with the dead. Magick of that sort was a whole new league, talking with spirits from beyond the grave. Dove was less impressed.


    "Speak with the dead?" he wheezed. "What the fuck for? They''re dead."


    "I think it''s likely to lead to the ability to recruit ghosts or spirits as minions," Tyron theorised.


    The Summoner grunted.


    "From what I understand, Necromancers don''t tend to do much ''Recruiting'', but I take your meaning. Spirits are bad news, they often hold onto some knowledge and the personality of the deceased."


    "You''ve seen some?" Tyron was surprised.


    "Couple of times. If you die in a ce with enough Death Magick, all sorts of bad shit can happen. Apparently there''s a rift in the Northern Province that leads to a world full of the stuff, can''t remember the name. All sorts of ghastly fuckerse pouring out of there, including half the yers that go in and die."


    Like this they continued on their way, but Tyron grew increasingly worried about the wounded mage. His face was pale and sweat poured off him as he grew more and more hunched over on the wolf''s back. After the first few times he asked if Dove needed help and was snapped at, he let the man be, but it didn''t stop him from worrying.


    After long hours of walking, travelling the better part of the day, Tyron began to range ahead of the star wolf, sweeping left and right in an attempt to locate the farm. He knew the general location, but it''s not like he''d ever marked the ce on a map or taken note of thendmarks. He almost missed it, having moved past the farm, but caught sight of it as he was moving back to re-join his skeletons travelling alongside the wolf.


    Much as he''d remembered it, the farm was surrounded by a high wooden fence with simple raised tforms at intervals inside. He spotted a few people looking out over the edge of the fence but ducked back amongst the trees, hoping he hadn''t been spotted. With the increased numbers of rift-kin ranging the area recently, it wasn''t a surprise that they''d be on the lookout. Tyron didn''t much feel like getting an arrow through his leg from a jumpy farmer.


    When he reported back to Dove a little life came back into his face as he straightened a little.


    "¡­ found it? Good. Let''s go say hello."


    "I''m surprised anyone is still here. Wouldn''t they have been warned to leave already?"


    Dove just shook his head.


    "No warnings. Don''t want to scare the popce now do we? Fucking Magisters. Monsters, every one of them."


    The Summoner was beginning to slur his words, a feverish light blooming in his eyes over the past few hours. He wasn''t well, his wound was likely infected, but he wouldn''t let Tyron anywhere near him. The two approached the gate, a familiar sight to the young Necromancer, but this time he didn''t bother hiding his skeletons. They could hear the farmers calling and gathering at the gate as they approached until an older man, face lined with distrust, climbed up to speak to them over the fence.


    "What do you want?" he asked.


    <em>Not going to bother with niceties. These people are on edge.</em>


    Tyron looked to Dove and the Summoner gave him a weary nod before he replied.


    "I''m a yer¡­ I''m injured. In less than a day, maybe just a few hours¡­ there''s going to be a break. We need¡­ to take refuge¡­"


    At the mention of a break, the farmer''s eyes widened and a hint of fear could be heard in his voice.


    "A break? We haven''t heard anything about a break. Just more kin than usual is all."


    Dove wobbled on the back of the wolf and Tyron rushed to his side to help him bnce.


    "Please. This man is injured badly. He needs help."


    "I''m¡­ fine as¡­ balls."


    "The yers have already battled at the rift and lost! We can help protect you when the monsterse, but you have to let us inside!"


    The farmer''s eyes flicked over the two of them, and over the four skeletons standing behind before resting on the star wolf for a moment. The giant astral spirit stood as still as it could to not unseat its master, looking back over its shoulder with concern for the mage it had agreed to serve.


    "Well, that might be true, or it might not. We can''t just take your word for it."


    Tyron gaped up at the man as he leaned over to speak to someone inside.


    "You can''t be serious!" he spluttered. "You really think this man isn''t a yer? Or isn''t wounded? Use the eyes in your head! And why would we lie to you?"


    As he finished speaking to someone inside the gate, the farmer stood up straight and looked down on them once more.


    "I wouldn''t rightly know. Maybe you''re trying to steal from us and this is all a trick. For the time being, we''ll let you in, but I want you to give your weapons and things over to my boys first."


    The gate opened with a loud creak and six young men, some of whom Tyron unfortunately recognised, emerged from inside, each of them holding a cudgel or simple weapon in hand. They had ugly expressions on their faces as they approached and Tyron felt a souring in his gut.


    "We shouldn''t havee here," he said as he backed away slowly, "we can leave."


    With a mentalmand he brought his skeletons closer, the four undead causing the six assants to hesitate a moment.


    "I don¡¯t think you should," the farmer told him and Tyron looked up to see he''d been joined by several other farmhands, men and women both, all with bows drawn. "At least, not while carrying all of those burdens."


    <em>Just how much theft do these pricksmit?! This is madness!</em>


    "Are you really going to attack a yer?" Tyron demanded incredulously. "That''s suicide!"


    The farmerughed.


    "They can''t fight back, so it seems perfectly safe to me."


    Dove fell forward, barely catching himself on the wolf''s back as he stretched his neck and whispered a few words into the wolf''s ear. Then he clutched his wound, and rolled from its back,nding on the ground with a thud. Tyron knelt by his side, trying to help, but the Summoner weakly pushed him away.


    "Give me some space, kid," he whispered, "this is going¡­ to suck."


    The wolf growled then, its teeth bare as it began to pad toward the approaching farmhands. Before Tyron understood what was happening, before he could react in any way, the wolf dashed forward, its jaws snapping down, and the screaming began. Who was louder, the farmers or Dove, Tyron would never be able to say.


    The stench of blood was thick in the air when it was over. Numb to it all, Tyron tried not to look at the mangled bodies thaty everywhere inside thepound. He especially didn''t notice the younger ones. Instead, he focused on Dove. The yer had reacted the moment his wolf had attacked, screaming in pain and writhing on the ground until he''d passed outpletely close to the end. When the wolf had padded back out, its muzzle and fur slick with gore, Tyron had done his best to carry the mage inside thepound andfortably arrange him on a bed.


    He ransacked the house to find bandages, fresh water and any herbs he could that looked remotely medicinal before he came back and peeled away the encrusted rag and what was left of Dove''s shirt. Only then did he get a look at the true extent of the wound and he sucked in a breath when heid eyes on it. The moment the bandage was torn away, the sickly scent of infection filled the air, ck blood oozing through the filth and mess that remained of the Summoner''s guts.


    "Holy shit," Tyron stammered as he tried to clean it as best he could. "Holy shit."


    The man should have been dead. Without the unnatural resilience someone of his high level could achieve, he likely would be. But even the highest level yers weren''t immortal, some things just couldn''t be survived.


    "Kid," Tyron heard a whisper and he looked down to see the mage''s eyes were open again. "Leave it¡­ and¡­ listen."


    Tyron blinked away a few tears and tried to take hold of himself. He couldn''t keep acting foolish, he wouldn''t do things that were useless. A part of him wanted to argue, to keep trying to treat the wound, to convince Dove to keep fighting, but he knew it wouldn''t help. Instead, he leaned down close so he could hear him speak.


    Dove coughed and spat another wad of blood onto the pillow beside him.


    "Fuck¡­ that hurts. Not as bad¡­ as the brand though¡­ holy shit¡­ that was bad."


    He drew a few slow breaths.


    "Once I''m dead¡­ you should look for a cer¡­ the wards¡­ are in my pack¡­ you''ll¡­ figure it out¡­ you gifted fucker. Just remember, who''s to me¡­ not you¡­ magisters. Always¡­ those pricks¡­ wouldn''t let your¡­ folkse and help¡­ rather let¡­ everyone die¡­ than admit they¡­ fucked up."


    He fell silent as he gathered his strength again.


    "Stay hidden¡­" he whispered, "grow strong¡­ then¡­ fuck some shit up¡­ as long as you take¡­ a few of them down¡­ with you¡­ then it was all worth it¡­"


    Tyron nodded as his eyes blurred.


    "You''re special¡­ kid¡­ reborn god¡­ of fucking magick¡­ I''m telling you¡­ fucking¡­ big¡­ balls¡­"


    The mage''s voice faded as he slipped out of consciousness, but Tyron remained kneeling by the bedside for another hour, until the Summoner passed away.


    Completely numb, Tyron stared down at the remains of his¡­ friend, unable to process his grief or shock at what his life had be. He stared down at the face of the Summoner for a long time before his eyes began to trail aimlessly around the room, his head shifting of its own volition.


    Then his gaze fell on his pack where he had dropped it on the floor. The contents had spilled and he stared at those next. Some dried meat, his ritual focus, a steel mug, his notebook. Almost as if he were in a trance, he moved to the notebook and picked it up, idly flicking through the pages as his eyes began to focus, finally, on something, the notes, the sigils and runes he had scrawled inside. As he often had during his life without ever realising it, he avoided his pain by diving into something he felt he could control.


    Magick.


    A dayter, Tyron, on his hands and knees, stared down at the polished skull before him. Globes of light hung in the air of the cer, illuminating the nine concentric circles that had been drawn on the floor. To one side sat the ritual focus, abandoned now that the working was finallyplete.


    The Necromancer was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands were shaking as he continued to stare at the skull, searching it for any sign he had been sessful. He tasted bile in his throat, but he didn¡¯t care, this had consumed him for twenty four hours straight and he had thought of nothing else, done nothing else but prepare for his moment since. His eyes burned with a manic light as he stared, drool sliding from his chin as he concentrated his whole being on that one skull.


    At first, there was nothing, but his eyes didn''t waver. Then, a flicker, the faintest hint of purple me ignited within those empty sockets. Slowly at first, but with growing speed, the me grew until it burned just as bright as with any other minion.


    A rictus grin spread across Tyron''s face as he saw the skulle to life, but still he didn''t move. He hadn''t seeded yet.


    The skull sat lifelessly on the ground in the centre of the intricate ritual circle for a long moment. Then a voice emanated from it.


    "Oh you <em>fucking</em> didn''t."

 Chapter 46: The End of the World

    Chapter 46: The End of the World


    The moment Dove''s voice echoed out from the skull, Tyron knew he had seeded. A wave of relief washed over him as the tension, grief and focus that had sustained him over the past twenty four hours drained away. He slumped forward, smiled wearily down at the skull, then groaned as he felt a wave of power swell inside his head.


    He didn''t panic, he''d felt this once before. As his mind sumbed to the will of the Unseen, he slumped to the side, catching his head on his arm before it hit the ground.


    "Hold down the fort," he mumbled before his eyes fluttered shut and he was gone.


    From within his new housing, Dove watched with the strange, ethereal vision of an Undead as Tyron lost consciousness.


    "You must be kidding."


    His voice had an echoing quality to it, thinner than it had been in life. He''d only been returned to this mockery of an existence for a few seconds, but Dove could already tell he hated it.


    "Kid, get up and release me already. Hey. Tyron!"


    There was no response from the young mage and Dove gave up trying to wake him. He''d seen this before, the sudden loss of awareness, even the way the kid''s eyes flickered behind his lids. Whatever he''d done must have been damn impressive, even though he had absolutely no idea how the Necromancer had managed to do it. Suffice to say, even the Unseen decided it was an act worthy of great reward.


    With nothing left to do and desperate to distract himself, Dove began to contemte the magick that had caused him to be returned in this way.


    Obviously he was in a ritual circle, unsurprising to say the least, but what sort? He couldn''t turn his head, couldn''t move anything in fact, so no matter how much he wanted to turn and look behind him he couldn''t. Judging by the runes he could determine from his low vantage point, the ritual had something to do with attachment, or storage?


    So the kid had somehow managed to manifest his spirit and then lock it into a medium? How in the hell? He had a sympathetic container in the form of his own skull, that would have helped, but this sort of magick was¡­ so far out of the wheelhouse of a first rank Necromancer it wasn¡¯t even in the same province. This should have been impossible.


    To do this, Tyron would have had to have invented most of the magick on the spot. Perhaps he had some frames of reference to work from, a couple of skills and spells he could base his work from, but he''d been flying blind for most of it. If it hadn''t worked he may very well have killed himself, and for what?


    The kid was insane. Straight up insane.


    "By the supetive spheres of the goddess kid, you are fucking special."


    He had to admit it.


    "But the second you wake up you better kill me or I''ll eat your ankles."


    Tyron dreamed. Distorted images, imperfect visions and words halfprehended flickered through his head at an insane pace. It was dizzying, disorienting and a wonder at the same time.


    This had happened to him once before, when the Unseen had granted him a vision and unlocked his Mystery. Despite having experience, it was all he could do to try and take hold of the tiniest sliver of what was being shown to him.


    Words of power rumbled out of the sky overhead, igniting stars and raining fire across the world. Pure, unformed arcane energy danced through the air, in and out of all living things, changing and imprinting them as it went. Vast currents of magick, wide as oceans, filled his eyes as they crashed and swept from realm to realm.


    One image after another shed before him, never appearing longer than the time it took for him to register what he was seeing before it was gone. Sometimes he didn''t even have <em>that</em> long. On and on it went until Tyron felt as if his mind was bleeding from the constant stimulus that was being rammed into his head.


    Then it was gone.


    His eyes flew open and he wheezed out several coughs. His face had slipped off his arm and been mashed into the floor for thetter part of his vision.


    "Holy shit," he rasped as he sucked in a few breaths.


    He weakly pushed himself up and onto his knees, his head hanging low. He felt as if his head had been struck like a bell. His eyes were watering.


    For a long moment he knelt there on the floor and tried to get his bearings.


    "I uh, hate to break in when you''re recovering, but you didn''t happen to set those wards did you?"


    Dove''s voice broke through and Tyron''s head snapped up.


    "FUCK!"


    "For a genius, you really are stupid, you know that?"


    Tyron staggered to his feet and cast about blindly.


    "The wards are in my bag. Wherever you fucking left it, go now! Right in the middle, there''s a small wooden box. Hurry up!" Dove snapped.


    The urgency in his voice pushed the weary Necromancer to move and move quickly. He turned and staggered up the steps out of sight for the skull-bound spirit and so Dove could only wait anxiously until Tyron returned several minutester, a small carved box in his hands.


    "That''s it, now do what I tell you and <em>don''t fuck it up</em>. If you do, you''ll either die on the spot or the magick will have the opposite effect, drawing the rift-kin towards us."


    "How does that work?"


    "Does it fucking matter right now?!" Dove yelled before he relented. Exining might help the kid focus. "If you don''t create the formation properly, then the wards don''t mask each other, which means they basically just advertise themselves. Sensing the magick, the rift-kin will be on us like a rash."


    The young mage nodded and closed his eyes as he listened intently to Dove''s exnation. To set the wards wasn''t exceptionallyplex, but precision was of the utmost importance. Fortunately, that was Tyron''s specialty and Dove watched, amazed, as he methodically and purposefully enacted the steps in order. His hands never wavered, his words never faltered. The confidence required to perform magick like this was absurd, bordering on insanity. How many people could act with such rity and focus when their life was on the line? How many people could take hold of the arcane, an ephemeral energy beyond mortal understanding, with such ease? This kid didn''t even have a ss a month ago.


    When the final words were spoken and the stones ced in configuration, the entrance to the cer was warded. If everything worked as intended, the monsters would ignore it, no sign or scent from within would pass outside and the wooden doors would be invisible to them.


    Obviously nothing was guaranteed. Soon enough this entire area would be flooded in kin, and if enough of them ran through there was a chance one of them would stumble through the warding. In any case, they''d done everything they could.


    "You don''t have long, kid," Dove spoke up as Tyron hunched over, drawing slow breaths to recover his energy. "Once the break happens, we''ll be dead if we poke our noses out the door. I know you''re tired, but you need to get your backside up there and gather up enough food and water tost us¡­" he trailed off for a second, "¡­ tost <em>you</em> for a few days at the least. A week if possible. Get your bone boys to help carry things and then bring them down as well."


    "How long do you think?" Tyron croaked.


    "I''m surprised it hasn''t happened already. It could go off any second. We <em>should</em> be far enough away that the building won''t copse on our heads, which means we just need tost long enough for the rift-kin to disperse. Go out and get it. You''ll have all the time in the world to sit on your arse afterwards."


    He nodded wearily before he straightened and moved back up the shortdder and into the house. Despite his overwhelming fatigue, Tyron managed to gather quite a bit. The farmers raised their own animals and had no shortage of cured and fresh meat. There was a well dug within thepound and with the help of his skeletons he was able to secure enough food and drink tost. Tired as he was, he still managed to poke around for anything of interest; books, money and anything else he might need if he survived. Then he remembered the most precious resource of all.


    "Ah shit," he groaned to himself.


    He wasn''t going to do it himself, so he set the skeletons to gathering all the bodies ughtered by the star wolf. He didn''t want to spend a week locked into a cer with them as they rotted, so he found a bedroom on the opposite side of the residence and had the skeletons stuff them under the bed. With a little luck they wouldn''t be crushed by rampaging monsters and he could raise themter. The adults anyway. The others he would bury.


    With onest nce to the north and the violent storm that was now visible even this far south, he turned back and climbed back down into the cer.


    "I think we have what we need," he croaked to the skull that still sat in the centre of the ritual circle where he''d left it.


    He leaned against the wall and slowly lowered himself until he was sat on the floor. Almost immediately his head lolled forward as his eyes began to flutter shut, but Dove refused to let him sleep.


    "Hey, HEY! Kid, you can sleep in a minute."


    Tyron lifted his head slowly.


    "What. What is it now?"


    "Kill me."


    The Necromancer stared for a moment.


    "What?"


    How was he supposed to kill him? Dove was extremely dead, he''d detached and skinned the head himself. He couldn''t remember the process much, his head had been fuzzy, at best, as if he were drunk on the magick rushing through his thoughts. Frankly, he didn''t want to remember. Butchering people wasn''t something he wanted to be familiar with, though it was almost inevitable that he would.


    "You know what I fucking mean," the skull snapped. "You''ve had your fun, the wards are set, you''re as safe as you can be, given the circumstances. Set me free. Release my spirit, or whatever, from this skull and let me be about my business. There''s a few pricks who owe me money that I wouldn''t mind haunting. Or maybe there''s an afterlife. I spent so long praising the Goddess and her attributes that I''m sure she''d let me have a look at the real thing. So get on with it. It''s been nice knowing you, and I was d to help you, but it''s done now."


    Tyron listened as Dove''s ghost spoke, his frown deepening as he went on. When the once-Summoner had finished speaking a long, awkward silence fell around them. Tyron dropped his head, avoiding looking into the glowing orbs in the skull as Dove grew more incredulous.


    "Tyron. Hey. Hey!"


    Still no response.


    "You are <em>fucking</em> kidding me," Dove raged. "You aren''t going to do it? You''re going to keep me like this?"


    "Not forever," Tyron rasped. "Just for now. A couple of weeks, I promise. I need <em>help</em>, Dove. I''ve been doing this on my own and no matter how good I am, I''ll make a mistake eventually. It''s a miracle none of the sketchy bullshit I''ve done has blown up in my face already. You can teach me. Just a bit."


    "Kid, listen to me. I''m not too keen on life as a skull. You understand me? I don''t even have hands! How am I supposed to feel¡­ things? Fuck, I don''t even have skin! This is no way to exist. I want out."


    "I will. Alright? I will. Just not yet," Tyron pleaded. "I need a little time. A chance to get my shit together. You know the odds I''m up against, how am I supposed to seed on my own?"


    Dove was prepared to retort when he paused. Even in this form he could still sense the change in the air.


    "Did you feel that?" he whispered.


    Tyron peered upwards at the dirt ceiling before he tilted his head to the side, as if listening. A sound that wasn''t a sound swelled, growing louder and louder. Like a breeze blowing through the trees, or a wave rushing toward the shore, it grew and grew. He couldn''t understand what it was at first, then it struck him. Magick. The arcane energy that suffused the air all around them was <em>moving</em>. Slowly at first, then with growing speed, it began to shift, joining together into currents that rushed over thend and through the sky, all moving toward one point. The rift.


    "Hold onto something, kid. This is going to get fucking <em>wild</em>."


    The young Necromancer swallowed thickly and positioned himself next to a support beam, wrapping both arms around it. As an afterthought he had his skeletons gather around, shielding him from any falling debris. The sound continued to build, rising to a crescendo that threatened to overwhelm him, until it suddenly stopped.


    <em>Here ites</em>.


    The world shifted. That''s what it seemed like. Tyron felt the ground beneath him <em>jump</em>, and he crashed to his side as loose dirt showered down on him from above. Hey still for a second before the rumbling began. It grew quickly into a deafening roar that nearly shattered his ears. He quickly stuffed his hands over his ears, but it didn''t help. Again, the ground lurched. Then again. Not asrge as the first time, but in a constant wave that grew faster and faster until the floor beneath was constantly shaking. His body bounced up and down, mming painfully into the dirt again and again. He curled over, desperate to protect his head, but it was so hard to think. Everything was so <em>loud</em>.


    Even more than his ears, his mind was screaming. All the magick that had rushed inward before now exploded out the other way. A grand tidal wave of energy that overwhelmed his senses and nketed his mind. Blood dripped from his nose onto the floor but Tyron didn''t notice, his awareness crushed beneath the stimuli.


    On and on it went, until he was sure he was dead, until he was sure the world had ended. He cked out more than once, and when his awareness returned, nothing had changed. The ground quaked beneath him, the magick crashed all around him and the roar went on and on. Parts of the house above had no doubt copsed. All he could do was hope that the cer would hold. It was quite deep, dug to store meat in the cool, the ceiling reinforced with beams, but it hadn''t been made to withstand <em>this</em>.


    When atst it was over, Tyron didn''t trust himself to release the white knuckled grip he had of his own head. After some time had passed, he realised that it wasn''t the floor that was shaking, but rather himself, and he slowly unwound. His skeletons still crouched around him and he instructed them to shift away and give him some space. The cer was chaos. Everything that had been neatly stacked before was strewn across the ground, even Dove was partially buried beneath loose soil. Sections of the roof had indeede loose, but thankfully hadn''t fully copsed, though they might before he left. He''d need to be careful.


    Every limb ached, every joint protested as he took stock. Most important of all, he checked the wards and was relieved to see that they had held their position, locked in ce by the magick.


    "That was something," Dove remarked. "Holy<em> shit</em>. I never thought I''d live to see it. Though I suppose I didn''t."


    Tyron nodded, relief written all over his face.


    They''d survived the break.


    "Don''t be happy yet kid," Dove warned him. "The worst is yet toe."


    As if summoned by his words, a piercing cry rang out from far away. After a second it was joined by a second, then a third and fourth and so on until he could no longer tell how many contributed to that unearthly shriek.


    "Those fuckers," Dove said softly, "never saw one until the other day. Deadliest pricks on Nagrythyn."


    "What are they?" Tyron asked.


    <em>They have to be in the brokennds. That''s almost two days away. How the hell can I hear them?</em>


    "Trust me kid," the skull warned him, "you don''t want to know."

 Chapter 47: Locked In

    Chapter 47: Locked In


    The noise above never ceased. As the hours passed, the piercing cry of the monsters only grew louder over time and Tyron slowly came to the realisation that it wouldn''t stop any time soon. After putting the cer back to rights, cleaning up the mess andying down his nkets and bedroll on the stone floor, he began to prepare for sleep.


    Dove had other ideas.


    "Hey," he objected, "you''re just going to sleep? What am I supposed to do?"


    Tyron blinked owlishly at the skull which still sat on the floor. He''d been awake for several days straight at this point, emotionally drained from the turmoil, destruction and death all around him, all Tyron wanted to do was rest.


    "I don''t know, Dove," he told the spirit honestly. "I don''t know how any of it works. If I''m honest with you, I''m still only half sure how I managed to bind your spirit in the first ce."


    "Have I told you that you piss me off?"


    "Yes. Yes you have."


    "Because you do. Piss me off I mean."


    "I know."


    "It''s just¡­ who the fuck casts magick they haven''t even studied and aren''t quite sure how it works? Worse than that, who does that and <em>seeds</em>? Just thinking about it makes me furious."


    "¡­ I get it."


    "I don''t think you do."


    "Just let me sleep! I''ll see what I can do when I wake up. Alright? That''s the best I can do right now."


    "The best thing you can do is free me from this skull."


    "I will. Alright? I will. Just not now."


    As a disembodied spirit, there wasn''t much Dove could do to argue, so he suppressed his anger.


    "Fine. Fine. Go to sleep, kid."


    The young magey down after kicking off his shoes and dragging off his cloak. He was so exhausted he didn''t need to spell himself to sleep, drifting off just minutes after his head had hit the pillow he''d swiped from the house.


    Unable to sleep, or breathe, or scratch himself, or do anything, really, Dove tried to take stock of himself. To say he felt strange was an understatement. In a sense, he didn''t <em>feel</em> anything at all. He had no sense of touch, or taste or smell. He could see, but only in a sense. The input he received through the mes that burned in the sockets of his skull was far from ideal. Blurred and cast in a strange purple light, it was difficult to make out much detail, if any.


    Emotionally, he was¡­rgely numb, which surprised him. He''d thought he''d be more outraged, or sad, or <em>anything</em>. He was dead! Rogil, Monica, Aryll, all gone. Woodsedge was probably already gone. What hadn''t been destroyed in the st was currently being devoured by the hordes of rift-kin that would be pouring into this realm every moment. Another high pitched shriek rang out and a memory shed into the mind of the former Summoner, of the burning sky beyond the rift, of the enormous, raging beasts who had cut down so many of his friends.


    It would take something special to kill those fuckers. Even Magnin and Beory might struggle. For a little while, at least.


    Theck of feeling caused him to reflect on the nature of his present incarnation. He existed purely as a spirit, bound to a physical object, his skull, and in some ways that exined his detached state. The normal functions and responses of a human body no longer applied. He couldn''t cry, his heart didn''t pound with the force of his anger, no adrenaline poured through his veins, no sweat beaded his brow. The emotion he felt was a distant, hollow thing, with no physical outlet that would make it real. The guilt he felt at murdering the inhabitants of the farm was¡­ there¡­ somewhere, but so faint and immaterial that it may as well not have existed.


    "Holy shit. This is dreadful," he muttered to himself.


    What sort of dreadful acts would a being be able tomit if this was how they felt? The sadness, pain and grief that they experienced, or caused, wouldn''t touch them, but drift past, like dust in the breeze. In a sense, it was freedom. Dove was no longer bound by the things that hemmed in everyone else, but the mage was canny enough to recognise what a trap it was. If he lived for too long like this, just how much of his humanity would be lost? How long until he was little different from the monsters he''d devoted his life to defeating?


    Even as a spirit, the thought was frightening enough to cause his soul to shiver.


    Filled with such thoughts, he sank within himself, unaware that the light burning in his sockets dulled as he did so. In that half aware, half dreaming state, time passed outside of his awareness. It was with total surprise that he came back to himself as Tyron picked him up off the floor.


    "Dove? Are you still in there?"


    Awareness came flooding back to the spirit as the mes ignited once more.


    "Wha? What happened?"


    Tyron looked at the skull in his hand curiously.


    "I''m not sure. You were kind of still and quiet in there¡­"


    "Fuck. I think I just had the equivalent of a ghost nap. That felt strange."


    "Well, at least you didn''t have to sit around and wait while I was sleeping."


    "I''ll take what I can get I suppose. How long were you out?"


    The young Necromancer shrugged his shoulders helplessly.


    "I have no idea. I can''t exactly track the movement of the sun from down here. I feel like it was a long time though. I haven''t felt this rested in weeks."


    Without the pressure of having to <em>do</em> something, to constantly be pushing himself, make decisions and take risks, Tyron had finally been able to sleep peacefully. He was effectively trapped in the cer for a week. Theck of agency was, in its own way, strangely freeing. Now that he was awake, though, there was plenty to do. He carried the skull toward the food stores and ced him on top of a barrel as he ate a scant breakfast. The two quickly fell into a discussion about magick.


    "Effectively, I manifested your spirit as a construct formed of magick by modifying the Speak with Dead spell. Once that was done, I used the binding ritual to seal your spirit into your skull."


    "You say that like it''s so simple. ''Oh, I stuck your spirit into your skull using a basic binding ritual''. Goddess'' tits you did. And how, exactly, do you manifest my ghost as a magick construct? What the fuck does that even mean?"


    Tyron grimaced.


    "I <em>think</em>, I''m not sure about any of this, but I believe that the Speak with Dead spell essentially¡­ <em>infuses</em> death magick into the ambient spirit that remains after death. I don''t think the spell would work on someone that hadn''t died recently, since the ghost would have dissipated or moved on by then. What I essentially did was form a ¡­ holding cell I suppose you could say, for your infused spirit. A framework of magick that would prevent the spirit from departing and gave me something I could use in the binding."


    Dove absorbed this information for a while, churning it over in his ghostly mind. What the kid said made sense, in a twisted sort of way. If a spirit was just a wisp of magick stuck into a literal ghost, then it would be impossible to bind, it was too flimsy for any sort of ritual to take hold.


    "Does this mean you could create intelligent undead by binding spirits into skeletons?" he asked.


    The Necromancer nched and nearly choked on the bread he was chewing. After a short coughing fit he looked up at Dove with red eyes.


    "What the hell? Why would I do that?"


    "Forget the morals for a second, kid, and answer the fucking question."


    The intent tone in his voice caused Tyron to sit back and think carefully before he answered in a serious tone.


    "I don''t think so," he said slowly as he continued to ponder the matter. "I''d have to make huge changes to Raise Dead. I have no idea how to connect the spirit to the body. I could possibly, <em>possibly</em> bind a spirit to an entire skeleton, but that would just stuff them inside it. Having the spirit be in control¡­ that''s another question. I also wouldn''t know how to ensure¡­ control... over the spirit."


    "Those are issues, sure, but I think they could be ovee."


    Tyron stared up at the skull, exasperated.


    "But why would I want to, Dove?"


    "More capable minions. Obviously."


    "I''m not enving people''s souls!"


    "Didn''t stop you with mine," the Summoner pointed out.


    "You aren''t enved," Tyron pointed out weakly.


    "I don''t remember volunteering."


    "Just¡­ drop it. I''m not going to explore this further. Can we talk about something relevant, please?"


    "Fine."


    The two fell into a sullen silence for a short time before Dove spoke up again.


    "Well we might as well crack into the status ritual. After all the shit you pulled, your status is going to go fucking bonkers. I know you picked up a Mystery, you prick."


    "Another one," Tyron nodded.


    "Ano¡­ another one? Fuck you piss me off, Tyron."


    "I know."


    Washing down thest of his meal, Tyron grabbed Dove and ripped another page from his notebook before he calmed himself. After drawing a long breath, he cut his thumb, ced it in the centre of the page, and spoke the words. The blood oozed out to form the words on the page and he leaned forward to read what they said.


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    You have attempted to save another, though the result is not as you had hoped. <strong>Race: Human has reached level 12. General Skill Selection awarded.</strong>


    <em>Dismembering remains has increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>Use of the Magick Bolt spell against a living creature has increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>Application of the Shivering Curse has increased proficiency. <strong>Shivering Curse has reached level 2.</strong></em>


    <em>Your creation of new undead has increased proficiency. <strong>Raise Dead has reached level 5.</strong></em>


    <em>The use of Death des has increased proficiency. <strong>Death des has reached level 2.</strong></em>


    <em>Your use and study of Death Magick has increased your proficiency. <strong>Death Magick has reached level 4.</strong></em>


    <em>Improvisation using Commune with Spirits has increased proficiency. <strong>Commune with Spirits has reached level 3.</strong></em>


    <em>Use of Repository for means other than intended has increased proficiency. <strong>Repository has reached level 2.</strong></em>


    <em>You have raised minions and they have fought on your behalf. <strong>Necromancer has reached level 11. You have received +2 Intelligence, +1 Wisdom, +1 Constitution and +1 Maniption.</strong></em>


    <em></em>


    <em>Chaos reigns wherever you tread and your patrons delight in the madness. Their investment in you has proven to be wise, though they hope you ensure it continues to prove so. <strong>Anathema has reached level 8. You have received +4 Intelligence, +4 Willpower, +4 Constitution. At this level you may choose a ss ability.</strong></em>


    <em>Your incredible feat of mastery has impressed the Unseen. You have been granted the Words of Power Mystery in recognition of your skill. Few have disyed such an intuitive knowledge over the form of Magick. Cultivate this talent to receive greater rewards. <strong>Words of Power Mystery has been granted.</strong></em>


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 12)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Necromancer (Level 11).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ol><li>Anathema (Level 8).</li><li>None</li><li>None (Locked)</li></ol>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    39


    Intelligence:


    53


    Wisdom:


    25


    Willpower:


    32


    Charisma:


    13


    Maniption:


    20


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 4)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 1)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 3)


    Skill Selections Avable: 2


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 3)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 3)


    Death Magick (Level 4)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 4)


    Magick Bolt (Level 4)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 5)


    Bone Stitching (Level 4)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 3)


    Shivering Curse (Level 2)


    Death des (Level 2)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 4)


    Suppress Mind (Level 3)


    Repository (Level 2)


    Fear (Level 1)


    <strong>Necromancer Feats:</strong>


    Skeleton Focus II


    <strong>Anathema Feats:</strong>


    Repository


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    Words of Power (Initial): WIS +3 CHA +3


    <em>Anathema level 8. Choose an additional Spell:</em>


    <em>Dark Communion - Beg intercession from the Dark Ones.</em>


    <em>Appeal to the Court - Attempt tomune with the Scarlet Court.</em>


    <em>Air of Menace - Surround oneself in a dread aura.</em>


    <em>Pain - Inflict the target with severe pain.</em>


    <em>Invasive Persuasion - Open a weakness to maniption in a suppressed mind.</em>


    <em>Fear Imnt - Leave an impression of fear within a suppressed mind.</em>


    A second Mystery. Beyond the boost to his attributes, the real prize was the aid the Unseen would provide when utilising that aspect of its power. Now that he had two magick rted Mysteries, it was likely they would work together to push his casting to an even higher level.


    The rush of levels was also extremely wee. Three levels provided another wee influx of attributes along with a new skill choice, though browsing the options left a bad taste in Tyron''s mouth. Suppress Mind was already an ugly spell, these additional options were¡­ bordering on evil. Both stunk of mind control, a practice so forbidden it would be worse than being a Necromancer in the eyes of the public. It wasn''t like he could be double executed, but he still hoped to redeem himself one day.


    A precious general skill point for raising his race level was a shock, though a wee one. Another level in Raise Dead gave Tyron another surge of triumph. All in all, he was pleased with his gains, very pleased. He was rapidly approaching the threshold of upgrading his ss and he had to make up a lot of ground with his skills if he hoped to be ready. Raise Dead and Death Magick, at the very least, had to be brought to level 10 before Necromancer reached level 20.


    With a frown, he turned his attention back to the Anathema choices and ced a mark next to Appeal to the Court. Hopefully, this ritual would prove to be the lesser evil.


    He ended the ritual and experienced the influx of power that apanied his growth, though he managed to not faint this time. Dove watched the whole process from beside him.


    "I miss that rush," the former Summoner mused. "You don¡¯t get that feeling as you get further along. The gains are further apart and the attributes you get are more per level, but a smaller percentage. Having the Unseen just reach in and change you in such a big way¡­ it''s heady stuff."


    Tyron gulped down a few breaths as he adjusted to his new self. The feeling of change still tingled throughout his body, but he didn¡¯t have the time to wait for it to fadepletely.


    "Right," he said to his somewhat mentor. "We have a week down here, I need to improve my magick as much as I can in that time. Can you help me?"


    The purple me burned bright in the eyes of the skull.


    "Fuck kid, I haven''t got anything else to do."

 Chapter 48: Break Point

    Chapter 48: Break Point


    The sound of air being sucked through gritted teeth filled the tent. The pain came almost constantly now and Magnin bent all of his considerable will tobating it. He had long ago risen to the point whereplete mastery of his mind and body had be second nature to him, yet under the unrelenting assault of agony he could feel his spirit begin to crack. He''d built what had felt like an impregnable fortress around himself and had tried to believe that it would be enough. Despite all their preparations, he was still shocked at just how much torment the brand could inflict on him.


    He would break eventually, he''d always known that he would, if it came to this, but he''d hoped for longer.


    His face twisted into a ghoulish approximation of a grin. Another week would be the most he could hold out, especially if the pressure continued to be applied as it had been recently. They were never able to rest. At most, they had short, ten minute breaks in between long bouts of enduring the unspeakable agony that burned within their very souls. The relentless pace, without even those brief windows of down time wherein they could regroup, was grinding them down ever faster.


    Beory would be able to hold out longer than him. Of the two, she''d always been mentally stronger. He could only hope she would be able to endure after he had sumbed and buy Tyron more time.


    "How are you holding up, darling?" he rasped, a broken attempt at his usual ragged charm barely peeking through in his tone.


    "Shut up, idiot," Beory growled, her face a mask of concentration. "Every time you talk it distracts me from my meditation."


    "Because I''m handsome?"


    "No. Because you''re infuriating."


    "Infuriatingly handsome?"


    "Shut. Up. Magnin."


    Theypsed into silence again as they focused inward. The brief moment of banter was their own way of connecting and sharing their suffering. It was important to Magnin that Beory be aware he was there with her, and she with him. It was easy to forget sometimes, when engulfed in the pain. On and on it went, torment without ending, suffering without pause. If Magnin were condemned to a hell when he died, he doubted it could get much worse than this. At least he''d have practice before he got there.


    When the pain finally ebbed, it was so abrupt Magnin almost fell on his side at the sudden release of tension. Not only was the piercing agony no longer burning him, but the constant background simmer of the brand was also gone. Shocked at the alien feeling of no longer being in pain, Magnin blinked owlishly at his wife.


    "What the hell is this?" he said.


    Despite the shift, Beory had managed to retain her meditative posture. She scowled at nothing in particr.


    "More mind games. We should be ready for anything. We have ten minutes, so let''s make use of it."


    "Right," he replied.


    The two had worked out a routine. They could move much quicker than an average person even when they weren''t exerting themselves, so they could pack quite a lot into a short window of time. First came the food and drink, their stores of prepared fare were depleted but still sufficient, followed by a quick wash and fresh change of clothes. Wiping away the sweat and grime that umted over multiple days of torture helped to refresh their spirits and minds a surprising amount. Then they would stretch to release the tension in their bodies, give each other a shoulder rub or light massage, then air out the tent before making themselvesfortable again, ready for the next session to begin.


    They went through the motions, but neither could shake the feeling that something had changed. They''d been constantly subjected to the torment of the brand for two weeks, the magisters had no reason to relent now, especially after investing goddess knows how much effort into torturing them. To be honest, the thought of irritable, exhausted magisters slumped in their beds, shovelling mage candy into their mouths, brought more than a little joy to the two of them, but there was no chance they would let all that effort go to waste.


    Magnin mentally prepared himself for the pain to return, yet after the ten minute mark had passed, it didn¡¯te. He frowned.


    ¡°If this is their new form of mental torture, they should keep it up, it¡¯s working,¡± he quipped.


    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine what they¡¯re up to,¡± Beory fretted, a frown creasing her normally wless brow. ¡°They have to know that if they give us enough time we¡¯ll recover. It¡¯ll take them days to bring us back to this point.¡±


    ¡°Well, let¡¯s not get ahead of ourselves,¡± Magnin cautioned. ¡°Some idiot probably slept in. They¡¯ll be back to it soon enough.¡±


    That wouldn¡¯t exin theck of the usual background pain. They would consciously need to shut that off, but neither of them could imagine any motivation for the magisters to do so.


    So they sat, and waited for their suffering to continue, resolved to face it to the inevitable, bitter conclusion. But an hour passed and nothing happened. Then another hour passed.


    Nothing.


    ¡°I almost feel neglected.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Magnin.¡±


    They continued to wait, but nothing changed.


    ¡°Should we¡­ go to sleep?¡± Magnin suggested.


    Beory eyed him through narrowed lids.


    ¡°You can sleep right now?¡±


    Magnin tried to shrug nonchntly.


    ¡°I mean, we could try, right? It¡¯s important to get rest when we can. We don¡¯t know when they might start again. It¡¯s been almost a week since we slept, right? We should seize the opportunity and hit the nkets."


    It was good and reasonable advice, which made Beory instantly suspicious. Magnin was intelligent and capable when he wanted to be, but more often than not, he would y the fool when she was around to pick up the ck. What he said made sense, but something about the tone in which it was said hinted at something else. The powerful mage puzzled over it for a few seconds, her focus locked on her innocent looking husband.


    "Magnin¡­" she said, "¡­ are you?"


    The Century yer''s brows rose as his face took on an aspect of pure, childlike innocence.


    "You are!" she squawked incredulously. "No you are not <em>gettingid</em>! I''ve been tortured for two weeks!"


    Both hands rose, palms out, presenting a solid defence.


    "Nobody suggested it, darling," he spoke with reason, "I''m just trying to make sure we''re as prepared as we can be."


    "Right," she scoffed. "You aren''t wrong, we <em>should</em> get some sleep if we can¡­"


    "As I was saying -"


    "¡­ but you can sleep outside."


    Harsh, but nothing the powerful yer hadn''t dealt with before. Caught in the act, he could onlyugh, send his wife a saucy wink, which earned a huff in return, before he left the tent and found afortable patch of ground to lie on. In truth, at his level, with all the feats and the enormous physical stats that came from his ss, sleeping rough was almost no different than sleeping in a bed. He wouldn''t be sore or stiff, his muscles wouldn''t knot or cramp. If anything, the ground would yield to him, not the other way around, something Beory understood perfectly.


    "Not my fault you look so fine," he grumbled to himself as he settled his head on his arm.


    "I can hear you," Beory called.


    "I know, you sexy fox," he whispered, knowing she could hear that as well.


    "<em>Sleep</em>," she incanted and Magnin chuckled as he felt the spell roll over him.


    He could push it away, of course, but he allowed it to drag him under and was soon snoring away. Beory Sterm could only shake her head, exasperated, before she cast the magick once more on herself. She expected to be awoken by that wrenching agony, but she was exhausted. Even an hour of sleep would help.


    To her utter shock, she woke six hourster, fully rested and pain-free. Confusion and suspicion blossomed in her mind as she ripped off her nkets and found Magnin still snoring outside.


    "Wake up," she hissed and the yer''s eyes snapped open immediately.


    "What''s wrong?" he asked, his tone deadly serious.


    A momentter his eyes widened as he too realised they were still free. The same horrible realisation began to dawn on his face when he realised what it might mean.


    "Do you think they -?"


    "Don''t even think it," Beory snapped at him. "I won''t believe it until I see his body cold in front of me."


    The magisters would have no reason to continue torturing them if Tyron had been killed.


    "KAW!"


    The ear-splitting cry of arge bird rang out and both of them turned their gaze to the sky. With their preternaturally sharp eyes, they could make out the approaching Ro-w with ease. The enormous, four winged bird of prey powered through the air toward them, its gaze as sharp as the ws that tipped each of its hooked feet.


    "Surely, there''s nicer birds that can carry messages," Magninined. "These feathered thugs are always such foul-tempered pricks."


    "I think we''re about to get an answer to our question," Beory said.


    There were few who had permission to use the messenger birds. The aristocracy made frequent use of them when conversing by magickal means was too expensive or not necessary. Certain wealthy guilds paid through the nose to make use of them. And of course the magisters, who created the damned things.


    As it swooped overhead, the beast released a slender tube from one w before it beat the air with its wings and turned around. With several powerful strokes of its wings, the hateful creature was already on the return flight, another of its piercing cries shattering the peace as it went.


    Magnin caught the falling cylinder with ease, his hands steady despite what he may now hold. This message may very well inform him of his son''s death. Beory eyed it with dread. The swordsman rolled his shoulders and popped the seal off, sliding the rolled paper inside into his hands. Wanting to get it over with as quickly as he could, he spread the page and read the contents.


    Then he startedughing.


    "What?" Beory demanded. "What does it say? Is Tyron alright?"


    Magnin leaned back and roared withughter until tears began to roll down his cheeks. Unable to stop, he held out the message and waved it at his wife as he continued to howl. A fierce frown on her face, the Mage snatched the paper from her husband and read it with a nce. Immediately, her expression was reced with one of savage glee.


    "Those arseholes must be spewing in their own beards," she gloated.


    "A break!" Magnin choked out as he continued tough. "Can you believe this luck? A <em>fucking</em> break¡­ <em>now</em>?"


    It was too much for him. Unable to hold in his incredulousughter, he copsed onto the ground and rolled back and forth. The thought of the magisters being forced to abandon their assault on the brink of seeding in order to save rank and file citizens, it must have felt like they were swallowing iron needles.


    "Two weeks," Beory smiled viciously, "two whole weeks. With a little luck, we might be able to drag it out even longer."


    Even fighting back against the worst rift-kin Nagrythyn had to offer, they''d be able to recover their condition in that much time. When the pain inevitably resumed, the magisters would be starting from scratch. They''d been afraid Tyron had been found and killed, but things had never looked brighter for him. So long as he was able to remain clear of the break, he''d have a lot of time to continue growing.


    "Things have turned around just like that," Magnin finally managed to contain hisughter. Hey spread out on the ground, staring at the morning sky with a blissful smile on his face.


    "You''re just happy you get to fight."


    He didn''t deny it.


    "I''ve got a lot of pent up stress," he grinned, "thanks to <em>someone</em>."


    "You''re ming me and not the unimaginable agony those pricks sent our way?"


    With a pleased sigh, Magnin lightly flipped himself onto his feet.


    "Well, we may as well pack the camp and get moving. I''ll take care of that while you reach out to your people."


    "Are you sure?"


    "No problem. I''ll have it done in a sh."


    They set to their tasks, their hearts light and smiles on their faces.


    Across the western province, the rift-kin advanced relentlessly, destroyed farms and viges left in their wake.

 Chapter 49: Its Not Music

    Chapter 49: It''s Not Music


    Some people said that a good Mage was simr to a good musician. A good musician understood the structure of music, was able to manipte harmonies to create sounds that tugged on heartstrings and dropped women''s drawers. Those people imed that a Mage, simrly, knew the sigils and words of power like the back of their hand, could weave them together as if ying an instrument to create a song of magick.


    In Dove''s opinion, those people were fucking stupid.


    Musicians and bards were illiterate arseholes half the time, and stuck-up arseholes the other half. One hundred percent of the time they were more interested in getting their pants down than they were in being useful. Even more irritating, without exception they thought they were the gift of the Divines to the world. Thankfully, being dead meant he wouldn''t have to listen to another bard wax lyrical about the power of his or her craft and its ability to make them <em>feel</em>.


    On more than one asion, Dove had offered to use his own craft to make a bard feel something, but they''d declined each time. A pity.


    No,pleting spellwork was nothing like plucking strings and making people cry. It was harnessing the fundamental fabric of the universe and making people <em>dead</em>.


    He had no clue where the insistence of linking Mages and musicians came from, or why it persisted so long. Probably the bards spreading it to elevate their strumming above its station.


    A week had passed and Dove had spent the majority of that time discussing magick, theory crafting different aspects of Necromancy and helping the kid broaden his repertoire of sigils.


    If anything, it had helped solidify just how monstrous of a prodigy Tyron really was.


    A gifted musician was said to be able to hear a melody and understand what the next note should be. Or they could hear a song only once and reproduce it perfectly, their memory for pitch and tone so wless they could absorb swathes of music at a time.


    Tyron, was not like that.


    Like all truly great Mages, he wasn''t an artist, he was an engineer.


    When he examined a spell pattern, he didn''t reach for the next, perfect note, but considered a hundred options, each with its own merits and ws. He understood that new words of power weren''t phrases or chords, but materials that could be shaped and reformed into a million different things.


    He was a builder who, when given a single chisel, could turn a pile of rocks into a cathedral.


    With more time and tools at his disposal, the kid would create something nobody had ever seen before, Dove was sure of it.


    That notebook Tyron carried with him had been given a workout over thest seven days. Page after page was covered in runic scrawl as the two had debated back and forth, refining the kid¡¯s ideas, or expanding them depending on what specific knowledge Dove could bring to the table.


    It was unfortunate they couldn''t test their theories much, locked into the basement, cowering beneath a seemingly endless stampede of rift-kin. If they used too much magick, they would weaken the very seal that kept them hidden. Now, finally, the noise above had begun to diminish and it was time to emerge atst.


    Tyron was nervous. The past week had been, all things considered, the best seven days he''d had since his Awakening. Finally being able to work through his theories with an educated Mage had been a delight, and now that he had so many different avenues to test, he honestly struggled to know where to begin.


    The refined magick channel they''d cooked up might reduce the amount of energy needed to maintain a minion by as much as five percent! If it worked as they thought it would, the efficiency gain would be tremendous.


    But now, after a full week of huddling in a musty basement, it was time to get back into the real world. Some sun would do him good. His skin was going pallid and the damp air was starting to get into his lungs. Once again, he had cause to be grateful for his rtively high constitution. A normal mage would be too fragile to cope with what he''d been forced to endure, yet despite the privation, he was rtively fine.


    "How do I break this safely?" he asked his teacher and friend as he gestured towards the runes guarding the cer door. "Anything I need to be wary of?"


    "Kid¡­ turn me around so I can see, would you?" the skullined.


    "One sec."


    Tyron grabbed Dove up with practiced ease. The two had grown ustomed to the Summoner''s new existence during their time together and moving him around had be part of their routine.


    "Right. So taking this down carefully is actually a little tricky. And I <em>do</em> rmend that you do it carefully. If it copses too fast, the magick will leak out, basically a smoke signal for rift-kin. Basically, you stuff it up and we die."


    Tyron nodded seriously.


    "<em>You</em> die," Dove corrected himself. "I receive the sweet release of freedom from my cursed existence."


    "I think the monsters would just leave you alone and you''d be trapped in that skull forever," Tyron frowned.


    Dove thought about it for a moment.


    "You''re right, don''t fuck it up."


    The undead mage stepped his younger counterpart through the delicate process. Tyron disconnected each ''node'' in the matrix one at a time, slowly draining the magick from the array piece by piece until nothing remained. For the first time in a week, the two stood unguarded, nothing protecting them from the hordes that had rampaged outside.


    "Boneheads up front and let''s take a look," Dove prompted and Tyron nodded slowly.


    "Alright, let''s do it."


    The skeletons had barely moved for a week but it hardly mattered to them. Muscture formed of pure magick had its advantages after all, the strings fused directly into the bones never cramped or seized. After a moment of hesitation, Tyron gave the mentalmand to his skeletons and they pushed open the door and began the march up the stairs, pushing open the cer door and emerging into the interior of the house.


    At least, it <em>had</em> been the interior of the house.


    With his four minions in front, Tyron came up the rear carrying Dove in his left hand. Both were silent at what they saw. The house, which had once stood with four sturdy wooden walls, was now teetering. Holes had been wed and chewed through the wood, letting in the early morning sun. The once orderly domicile of a frontier family was now broken and strewn with litter. Almost no furniture remained whole, splintered woody strewn everywhere.


    Skeletons in the lead, Tyron picked his way forward, careful where he ced his feet. Glimpses of shattered fences and dead livestock could be seen through holes in the walls. The ce looked as if it had been abandoned and ransacked for months rather than a week.


    Eager to check if his most valuable resource remained unharmed, he rushed to the bedrooms in which he''d stashed the bodies. He looked down on the ruins of what had so recently been tidy, if sparse, sleeping quarters now torn apart, along with several of the bodies he''d tried to hide.


    He looked down on the torn apart and chewed on limbs of the famers and felt weary. They may not have been the best people, goodness knows how many they''d robbed just like they''d done to him, but surely they deserved better than this. Surely even being raised as a minion was better than having rift-kin tear them apart.


    The stench was horrendous and Tyron pped a hand over his nose.


    "Holy Mother," he swore, "this is why zombies were never an option."


    "Almost makes me d I can''t smell anymore," Dove quipped. "The rift-kin really did a number on this ce. I can''t imagine how many came through. Normally they don''t care about the dead but they must have been whipped into a frenzy."


    "Hopefully, they left us something to work with," Tyron muttered.


    "Better check the ranch first. Make sure nothing is lurking about. The bulk of the kin will be riding the crest of the wave, so to speak, but there''ll still be plenty of the pricks for us to deal with."


    "Right," Tyron nodded.


    It was good advice. He gathered his minions together and prepared himself to cast his support magicks if they were necessary. With Dove in hand, he stepped outside the house and for the first time took in the full scale of the devastation. Most of the fences had copsed, along with the barns and storerooms. Chunks of dead animals, a lifetime of work for the people who''d lived here, were everywhere.


    A low, persistent clicking sound could be heard and Tyron tensed, his free hand raised, ready to cast.


    "Kid, put me down," Dove hissed urgently, "you need your hands."


    "It''s fine,'' Tyron kept his eyes sharp, scanning the area, "I can cast the basic stuff with one."


    "Of course you can¡­" Dove muttered.


    Most mages didn''t bother to learn one handed casting, even for basic magick. Why bother when two hands would be faster? The really basic stuff could be done with just words, or even the mind alone, but when hands came into it, two was always better.


    Tyron turned as he heard something shift to his right and was treated to the sight of a monster crawling out from inside of a cow. Covered in gore, the beast clicked menacingly as it uncoiled itself.


    "No," Tyron growled.


    Magick shed through his hand and rolled from his tongue. Before the creature could charge, he brought his mind crashing down on it, using Suppress Mind to freeze it in its tracks.


    It felt distasteful, he could feel the boiling rage of the monster, its blind hate as it thrashed and struggled within his grip. He showed it no mercy.


    Frozen in ce, there was nothing the creature could do to resist as two skeletons bore down on it, putting it down with sharp stabs that crunched through its hide.


    He repeated the process several times as the small group prowled through the area, careful to check every corpse in case it hid another rift-kin. Luckily, none came at them as a group and he didn''t need to reach for a moreplex strategy. Preserving the four minions he had left was at the forefront of his mind. Without them, he''d be in such a vulnerable state, it didn''t bear thinking about.


    They patrolled the property in this manner, but Tyron hesitated to step beyond the boundary of the outer fence, almost none of which remained standing.


    "We can cover the restter," Dove agreed, "as long as you aren''t going to get jumped while you raise more minions, it''s enough. I''d rmend not casting any magick more intensive than that until you''ve swept arger area, though."


    Tyron nodded in agreement. As much as he''d love to continue experimenting with his more powerful rituals, especially <em>Beyond the Veil </em>and <em>Appeal to the Court</em>, with the refinements and knowledge on sigils rted to inter-realm and inter-nar magick that Dove had been able to provide, he was eager to experiment with both to create a safer spell-form. If he was able to actuallymune with the Abyss, rather than just have their whispers attempt to shred his mind, who knew what he could learn? And surely, the Court would provide simr opportunities, no doubt apanied with simr dangers.


    They returned to the house and Tyron shifted some torn wood to clear space and sat down, ordering his skeletons forward to perform thebour.


    "Keep one close," Dove advised. "You''re a bit helpless without them. I learned that the hard way early on as a Summoner. You always keep a trick up your sleeve to keep yourself safe, no matter the situation. With even one skeleton by your side, you have a lot more options than otherwise."


    The Necromancer hesitated before he nodded and pulled one of his minions back. The skull spoke truly. Even his most potent trick right now, using Suppress Mind to incapacitate an individual rift-kin, was useless without a minion to capitalise, as Tyron himself couldn''t act when he used the spell.


    "Did you ever worry that you were too dependent on your Summons?" he asked.


    "Psh. Fuck no," Dove retorted. "First of all, Astral beings are partners to their Summoners, we are a package deal who voluntarily enter a binding contract. I have their back and they have mine, it''s more like having friends you can call on."


    "Friends who contractually get to eat you if you annoy them."


    "Fair¡¯s fair," the skull observed. "Secondly, Summons are fucking <em>badass</em>. Unkible beings of pure spirit from another ne of existence? Hell. Yes. No, I never felt bad about being able to depend on those gorgeous bastards."


    "They aren''t unkible¡­"


    "Losing their form on this ne and going home to recover cannot be considered ''death'' by any stretch. Aren''t you a Necromancer? Don''t give me this shit, as if you don''t know the difference between life and death."


    Tyron sighed. There wasn''t much hope of arguing against Dove when it came to Summoners. He was aplete supremacist when it came to sses. Summoner at the top, followed by Necromancer, as it bore simrities, then mages in general, followed by a hundred kilometre gap, then the rest of the ''plebs'' as he put it. Apparently ''tamer'' style sses didn''t enjoy Dove''s favour in the same way, theck of magickal nuance condemned them to the bin along with the rest.


    The two rested quietly and watched as three skeletons dutifully got their bones busy clearing out the interior of the house, dumping the refuse in arge pile a distance away. When things were rtively clean, he shifted his minions to the more distasteful task of corpse sorting. One by one, the bodies of the farmers were dragged out of the house and under the open air. When it was done, he looked down on twelve rotting corpses in various states ofpletionid side by side on the grass, each in the process of dposition. The swarm of flies that clung to them was surprisingly noisy, and Tyron shuddered to think of the maggots worming their way through the dead flesh as he stood there.


    The remains of the children had been ced on the other side of the house, and as he went to fetch his butcher''s tools, he ordered the three skeletons to begin digging graves.


    "Now this is why I don''t rate Necromancy quite as high as Summoning," Dove observed when Tyron ced him to the side. "I don''t mind getting my hands dirty from time to time, but this? No way."


    The young man shrugged before he took a piece of cloth and tied it over his nose and mouth. As cloying as it was, any protection from the stench and flies was more than wee. Preparations done, he grit his teeth and stepped forward. Time to get to work.


    "Hey, kid! Turn me around, I don''t want to see this shit! Hey!"


    He was ignored.


    Several hourster, Tyron stood hunched over, his hands on his knees as he took deep, slow breaths. He spit on the grass a few times, just to clear the taste in his mouth, a mix of dead flesh and stomach acid. In a way, he was proud of himself, he''d only puked twice during the entire process, a new record, as these things went. The skeletons, fresh from digging, then filling holes, were now back at it; armed with pilfered shovels from the farm they were busy burying the midden pile Tyron had created.


    He''d been able to salvage tenplete skeletons from the farmers, better than he''d feared when he first saw what the monsters had done. He likely could raise all of them and support having fourteen minions, if only just, but he''d realised just how important it was for him to have the wiggle room to cast supporting spells. He''d bring himself to an even ten, and store the rest for when he inevitably lost minions on the way.


    "That¡­ was disgusting," Dove observed. "When that eyeball popped, with the maggots inside? I thought <em>I </em>was going to chuck, and I don''t have a stomach. Holy shit."


    Acid burned the back of Tyron''s throat as his bile surged again. He took several more slow breaths before turning to re at the skull.


    "Really?"


    "That''s what you get for making me watch."


    Grumbling, the young mage found the well and washed out his mouth before bringing the bones over and washing them down too, carefully cing them on the ground in the correct positions, ensuring none were lost. With that job done, heunched into the next, his fingers flexing as he called on the threads of magick and began to weave them inplex shapes.


    Dove watched the kid work and marvelled at the ease of it. It wasn''t even the deft and nimble movement of the fingers that impressed him, but rather the constant and steady flow of magick. That level of control wasn''t easy, was <em>anything </em>but easy, but Tyron did it effortlessly.


    Patiently, brick by brick, the kid constructed something incredible. Beautiful engineering, artistic construction. Nothing like <em>fucking</em> music.

 Chapter 50: Bones and Blood

    Chapter 50: Bones and Blood


    It took a day of finger breaking work for Tyron toplete the muscture on all ten skeletons. He worked straight through the night under the illumination of summoned globes, despite Dove warning him it was a bad idea. In typical fashion, he refused to cut any corners in the tedious process, instead investing more time than was necessary toplete what he felt to be his finest work to date.


    Ideally, he would have liked more time to prepare the remains before he raised them. He wanted to examine the amount and nature of the death magick that had umted in them over the past week, especially since they had been in such close proximity. Unfortunately, time pressed him still. Perhaps he would have time for study once this next batch of minions had secured the area and he recovered more remains. He didn''t much want to consider it, but he knew close to a city¡¯s worth of dead would be found at Woodsedge.


    Tyron pushed those thoughts away and studied his work once more. He would never be satisfied if he didn''t master all of the skills he deemed important to his craft, and that meant more than rote practice and repetition. The Unseen rewarded those who pushed themselves, experimented, and didn''t rest on theirurels. If he wanted Bone Stitching to reach level ten, then he had to try new things, create more intricate weaves and see what worked. Then, continuously refine until he had reached as close to perfection as he could visualise.


    His current work was far from perfect, but it represented another step forward in his methods, and he was pleased with that. The more he progressed, the more certain he was that a well-functioning and efficient muscture was the cornerstone of a good skeleton. The less energy his minions needed to move their bones, the more skeletons he could support. As well as being able to hit harder, move faster and trip over themselves less.


    When he thought back to the stilted movements of his first two proper minions (the zombie didn''t count), he was frankly embarrassed.


    "Right," he muttered to himself, "I''ll take these back to the cer and start raising them."


    He leaned forward to pick up the first of the bones only to be interrupted by a cough. Confused, he spun to find the skull of Dove sitting on a rock nearby and realised he''d forgotten the Summoner was there at all.


    "Maybe take a break, kid. You''ve been at this for a long time now."


    "I''m fine," Tyron frowned, "I can work a lot longer than this."


    "Not saying you can''t, but <em>should</em> you? Raise Dead isplicated shit, I know, we took the damn spell apart over thest week. It''s hard to stop working in the middle, I get it, but trust me, you need some sleep."


    Frustration and a hint of anger bubbled up in the Necromancer''s chest. Dove was right, he <em>didn''t</em> want to stop, he was ready, <em>eager</em> to continue, to work on his magick and ply his craft. A few days without sleep was nothing, not when he was on such a tight timeframe.


    <em>To a mage, your mind is a weapon. Keep it sharp, son, and it will never fail you.</em>


    The words of his mother, spoken years ago, echoed in his head. He paused for a moment before he took hold of his impatience and forced it down.


    "You''re right," he conceded to the skull. "I need a fresh head on my shoulders for spellwork like this. I''ll turn in."


    "Good," Dove was pleased his advice was heeded. "You haven''t blown yourself up yet, but let''s not tempt fate."


    Tyron gathered his skeletons with a thought and retired back to the cer, carefully closing it off behind him before he ced Dove on his favourite crate and prepared to sleep. He undressed, washed himself quickly before he rolled into his nkets and closed his eyes.


    Only, his mind wouldn''t stop buzzing. His thoughts flicked from one sigil to the next, constantly trying to slot together in new ways, gradually taking shape into theplex spell forms needed to create Undead. He tried to ignore it for a while, tried to force his mind to stop, but eventually gave up and used a spell to put himself to sleep. Eight hourster, he awoke and leapt out of his bedroll.


    <em>Time for magick</em>, he thought gleefully to himself.


    "Whoa, kid? What the fuck? I know that look in your eye. Just what the hell do you think you''re doing?"


    The light bloomed within the empty sockets of Dove''s skull and the former Summoner''s voice echoed out just as Tyron was shoving himself back into his clothes.


    "Uh, what?" Tyron asked. "I was going to get the bones and prepare to raise the skeletons. What''s the problem now? I slept plenty, just like you suggested."


    A disgusted sigh erupted from the skull.


    "Are you fucking kidding me? <em>Eat something</em>. Drink some water. You''re like a toddler who can''t resist a shiny toy. Take care of yourself, you moron. I''ve seen yers three times your level, yers who could go a month without a ss of water, sleeping and eating more than you do. You know why? Because they knew they should when they had the chance. And they weren''tplete idiots. That second part is important."


    "Alright!" Tyron blushed. "I get the point. I''m stupid. I''ll eat."


    As irritated as he was, he knew it was good advice. He hadn''t eaten a thing yesterday, and when he stopped to think about it, he was actually starving. He sent his skeletons out to check the outside of the cer and rummaged around in his packs for something to eat. Under the watchful eyes of a glowing skull, he patiently ate a sparse breakfast and drank a few cups of water before turning to his mentor.


    "Happy?"


    "No, you idiot, I''m a skull. I''ll never feel love, happiness or joy ever again. Am I satisfied that you won''t murder yourself when casting now? Reasonably. Now hurry up, we haven''t got all day. I boiled my non-corporeal brain trying to improve that fucking spell and I want to see the payoff."


    Tyron grinned and jumped up the stairs, returningter with an armful of bones.


    "I''ll get the rest," he told the skull after he ced them on the ground.


    Several tripster, he had ten small piles of bones on the floor and a space cleared in which he could work. He moved to the closest skeleton and began toy the bones out once again with care. He was quite practised at recognising which went where and it didn''t take him long to get them all together. He double checked to be sure he was done before he stood and stretched out his hands.


    "Alright," he said, "let''s see how this goes."


    He didn''t need to check his notes, he''d gone over the spell so many times over thest few days he could reproduce three different versions of it perfectly from memory. With confidence, he stepped forward, raised his hands, and began to speak.


    The moment he began, he could feel something was different.


    The magick leapt to hismand as the words of power rolled from his lips. Tyron had never been someone who struggled tomand thenguage of magick, but now he felt it flow as it never had before. Each syble crackled with arcane power, ethereal energy that flowed from one word to the next with effortless grace.


    He felt as if he was no longer speaking these words like a secondnguage, but as a native speaker. He didn''t need to think at all as he spoke, the words came so naturally.


    It was the Mystery, the extra hand of the Unseen holding him up, granting him a gift that he hadn''t possessed before.


    <em>This is only the initial stage</em>, he thought in wonder, <em>I can''t imagine what it''s like if it advances</em>.


    Despite his surprise, he forced it from his head. He couldn''t afford to be distracted in the middle of aplex ritual, not even for something like this. He buckled down and focused on the process, ensuring he constructed each part of the ritual exactly as he wanted. His words and hands worked together to shape the spell with almost inhuman precision. These were the feats only those with high levels or powerful sses could achieve, their abilities being lifted up to another realm by the power they cultivated.


    It was a long ritual. Though the two had concocted numerous ways to shave the ritual down, remove certain portions by finding efficiencies in others, Tyron had decided that wasn''t the way he wanted to proceed. Sure, they could take out certain phrases, find better uses for certain sigils, but rather than take those gains to reduce the casting time, he chose to add more elements and keep the ritual duration the same. Dove had given him a lot to think about when it came to constructed intelligence and he was eager to experiment. They had a lot of thoughts on ways to strengthen the connection his minions used to draw energy from him, addingyers that may help prevent magick being lost in the transition. These changes addedplexity, which tranted to increasing the length of the ritual whilst also making it more difficult to cast.


    Tyron embraced the challenge. When the final words finally rolled from his tongue and his hands fell back to his side, he felt a deep glow of satisfaction. The cast had been perfect. Better than perfect. He now possessed two Mysteries rted to spellwork, and though they remained weak, he sensed the two had worked together, one pushing up the other to send the spell to a height greater than he thought he could achieve. As the magick coalesced and settled within the bones before him, he basked in the sensation that filled him.


    Only when the faint click of bones reached his ears did he open his eyes and behold the fruits of hisbour.


    The skeleton rose to greet its master, the purple fire igniting in its eyes. Tyron smiled as he felt the connection between them solidify, the risen Undead bing a tiny knot in the corner of his awareness.


    "You just might be the first of a new generation," he said. "Good to have you."


    "Don''t talk to the minions, idiot," Dove remarked snidely. "And holy shit, that cast was something else. I could practically feel the energy snapping in the air."


    "Yep," the young Necromancer grinned, "and now for the rest."


    "Slow your roll, kid. Quick break, iron out the kinks, rest your voice, then proceed."


    Tyron resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the old Mage''s caution, but understood the wisdom of it. He proceeded from cast to cast, resting between each ritual until another day was done and the sun had set. Six brand new skeletons, freshly armed with the crude weapons he could salvage from the farm, stood to attention in the cer. With ten minions at his call once more, he felt confident in his own safety once again. With the addition of his support magick, these ten would be able to fight decently against even a mid-sized pack of rift-kin. If Dove was right and the majority were out rampaging across the province, then he shouldn''t have to worry too much. Ironically, being this close to the rift kept him rtively safe. To reach him, any marshals or yers would have to fight their way through the horde released by the break.


    It wouldn''t hinder his parents at all. But at least they were the only thing he had to worry about.


    Another night of rest, sleeping in the cer, then Tyron gathered Dove and his minions before they left for a wider sweep around the farm. Wanting both hands free, he fashioned a sling he could throw over his shoulder to keep Dove at chest height, if on an angle, his purple eyes facing outwards to take in the world around them. The forest appeared to have suffered much as the farm had, many trees being uprooted by the shaking that had followed the break, or knocked down since by the monsters as they rampaged through the area.


    They found more rift-kin that day, small packs still hunting, looking for something to kill. Tyron didn''t hold back, unleashing his full repertoire of spells on the frenzied kin. Against groups, he would enhance the weapons of his skeletons with <em>Death des</em> before either picking out a target to suppress, or against more powerful foes, applying the <em>Shivering Curse</em>. A few times he tried to apply <em>Fear</em> to the kin, but they seemed oddly resistant; the unthinking rage they possessed was difficult for his spell to ovee. With more practice and levels, he would likely be able to get it to stick, but for now, he would stick to his more reliable options.


    Thankfully, nothing he couldn''t handle appeared and he returned to the farm after an extended period out fighting. If he performed the status ritual now, he might earn a couple of levels after the work he''d done. At least one, surely. But he wasn''t quite ready yet. Before anything else happened, he had one more ritual he wanted to try.


    "Kid, I''m really not sure about this."


    "We talked about it, remember? It''ll be fine."


    "Yeah, I know, but now that wee to it, I just can''t see anything gooding from a ritual that requires so much <em>blood</em>."


    After resting, Tyron had decided tomit to his instincts and spent that night and the next day preparing to cast <em>Appeal to the Court</em>. Partly because the ritual was an undeniably powerful piece of dimensional magick that he was eager to learn more about, and partly because he felt that the ''patrons'' who had gifted him the Anathema sub-ss were genuinely trying to be helpful. Perhaps their help was twisted and likely to drive him insane, but nevertheless they had an interest in seeing him, if not seed, then progress. He now knew, for example, that the Abyss had in fact been trying to supply him with information, the only issue being their method was ipatible with his sanity.


    No doubt there would be simr¡­ challenges, when it came to the Court, but he was determined to make the attempt. He needed all the help he could get.


    After a day spent preparing the ritual circle, arguing spellforms back and forth with Dove and making copious notes, Tyron felt he was prepared. There were many elements of ovep between this ritual and <em>Pierce the Veil</em> and much of his knowledge for thetter carried to the former. Both spells were centred around forming a dimensional gateway, a nar-door, so to speak. Where <em>Pierce the Veil</em> differed was the destination it connected to. Dove had no experience with anything rted to the Abyss, and was quick to tell him to leave them the fuck alone.


    In fact, the skull had given him a lengthy and detailed lecture as to the many and varied dangers of the Abyss, with a great deal of focus given to the horrific and grisly ends met by those who messed with forces they could not hope to control. Tyron resolved not to tell the Summoner that he''d cast the ritual a second time.


    Thankfully he didn''t need to exin where he''d managed toe across a <em>second</em> ritual thatmunicated with strange powers beyond mortal reckoning that he had no business knowing. Dove had tly told him he didn''t want to know and they''d moved on from there.


    "Alright then, here goes," he muttered.


    "This is going to be gross, but don''t turn me away. I kind of want to see what happens."


    Tyron flicked a disgusted look at the skull before he returned his gaze to the knife he held in his left hand. Dove had been right about one thing, this ritual required arge amount of blood, and unfortunately, he didn''t have many ces he could get it. He judged that his robust constitution would sustain him, though it was closer than he would have liked. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.


    He ced himself in the centre of the borate ritual circle, knife in one hand, focus in the other, and began to speak.


    Again, his words crackled into the air as the magick in the room began to flow. A great deal of power was required for this spell to function, and Tyron drew on all he could, pulling the energy out from within himself as sigil after sigil took shape, building on those that preceded. Space began to bend, even time seemed to twist in on itself as he continued to give voice to the arcane.


    The light in the cer dimmed as time passed. From the corner of his eye, Tyron swore he could see the room begin to dye with a red tint, or perhaps that was a trick of his mind, knowing what wasing. He held his nerve, and continued to perform the ritual, his voice never wavering.


    For an hour he spoke, giving form to the spell as the room grew darker and his vision more and more scarlet, until the time came.


    With a slow deliberate motion, he drew the de across his forearm in a long and deep cut. He wanted to hiss from the pain, but continued to enunciate perfectly as the ritual continued. Hot, red blood began to flow down his arm and drip onto the floor. Almost unnaturally, it flowed too freely, as if pulled out of him by the spell itself. The substance of life pooled by his feet before it began to slide across the ground, like oil across the surface of water.


    He continued to bleed, continued to speak as his vision grew darker and darker. He felt cold. The blood poured from the cut and onto the ground where it shifted and writhed until it found the lines of the ritual circle which were gradually bing fully covered in the red liquid.


    His voice boomed powerfully despite the energy in his body fading. Tyron held on, even after his eyes werepletely ck and he could no longer see a thing. When thest word left his lips, he swayed heavily on his feet before he caught himself. Careful not to leave the centre of the circle, he quickly snatched a bandage from his pocket and wrapped it around his arm, desperate to stop the bleeding as he shivered and waited.


    "D-Dove?" he rasped. "I¡­ I can''t see. What''s happening?"


    The first bubbles of panic and disquiet had begun to rise in him. The ritual had seeded, he knew it had, but he couldn''t <em>see</em>. What was going on?


    "Kid," the voice of the mage rang out gravely. "You remember, a couple of days ago when I told you I would never feel again?"


    "What?"


    "I lied. I think I''m in love."

 Chapter 51: Deals Done

    Chapter 51: Deals Done


    <em>"</em>You can''t see? <em>Such</em> a shame."


    Soft and musical, the voice that reached Tyron''s ears was yful, feminine, and on a primal, instinctual level, terrifying.


    "Dove?" Tyron called, his disquiet leaking into his tone, "what''s going on?"


    Unable to see what was happening, he tried to maintain his bnce and make sure he didn''t move from the protective circle he had created. He''d learned his lesson from his attempts to contact the Abyss and woven in as manyyers of protection as he could. With Dove''s help, he''d been confident that the failsafes they''d built in would be sufficient to protect him from whatever may happen, but he hadn''t anticipated losing this much blood.


    He felt dizzy, lightheaded and sluggish.


    "What''s happening is almost assuredly dangerous, kid," the somewhat hollow voice of his mentor rang out, "but at the same time it''s fucking <em>sexy</em>."


    "Dove," Tyron groaned as he clutched the wound on his arm before he removed the bandages he''d prepared and began to bind it.


    His vision was returning, but slowly. Some light crept in around the edges, but all he had was the impression of red.


    "You know, my sense of self-preservation is probably all out of whack given that I''m dead. In future, probably don''t rely on me for an urate assessment of how much trouble you''re in."


    "Not. Helping," the Necromancer forced out between gritted teeth.


    "My, my. You boys do <em>love</em> to talk. I''m right here, why don''t you speak to me directly? I have <em>so</em> much to say."


    Tyron tracked the voice as it seemed to shift position and came to a horrifying realisation. A shiver ran down his spine.


    "Dove¡­" he choked, "is she <em>in the room</em>?"


    A sharp crack and a re of light tickled the edges of Tyron''s eyes.


    "<strong>Talk to me,</strong>" that voice hissed and the sound was like nails being driven straight into his brain.


    "I''m sorry!" he pleaded and the pressure eased. "I didn''t realise what was happening. I haven''t cast this ritual before."


    "Oh we know. We were beginning to feel¡­ <em>neglected</em>."


    The voice, so sultry and smooth, yet with an underlying tone that promised something he knew he didn''t want. He listened carefully as he heard steps begin to circle him. He didn''t dare turn, lest he lose his position within his protective circle. The bright light had been her mming into the wards, he was sure. If he hadn''t included them¡­ he shuddered.


    "The Court has watched you, young one. Such a <em>specimen</em>. So much promise. We were disappointed when you chose the Abyss. What can they offer you but madness and gibberish? Nothing. What we can do for you, and what you can do for us¡­ is so much <em>more</em>."


    Like fingers trailing along his back, her words teased and tantalised. Tyron paused to think, tried to dy to give his vision longer to return.


    "I had no idea what would happen if I used <em>any</em> of the three rituals," he excused himself, making an effort to be polite. "Or what I could exchange with them. There were no materials I could use to learn about your Court."


    "<em>The</em> Court," she corrected him as if chiding a wayward youth. "Your ignorance is no excuse. As a practitioner of death, you should have been drawn to us, like a child seeking for its parent."


    The Necromancer frowned.


    "I have parents. Fine ones at that."


    Perhaps it was a stretch to call Magnin and Beory ''good parents'', they certainly meant well, but were absent more often than not. He found it hard to hold it against them, knowing their nature as he did, but still felt resentful at times.


    He could see a little better now, and could make the vaguely shifting shape of whomever he was speaking to as she walked in front of him. He kept his head still, not wanting to risk growing dizzy and falling.


    The figure continued to circle him slowly, her hands reaching out to y against the protective circle asionally. When the light began to form, indicating the barrier held, she would withdraw, casually, as if nothing had happened at all.


    "Now your <em>error</em> has been corrected," she said, "and atst we can set you upon your <em>proper</em> path. Now, offer your supplication, beg the intercession of the Court, then we shall settle on the price."


    She sounded so pleased, so delighted that things hade to this point, but all Tyron could do was blink in confusion.


    <em>Supplicant? Intercession? I have no idea what she''s talking about. But if I say that, will she get offended? What if she attacks me again?</em>


    He nced down at his feet.


    <em>The ward should hold, she shouldn''t be able to harm me. Even so, best to y safe.</em>


    "I apologise," he said carefully, "but as I said, I don''t know anything about the Court, what you can offer, or what you might seek in return. If it isn''t too rude of me to ask, could you teach me? Perhaps you could start by telling me your name? I''m Tyron Sterm, by the way."


    Her giggle sounded like dripping blood.


    "I know your name. My Mistress has watched you for some time, after all. I must say, it is rare for the Court to receive a supplicant that doesn''t know what it is they''re asking for. How <em>delicious</em>. Perhaps our reach in your realm is not as deep as we might like. It is no matter, I will be <em>pleased</em> to inform you."


    The blurry form began to move around him once again and Tyron tried to keep himself steady as his vision improved by small increments. He could make out a little more of her now, but she remained little more than a blurry smear of white in his eyes. Some sort of dress? The cold that had seized his limbs had slowly begun to recede as the bleeding stopped. Before his Awakening, this much blood loss would have undoubtedly killed him, but now he was already recovering. The power a ss and levels gave was nothing to sneeze at, and he only had his foot in the door.


    "Make sure you <strong>listen</strong>," her voice pierced him once more, as if she sensed his wandering thoughts before it rxed again. "It wouldn''t do to make me repeat myself, would it?"


    "I mean, if it keeps you around longer¡­" Dove called from the side.


    "<strong>Silence</strong>."


    All pretence gone, in that moment she sounded like an enraged beast.


    "<strong>There are no protections around you. Speak again and I will consume your soul</strong>."


    A pause.


    "I apologise for my outburst. Let me fill those unfortunate gaps in your knowledge."


    Cold sweat slid down Tyron''s forehead as he nodded. He didn''t know what he had called into the realm this time, but it was clearly just as dangerous as anything the Abyss had sent.


    "The Court is, how should I phrase it, a gathering of higher beings. Creatures of <em>perfection</em>."


    "You believe you have achieved perfection? Are you gods?" Tyron asked.


    "We are nothing so crude, nor am I so arrogant as to say we are perfect. Perfection is the state we move infinitely closer to with the passage of time. It is our destination, our passion and our pursuit. Beyond life, beyond death, the Court exists to reflect the desires of its members, and what we desire is something beyond mortal ken."


    "You''re a gathering of powerful beings," Tyron frowned, "but you are beyond life and death? Does this mean you are Undead?"


    "Of course," the voice tittered, "as I said, it is only normal that you extend your hand to us. In all the realms, there are no Undead who stand above the Court. A fledgling Necromancer, you are ying in the dirt of <em>our</em> castle. What we offer is to reach down and pull you up."


    Tyron''s mind worked furiously. She had confirmed that she was Undead and he''d read as much as he could on every type known within the province. She was clearly no Zombie or Skeleton, she retained her intelligence and ability tomunicate far beyond any basic creation. Was she some form of advanced spirit? A Revenant? A Wight? A Spectre? Each of those required the remains of a sapient race to create and were extremely rare in his understanding. There weren''t many ces with the raw Death Magick required to create a natural Revenant, let alone a Spectre.


    He wanted to directly ask what she was, but he hesitated. He didn''t want to cause offence to this messenger of the Court. Whatever they were, they were powerful. On par with whatever it was that lived in the Abyss, their name alongside the Dark Ones also. They were not to be trifled with.


    And to tell the truth, he was drawn to the prospect of more powerful minions. The ''perfect'' Undead? Was that something he could hope tomand? He had to learn more.


    "Pull me up in what way?" Tyron asked reasonably. "Do you have spells and rituals that I could learn? Or resources I could use to create more powerful Undead? Each of those would be desirable for me, though I''m not sure what I have that you may be interested in as payment."


    The figure passed in front of him again and Tyron caught a glimpse of a pair of crimson eyes that burned with an unnatural light. There was an energy to that gaze that bordered on manic. It unnerved him more than he could say.


    "Rituals and spells?" sheughed, her throaty tone vibrating in the air. "Is that all you would seek from us? My Mistress is prepared to offer <em>so much more</em>. And the price? Let us not discuss that just yet. Not until you understand the <em>weight</em> of what it is you are offered."


    She drifted out of his gaze again as Tyron kept his eyes focused resolutely forward, though he listened intently.


    "The Court has existed for millennia, its age extends beyond the entire history of your empire. Before the rifts had reached this world, the Court had already ruled for time immemorial. Our oldest members can trace their history back to the founding itself, a time of blood and glory in the dark origins of our realm. And¡­"


    She paused for dramatic effect.


    "¡­ those same members continue to exist to this day. Do I surprise you? Unageing, those same beings survive indefinitely. Undead? <em>Undying</em>. To be raised by the Court is to be offered life evesting. You will be among augustpany should you choose to take the hand that is offered. The most powerful mages in existence, who have perfected their craft over tens of thousands of years, would be your peers. <em>Imagine</em> what you could learn. The <em>power</em> you could achieve."


    Ancient Mages? Evesting life? Magick that had existed before the rifts had even found this world? Tyron swallowed thickly. That <em>was</em> a tempting offer. It was far too good to believe.


    "Despite your words," he said, "I have no evidence that your ims are true. I do not mean to cause offence, but it would be foolish of me to ept a deal without learning more. I would like to establish greater trust and rapport between us before wee to an agreement."


    The ritual was sure to end soon. As long as he could avoid putting the Court against him and run down the clock without being pushed into an agreement, then he could chalk it up as a win.


    These stupid rituals were way more trouble than they were worth. Power was offered, sure, but there were so many hurdles to ovee it was practically worthless. The Abyss offered knowledge? Sure it did, but you risked madness if you tried to listen to them. The Court apparently held immortality in their hands, but there was a seemingly terrible price to pay. At least, he assumed it was terrible, since this creature refused to tell him what it was.


    "I''ve just remembered that you didn''t tell me your name," he said.


    "Indeed I did not. You must think me rude. You may call me¡­ Yor."


    Obviously a false name. She didn''t even bother to hide it.


    "And I fear you do not quite understand the gravity of my offer, young Necromancer."


    She walked in front of him once more and this time his eyes were mostly clear. When he met her gaze for the first time, her eyes widened in pleasure and a slight smile curled the edge of her lip. More clearly than before, those blood red eyes burned with power and life, but also something darker and more fric. After a moment, his vision widened and he was able to take in the rest of her.


    Ghostly white flesh met his eyes. He hadn''t seen her dress; she waspletely naked. Perfectly formed, her body was exposed before him. Straight hair as ck as night cascaded down her delicate shoulders before it ended half-way down her back. Unabashed, she paused artfully in front of him, that same smile on her lips. Tyron blushed and tried to turn away, but caught himself at thest moment. He didn''t want to shift his feet or position lest he risk stepping out of the protection. Hepromised by looking up as he cursed Dove within his mind.


    <em>That idiot! Hepletely drops his wariness just because she''s naked?</em>


    "W-¡­ ahem. Why aren''t you wearing clothes?" he choked out as he tried to regain his equilibrium.


    "I have stepped from one realm to another. Bringing clothing along is¡­ difficult, and often <em>unnecessary</em>," she teased.


    She stepped forward.


    "Now that you can see me, I find it quite <strong>insulting </strong>that you avert your gaze. <strong>Look at me</strong>," she demanded.


    Once again those nails stabbed into his brain until he dragged his eyes down and ced them on hers once more. The moment he did so, the pain faded and he drew a shuddering breath. What was this magick that she could inflict such pain with her voice alone? Where were his protections?


    Seeing the flicker of panic in his eyes, Yor''s smile widened until it became a feral grin, revealing pointed fangs. The wild light in her eyes intensified until he felt certain that he wasn''t standing in front of a woman, no matter the evidence of his eyes. This was a beast in human skin.


    "What¡­ what <em>are</em> you?"


    She stepped closer still, until her body was pressed against the wards that shielded him, mere inches away. Her hands came up to caress the light that red beside his face as she stared deeply into his eyes.


    "I¡­ am a <em>beautiful</em> way to die."

 Chapter 52: Cover

    Chapter 52: Cover


    "A Vampire?"


    "It''s hurtful that you haven''t heard of us. We are the <em>highest</em> form of Undead. You''re a Necromancer, aren''t you?"


    Yor narrowed her eyes as she challenged hisck of knowledge, but Tyron could only shrug helplessly. And continue to avert his eyes.


    "Are you <em>sure</em> you won''t put on any clothes? I''d appreciate it if you would¡­"


    The Vampireughed and drew a hand seductively down her chest.


    "And why should I?" she said. "My flesh has been shaped to perfection. I have no reason to cover myself. Do you not appreciate my form?"


    It wasn''t that he didn''t exactly, it was more he found it incredibly distracting. He couldn''t afford to have his wits dulled by <em>anything </em>when dealing with these dark powers, let alone some perfectly formed¡­


    "Ahem! Fine. I''ll just keep my eyes on the roof."


    He tried to gather himself. His neck was starting to hurt.


    "So if I understand what you''ve said. You were a human, and were changed into¡­ your present form by some form of ritual. And now, you are offering to do the same for me?"


    "You should be <em>honoured</em>," Yor arched a delicate, dark brow at him. "Many Appeal to the Court, desperate for our approval, seeking to gain our blessing and join our ranks. Some are required to serve for many years before they are given the chance, others are never epted. The less talented are often turned into thralls, that they may serve their betters for eternity as befitting their station."


    Never ending very? The thought of it rubbed Tyron the wrong way, though he could see why some might use him of hypocrisy, considering his own profession. He didn''t see raising someone''s bones as a skeleton as remotely the same as enving them, however. What he had done to Dove? That¡­ hit a little closer to home.


    <em>I''m going to release him, so that doesn''t count</em>, he told himself. <em>He hasn''t even asked me to set him freetely, so it can''t be bothering him that much</em>.


    "I don''t really see the need to change my race, though¡­" Tyron said honestly. "I''m sure being a Vampire has its upsides, but I have ns."


    Anathema had proven to be extremely powerful for a sub-ss, but having it pushed on him had certainly lowered his utility. He <em>needed</em> that third sub-ss slot if he was going to cover for his weaknesses and increase his versatility.


    Yor stared at him as if he were a misbehaving insect.


    "We are offering you <em>eternal</em> life," she said, "you will never age, never grow old. Though this realm will fall to dust, trampled under the heel of the rift-kin in ten-thousand years'' time, still you will endure."


    She leaned forward to emphasise her words, which caused Tyron to have to lean back further to avoid¡­ to keep himself focused. At this point, he was almost bent over at a right angle.


    "But there must be significant drawbacks, am I right?" he pointed out. "Nothing given by the Unseenes for free, there is always a cost, a counterbnce. You may not age, but what is the price you have to pay for the privilege?"


    "You speak of cost in the face of immortality?" she sneered. "There are uncounted millions who would pay <em>any</em> price for that which I offer."


    "You aren''t talking to them," Tyron said, "you''re talking to <em>me</em>."


    Living forever might have tempted him severely under normal circumstances. Right here and now? He was under a death sentence, hunted by two yers who hopelessly outssed him in every way. Even if he fled through the rifts and into other realms, there was no ce he could go they wouldn''t be able to reach. His mother was a celebrated mage by the standards of the entire <em>empire</em>, not just the western province. Even if the Abyss or Court were to try and hide him, he had little doubt she could track him down. He needed power <em>right now</em>, the prospect of not ageing for the next few months of his life meant less than nothing.


    "You probably understand my circumstances a little," he said, trying to be reasonable, "if you''ve kept an eye on me as you said you have. I''m not interested in eternal life or any such thing. I''m interested in being a better Necromancer as quickly as I can."


    The Vampire beheld him with her burning red gaze.


    "Of course there are drawbacks to <em>embracing</em> my offer," she said, "though they are hardly worth mentioning. We may not live under the light of the sun, for one, and we must sustain ourselves with the blood of the living."


    She smiled seductively and revealed her pointed fangs once again. They made so much more sense to Tyron all of a sudden.


    "If you can bear to suffer such mild inconveniences, then you may have <em>eternal life</em>," she said in a mocking tone.


    Living without the sun? He could certainly deal with that. He was a night owl before he''d even be a Necromancer. He had the Feat to boot. But "sustained on the blood of the living"?


    "You drink blood?" he grimaced.


    "<em>Indeed</em>," she said, "the pleasure is indescribable. The taste of life itself running down your throat." She shivered. "The food I enjoyed as a human simply does notpare."


    "How do you even get¡­ it? Blood¡­ I mean."


    "The realm of the Court has been perfectly adapted to suit our needs. No sunlight is suffered to touch the ground, and our <em>needs</em> are met by the chattel we keep. They are kept alive to offer up their essence to us when we desire it. Blood flows like a river in the Court, even the thirstiest do not want for sour."


    The image she conjured¡­ was hellish. A world of eternal night? ves kept solely for sustenance?


    "That sounds¡­ interesting," he said.


    "It is a <em>paradise</em> of Undeath," she insisted. "The highest state one of our kind can hope to achieve. Do you desire to grub about on the ground, fiddling with corpses for the rest of your mortal span, then die a pitiful death? This is your chance to elevate yourself, to leap from the mud and into the highest echelons. Your remarkable skill with magick has drawn the eye of the Court, but only one member has decided to extend this offer. My Mistress risks much to give you this chance while you are so unproven, but she believes you will achieve great things, given the chance."


    No doubt there was more to this offer than Yor was willing to say. The way she spoke of the Court intimated it was wonderful, filled with grand mages sharing their wisdom, yet he felt that was far from the case. He sensed that there were likely factions amongst the Vampires, given that this offer had been extended unterally by one member.


    "I will have to respectfully decline your offer," he said formally. "I have no wish to cause offence, but I''ve no wish to change my race. Please convey my deep regards to your mistress."


    Yor arched a delicate brow.


    ¡°Refusal?¡± she said it as if she¡¯d never heard the word before, ¡°Such a rare treat. I hope, for your sake, that my Mistress is not insulted by you spurning her <em>generosity</em>. The chance to experience the Final Kiss is not offered to just anyone, and seldom more than once.¡±


    At the mention of a kiss, Tyron flushed with embarrassment. Frankly, his neck was starting to hurt so much from his constant backward lean that arousal may well have been out of the question, no matter what the Vampire said, yet something in the way she said it sent a shiver down his spine.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind then, I will end the ritual now,¡± he said, straightening his back and keeping his eyes resolutelytched onto his visitor¡¯s.


    Her eyes flickered with that maddened light, but she did not respond, only nodding her head graciously before she stepped back¡­


    ¡­ into an artful pose that best showed off her stunning physique.


    She did it so effortlessly, Tyron wasn¡¯t sure she was even trying. Nevertheless, he swallowed in his suddenly dry mouth before he gathered himself and spoke the final words, ending the ritual.


    At once, the candles blew out, the blood bubbled and hissed until it too had faded to nothing. The light in the room returned to normal once again, the ominous darkness and strange red hue lingered no more.


    Tyron breathed a sigh of relief¡­


    ¡°Well that was <em>exciting</em>,¡± Yor mused, ¡°but how does one quench one¡¯s thirst in this realm?¡±


    ¡­ then he yelped in surprise. As he did so, he stumbled out of the circle of protection he had created for himself on the floor.


    ¡°Y-y-you¡¯re still here?¡± he stammered as he stared at the alluring form of the Undead before him.


    She ced a hand on her chest as she feigned indignation.


    ¡°You would have me gone already? That is <em>no way</em> to treat a guest,¡± she tutted, ¡°if you are to be part of the Court in the future, you will have to brush up on your etiquette.¡±


    ¡°But I thought¡­ the ritual¡­ shouldn¡¯t you¡­ go back?¡±


    ¡°Go back? When I finally have the chance toe out and <em>y</em>? I think not.¡±


    She approached Tyron like a wolf, stalking towards him as he slowly backed away. Only when his shoulders thumped into the wall did he realise he didn¡¯t have anywhere left to go. His mind spun as he tried to summon a spell to defend himself, but it was toote.


    With speed that defied reality, Yor was upon him, a hand mped over his mouth, the other gripped his own hand, her fingers intecing with his. Those burning eyes stared deeply into his as she pressed herself against him.


    ¡°The Mistress suspected you might be <em>reluctant</em> to embrace her offer. In case of such an event, she <em>requested</em> that I remain, to ensure that her <em>investment</em> does not go to waste.¡±


    She leaned closer still until her lips were beside his ear.


    ¡°That which the Court desires is seldom let go without a fight.¡±


    Then she released him, stepping back smoothly and retreating three quick paces where she stopped and watched him appreciatively.


    Tyron just goggled.


    ¡°So¡­ you¡¯re <em>staying</em>?¡± he said, still bewildered.


    ¡°Thank the sweet melons of mercy,¡± Dove spoke up once more. ¡°No offense kid, but even a skull needs something nice to look at once in a while.¡±


    ¡°Dove¡­¡± Tyron said helplessly, ¡°you don¡¯t even <em>have</em> a dick anymore, how can you still be thinking with it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s with me in spirit!¡± the once Summoner dered proudly. ¡°My soul cannot be separated from its johnson, or its desire to ogle. Some things are fundamental to nature.¡±


    ¡°This is just great,¡± Tyron sighed as he massaged his brow to fight off the headache he felting on. ¡°Can you at least put on some clothes?¡±


    ¡°Such a childish obsession. I have sculpted my form to perfection, yet you would have me cover it? For what reason? Your <em>prudishness</em> is of no concern to me.¡±


    Clearly proud of her appearance, Yor showed little desire to do anything to cover up. Tyron needed toe at it from a different angle.


    ¡°The skull won¡¯t stop perving on you unless you get dressed,¡± he stated.


    ¡°That is <em>definitely</em> true,¡± Dove confirmed.


    Yor looked at the glowing sockets of the skull for a moment.


    ¡°Very well,¡± she sighed.

 Chapter 53: Ruins

    Chapter 53: Ruins


    Woodsedge had seen better days, of that Tyron was sure. He stood on the edge of the clearing, his ten skeletons formed in a loose ring around him as he gazed on what had once been a proud frontier town. The walls had sustained enormous damage during the break,rge sections looked to havee down due to shaking rather than being knocked inwards by an impact. Not to say the rift-kin hadn''t done their work,rge holes had been punched into the wall in two ces that he could see from this side. The size and strength of the monster required to deal such damage to the structure was entirely outside of his experience.


    "Fuck me," Dove said. "They really went to town on the ce. Let''s get inside and see what we can see."


    "You''re <em>sure</em> there won''t be any of those powerful kin around?"


    "Yes, I''m sure. They don''t hang around and poke at ruins. Rift-kin are insane, berserk creatures, driven to madness by the wild mana in their realms. They want to hunt and kill, then hunt and kill some more. Once there was nothing here to fight, they would have fucked off to find something else. That¡¯s why they''re so destructive. They don''t hold ground, or bunker down, or tire out. Once they''ve found and destroyed everything they can, they rush off to find something else they kick the shit out of."


    "Fine," Tyron''s hand gripped the hilt of his sword a little tighter. "Let''s head on in."


    The grass had grown longer around the outside of the city without anyone to clear it, though it remained low. Normally it would be cut every week to prevent even the smallest kin sneaking up to the gates through the brush. As they drew nearer the wall, Tyron continually flexed his fingers and held his mind at the ready. If anything jumped out, he wanted to be prepared. With ten of his skeletons around him, he was as safe as he could possibly be.


    Walking towards the ruins of what had one short week ago been a thriving keep town, he didn¡¯t feel like it was enough.


    Knowing that the rift-kin were capable of this scale of destruction was one thing, but it so rarely happened that seeing it in person was shocking. Woodsedge was considered a lower risk area, primarily for bronze ranked yers, with a sprinkling of silvers. It wasn''t even the most dangerous rift in the Western Province, yet here he stood looking out on a level of devastation he never expected to see.


    When they reached the wall Tyron decided to walk around it until he found what remained of the gates on the south side. Whenever he found a gap in the wall, he carefully peeked through to see if he could spot any movement. He yed his eyes across the broken down buildings and rubble that littered the once clean streets with care.


    "What are you doing? Get in there you gods cursed coward."


    "Shut up," Tyron hissed.


    "There''s nothing here you dickhead. Get in there, I want to see."


    Tyron took hold of the skull and ripped open his pack before shoving Dove deep inside and closing the top. He threw it back over his shoulder and tried to ignore the muffled protests of the once-summoner. No matter what Dove said, he wanted to be cautious. He was done taking unreasonable risks.


    When he eventually found the gate, it was surprisingly intact, though still ajar. Some splintering could be seen around the edges where the monsters had wed at the wood, and it was here that he found his first remains. He stepped carefully around the bodies that littered the ground and tried not to look too carefully at each individual, passing over the smaller shapes amidst the carnage.


    The flies were thick in the air, as was the stench. Tyron took a little distance as he pieced together what had happened here. It was sadly predictable. When the residents had fled from Woodsedge, they would obviously leave through the south gate, being the furthest from the rift. It appeared as if the marshals and remaining yers had made their stand here, trying to protect the townsfolk to thest moment as they fled the disaster.


    They''d already been dead, of course. There was no chance for these people to outrun the break, yet of course they had tried. Seeing the pointless death and loss of innocent lives stirred the old guilt in Tyron''s gut, but along with it came a new emotion: anger.


    It didn''t have to be this way. His parents could have prevented this from happening. That was what they <em>did</em>. They were the fixers, the heroes. When there was a problem nobody else could fix, a disaster that could not be prevented, they were the ones who galloped off into the sunset, broad grins on their faces as they rushed into danger and left him at home alone.


    Despite the rot and maggots, he could still make out the expressions of horror and fear that twisted the faces of these desperate people. Some wereden down with packs or belongings, the little that they had tried to bring with them as they fled their homes. Others had fallen by carts and wagons, many of which were now marked with the blood of the children who had huddled inside.


    Wordlessly, he extracted the cursing skull from his pack and pointed him at the tragic scene of the south road. Dove took it in for a long moment before he spoke.


    "Those fucking pricks. It''s hard to think I could hate them more, but here we are."


    "You really think they just let this happen? A break? They don''t care an entire town is just wiped off the map?"


    "¡­ They wouldn''t have anticipated the break. It''s not like they can know in advance when a rift is about to go nuts. But they could have done something about it, they could have saved these people, but to do that, they''d have to let your parents off the hook and call them off the hunt for you. I can''t be sure why they refused to do it, but they did. The end result was avoidable, but you have to face reality. They care more about their power and authority than they do the people they are supposed to protect. Tens of thousands will die from this break, or be disced and have to flee their homes only toe back to smoking ruins and have to rebuild from scratch. But it <em>will</em> be rebuilt. It''ll take a few months, but there''ll be a new keep here soon enough, fresh yer graduates will fill it up and go back on patrol, probably a few gold teams sent out of the capital to hold it down for the next few years. The town will return, the businesses wille back, the merchants will return. The farnd is still sitting there, people will snap it up cheap and try and start a new life out of the cities. Ten years'' time, you might never notice that this had even happened."


    "Except the rift has grown wider."


    "Except the rift has grown wider. More powerful kin wille through, the risk of another break is higher, and eventually someone will drop the ball and it''ll happen again, allowing the whole world to slide a little further into disaster."


    As he moved a little closer, Tyron was forced to step over the remains, one hand held to his nose to try and block the stench. The fighting here had been intense, that much was clear. The number of fallen rift-kin was astounding, piles of them left to rot under the sun. The carnage spread down the road in patches. Isted pockets of resistance that had copsed under the overwhelming number of monsters all the way to the tree-line.


    Tyron turned his back on the scene without another word and began to pick his way into the town. It shocked him. The once neat streets were littered with the dead and rubble from copsed or destroyed buildings. He carried Dove through the ruined streets wordlessly, observers to the ruin that hade to Woodsedge. There were signs of fighting in the streets. Buildings had been ripped open by the ravening kin so they could destroy the living beings inside.


    It took a while, but he eventually made his way to the Butcher''s shop where he''d had his brief apprenticeship. Surprisingly, it was, for the most part, intact. With the help of his skeletons and a well-ced magick bolt, he broke the door down and stepped inside. From the looks of things, there hadn''t been anyone inside so the kin had mostly left it alone. Even the meat in the back of the shop, which appeared to have been left in a hurry, hadn''t been touched. A shame it was likely starting to spoil, perhaps some had been stored cool enough to be edible.


    He noticed Hak''s prized knives were nowhere to be seen. Hopefully that meant he''d gotten out early to stay ahead of the break. The odds were slim, but if he''d sensed the danger in the air and left when the yers were still nning to hold the line, he might have gotten out, along with Madeleine and his wife Penelope.


    "Any reason we''re looking at all this meat?" Dove asked.


    "This was where I learned the butchery skill," Tyron replied as he ran his hands over the benches. "I wasn''t here long, but the owner, Hakoth, was a good man."


    "I see. I also mastered the handling of my meat not far from here. Over in the red light district, we should check it out."


    "You want to visit the brothels? Now?"


    "I don''t suppose there would be much point, now that you mention it. Any chance we could find a shapelydy skull you could stuff a spirit into? I wouldn''t mind a littlepany. And when I saypany¡­"


    "Didn''t you get enough of an eyeful with Yor around?" Tyron rolled his eyes. Despite being dead, the Summoner appeared to bergely irrepressible in his attitude and humour.


    "Yor is certainly nice to look at, if a bit pale. You know, now that she''s not around I think I can be honest. She''s <em>too</em> pale. Not as in, too pale for my taste, I mean <em>too pale to be real</em>. Bedsheets look at her with envy. If she were any whiter, she''d be see through. I feel like I should be able to see every vein in her body."


    "There''s no blood in her, why would you see the veins?" Tyron wondered, bemused.


    "The veins themselves have colour don''t they?"


    "I ¡­ guess? I''m not sure actually."


    "How many people do you have to carve up before you can answer even the simple questions? Come on, Tyron, get it together."


    "Can we¡­ not¡­ talk about it like that?" he winced.


    "There''s no shame in it, kid. When life deals you Necromancy, you find human remains and carve the shit out of them. No harm, no foul."


    "Fine. Let''s just¡­ keep looking around."


    Dove didn''t reply, which Tyron took for silent assent, and the two continued to roam about what was left of the town, going in and out of buildings and eventually making their way up to the keep. The stone fort, built to house the yers who risked their lives to keep the kin at bay, was alsorgely intact. There was little structural damage, most of the walls hadn''t been caved in, despite some stone being lost to the shaking.


    "There wouldn''t have been many yers around when the kin came through, so I don''t suppose the keep itself got much attention. There would have been some support staff still here, but not many others. The bulk of the monsters would have ripped through the town and then spread out along the south road. On the plus side, that means there''s probably a ton of good salvage in here. Too bad you''re so scrawny."


    "The skeletons can handle some of it."


    "True."


    As the sun beat down on the keep, the two, along with the ten undead minions, picked through the keep, and indeed there was quite a bit to find. yers were often cash rich and many had died in the rift, leaving their belongings behind. Not wanting to be weighed down, Tyron took a generous amount of higher value coins, recing the bronze in his pouch with gold and silver where he could.


    The real wealth they found was in the armoury. It hadrgely been emptied in the defence of Woodsedge, but even so plenty of arms remained. By the time they were done, Tyron had been able to outfit each of his ten skeletons with a new one-handed weapon and shield.


    If he had enough magick, he might have been able to put armour on a few of them, but the added weight would drain his energy too quickly.


    As the hours passed, Dove eventually spoke up.


    "This would be an incredible ce to set up. There''s a fair bit of food lying around. Decent hunting nearby. Equipment and resources for your skeletons and a metric shit ton of fresh human remains. There must be hundreds of them lying about. Think of the research. Think of the levels!"


    "Of course, it isn''t that easy," Tyron grunted.


    "Nope. The nobles will want this ce up and running once they roll back the rift-kin. Bury the dead, back to business as usual, the slimy fuckers. That means the Magisters are already hard at work making someone else clean up their mess. Depending on who''s on the case, we can''t know how quickly they''ll reach this ce and you can''t be here when they do. To be honest, we should get out of here as quickly as possible."


    "Right," Tyron said. "If possible I want to take a day or two to get as much as we can before we leave."


    "Cutting it close. If you need to work overnight, do that and we can get the fuck out in the morning. You need to leave this ce behind and find somewhere else to set up shop."


    "Okay. First things first though. I want a shower."


    Inside the keep he was able to find rooms equipped with all the enchantments required to wash himself and for the first time in a while Tyron indulged himself in a full body scrub, peeling weeks of filth off his skin. After piging a chest for some fresh clothes that were a close enough fit, he felt like a new man.


    With that done, he rolled up his fresh sleeves and got to work. With the help of his skeletons he was able to unearth an intact cart from the merchant district and begin to load it with supplies. Preserved food, water, a small stash of coin, spare weapons and armour took up space in the cart, but not much. The rest was reserved for the most important cargo.


    From the middle of that day and through the night, Tyron grit his teeth and set himself to butchering corpses. Along with his minions, he scoured the town, but found most of the best prospects at the south gate. With so many remains on hand, he could afford to be picky, and despite the damage that many had received, he was still able to piece together full skeletons with rtive ease.


    Once the bones had been stripped of flesh and washed, he set them out to dry in full sets, having the skeletons ce them separately. By the time morning came, he''d managed to arrange twentyplete skeletons in neat piles on the ground. Once dry, each went into its own sack which was then ced carefully onto the cart.


    He was tempted to take another shower after the grisly work, but knew he couldn''t afford the time. It took a bit longer for him and Dove to find an efficient way for his skeletons to be harnessed to the cart. If he could raise a horse, he wouldn''t have any issues, but unfortunately he didn''t have that ability as of yet.


    So it was that his skeletons were forced to act as mules, six of them arranged in two lines of three to pull the heavy load. It was murder on his magick, and only left four of his minions avable for defence, but necessary. With this he would have everything he needed for the short term future.


    With their slow ce, it was already dusk by the time they made it back to the farm.

 Chapter 54: Setting Out

    Chapter 54: Setting Out


    With the light fading over the ruined farmstead, Tyron had the skeletons pull the cart up to the house and leave it against the north wall. After a quick stretch, he picked up Dove and headed inside and down into the cer where he found an impatient Yor waiting.


    "You''rete," the vampire observed.


    It was hard to look at her, dressed as she was in her simple farmer''s dress, without imagining what she looked like underneath the cloth. Tyron coughed to divert himself before he answered.


    "We, ah, spent a little time gathering supplies. I used most of the night preparing bones I can use on the journey. If I get time, I can study them and try to work out how the Death Magick is transferred between them."


    The beautiful creature raised a curved brow.


    "All of these things, and <em>so much more</em>, we would teach you if you epted our offer."


    It wasn''t said in a demanding or demeaning way, simply as a statement of fact, and Tyron nodded easily.


    "This stuff is all basic to you, I''m sure," he shrugged, "but I''ll figure it out."


    He wasn''t actually as casual as he seemed. He <em>burned</em> to have ess to the knowledge of Necromancy that Yor had tucked away in her head, but he had no means to get it that he wasfortable with. Left with no other option, he was forced to puzzle it out through trial and error on his own. He had confidence he would get there, but it would be a frustrating and wasteful process. He''d likely lose a lot of raw materials, but even worse, he would lose <em>time</em>, the thing he had least to spare.


    "I need to take a nap," he yawned, "then I suppose we''ll have to get ready to leave."


    He paused.


    "Are you able to travel with us? If we move during the day¡­"


    She stared at him with her unblinking, wild red eyes.


    "I will have no problem keeping up. Don''t worry yourself," she drawled. "although, you <em>may</em> want to consider moving at night yourselves. I doubt you want to be found as you relocate."


    A good point. They''d be safer if they travelled at night, though it would mean he spent more time with Yor. Tyron had mixed feelings about that. She was an enchanting creature, to be sure, but she radiated an aura of danger that disturbed him on a deep level. Being around her set him on edge, as if he constantly had her fangs on his neck.


    "We should probably work out where we''re fucking going before we leave, don''t you think?" Dove chipped in for the first time. "Rather than just haring off into the wilds without a n, perhaps we can spend ten minutes figuring out a destination and some goals?"


    "That''s also a good idea," Tyron agreed. "We''ll figure it out in the morning. For now, I need to sleep. See you¡­ in the morning."


    His sleeping roll and nkets were stillid out in the cer. Feeling a touch self-conscious, he stripped down and rolled in, making himselffortable under the watchful eyes of not one, but two undead.


    "You aren''t going to take a bite out of him, are you?" he heard Dove ask.


    "I am not so hungry, <em>yet</em>," Yor said. "Inactive as I''ve been, I do not need to drink often. I am not so young."


    "I, uh, wasn''t referring to <em>drinking</em>," the skull hinted, "I was meaning something a little more, <em>pleasurable</em>."


    "Were you still a mortal, you would find that there is nothing quite as pleasurable as my bite," he could almost <em>hear</em> Yor''s smirk.


    "I''m talking about fucking! Why are you making mee out and say it, woman? It''s downright rude, it is. It''s enough to make a fleshless skull blush. I''m pretty sure the kid''s a virgin and I wouldn''t want him to die that way. You''re a bit of an exhibitionist, I can''t imagine you''re that averse to the idea.¡­"


    "Dove. I''m still <em>awake</em>," Tyron grated without rolling over.


    "Of course you are, dickhead. You wouldn''t want to getid while you were asleep!"


    Was this conversation embarrassing, humiliating, or infuriating? Perhaps it was equal parts of each. Tyron was certain of one thing: he hated it.


    "There seems to be a misunderstanding," Yor said, amused. "I am Undead. I am not capable of <em>coupling</em>, as you might say. Nor would I wish to."


    "Hang on. Then why the nudity?" Dove spluttered. "Why make yourself so attractive? I know you didn''t always look like that, you said your flesh was <em>formed</em>. If you aren''t interested in bumping uglies, then what''s the point?"


    "You think I appear this way in order to draw mortals to me, for <em>sex</em>? You are almost correct. I do wish to draw mortals to me. They are my food, after all."


    The vampire sighed, sending a shiver rolling down Tyron''s back.


    "Such strange prey, you mortals. The only creatures who will throw themselves into the jaws of the predator if they find it attractive enough."


    "So you draw people in, not to fuck, but to eat."


    "Quite."


    "¡­ Makes sense."


    Tyron was profoundly d he hadn''t tried to make a move on Yor. Though, deep inside, some twisted part of him still wanted to. It took him a while to get to sleep.


    When he woke the next morning, he went about tidying up his things the moment he rolled out of the nkets. Yor was nowhere to be seen, oddly enough, and Dove remained exactly where he''d ced him the previous night. After he''d meticulously packed the majority of his things, he poked the skull awake.


    "Wha-? Huh? Oh, that is still so <em>weird</em>."


    The mes flickered to life within the empty sockets of the skull as Dove returned to wakefulness.


    "Sleeping as an undead is just¡­ strange. Should it even be called sleep? I''m not sure."


    "It <em>is</em> a little curious," Tyron mused. "I mean, your mind isn''t a physical thing, but rather a magick construct that has manifested as a spirit. Perhaps the ''sleep'' you experience is¡­"


    "Kid, shut up. I don''t actually care that much, I was just thinking out loud. Let''s not get deep into the weeds regarding skull sleep, we''ve got shit to do today. You''ve been packing?"


    "Uh, yes."


    "Great. Let''s crack into that levelling ritual. I want to see some big fucking numbers."


    "You really think I''ll have progressed that much?" Tyron wondered. He was pretty excited to see how much he''d progressed himself. There was an addictive quality to it, gaining strength and new abilities as he went along. As much as not having ess to a ss guide was maddening, it also meant he had no clue as to what wasing next, which added a certain edge that was exciting. He was only in the first tier, not having advanced his ss yet, so the choices were bound to be somewhat uninspiring, but even so, there was still the possibility that a build-defining choice could pop up at any point.


    "Hopefully a couple of levels, at least," Dove remarked. "You''ve raised a good number of skeletons and fought more than a few rift-kin. That should count for something. It all gets us closer to the level twenty mark, which is when things should get interesting."


    "It''d be nice to have Yor''s input on something like this," Tyron said. "She must know a lot about Necromancer progression."


    "Pah. She might, she might not. To get that information requires that you pay a price you seem unwilling to pay. Best not to worry about it and get on with things."


    "You''re right."


    It didn''t take long to get a clean sheet of paper. Momentster, he enacted the simplest and most profound of all rituals.


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>Dismembering remains has increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>Use of the Magick Bolt spell against a living creature has increased your proficiency.</em>


    <em>Your ability to appraise remains through means mundane and magickal has increased proficiency. <strong>Corpse Appraisal has reached level 4.</strong></em>


    <em>Your skill in preparing human remains for the transition to Undead has increased proficiency. <strong>Corpse Preparation has reached level 4.</strong></em>


    <em>Use of spell Suppress Mind has increased proficiency. <strong>Suppress Mind has reached 4.</strong></em>


    <em>Use of Fear has increased proficiency. <strong>Fear has reached level 2.</strong></em>


    <em>Application of the Shivering Curse has increased proficiency. <strong>Shivering Curse has reached level 3.</strong></em>


    <em>Your creation of new undead has increased proficiency. <strong>Raise Dead has reached level 6.</strong></em>


    <em>The use of Death des has increased proficiency. <strong>Death des has reached level 3.</strong></em>


    <em>Your use and study of Death Magick has increased your proficiency. <strong>Death Magick has reached level 5.</strong></em>


    <em>You have raised minions and they have fought on your behalf. <strong>Necromancer has reached level 14. You have received +6 Intelligence, +3 Wisdom, +3 Constitution and +3 Maniption. At this level, you may choose a ss ability.</strong></em>


    <em></em>


    <em>Your patrons continue to enjoy your journey. The Abyss wishes once more to taste your thoughts. The Dark Ones watch your fate unfold with interest. The Court is delighted to have received your call. They are confident your struggles will amuse. <strong>Anathema has reached level 10. You have received +4 Intelligence, +4 Willpower, +4 Constitution. At this level, you may choose a ss ability. At this level, you may choose a ss feat.</strong></em>


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 12)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Necromancer (Level 14).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ul><li>Anathema (Level 10).</li><li>None</li><li>None (Locked)</li></ul>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    46


    Intelligence:


    63


    Wisdom:


    31


    Willpower:


    36


    Charisma:


    16


    Maniption:


    23


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 4)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 1)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 3)


    Skill Selections Avable: 2


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 4)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 4)


    Death Magick (Level 5)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 4)


    Magick Bolt (Level 4)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 6)


    Bone Stitching (Level 4)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 3)


    Shivering Curse (Level 3)


    Death des (Level 3)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 4)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 2)


    Suppress Mind (Level 4)


    Repository (Level 2)


    Fear (Level 2)


    <strong>Necromancer Feats:</strong>


    Skeleton Focus II


    <strong>Anathema Feats:</strong>


    Repository


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    Words of Power (Initial): WIS +3 CHA +3


    <em>Necromancer level 14. Choose an additional Spell:</em>


    <em>Shorten Raise Dead - A modified version of Raise Dead that is quicker to cast.</em>


    <em>Bewildering Curse - Disorient and confuse those affected.</em>


    <em>Flesh Mending - Repair dead flesh.</em>


    <em>Bone Mending - Repair damaged bone.</em>


    <em>Bone Armour - Form bones into a simple armour.</em>


    <em>Please choose an additional Skill:</em>


    <em>Flesh Crafting - Mould flesh as y.</em>


    <em>Empower Servant - Feed mana to your minions.</em>


    <em>Undead Control - Better control of minions.</em>


    <em>Flesh Joining - Connect multiple bodies together.</em>


    <em>Anathema level 10. Choose an additional Spell:</em>


    <em>Dark Communion - Beg intercession from the Dark Ones.</em>


    <em>Air of Menace - Surround oneself in a dread aura.</em>


    <em>Pain - Inflict the target with severe pain.</em>


    <em>Invasive Persuasion - Open a weakness to maniption in a suppressed mind.</em>


    <em>Fear Imnt - Leave an impression of fear within a suppressed mind.</em>


    <em>Blood Healing - Convert the blood of others to a healing serum.</em>


    <em>Eyes of Blood - See sources of blood nearby.</em>


    <em>Anathema level 10. Choose one of the following:</em>


    <em>Blood Magick I - Convert a portion of blood to magick.</em>


    <em>Rot Aura - Promote decay in an area around you.</em>


    <em>Abyss Flesh - The extremities of your body be malleable.</em>


    <em>Drain Life - Striking a living foe with a damaging spell will heal the caster.</em>


    <em>Skillful Tongue - Increase persuasiveness modified by Maniption.</em>


    <em>Scent of Sin - Find others aligned to your patrons by scent.</em>


    <em>Storm Vision - Enhance the sensitivity of the eye to magick.</em>


    <em>Wall of Thought I - Improve defence against intrusive mental effects.</em>


    <em>Favoured Child - Learn all three Commune Rituals.</em>


    Such an incredible haul. Three full levels in Necromancer and a further two in Anathema. He had two Necromancer choices to make, along with a feat and a spell for Anathema. Even more pleasing was the continued progress in his fundamental skills. Death Magick had increased, Corpse Preparation and Appraisal had also gone up. His continued use of the curse and Death des continued to improve those spells as well.


    He knew how important it was that he maximise his core skills before reaching level twenty. There was a long road to go, but he was walking steadily towards that goal.


    The improvement to Anathema he was less happy with. Although some of the abilities had been useful (without the Repository ritual he would never have been able to save Dove), he didn''t like having to rely on the ''patrons''. Even worse, the abilities he could choose from this sub-ss were bing progressively more disturbing. He wanted nothing of them. He was reluctant to even choose a feat.


    <em>Concentrate on Necromancer first.</em>


    He had two choices to make and it wasn''t hard to see the direction of some of the new options. Zombie focused Necromancers seemed toe into a lot of power rather quickly, probably to make up for the weaker minions they relied on. With Flesh Crafting, Flesh Mending and now Flesh Joining, he surmised it would be possible to create Undead golems, a homunculus of several bodies moulded together to form a more powerful zombie.


    It would be painstaking and difficult work to create one that functioned well¡­ unless the body was well formed, the magick drained would be horribly inefficient¡­


    Tyron stopped himself from thinking any further on it. He didn''t need to worry, as his path was that of the skeleton. No matter what flesh-rted skills came up, he didn''t need to think on them. Indeed, why worry about that rubbish, when a spell he had long awaited had finally appeared. Bone Mending. Now, he could use magick to repair damaged skeletons! If he guessed correctly, not only did that mean he could mend damage done to his skeletal minions, but he would also be able to repair damage done to remains when he found them. No longer would he have to toss aside cracked femurs or tibia and scrounge around for recements.


    This was going to save a lot of time when creating new skeletons and keep the ones he had up and fighting for longer.


    There would be limits, he was sure. No doubt it would be magick intensive to do, creating bone from nothing, and a bone that had been repeatedly repaired was likely to be weaker than a whole and healthy one. Even so, this was a momentous pick. He told Dove about it immediately.


    "Fuck, yes. That''s going to be more than handy. Keep the bony boys nice and stiff for a bit longer."


    "Do you have to phrase it that way?"


    "Get your mind out of the gutter boy. What else?"


    "The Bone Armour seems useful. Do you think it''s for the minions or for me?"


    "Might not matter. If it''s for you, great, a little bit of extra protection, if it''s for the minions, also great, keep em up a little longer. Need to be aware of the costs though."


    "You mean magick?"


    "That, and also the bones themselves. If you need bones for skeletons, and <em>also </em>bones for armour, it''ll put a squeeze on the supply, if you take my meaning."


    "You''re right¡­"


    Still, anything that might help improve the minions would be worth it. Tyron happily put a mark next to Bone Mending and Bone Armour with his bloody thumb before he turned to the Anathema choices.


    Many of the feats felt distasteful, and he wasn''t sure which to go for. Ultimately, he decided that Wall of Thoughts I would be the best pick. The danger of being manipted was high, especially considering the strange forces he was ying with in the Abyss and Court. Better safe than sorry. As to the spells, he honestly disliked most of them, and didn''t feel like he could consult Dove about it either. Ultimately, he picked the final of the three initial rituals, more to avoid making a choice than from any desire to actually use it. After meeting Yor, he was cured of his need to attempt powerful, forbidden rituals for the time being.


    After confirming his choices, he ended the ritual and tensed at the sudden rush of changes. It was overwhelming, but he remained aware during the entire process. When it was done, he felt substantially stronger, as if he were a different person than he had been merely minutes ago.


    "Feels fucking good, right? Now we need to work out where we''re headed next."


    "I think we need to head south and east, into the foothills. That was my initial n, anyway. The people there should have been spared most of the fallout from the break, and are reclusive enough that they may not have even heard of a runaway Necromancer."


    "It''s a solid n," the skull agreed, "the trick will be making sure you still have ess to what you need to progress, namely bones and rift kin to fight. So long as you don''t go too deep into the mountains, you should be fine. We can basically follow the far edge of the kin who headed south."


    "Right."


    Tyron looked around.


    "It won''t be long until I finish packing. Should we wait for Yor?"


    "I don''t think so, it''s dangerous to hang around here. She said she can catch up, so you should get going immediately."


    "Fair enough."


    After another hour of gathering all the loose ends, Tyron jumped up into the cart, along with the bones, food and other supplies they''d stashed. As his minions got into position and started hauling, he set Dove into a good position to watch the woods roll past as they followed the trail back to the main road headed south.

 Chapter 55: Run boy, run

    Chapter 55: Run boy, run


    Stiff and sore, Rufus limped out of the practice yard in pain, but satisfied. He massaged his right wrist a little after he returned his practice de to the quartermaster and waited on the edge of the pit for a moment. Dozens of pairs of Swordsmen filled the training area, kicking up the sand with each step and twist as they duelled back and forth under the watchful eye of the drillmaster.


    "Footwork, footwork, footwork!" the grizzled bear of a man bellowed for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon. "If you wanna fight with a de you need the kind of bnce that would make a dancer shit with envy! Perfect steps. EVERY. FUCKING. TIME. Morrison! Get your arse up and square off. I don''t want to hearints you mewling sack of sick! Don''t say shit until you move your damn feet properly!"


    Rufus watched with a smirk he didn''t bother to hide as Cn, the former silver ranked yer and current swordmaster of the Blue Steel academy, descended on the poor unfortunate who had pissed him off this time. The man was brutal in word and deed. The men and women who dropped into the Pit, the sand floored training yard given to weapons practice, were pushed right to their limits. If he didn''t have a reputation for turning out high quality graduates, nobody would put up with it.


    His emphasis on footwork was especially grating to many of the newly Awakened sword specialists.


    Once Rufus had gained his ss, he''d been obsessed with his sword. He didn''t feelplete without it in his hand. His swordsmanship skill had practically sung to him as he took the de in his grip, turned his wrists at precise angles, swung his arms with momentum and felt the satisfying <em>cut </em>of the de through the air. Only once he started training here, Cn had forced them into weeks of foot drills. The man was obsessed with footwork and didn''t let them touch a de until he was satisfied they could move properly.


    Rufus had adapted faster than most, due to the few things he''d managed to pick up watching Magnin as closely as he had. The few times the master swordsman had practised where anyone could watch him, Rufus had seen how carefully and how much focus he put on his feet, often putting down his famed sword to step through motions with nothing in his hands.


    If the Century yer could focus on his feet, Rufus could certainly do the same.


    "You still rubbing that wrist? Maybe this time you''ll guard properly you daft bastard."


    Rufus grinned as his training partner approached.


    "If you weren''t such a low and dirty snake I wouldn''t have to be on the lookout for those cheap tricks," he countered.


    "Cheap tricks?" Pewar ced a hand on his chest as he feigned a wounded expression. "You simply fail to understand my genius. Not surprising, I can''t expect much intelligence from a cksmith''s son. Your sword is like a hammer, straight up and down, no grace at all."


    A flicker of anger sparked in Rufus'' chest at the mention of his father, but he pushed it down. Pewar didn''t mean anything by it, the two often exchanged words after training.


    "Now who can''t appreciate good technique? You''re just jealous my sword does something you never can: get to the point."


    "Touche, my muscle bound friend, touche."


    The two looked back at those poor saps still in the pit.


    "Cn is going extra hard today," Pewar observed, "the man looks infuriated."


    "Oh, he''s pissed," Rufus said. "I''ve no idea why. I don''t think anyone is doing especially poorly today."


    "He might just be trying to see if anyone will break."


    Rufus turned to his partner with a brow raised.


    "Give up and quit," Pewar borated. "I think he wants to weed out anyone who he doesn''t think is mentally tough enough. A crude but effective way of making sure everyone who graduates is capable of absorbing an endless amount of vitriol."


    "If they can''t handle this, they''d never make it as a yer," Rufus shrugged and the two began to make their way out of the training area and back towards the dorms.


    "Not everyone who gets the Swordsman ss wants to be a yer, as well you know," Pewar rolled his eyes. "Just because all of you halfwits dream of being Magnin Sterm doesn''t mean I have to."


    "You''ll be a crap duellist."


    "Rubbish, and you know it."


    "If you didn''t want to be like Magnin, why travel here to train? You know damn well almost every school in the West bases their methods on that man. You could have stayed north and trained up there."


    "An unfortunate side effect of having every martial ss in the province worshipping the one swordsman," Pewar sighed, "is that you end up with extremely capable trainers. As much as people don''t like to admit it, the finest schools for training sword based sses are here in Kenmor. If I''m going to be the best, I need to be trained by the best."


    "Aren''t there better and more respected schools in Central?"


    "Run by the finest demasters alive, yes. My family might have money, but they don''t have <em>that </em>sort of money."


    "Fair enough."


    The two walked inpanionable silence the rest of the way as they allowed the cool air to dry off their sweat. A wash would be needed soon, to remove the grit and sand that still clung to them, but for now Rufus was content. He may not have gotten everything he wanted when he left home, but he got enough. He was here, away from his useless prick of a father, training to fulfil his dreams. He felt as if his life had finally started.


    He trained hard, dedicated himself, and soon he would be able to get out into the field to start killing rift-kin. From there it was only a matter of time until he was a full yer.


    And Tyron would be dead somewhere in a ditch.


    "I''ll see youter Pewar," he said as he pped his friend on the shoulder. "I''m going to drop in on Laurel."


    The other man pulled a face.


    "Really?" he shook his head. "No ounting for taste."


    Rufus'' smile became lopsided.


    "She''s an old friend," he said, "I promised her dad I''d keep tabs on her."


    "Uh huh. Go on then. I''ll see you in the morning."


    With a final wave Rufus turned and walked a new path, away from the boys dorms and off to the girls. At first his stride was long, and confident, but as he passed by more and more smirks and pitying nces from the female residents, he grew more hunched and downcast. By the time he reached Laurel''s floor, his head was down and a storm was brewing in his eyes.


    As expected, Laurel''s door was locked, though it wasn''t hard to imagine why. Passionate moans and the p of skin on skin could easily be heard through the solid wood, and even down the corridor. Rufus snarled as anger knotted his muscles before he started wordlessly pounding on the door.


    "Fuck!" he heard Laurel curse, followed by rummaging as he continued to m his fist into the wood.


    A minuteter he heard her voice on the other side of the door.


    "Alright, Rufus! Stop being dumb for a minute and I''ll open it."


    He clenched his teeth and stepped back, giving space for the door to swing open. Laurel was revealed, her hair dishevelled, face flushed, still sweaty from her exertions, dressed only in a shirt that stopped midway down her thighs. She stared at him, irritated.


    "What?" she said.


    "Who''s inside?" Rufus grated.


    "Is it any of your fucking business?"


    "Who''s. Inside?"


    "Fuck. Off."


    The two stared at each other, anger simmering in both of them before a male voice called from inside the room.


    "Hey don''t worry about it. About time I made myself scarce anyway." A tousle haired blond man, skinny and mousy looking, stepped forward with a wry smile on his face and his shoes in one hand. "I''m Jer, nice to meet you."


    He held out his hand to Rufus for a second and let it hang there while the Swordsman made no move to reach for it until he let it drop with a shrug.


    "Alright then. Nice to uh, see you Laurel. I''ll catch you next time."


    With a wink and a thumbs up, Jer brushed past Rufus and made his way quickly down the corridor before he disappeared around the corner. Laurel sighed.


    "Well, you might as welle in then," she said.


    "I don''t recognise that guy," Rufus observed quietly as he stepped in and closed the door behind him. "Don''t think I''ve seen him around the Pit."


    "How could you? He''s a Mage in training."


    "A mage?" Rufus nearly spat.


    "Why not?" Laurel smirked, "they''re good with their hands."


    The archer sat on the bed, her legs crossed, the heat of anger still in her eyes as Rufus breathed out and sank into the lone chair in the room. The dorms didn''t have much space for each student. A cot, a chair and a table were the limits of the furnishings provided, everything else the student needed to provide for themselves.


    With the money he''d taken from his father, Rufus had been able to enrol and get a few items for himself, but Laurel''s room was still extremely bare. She''d had almost nothing left over after paying her fees, and wouldn''t ept any help from him.


    The two stared at each other for a while longer until Rufus broke eye contact and Laurel sighed.


    "You need to stop doing this Rufus."


    "Doing what?" he said.


    "This. Coming to my room all the time. Getting angry every time I''m with somebody."


    "You know people think we''re a couple, right? The girls in this dorm snigger at me every time we walk past."


    Laurel brushed her hair back irritably.


    "Well I''m not the one telling them that. We aren''t a couple, and we never have been."


    "We haven''t?" he muttered.


    "No," she said, frustrated. "I''m still your friend, Rufus, and I''m still willing to team up when we''re done here, but we haven''t ever been a couple. The sooner you get that into your head, the happier you''re going to be. I''m not going to be tied down, by <em>anyone</em>, understand?"


    "I''ll have to, won''t I?"


    "That''s right. You have to."


    A knock came on the door.


    "Laurel! Get your pants on. There''s an emergency gathering in the quad," a girl, another resident, called through the door.


    "Perfect timing," she rolled her eyes. "Get out so I can get dressed. I''ll see you there."


    Dismissed, Rufus left, still frustrated, angry and unable to properly express himself. The quad sat in the centre of the four dorms in Blue Steel, an open grassed area for the students to rx or gather for announcements. Someone had probably been caught stealing from the cafeteria and was about to get their head kicked in and expelled.


    When he made it downstairs, he found most of the residents already gathered, talking amongst themselves, bored and uninterested for the most part. It looked as if several hade from interrupted sses. Some of the sword students had clearly still been in the pit when the call came through, covered in sand and dirt as they were.


    A few minutester Laurel rushed up behind him.


    "Did I miss anything?" she asked.


    Her steps were so silent he didn''t hear her approach at all, but managed to restrain his jump when she spoke.


    "Nothing yet. Looks like it won''t be long though."


    He pointed to the headmaster gathering with several other staff near the raised tform on one end of the quad. Most students seemed to notice at roughly the same time he did, the level of chatter dimming quickly to a low mutter until finally the aged head of the academy stepped onto the stage. Another veteran silver ranked yer, Ruth Finnar had a long and sessful career as a battlemage fighting in the toughest rifts the Western province had to offer. Her appearancemanded the respect of all the newly Awakened students and an instant hush fell.


    "I won''t mince words with you," she called, her voice easily carrying over the crowd. "Runners havee and brought word of a disaster to the northwest. There has been a break at the rift near Woodsedge."


    Rufus immediately clenched his fists as worried voices broke into chatter around him. A break was a rare event, especially one so close. Foxbridge wasn''t far south of the border keep. It would be directly in the line of the monsters. He nced toward Laurel, but her expression was nd, as if this news had no effect on her.


    The head held up a hand to restore quiet.


    "High ranking yers have been dispatched to blunt the spread of rift-kin, but there is a shortage of personnel. We lost over two hundred good yers from the local fort as they sacrificed their lives to allow others a chance to escape."


    It was a dangerous job, and everyone here knew it, but that didn''t mean the loss of so many didn''t have an impact. yers were the strongest, bravest, and most capable of all. Two hundred shouldn''t just die, for nothing.


    "It''s very early in your training for you to be in the field, but this is a dire situation that needs to be resolved quickly," the head continued. "As such, the Academies have been instructed to send out student teams to support the more experienced yers in cleaning up this outbreak and protecting as many people and as muchnd as possible. Only when the kin have been found and exterminated will the vigers and townsfolk be able to get back to their lives."


    Rufus threw a hand up and called out.


    "Do we know what happened to Foxbridge?" he called desperately.


    The moment he spoke up, others began to call out the names of towns or viges to the West of the capital. The students here hade from all over the province and many were filled with worry for their families.


    The battlemage silenced them all with a nce.


    "We''ve had no word on any town or individual. If you want to ensure that your people are safe, fight hard once you get out there."


    "Can you believe it?" Laurel whispered, an excited gleam in her eye. "We get to go out and fight already? We''ll get so many levels!"


    "What about your father?" Rufus hissed. "Aren''t you worried he''s alive?"


    She snorted.


    "My father can take care of himself. A heck of a lot better than he ever took care of me. He''ll be fine."


    "Before you depart here," the school head continued, "you must speak to your head trainer, who will have further details on your deployment. This matter is urgent, and you will be sent out before the day ends. There is also this¡­"


    She reached into her pocket and drew out a piece of paper with a portrait drawn on it. Rufus'' breath caught in his throat.


    "It is believed that the unusual rift activity and sudden destabilisation are the result of foul y. Several witnesses who survived the disaster, including experienced yers, have identified this man, the Necromancer Tyron Sterm, as being near the rift leading up to and at the time of the break. A reward has been issued for the capture of this criminal, a hundred gold sovereigns. Dead or Alive."


    Urgent whispers broke out amongst the gathered students.


    "Obviously I know who this is. The Magisters have informed us that Magnin and Beory themselves have volunteered to find their wayward son and bring him to justice. You need not have any fear of reprisal."


    She leaned forward.


    "I have to emphasise. This individual is dangerous and may well be capable of manipting rifts. If you see him, I expect you to act swiftly and decisively. Cut him down."


    She swiped through the air with one hand.


    "We can sort the rest out after he''s dead."

 Chapter B2: The Study of Death

    Chapter B2: The Study of Death


    It was minute, so tiny were it any smaller it couldn''t be said to exist at all. A fleck of arcane energy that drifted on imperceptible paths until, suddenly, it winked out of existence. Or did it? No. There it was. A seemingly new speck, ever so imperceptiblyrger than the previous, had now appeared, but elsewhere. Was it the same one? Or had the old died to make way for the new, sacrificing itself for that sliver of growth?


    Tyron leaned closer, though it didn''t help. It was with magick that he sensed the minute changes of energy within the bones before him; even so, he felt the proximity made a difference.


    "Come on now," he whispered.


    There it was again. Another shift urred, a vanishing on one side, a reappearance on the other, an insignificant growth appearing once more. It was strange to say it, but this really was magick to Tyron. Casting spells was like constructing a building, the means and methods were known, the materials reliable and understood. They could be employed gracefully, even artfully, but ultimately it was construction all the same. But this? This was unknown, this was mysterious. The process of taking that which was strange and breaking it down to something that was understood, was intoxicating.


    New materials, new tools to work with. A fundamental shift in what was possible and what was not. The strange new wonders he could create if he were to extract even a fraction of useable knowledge from this investigation were almost beyond imagining. Impossible towers of arcane majesty. Spells that pushed into territory once thought to be fanciful and impossible. A glittering bridge made of ss. A castle formed on an unyielding foundation of air.


    Who knew?


    For the moment, it was simply tiny bubbles of death magick, vanishing in one ce, and growing in another, but he hoped it could be much, much more.


    "Let''s not get ahead of ourselves," he chuckled as he continued to lean over the collection of bones in front of him. "One step at a time."


    "It''s fucking creepy when you talk to the bones. You know that, right?"


    The strange, detached voice of Dove rang out from his right. His concentration disturbed, the young Necromancer leaned back and turned, frustration written on his features.


    "Dove, I''m also talking to bones when I speak to you, aren''t I?" he pointed out.


    "That''s true."


    The skull sat proudly atop the open pages of a book, the glowing orbs within its eyes the only sign of the spirit confined within. A proud silver ranked yer, a Summoner, forger of contracts with celestial beings from the Astral Sea, reduced to a ghost bound within his own remains.


    "By the by, I''m not sure if you ever exined why you stuck me in <em>just</em> my skull. Not that I''mining¡­ all right I am, but it''d be <em>fucking</em> nice to have, you know, hands and legs. Nice things to have, hands. And legs! Don¡¯t get me started."


    Tyron pressed the heels of both hands into his temples as he fought off a headache. It wasn''t just Dove''s irritating patter, but rather the long hours of concentration he''d put into histest test.


    "Dove¡­ I''m <em>sure </em>I exined this¡­ several times," he said. "I was able to stick your spirit into the skull, but I had, and still have, no idea how to connect it to the rest of your limbs in a way that would give you control. I have no idea how to bind mana to more than a single object, full stop! The fact I managed to do it at all is¡­"


    "A miracle, yeah, yeah. You are big on blowing your own horn kid, anyone ever tell you that? You should stop at any rate. Blowing yourself is extremely bad for your health. You''ll go blind."


    "Surely you were living proof that''s not the case."


    "Oh, ho! Firing back are we? What happened to the timid little mage boy I first met outside of Woodsedge?"


    A pause ensued as Tyron began to reflect on that question, but before he could say anything, Dove interjected once more.


    "Don''t <em>you dare </em>say ''he died''. That would be so fucking clich¨¦ I''d have to manifest some guts just so I could puke. Are you kidding me? Not to mention you''re a Necromancer! The dramatic irony alone would force me to kill you and then myself. Again."


    "Fair enough," Tyron shrugged.


    He nced longingly down at his experiment before he sighed and turned away. He didn''t actually <em>have</em> to observe the process, merely measure it after another five hours had passed. Even so, he enjoyed watching it. Measuring the oue was one thing, but understanding why it happened the way it did was another entirely, and something he was no closer to finding an answer to.


    He walked over to the book sitting atop the fairly t rock that served as Dove''s throne and collected the skull in one hand.


    "How''s it looking?" Dove asked.


    "Promising. I''ve been able to confirm the phenomenon. Even if only two, small bones are ced together, this process begins to take ce. Small kes of death magick appear, then begin to pass back and forth between them, growing stronger in microscopic increments along the way. The more bones there are together, the quicker the process starts, and the faster it elerates."


    "The interesting part is where the death magickes from in the first ce," mused the skull as Tyron carried him back toward the cookpot. "It can''t just spontaneously appear out of nowhere, it <em>has</em> to be converted from ambient energy."


    "I agree. But we don''t know how that can ur naturally, without outside influence. We change magick all the time when we cast spells, but that''s a manual process with our wills to guide it. Is there an outside influence? Is there something inherent within the remains that causes the magick to change? It''s not like death magick is just floating around everywhere, it''s always found in ces associated with the dead."


    "Hence our working hypothesis."


    "Right. There is something inherently magickal about the dead. Some spark, or influence that causes the energy around them to change. Once the process starts, it elerates until the bodies, or bones, be fully saturated and that''s how natural undead are caused."


    "I''d love to know how skeletons form their muscture in the wild," Dove said.


    "Are you kidding me? My fingers ache, <em>constantly</em>. If I didn''t have to do the threading myself it''d save a hell of a lot of time."


    Neither mentioned the opportunity they''d had to witness the process themselves. When Tyron had gotten carried away and left two full sets of bonesid out beside each other in one of his tests, then passed out from exhaustion as the process continued. When he finally woke, he found the skeletons had been smashed to pieces, his own minions standing protectively around him. After monitoring the process close to itspletion, he''d lost consciousness at the precise moment the final transformation had begun. If his own undead hadn''t intervened, he''d have died to uncontrolled ''wild'' skeletons of his own creation.


    He decided to halt any experiments that dealt with creating fully realised undead, until it could be done under safer conditions. His current store of bones had been separated and packed away where they couldn''t interact with each other much. Just to be sure, he still checked on them daily.


    He ced Dove down on a new rock, one of the few that circled the still smouldering fire and performed a role as serviceable, if ufortable seats. After a quick stir, he pulled up adleful of stew and served himself before he sat down.


    "How old is that stew, kid?" Dove asked.


    Tyron stared deep into the reddy, brown muck in his bowl as he thought.


    "Two days?" The rising tilt of his voice made it more a question than a statement.


    "Maybe don''t eat it. Watching you dpose after dying from endlessly shitting yourself isn''t exactly high on my list of ''things to do once you''re dead''."


    "It''s fine," the younger man scoffed before he tucked in. He winced. "It tastes like shit¡­ but it''s fine."


    "You''re the one who cooked it, kid. You''re only mocking yourself."


    That was true. Tyron was the only member of the group who still had to eat. Dove being a skull and Yor being¡­ what she was.


    "You know my aunt and uncle ran an inn? I used to drop into the kitchen and get a hot, fresh te of whatever they had on the go whenever I wanted. Aunt Meg could cook, that''s for sure. Highest skill level in town."


    "Pah. I''ve been in the capital. The food there makes what your auntie served up look like pig swill after it''s been recycled through the arse of a pig."


    "Piss off it does," he scoffed. Then he took another spoonful. "Tell you what, pig swill doesn''t sound half bad right about now."


    Luckily for him, his constitution was so high he likely wouldn''t suffer any adverse effects even if the stew <em>had</em> gone bad. One of the benefits of being a Necromancer, the ss made sure you were tough enough to survive the deprivation that came from living with it.


    "Any idea where Yor is?" he said after forcing down another mouthful. "I thought she was supposed to be back yesterday."


    "She was. I suspect she might have been a little more <em>thorough</em> than the task may have called for."


    The two shared a look.


    "I mean she tortured the shit out of them," Dove said helpfully.


    "I know what you mean, Dove! Blood and bone, I don''t need you to rub it into my face."


    The Necromancer pushed a hand through his dark hair as he stared at the coals, a gloom settling over him. The idea of something that he had summoned to this realm causing that kind of pain and suffering didn''t sit well with him. Not at all. But what was he to do about it? He couldn''t send her back, he didn''t know how. He couldn''t defeat her in battle, of that he was quite confident. He''d seen the speed she could move at.


    Perhaps after he''d advanced his ss. He was close now, he only needed a few more things to fall into ce. Ever since they''d left Woodsedge three weeks ago he''d worked tirelessly to prepare himself for the change. It was imperative that he raise his core skills to ten before he reached level twenty. That was the basics of proper ss advancement, everyone knew that much.


    Until Corpse Preparation, Corpse Appraisal and Raise Dead had been mastered, he simply refused to progress.


    Even the time pressure that bore down on him like a bell tolling his death, he wouldn''tpromise on this. He <em>couldn''t</em>. What did it matter if he reached level twenty if he only had suboptimal choices, stunting his potential from that point onward? That would be one step forward, three steps back.


    "I''ll talk with Yor when she gets back," he decided. "She can''t keep doing as she pleases."


    "What <em>pleases</em> me, may be beyond your understanding, dearest."


    The cool voice of the vampire came from outside the cave and soon her perfect form could be seen approaching from the darkness, arge burden slung over her shoulder. Once she reached the fire she flung the corpse down without ceremony, flicking dirt from her shoulder with a suffering expression.


    "I do hope you graduate from cave dwelling at some point soon, Tyron. This is a phase that I shall <em>soon </em>tire of."


    "Hey, if that''s the case, I have some great news for you," Dove enthused. "As it so happens, you have the option, and this might sound wild, to <em>fuck off</em> back to where you came from, literally any time you want! How amazing is that?"


    "I still don''t know why I haven''t extinguished that guttering filth you call a soul, human."


    "Shut up, both of you."


    Tyron had ced his food aside to stand and approach the body Yor had brought back. More experienced in the practice than he''d ever thought he might be, the Necromancer passed his eyes over the body as he shifted it, inspecting each limb, the colouration of the skin, even checking the condition of the teeth.


    A man, malnourished, probably in his mid-twenties. Calloused hands suggested regr manualbour, and the missing teeth suggested either terrible dental hygiene, or this individual got into a lot of fist fights and sucked at it. There were no obvious wounds on him, certainly none that would have caused his death. Interestingly, there was actually a cut on his leg that looked as if it had been badly infected. Without treatment, that alone might have killed him¡­


    The other notable thing about the body, was the totalck of blood. He''d beenpletely exsanguinated.


    "Again?" he asked.


    Yor raised one elegant brow as she looked down at him, crouched above the corpse.


    "I have to eat," she stated, "you can''t expect me to starve myself to death for these," she gestured, "<em>creatures</em>."


    "They aren''t creatures, they''re people," Tyron said, his chest tight.


    "They are food. And before youin, we <em>agreed</em>, do you not recall? It is toote to regret your bargain now."


    The words fell on him like a hammer and he sagged, the anger draining out of him.


    "You''re right. I agreed."


    "If I''m being honest, kid. You''re taking this a little too hard. These were dead men no matter what. You need to harden up and that''s the fucking truth," Dove said.


    They were right. He knew they were right. He just needed time to adjust his thinking, that was all. He couldn''t go from¡­ a regr person, to such a casual view of murder overnight.


    "At least the mayor will be happy," he sighed.


    "I don''t think that prick has been happy his entire life," Dove remarked. "I''ve seen door knobs with more personality."


    "I must agree," Yor sniffed. "Now if you please, I will go to cleanse myself."


    Well, another set of bones to work with if nothing else. Another bandit to add to the pile. No longer feeling hungry, he tidied up his te and emptied out the cookpot. In the morning he would need to wash it out more thoroughly, but he wasn''t going to drag it down to the stream in the dark. With nothing else to do he fetched his butcher''s tools and prepared to work.


    "Hey, kid."


    "No."


    "C''mon. You can''t tell me you aren''t curious."


    "Dove, I am not taking you to peek at Yor while she washes."


    "You really suck sometimes, Tyron. You know that?"

 Chapter B2: Travel

    Chapter B2: Travel


    "You sure you got ''em all?"


    "Ten was what you asked for, ten is what you''ve got."


    Mr Allop, the gruff and balding mayor of Ridgerton knuckled his moustache and nodded slowly.


    "Thas true," he said, "I''ll be thankin'' ya then. Tho I can''t see how ya did it."


    Tyron looked down at the row of ten skulls on the ground before turning back to the mayor.


    "Mr Allop, I''m fairly sure you don''t want to know."


    There was a hint of fear in the man''s eyes as he nodded once more.


    "Right ye are. Here''s yer pay. Is all there."


    He held out a small cloth bag that jingled pleasantly with coin, one that Tyron was happy to receive. "I still need supplies," he said as he tucked the pouch into his belt, "any chance I can spend my newfound wealth in the vige?"


    He tried to employ a disarming smile, the type he''d seen Worthy use so often with truculent customers. It probably made him look constipated, but it was worth a shot. To his relief, the mayor readily agreed.


    "Folks''ll be mighty pleased fer it. Coin¡¯s tight about now."


    <em>No doubt</em>.


    After the break wiping out the viges further east, cutting off trade, the bandits had squeezed what little these people had left. In a way, Tyron sympathised with the criminals. Farmers who''d lost crops,bourers with no way to pay for food, transporters who''d lost home and family while out on delivery. What options did these people have? For some, the choice had been simple, theft or death.


    The same choice ultimately. If Tyron hadn''t gotten them, someone else would have, eventually.


    At least this way, the remains could be put to good use.


    With a cloak on, he moved amongst the town and freely dispensed the coin he''d received from the mayor. He didn''t haggle on prices, even though a few overcharged him. In exchange, he took food, nkets, a few cookery items, a change of clothes, some rope, and any other travelling supplies he might need for the next few weeks.


    He had no need of the money they''d paid to remove the thieves guing them, considering the wealth he''d taken from the ruins of Woodsedge. Much better that he exchange it for things he needed and put the coin back into the strugglingmunity.


    Though they trusted him little, they were more than happy to part with odds and ends and get the silver back in their hands. When it was all said and done, he shook the mayor''s hand and departed, his goods on his back and little fear he''d be robbed.


    They thought he''d killed ten men, after all.


    It took him an hour to get back to the cave. The light still shone, though weakly, as he ducked his head under the low opening and made his way inside. After navigating a few turns, he found the camp much as he left it, Dove sleeping on a rock and Yor sleeping¡­ wherever she slept.


    At least the skeletons were awake.


    "How are we, squad?" he asked the ten minions, fully aware that they couldn''t answer back.


    They existed in the back of his mind, a tiny knot of connections that bound them to him, allowed him to transmit his thoughts, and allowed them to sustain themselves on his magick. He''d felt that link so constantly now, he almost didn''t remember what it felt like to be without it. It was like a warm nket, a reliable presence that could be depended on.


    He was starting to see why Dove argued so strongly in favour of Summoners and the like. Be they Astral beings or mindless undead, it was good to know you had allies on your side.


    He didn''t know how much ''sleep'' Dove required in his current form, but he decided to let the Summoner rest. In silence, hemanded his minions to help him pack the camp, dousing the embers, tidying the belongings, packing his bedroll away.


    By the time Yor walked into view as if stepping from a shadow, he was almost done.


    "I trust our business has been concluded in this ce?" she asked.


    "All done. Payment collected, goods purchased."


    "Did you find a suitable dress?"


    Tyron shook his head, apologetic.


    "Sorry, Yor. The people out here don''t have much. Coming across something that you would deem appropriate will be¡­ difficult."


    She nodded, disappointed, but understanding.


    "It is a pity your realm has so small an understanding of my kind. There are ces where kings and queens would rush to fill my every desire, upon simply learning that I was present."


    "I suppose you could make more vampires while you were here," Tyron said, "if you were inclined to do so."


    She looked at him sideways.


    "Permission is required, to bring another into the fold. Doubly so, for one of my blood. For the Court to have any sway here at all, a vampire presence is required, but is clearly still operating in the shadows. It is often done this way. The Court likes to rule openly, with an iron fist, but also enjoys pulling strings from behind the curtain. It appears thetter approach has been employed here."


    Was a secret cabal of vampires calling the shots? With everything that had happened to himtely, Tyron wouldn''t be surprised.


    "Well, it''s time for us to move on. Once I''m finished packing, I''m nning on heading down to the ins. Get some hunting done, work on a few things. Are you going to travel with us this time? Or would you¡­ rather make your own arrangements?"


    How the vampire got from ce to ce, Tyron had no idea, but she did it very quickly and very quietly. It seemed as if she wanted to preserve her secrets, however, since she remained assiduously hidden from view as they travelled. After Tyron had set up camp, she would swan into view, not a hair out of ce, and sit down by the fire shortly after the sun went down. If she told him she could teleport, he would havee close to believing it.


    "I will travel separately," she said after a moment''s thought, "I dislike sitting on the¡­ cart."


    Her expression curdled at the thought of their mode of conveyance. Tyron smiled wryly.


    "It has a certain rustic charm when you get used to it," he offered.


    "¡­ I''m sure," she said, her expression letting her doubts be known.


    "It''s your choice, obviously," he said. "I wouldn''t dream of telling you how to travel."


    "Wise."


    Tyron didn''t know exactly what the vampire wanted from her time travelling with him, but he hoped it would be over soon. She was intelligent, articte and gave good advice on asion, herpany could be quite pleasant, so long as he could forget what she was. On the other hand, she was an undead monster that fed on blood, her wless beauty nothing more than a tool to lure her prey.


    Being around her was unnerving at the best of times, and somewhat terrifying at the worst. He wouldn''t be too sad if she gave up on her quest and turned back to her realm.


    "You should perform the ritual before you leave," she advised. "I will be <em>interested</em> to see what progress you have made."


    This would be the first time he¡¯d performed the ritual in a week. Fingers crossed his hard work had paid off.


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>You have engaged with others and forged bonds with them. <strong>Race: Human has reached level 13.</strong></em>


    <em>Your attempts at cooking have increased proficiency. <strong>Cooking has reached level 2.</strong></em>


    <em>Dismembering remains has increased your proficiency. <strong>Butchery has reached level 4.</strong></em>


    <em>Intense study and application has increased your proficiency. <strong>Corpse Appraisal has reached level 7.</strong></em>


    <em>Intense study and application has increased your proficiency. <strong>Corpse Preparation has reached level 7.</strong></em>


    <em>Your creation of new undead and your maniption of the spellform has increased proficiency. <strong>Raise Dead has reached level 8.</strong></em>


    <em>Your use of the spell Bone Stitching has increased proficiency. <strong>Bone Stitching has reached level 6.</strong></em>


    <em>Your use and study of Death Magick has increased your proficiency. <strong>Death Magick has reached level 6.</strong></em>


    <em>You have raised minions and they have fought on your behalf. <strong>Necromancer has reached level 17. You have received +2 Intelligence, +1 Wisdom, +1 Constitution and +1 Maniption.</strong></em>


    <em></em>


    <em>Your patrons continue to delight in the seeds of chaos that are strewn wherever you tread. Your call is awaited. </em>


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 13)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Necromancer (Level 17).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ul><li>Anathema (Level 10).</li><li>None</li><li>None (Locked)</li></ul>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    49


    Intelligence:


    69


    Wisdom:


    34


    Willpower:


    36


    Charisma:


    16


    Maniption:


    26


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 2)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 1)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 4)


    Skill Selections Avable: 2


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 7)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 7)


    Death Magick (Level 6)


    Bone Mending (Level 3)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 4)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 8)


    Bone Stitching (Level 6)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 3)


    Shivering Curse (Level 3)


    Death des (Level 3)


    Bone Armour (Level 2)


    Minion Sight (Level 2)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 4)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 2)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    Suppress Mind (Level 4)


    Repository (Level 2)


    Fear (Level 2)


    <strong>Necromancer Feats:</strong>


    Skeleton Focus II


    Magick Battery I


    <strong>Anathema Feats:</strong>


    Repository


    Wall of Thought I


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    Words of Power (Initial): WIS +3 CHA +3


    As he poured over the numbers, Tyron felt a surge of triumph. His three key skills, the foundational building blocks of Necromancy, were progressing nicely. After weeks of study, he was finally closing in on the coveted level ten.


    It felt too slow to him, given the pressure he was under, but he could appreciate that this pace was extremely quick. Some took a year or more to master their foundation before they advanced their ss. He¡¯d barely been at it for two months.


    Just in time, too. He¡¯d reached level seventeen after creating histest minions, just three to go before he advanced his ss.


    It wasmonly held that most sses really only began to shine once they reached this point. Better feats, improved abilities, and more stats per level all contributed to a rapid rise in power for those who managed to advance through this point.


    His father had warned him multiple times that it was also the point where most yers died.


    ¡°Overconfident,¡± he would shake his head and say. ¡°You get your hands on stronger abilities but don¡¯t master them. What else could possibly happen? Some kin kicks your head in, and bam. Another bronze rank bites the dust.¡±


    It was all moot to Tyron. He had a few steps to go before it was relevant. Master the basic skills, only then would he push to level twenty. To do that, he needed more remains.


    Corpse Appraisal and Preparation were level seven. Just three levels to go¡­ the hardest levels¡­ but still just three. He hadn¡¯t had much time to y with his other abilities, but there were a few gains he was happy to see.


    Cooking going up was unexpected, but wee. He was doing all the food preparation for himself now, and the taste was¡­ less than ster.


    Another level in his race was amazing. He was closing in on another racial feat. His current choices, Steady Hands and Night Owl, had proven to be inspired choices for a Necromancer. No doubt there were other options that would be just as helpful.


    Raise Dead was level eight, a fantastic result. Bone Stitching had reached level six, along with Mending growing to three. His ability to handle bones continued to grow and the gains would show when he created his next group of skeletons. Other changes were minor. He¡¯d been happy to max out the Sleep spell, and his handwriting skill. All the scribbling he¡¯d done in the back of the cart had paid off. These improvements wouldn¡¯t have a big impact on anything, but seeing the Unseen acknowledge he had reached the limit of what it would provide was pleasant at least.


    When he¡¯d reached level fifteen, he¡¯d chosen Magick Battery I, deciding to expand his personal magick reserves. Despite the gains he could make in creating more efficient minions, he¡¯d decided that having extra magick to utilise his surprisingly healthy variety of spells in battle would be more useful.


    His new ability, Minion Sight, hadn¡¯t grown, which didn¡¯t shock him. He¡¯d not practised it at all after his initial experimentation. It was a simple spell that allowed him to perceive what a minion did. That was when he¡¯d learned just how poor their vision was.


    Turns out those glowing purple orbs were pretty poor excuses for eyes. Just another thing he needed to work on to improve his creations.


    He told the others of his major gains and they reacted positively.


    ¡°Looking good, kid,¡± Dove remarked. ¡°You should reach your goal if you keep at it.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Yor said. ¡°Your speed of development has been¡­ <em>remarkable</em>.¡±


    Tyron smiled, happy for thepliments and pleased with the results of his efforts.


    ¡°Still a long way to go,¡± he sighed, ¡°but I¡¯ll get there.¡±


    He quickly destroyed the evidence of the ritual, throwing it into the embers of the fire and watching it burn. He had to nudge it with his boot a few times, just to make sure no trace of the writing remained.


    ¡°What¡¯s the n now, kid?¡± Dove asked.


    ¡°I need resources to continue to study, and I think I¡¯m ready to increase the number of minions I keep around.¡±


    ¡°No shortage of dead bodies around,¡± Dove remarked. ¡°Things are fucked down on the ins.¡±


    ¡°True,¡± Tyron sighed. ¡°We¡¯ll head down there and see if we can find a vige or farmingmune. If they¡¯re alive, I can help out, maybe snag some coin or supplies, if not¡­ more to work with.¡±


    Shortly after, they hit the road. The cart bumped along the poorly maintained dirt trail, pulled by a team of skeletons as Tyron sat on the back, Dove next to him as he pored over his notes.


    Things were going well. Hopefully he would get a little more time.

 Chapter B2 C3 - Fall

    Chapter B2 C3 - Fall


    The countryside rolled past, slowly. Every now and again, Tyron would lift his head from his notes, or the chunk of bone he was working on, to nce at the ruinedndscape and sigh.


    It wasn¡¯t a pretty sight. The hordes of rift-kin unleashed from the break had likely been concentrated to the east, but that didn¡¯t mean none hade south to these ins. In the shadow of the Boundary mountains, small viges dotted thendscape, farmingmunities spread out like a patchwork nket.


    After the harvest, the bulk of the crops and livestock would travel to Foxbridge and from there be taken downriver to therger cities on packed barges.


    Not this year.


    The small viges were easy pickings. The monsters had ravaged thendscape, ripping through the fields and anyone they¡¯d found along the way. A devastating loss of life andnd that would set the development of thesends back decades.


    And for what?


    ¡°I think that¡¯s smoke,¡± Tyron muttered after another quick scan of the horizon.


    ¡°That¡¯s a little odd. Nothing should be burning at this point,¡± Dove remarked.


    ¡°Survivors?¡±


    ¡°Unlikely, but possible. Tough fuckers if they¡¯re still scraping a living out here.¡±


    That was true. Without the support of themunity and most of the animals ughtered, there wasn¡¯t much to live off. There was, of course, another possibility.


    ¡°Gold piece says it''s bandits,¡± Dove said.


    Tyron rolled his eyes.


    ¡°What are you going to do with gold, Dove? You can¡¯t eat, don¡¯t need clothes, can¡¯t have sex, or do <em>anything</em> really. Why do you want my damn gold?¡±


    ¡°Firstly, that gold belonged to the yers of Woodsedge. Don¡¯t say ¡®my damn gold¡¯ as if you have some legitimate im to it. Secondly, that¡¯s hurtful. I don¡¯t need to be reminded of my dickless state. Thirdly, I¡¯m bored and want to bet. You in or out.¡±


    ¡°Out,¡± Tyron said as he reached behind to grasp his sword by the scabbard, dragging it forward and onto hisp.


    ¡°Smart.¡±


    In remotemunities like this, thew was often a suggestion more than a guarantee. The only time of year they reliably saw any official of the state was tax time. Now, even that thin veneer was lost. Preying on other survivors, looting farmsteads, doing whatever they could to hold on until civilisation returned. Then, they would sweep everything under the rug and go back to life as it had been.


    "I''ll take the minions and go have a look."


    "You going to leave me here? I don''t want to miss the fun!"


    "There might not <em>be</em> any fun, Dove. Just a few farmers trying to eke out a living with trampled crops and trying to bury their dead."


    "Bury the dead? What aplete waste."


    "Also, showing up with a glowing skull sort of screams, ''Necromancer'', don¡¯t you think?"


    "Having ten skeletons trailing along behind you doesn''t?"


    "I won''t stroll in with them!"


    Tyron had his minions stop moving with a mentalmand and climbed down from the cart. From a bundle tied up in coarse cloth, he extracted the small arsenal they''d amassed and passed it out. The skeletons grasped the arms he handed them in their cold, bony fingers, no sound except the asional scrape of bone on bone emanating from the undead. The smoke they''d seen was still two kilometres away, too far for anyone to be able to see the true nature of the creatures he stood with. It was risky, but he''d need to leave them a distance away if he wanted to conceal what he was.


    "I''ll be back soon," he told the skull sitting on the cart. "Don''t do anything crazy."


    The light in the skull''s eyes flickered disapprovingly.


    "Your attempts at humour, specifically aimed at my expense, are unwee."


    "Thanks, Dove."


    "Go and get yourself killed."


    "Fuck you too," Tyron smiled as he finished buckling his sword at his waist.


    A few copper coins in his pouch, a little food and water in his pack, and he looked just like any other traveller, if a little better armed. Hopefully, they wouldn''t test him with his de, since Tyron remained quite inept with it. If he needed to defend himself, it would be his spells doing the heavy lifting. As he trudged along the path, the source of the smoke grew clearer in the distance. The source appeared to be a settlement, or what used to be one. Not quite a vige, it was a cluster of farm houses built together for protection, which hadn''t done much, apparently. Not long ago, it probably housed five or six families. Now, who could tell?


    Four main houses, a couple of barns, a stable even. Looks like it was a sessfulmunity, certainly the surrounding fields appeared as if they''d been neat and well maintained before the break. In Tyron''s mind, you could judge a farmer by the state of the fences. In Foxbridge, Mayor Arryn''s fences were always straight as an arrow and tight as a drum. The moment a post started to show signs of rot, it was ripped out and reced, even the older stone fences were upkept religiously. Contrast that with farmer Connal, who constantly lost stock due to gaps in his crumbling boundary fence, and one could tell who was prosperous with a nce.


    Despite the obvious damage the kin had done on their way through, Tyron could tell these had been good fences.


    His gut soured. If these had been wealthy farmers, that didn''t bode well for what he would find.


    A cold wind cut through him and he drew his cloak a little tighter about himself as he continued to walk along the worn path toward the settlement. It was still midday, but the clouds overhead meant the light was more dim than would otherwise be expected. With a thought, he ordered his minions to draw closer. In these conditions, they shouldn''t be spotted if he brought them forward a touch. His eyes scanned the buildings carefully, expecting an arrow toe flying at him any moment.


    The main houses had been built in a square pattern, protecting a small courtyard between them and it was from there the smoke originated. A bonfire, perhaps? When he stood a hundred metres away, he stopped and waited, watching carefully.


    No movement greeted his eye, nor did anyone hail him.


    For a long moment, he considered turning and walking away. These people had nothing to do with him, he had no obligations towards them, and the setup looked worse and worse the longer he looked at it. If they didn''t greet him outside, it probably meant they wanted to lure him closer, perhaps bring him within thepound before they approached him, and by that time it would be toote for him to run. Of course, he may just be paranoid. Innocent folk trying to salvage what was left of their life. Perhaps they didn''t have anyone watching this direction.¡­


    Unlikely.


    Tyron sighed. He would go in, he knew he would. He <em>hoped </em>it was because he wanted to help people. If they were struggling survivors, he could offer some assistance, put them in contact with other groups, maybe do a little trade before he went on his way. He could leave them a little better off than when he found them. It''d happened a couple of times.


    If they were bandits, then he could rid the area of them and make life easier for others who were struggling under their thumb. It wasn''t pretty, but it was necessary if people were going to make it through the next few months.


    It wasn''t because he needed the bodies. He <em>hoped</em> it wasn''t.


    Finished questioning his motives, he firmed his resolve and resumed his slow walk along the dirt path. Soon, the buildings loomed overhead, but still, there was nothing to be heard, nor any faces to be seen. The structures had obviously been hit during the break. Scratches in the stonework, wooden window coverings battered in or hanging from their hinges were sure signs of struggle. The surrounding fences had taken a lot of damage. The kin weren''t interested in buildings, but they would have homed in on the signs of life here in thepound. Bodies of fallen creatures from Nagrythyn still littered the ground here and there. Arrows, it looked like, though someone hade to retrieve them after the fact.


    Good sign. Someone survived the initial attack at least.


    Stepping cautiously, Tyron moved between two buildings, the gap between them only wide enough for a cart to fit through. He could hear the fire now, crackling away as it chewed through the still damp wood, the asional pop and sizzle punctuating the sound of mes. He kept a hand on the hilt on his de as he readied a spell, the magick coiling in him as it answered to his call.


    "Greetings, friend," a cheerful voice sounded from behind.


    <em>Holy shit</em>.


    Tyron nearly jumped as he snapped around to see a humble looking man smiling at him from a few metres away. Heart hammering in his chest, he tried to sum up this new figure as quickly as he could. Farm clothes, dirty hands, middle aged perhaps. One of the owners here, or a farm hand?


    "You near scared me to death," Tyron said as he pretended to rx his posture, a forced smile on his face. "You creep up on every visitor like this?"


    "As best I can, yes," the man held both hands up to show he was unarmed, but made no move to approach. "Pays to be careful these days. Since the monsters came through, people are resorting to desperate measures in order to eat, you know how it is."


    This time, Tyron was careful to keep an eye behind him, standing side-on to his weer.


    "Of course," he said smoothly, "it''s most unfortunate." He gestured to the bonfire behind him. "I saw your fire and wondered if I could help. People need to look out for each other if we''re going to make it through. Is there anything you need doing? Any messages I can carry for you?"


    The man smiled wryly.


    "Well, I can think of a few things you can do," he said. "Why don''t we step inside and get warm around the fire so we can discuss it."


    The expression on the young Necromancer''s face grew tight.


    "Sure thing," he said, then swept his hand before him, "after you."


    The farmer''s hands lowered to rest on his hips. He shook his head.


    "You first, traveller," his voice hardened, "I insist."


    <em>Minions,e.</em>


    It would take time for the skellies to reach him. He had to dy. Tyron considered attacking the person in front of him, but decided against it. There was no chance he wasn''t being watched by others. If he tried to flee, he''d catch an arrow in the back from an upstairs window. Moving slowly, Tyron removed his hand from the hilt of his sword.


    "I don''t need any trouble," he said. "You can just let me walk away."


    "Maybe I don''t want to," the man grunted as others now revealed themselves. Two dirty looking men with grim faces stepped around the corner and approached Tyron from behind.


    He tensed, spells at the ready, but didn''t let them fly just yet. The two neers grabbed him roughly by the arms, one of them reaching around to unbuckle his belt and throw the scabbard to the ground.


    "What do you want us to do wit'' ''im, Davon?" one said.


    Tyron leaned back. By the five, this guy had shocking breath.


    "Take him in. Monty''ll want to see him before anything gets done."


    "We can just off him now," the other beside Tyron spoke slyly, "hide the body and keep the coin between us."


    The man called Davon shook his head, a frown creasing his brow.


    "And if Monty found out, you''d be strung up and left for the crows. You think it''s worth it for a few copper? Don''t be an idiot."


    "I''d rather not be offed," Tyron said, "if it''s all the same to you."


    "Shut up."


    A cuff across the jaw was his reward for opening his mouth and Tyron cursed himself. Dove was rubbing off on him more than he thought.


    <em>Don''t talk smart with the bandits, idiot</em>, he reprimanded himself.


    The two dragged him inside, Davon bringing up the rear. Not wanting to be beaten unnecessarily, Tyron yed along, cooperating on the surface but keeping his magick steady. The chances these back country folk had ever seen a Mage were slim, at least one that didn''t work in irrigation. If any of them could sense the arcane energy he held, ready to release in an instant, he''d be stunned. They held his shoulders and arms on both sides, but there was plenty he could do without the use of his hands. A magick bolt might not be enough to kill, but he could hardly miss at this range, and it would surely knock them down. Failing that, he could use Fear. Suppress Mind was another option, but he didn''t want to be caught in a battle of wills when there was more than one opponent.


    With Sleep at level five, there was a chance he could force it onto them even if they tried to resist. All he had to do was dy. Once the minions arrived, he could turn the tables.


    They stepped into the courtyard, and Tyron felt his chest grow cold and his throat constrict. It appeared as though the original inhabitants might have survived the rift-kin in decent shape. Thepound was quite defensible, after all. With archers above and barricades between the buildings, they could fight off the monsters quite well. Since none of the bigger, more dangerous ones hade south, it was more than feasible. Sadly, that appeared to have been where their luck ran out.


    The men had been staked.


    They were still there, dead bodies soaked in blood, suspended from the sharpened wood that burst from their chests. It looked as if they''d made some sort of sport, or ritual of it. Eight stakes, each adorned with its own corpse, surrounded the bonfire in the centre of the courtyard. The pools of blood that had dripped from their hanging feet had curdled and dried in ce. They''d been there a week at least, Tyron judged as he studied the scene.


    "I don''t see the women or children," he said quietly.


    "Well ya wouldn''t, would ya?"ughed the man on his right.


    "So they''re still alive?"


    "Shut up."


    Another fist knocked his head sideways as they pulled him around the gripping spectacle. There were a few other men around, lounging near the bonfire. They watched him being dragged in with interest, muttering to each other andughing raucously at their crude jokes. Tyron counted them carefully, six, seven, eight. Definitely more upstairs in the buildings. It was going to be tight.


    <em>Hurry up, you damn piles of bones</em>.


    The skeletons couldn¡¯t run. The best they could manage was a decently swift walk, close enough to a march. Judging by the drain on his magick, exaggerated by the distance between them, they were moving as quickly as they could. It would be a little longer.


    "Tie him to a post," Davon said, now clearly bored. "We''ll search him and leave him ''til Monty gets back."


    Tyron flicked a nce over his shoulder to see the man who now held his sword, the de extended from the scabbard as he inspected the edge.


    "Hey, my father gave me that sword," he cursed.


    "And now you''ve donated it to me. Cheers for that."


    Without ceremony, he allowed himself to be dragged towards a nearby fence where he was kicked down to his knees, his hands pulled behind his back and hurriedly tied to the post. With that done, the men rifled through his pockets, stripping off his cloak and relieving him of his possessions.


    "He''s got bugger all, mate," they reported to Davon.


    "Leave him, then."


    A cry of rm rang out from above.


    "Big grouping. Something¡¯s wrong wit ''em!" came a call from the second floor.


    The three around him turned to see the cause of the disturbance.


    Tyron smiled.

 Chapter B2 C4 - Fresh Meat

    Chapter B2 C4 - Fresh Meat


    With his captors distracted, Tyron knew it was time to make a move. If they decided to remove a potentialplication, namely him, before dealing with the new threat, then it likely wouldn''t go well for him. That meant he needed to deal with the rope. He had a method in mind, though it wasn''t his favourite.


    Magick Bolt was a simple and versatile spell. A ball of arcane energy, shaped and directed to fly and discharge its force into whatever it hit. It wasmon for a Mage to point or face their hand palm-out in the direction they wanted to fire it, but that wasn''t necessary. The point of origin could be anywhere around the person casting it, within a few centimetres of the body.


    Despite the growing din around him, he closed his eyes and concentrated, forming the spell directly above the rope that bound his wrists together. Not being able to see the target added anotheryer of difficulty, and it required all his focus to ensure the magick took the shape he desired. Once it was ready, he let it fly.


    Immediately he felt a sting along his wrists as the bolt sted downward, ripping through the fibres of the rope and taking severalyers of skin along with it before it hit the ground behind him. Before the rope could fall, he snatched it in his fingers, trying not to let the pain show on his face.


    "What was that?" Davon spun around.


    Tyron didn''t look up, his head hung low as he allowed his arms to bear his weight. He wanted to look defeated, and apparently, he pulled it off.


    "Markus, watch this idiot for me, I''m going to see what the fuss is," Davon spat before he turned and jogged toward the building the call came from.


    "Aw but¡­" Markus spluttered as his twopanions left him before he kicked the dirt in frustration.


    Then he had a better idea and kicked Tyron in the gut.


    "Hrk!" he grunted as the farmhand''s shoe sank into him.


    The divines bless high constitution.


    "You all tied up. Why''n I gotta watch this shit," he whined, clearly wanting to sate his curiosity and find out what the disturbance was.


    <em>That''s ten bony boys marching up the road to split your head in, moron.</em>


    Without long to consider, Tyron tried to decide what to do. He could cast fear, but his good friend Markus might just scream and wail, attracting attention, which was the opposite of what he wanted to achieve. He could use Suppress Mind, but he no longer had a weapon. If he crushed the other''s will and reduced him to a ck jawed, drooling simpleton¡­ or <em>more</em> of one, then how was he supposed to kill him?


    The other choice would be to pummel him with bolts.¡­


    He flexed his fingers as he considered what to do and felt the remains of the rope, still held in his grip. That was also an option¡­ he grimaced.


    "Holy Mother," Tyron gasped, "do you <em>see</em> that?"


    He stared over the other man''s shoulder with eyes wide, and, by some miracle, Markus turned around.


    "What?" the man muttered.


    Scarcely believing his luck, the Necromancer quickly intoned the words of power, his hands rising from behind his back to flick out a few quick sigils. Before his captor could sound a warning, the spell was ready. Markus'' eyes went wide as he saw his prisoner was no longer bound, but then something mmed into his mind and he knew no more.


    He couldn''t afford to be kind, or gentle, not with people such as these, so Tyron brought the full weight of his mind to bear. Despite being low level, he had more than enough mental might to crush the will of a simple farmhand turned bandit. In moments, Markus was reduced to a sightless lump, his eyes zed and expression ck as Tyron held his mind in an iron grip.


    He moved to capitalise on his advantage. He¡¯d learned to move while maintaining the spell, but not quickly, sudden movements would break his concentration. He had to be careful. He shifted the rope in his hands until he found a section long enough to use, then looped it over the man''s head and around his neck before he pulled, dragging the limp form of his victim to the ground before he shuffled backwards and out of sight.


    It was a difficult thing, holding a mind at bay as he strangled the body. Rather than thrash and fight physically, Markus fought back with his will, forcing Tyron to mp down ever harder as his grip held firm on the rope. He tried not to watch as the face in front of him turned blue, but concentrated inwardly, dominating the mind as it shrieked and iled, before it grew weak, the resistance fading until the consciousness winked out like a snuffed candle.


    The rope slipped out of his shaking hands, the fingers curling inwards to fists as the young Necromancer mastered himself. He couldn''t afford to be distracted, he was vulnerable until he could reunite with his minions. They were close now, he could feel it, and getting closer by the second.


    <em>I''m exposed, need toy low for a bit.</em>


    The others hadn''te to investigate this side of the courtyard, they''d gone to blockade the opening between buildings on the path Tyron hade in, or headed up to the buildings on that side of thepound. Even so, he didn''t want to take any chances, if someone nced back and saw him huddling here he''d have an arrow in his face. He slipped around the fence and found a shuttered window that hadn''t been barred. He pulled it open quickly and jumped inside, scanning the darkness within.


    Nobody inside, that was good. With a moment to himself, he crouched and cast another spell. Minion Sight. Following the link he had with all of his undead, he allowed himself to see what they saw, though only one at a time. He picked the closest and his view was overtaken by the hazy, purple-hued view of the skeleton. They were approaching the farmhouses now, perhaps only a hundred metres away. The skeletons in the lead had their shields up, defending against arrows being shot from the roof and upper floor. The undead did not know fear and continued to advance in the face of the archers, but the humans were not so resilient. Even through the blurred eyes of the dead, he could see the wavering spirits of the bandits.


    There was fear. He could use that.


    He was on the opposite side of the courtyard from where his minions were approaching. If he wanted to help them, he''d need to get closer. Tyron quickly stood and began to make his way through the dark and seemingly abandoned house, wishing he had a weapon. He''d rather not use magick unless he had to, and if he could avoid strangtion¡­ he''d prefer it.


    The noise continued to increase as the men called back and forth amongst each other, bellows of anger, cries of fear. The skeletons would arrive soon and Tyron knew from experience that staring into the ck sockets of the dead was an unnerving experience, one that might break more than one defender.


    When he approached the end of the building, Tyron unbarred the door and swung it inwards, only to find a bandit standing in the gap between buildings.


    The two started in surprise, the muddy bandit recovering first and swiping wildly with his rusted de. Tyron staggered back as pain red in his left hand, cursing under his breath. A momentter, a magick bolt fizzed forward and mmed into the chest of his attacker, a wet crunch noting the impact. Filled with desperate energy, Tyron rushed forward and mmed his forearm into the throat of the attacker. Unable to call for help, the bandit could do little but wheeze as the Necromancer grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back through the door.


    A minuteter, Tyron emerged, a hastily cut bandage tied around his palm and his face creased with frustration.


    The skeletons had arrived and were engaged in a brawl with the bandits. The defenders had hastily blocked off the entrance between the two buildings on the north side where the undead had attacked. Tyron could have all or some of them move to circle around, there were four entrances to the courtyard after all, but he''d rather leave them in ce to take the focus while he snuck around.


    If only that idiot hadn''t been watching on this side.


    The hand shouldn''t be a problem, if he was careful. The cut wasn''t too deep, he''d be able to form sigils with it well enough. He snuck inside the courtyard and found another window he could slip through, climbing in gracelessly with his wounded hand. Once inside, he rushed to find the stairs. He needed to reach the second floor as fast as he could. The longer the fight went on, the more damage his skeletons would take from the archers above.


    There was so much shouting, cursing and shing of steel that it wouldn''t matter how much noise he made as he stomped up the old wooden staircase. He burst up the final stretch to find a corridor in front of him that ended in a window, a shivering bandit leaning out to fire directly down on the minions below. Without thinking for long, he brought up his hands and formed a magick bolt. The spell whizzed almost invisibly through the air before it cracked into the unguarded back of his target, the force sending the archer tumbling through the gap shrieking into the melee below.


    Tyron didn''t hesitate, he ran toward the window, his hands already moving as the words of power rolled from his lips.


    Before anyone could interrupt his cast, he progressed rapidly through the spellwork, forming sigils and constructing the magick with reckless speed. His hand red with pain and almost threw him off, but he grit his teeth and forced the digits to align as they should before things could go awry. Even so, cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he finished the spell.


    <em>Death des</em>.


    Arcane energy that reeked of death began to coat the weapons of the skeletons, billowing around the des like a cloud of ck smoke. Panicked cries began to ring out amongst the bandits at this new development, but Tyron wasn''t done.


    <em>Can''t have you running away</em>.


    He stepped back from the window and checked his surroundings. In the chaos, it was impossible to tell exactly what was going on, but he didn''t think there were any other bandits on this floor. It was likely they''d gone to the roof once they realised they couldn''t shoot at the skeletons from the outward facing windows any more. Since that was the case, he decided to gamble that he had enough time to cast one more spell.


    Wary of his near disastrous slipst time, he took a little more time with his next spell. When thest sigil slipped into ce and hepleted it, a sigh of relief almost slipped from his lips. He stepped to the window so he could see his target and released the spell with a grim satisfaction.


    <em>Shivering Curse</em>.


    He targeted the men fending off his skeletons on the ground and saw the spell take effect before he leaned back from the opening lest he be seen.


    On the ground, the bandits felt as if the air itself had dramatically cooled around them before it drove into their limbs, hardening the blood in their veins. Their movements were stiff, joints became locked and their breath froze in their lungs. Faced with the silent, imcable advance of the dead in front of them, it was thest straw for more than one.


    With a despairing wail, first one, then another at the rear of the fighting turned and began to run. The men left in the thick of it cried out in rage and fear, but it was toote for them. Some of them wanted to flee as well, but were too slow, cut down by the merciless bone warriors before them. In a matter of moments, the skeletons had gained ess to the courtyard, slicing down thest remaining defenders.


    All that remained were the bandits on the roof, and by the sounds of things, they were in the process of running for their lives, one even throwing himself from the building.


    Tyron did as all proud Necromancers should: he found an empty room and hid in a corner as he mentally directed the skeletons through the remaining buildings and onto the roofs. Only when he was totally satisfied that no bandits remained did he emerge and inspect the damage.


    He''d lost two minions in the fight, their skulls cracked open and the light in their eyes extinguished. It was a loss, but not one he couldn''t absorb. In return, he had six fresh bandits to work with, the rest having fled. There was a distinct possibility that they would regroup and return, it sounded like some of them had already left, along with the leader, Monty. With any luck, they wouldn''t return today, and by tomorrow he could have more than made up for his losses.


    Still, the entire thing left a sour taste in the young man''s mouth.


    In future, he may well forgo any attempt at concealing his nature and just advance on them with his minions in tow. It wasn''t worth the risk and things were getting morewless, not less, as time passed in the ins.


    "Blood and bone," he cursed.


    With no obvious foes left nearby, he sent four skeletons to fetch the cart and brought the remaining four with him to tour the buildings. Several doors were locked, especially upstairs, and it took him a while to locate any keys. Davon had them, as it turned out; the first person he''d met here was now lying dead in the dirt, an ugly wound in his back and clean out his chest where he''d been run through. Tyron bent down and retrieved the sword with a certain grim satisfaction.


    When he got the doors open and saw what was inside, Tyron no longer felt guilty. He found the women and children.

 Chapter B2C5 - Rooms Of Bones

    Chapter B2C5 - Rooms Of Bones


    Tyron leaned back from the table with a sigh. He moved to wipe the sweat from his brow, but hesitated when he caught sight of his hands. He looked around for the bucket of water he¡¯d drawn, then grimaced when he noticed the decidedly red colour of it.


    Were there chunks floating in it as well?


    Once upon a time, such a sight would have sent the Necromancer running for a nearby bush. Now it merely caused his stomach to gurgle in protest. Progress.


    ¡°And yet, I can¡¯t find it in me to be happy about it,¡± he muttered to himself.


    Holding his two bloodstained hands up in front of himself, he pushed the door open with his hip and nced around the courtyard.


    It looked far better than it had two days ago. The first major improvement was theck of dead bodies on stakes. He¡¯d taken them down and decided he would put the remains to work instead of burying them. The farmers hadn¡¯t deserved the death they¡¯d gotten, but they didn¡¯t need those bones any longer. The worst damage of the fight had been repaired, the fallen bandits had more than earned their ce on the chopping block.


    He had little choice but to grip the handle of the hand pump with one hand to get the water flowing, and from there he was able to scrub himself clean. Grime and thick blood clung to his skin and he had to be vigorous to remove it all. Red water flowed around his feet as he washed, spread across the packed dirt in oily trails.


    ¡°Ah¡­ sorry to bother you,¡± a soft voice spoke behind him.


    Tyron whirled to see a whisper thin brown haired woman clutching a bucket behind him.


    ¡°I needed water for the kitchen,¡± she murmured.


    Tyron cursed himself. He was too distracted and didn¡¯t notice her walking up to him.


    ¡°Uh¡­ no problem,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll just¡­ get out of your way.¡±


    He awkwardly stepped to the side and shook his hands dry, trying not to look at the spreading blood water.


    <em>I hope to heck that wasn¡¯t her husband</em>.


    Once the thought struck him, he had to be somewhere else, so he stammered out an apology and beat a hasty retreat. Once he was back inside, he quickly shut the door behind him and took a moment to collect himself.


    ¡°I fucking hope that wasn¡¯t her husband,¡± Dove remarked.


    ¡°Gods, I know,¡± Tyron groaned.


    ¡°You <em>could</em> have just buried them. Little cold carving their family members while they¡¯re right across the courtyard.¡±


    ¡°It was your idea, you bony bastard!¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to agree.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ true. I just need the bones.¡±


    And he did. His tests had to continue. The only way for him to improve his skills was to practise and attempt new methods. In order to do that, he needed a steady supply of remains.


    ¡°I saved their lives,¡± he said, ¡°so I¡¯m entitled to¡­¡±


    He couldn¡¯t bring himself to say it, but that didn¡¯t stop Dove from finishing it for him.


    ¡°Their husbands'' corpses? Fucking <em>hells </em>Tyron, that is cold. My spiritual nips are shrivelling over here.¡±


    ¡°Oh, shut it,¡± he said.


    He resolutely ignored the skull as he set about tidying up. With a few mentalmands he had the skeletons on hand gather up the various buckets and tubs he¡¯d filled to take outside and dump in the midden he¡¯d had them dig.


    With that done, he tried to put his embarrassment behind him as he gathered up the bones and took them to the second floor. Once he¡¯d gotten them upstairs, he moved from room to room, adding bones to his various tests and experiments.


    Having an entire second floor to work with was truly a luxury that he hadn¡¯t experienced before. It was certainly superior to crouching over piles of bones on the floor of a cave. It was a shame he wouldn¡¯t be able to stay long, but for now he¡¯d take advantage of the facilities.


    Once he¡¯d disbursed histest haul, he made another pass through the rooms, checking the progress of his various tests.


    With more time on his hands, he¡¯d been able to carefully assess each of the bones, one by one. Searching for any damage or cracking and repairing it, sealing any magick leaks, ensuring they were clean and dry, everything he could think of to ensure they were in the best possible condition.


    With time and practice, his ability to use magickal senses to detect weaknesses in the bones was bing more clear. It might not make much of a difference to the end performance of the minion, perhaps as little as a few percent, but that mattered to Tyron.


    To be as efficient as possible, he needed the best possible undead. If they were going to draw on his energy to fight, then they better be using it well. Also, he felt he was being disrespectful to the dead if he didn¡¯t try as hard as he could to create the perfect minions from their remains.


    If he was going to desecrate their bones, he may as well do a damn good job of it.


    He pushed the awkwardness behind him as he stepped from room to room, using his mind to peek at the minute, shifting energies contained in the various groupings of bones.


    He was on the verge of a breakthrough, thanks to Dove, but everything had to be confirmed and measured before he was prepared to celebrate. After he¡¯d checked on everything twice, he walked downstairs and sat heavily in the wooden chair in the kitchen.


    ¡°When was thest time you slept, kid?¡±


    Tyron thought about it.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t slept since the attack,¡± he admitted. ¡°I know. I¡¯ll rest soon.¡±


    The skull was silent for a moment.


    ¡°You want to talk about it?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°You killed a fair few people in that attack. It¡¯s going to rattle anyone.¡±


    ¡°I said I don¡¯t want to talk about it, Dove.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, and what are you going to fucking do about it? Kill me? You locked me in this prison because you wanted a mentor, so swallow your piss weak pride, suck your balls up into your sternum and ept my wisdom. If not, that¡¯s fine, release me already.¡±


    The Necromancer grit his teeth for a moment, pulled in a deep breath before he released it all at once. He didn¡¯t want to have this conversation, but he also didn¡¯t want to lose the Summoner¡¯s advice. Without Dove, it¡¯d be just him and Yor, and that thought was more frightening than he¡¯d like to admit.


    ¡°Alright. Lay it on me, Dove. What have you got to say?¡±


    The purple eyes of the skull red with baleful light.


    ¡°What¡¯s that tone? Am I your fucking dad? Are you in a rebellious phase or something? Tyron, you¡¯re on the run from the authorities, making life and death decisions in a race against time to grow your power. You <em>do not</em> have time to sulk about killing a bunch of shithead bandits.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sulking!¡±


    ¡°My ethereal-balls you aren¡¯t. You¡¯ve been working yourself, pardon the pun, to the bone over thest two days.¡±


    ¡°Dove, I always do that. I did that before I¡¯d even awakened.¡±


    ¡°And what were you running away from then?¡±


    Silence.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought. Look, I¡¯m not saying that you shouldn¡¯t push yourself, obviously you need to go as hard as you can, but you need to work on your fucking mind. If you¡¯re running away from your stress, it¡¯ll affect your work, build up over time and you¡¯ll blow up at exactly the wrong moment.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to kill people before this journey is done. Probably a fucking ton of them. The sooner youe to grips with that, the better off you¡¯re going to be.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to kill <em>anyone</em>, Dove,¡± Tyron snapped. ¡°I wanted to hunt rift-kin to level up. I wanted to <em>protect</em> people. I wanted to prove that I can use this ss as a force for good!¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that exactly what you¡¯ve been doing? Good people tend to limit the number of people they put on a stake to roughly zero. I really don¡¯t think you murdered any saints the other day.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t say murdered,¡± Tyron flinched.


    ¡°Offed? Killed? ughtered? Laid to rest? Pushed off the mortal coil? Sent to the embrace of the Five? Torso-fucked with a sword? I¡¯ve got more.¡±


    ¡°You know what, murdered is better than some of those.¡±


    ¡°At least you didn¡¯t try and say it was the minions rather than you doing the killing. That¡¯d bepletely gutless.¡±


    ¡°The minions are literally in my head. We can¡¯t exactly be considered separate¡­¡±


    ¡°Cowards will try anything,¡± Dove said matter of factly. ¡°I know you¡¯d rather not face up to this reality, kid, but you¡¯re going to have to. And soon, unless I miss my guess. The survivors will eithere back in greater numbers, or they¡¯ll run east until they find thew ande back hunting with the marshals.¡±


    In truth, the Necromancer had hoped they woulde back that same night. With little time to n, or recover from the shock, they would have been easy pickings. Two days with no sighting of the bandits, or their apparent leader, was worrying.


    ¡°How long until we have to move on?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Two more days at the most. This is a good ce to work in, but too many people have seen you and the boneheads. When the yers eventually sweep through, they¡¯ll know you were here. You need asrge a head start as you can get by that point.¡±


    ¡°Unless¡­¡± Tyron said slowly, ¡°I can find and eliminate all of the bandits. No one can talk if no one is alive.¡±


    ¡°You were feeling miserable about killing people a minute ago, now you want to mass murder? That¡¯s fucking character growth right there, kid. I¡¯m impressed.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to stay alive here, Dove,¡± Tyron scowled. ¡°That¡¯s different from the other day. I could have walked away.¡±


    ¡°You probably should have, but here we are. Look, even if you kill all those pricks, you really want to put the women and kids in a position of having to lie to the marshals? That¡¯s a crime, in case you forgot. I think their lives are going to be hard enough, don¡¯t you?¡±


    Tyron slumped in his chair. It was true. When he¡¯d found the survivors of the farmingmunity locked in those rooms, the things they¡¯d gone through had been written all over their faces. He didn¡¯t think he would ever forget their ssy stares. Even the kids¡­


    With their husbands dead and the farmhands having rebelled, it would be almost impossible for them to work thend, or even hold onto it. It had taken these families generations to build what they¡¯d had, and now it was lost.


    He couldn¡¯t ask anything of them.


    ¡°You¡¯re talking a lot of sense,¡± he admitted sadly. ¡°I¡¯ll make ns to head out tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°If you can, talk it over with Yor tonight. She¡¯ll agree with me.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    The two sat in silence for a few minutes as Tyron focused inward and tried to settle his roiling emotions. He felt a little better, after his talk with Dove. He didn¡¯t think he would ever befortable with the thought of killing people, he certainly hoped not, but he also couldn¡¯t deny the bandits had deserved what they¡¯d gotten.


    He just wished someone else had done it.


    ¡°Enough of that depressing shit,¡± the skull finally said, ¡°how are the bones doing? Was I right?¡±


    With a chance to talk about something else, especially his craft, Tyron¡¯s eyes lit up as he sat forward with excitement sparking in his eyes.


    ¡°I think so,¡± he enthused. ¡°Another day to tell for sure, but yeah, I think you got it.¡±


    ¡°Hah! Simplicity itself. Don¡¯t underestimate a Summoner, kid, we are a cut above. It¡¯s easier for me to see because I¡¯m looking down from a higher angle, that¡¯s all it is.¡±


    The skull''s boasting wasn¡¯t anything new, but Tyron had to admit he probably should have thought of it himself.


    The key question they had considered was how wild undead were created. Someone died in the wild, somewhere with strong magick, and the process started.


    That much was obvious.


    They didn¡¯t know exactly how it began, but the magick would begin to change into death-attuned energy, just a tiny mote to start with. Then that speck would start to jump from bone to bone, growing and multiplying over time until the skeleton became fully saturated. At that point, the threading would ur naturally; a simple mind, possibly a remnant spirit, would be infused with the skeleton and bam, wild skeleton.


    Due to their testing, they also knew you couldn¡¯t start the process unless you had a full skeleton. Tyron couldn¡¯t put a bag full of femurs in a room and thene back to find them bouncing about on the floor.


    Which was a good thing, otherwise how could he store them safely?


    But then Dove had a thought. What if they started the process, but then removed part of the skeleton? Would it continue until the bones were saturated and create a half-skeleton? Or would they only half fill with energy?


    Could they take ten skeletons,y them together to start the process, then take all the leg bones and stick them in a room, all the arms in a different room, the skulls in another, and would the saturation continue afterwards?


    Turns out, yes it would.


    Twenty tibia together in one room were happily bouncing death magick between each other. Twenty shins in another were doing the same. It would take another day for them to fully saturate, even with Tyron helping to speed things along, but he couldn''t wait to see what happened.


    Would the skeletons try to pull themselves together from different rooms to form a wild undead? Or would they just stay in ce? If he brought them back together, would the bone threading begin to form naturally?


    He hoped not.


    The best oue would be if the bones didn¡¯t knit together on their own, at least for long enough for him toplete the process himself and then raise the minion as his own.


    He¡¯d be creating a fresh undead with fully empowered remains, soaked in death energy, and with all the benefits of his abilities. Better threading meant better movement and greater efficiency. His mastery over Raise Dead meant less wasteful conduits with his minions.


    Perhaps even more importantly, if he didn¡¯t have to empower the bones with his own magick, he could shorten the ritual and cast it using less of his own energy.


    It would shorten the time needed significantly. Or, better yet, he could use that time to make improvements on other parts of the spell. The magick conduit was always a focus, but the mind construct ced in the skull was another ce he could make dramatic gains.


    Unfortunately, he had no idea how to get started on that, mind magick wasn¡¯t something he¡¯d ever looked at. But get started he would. He was confident he could puzzle it out, given enough time and a few clues.


    If these methods proved effective in creating better undead, he was confident that refining them was all he would need to push his skills to ten.


    To say he was excited about it was an understatement.


    ¡°Just don¡¯t perform the ritual until you¡¯re confident you¡¯ve reached the point you need to reach,¡± Dove advised. ¡°Once you hit twenty, that¡¯s it, you¡¯re cooked. Time to upgrade the ss if you¡¯re ready or not.¡±


    ¡°I know that,¡± Tyron scowled, ¡°who in the entire empire doesn¡¯t know that?¡±


    ¡°Just a little friendly reminder, kid. No need to get your balls in a twist. I¡¯ve seen a lot of yers muck up and go too early. After you offed all those guys the other day, you just can¡¯t take the chance. They might have only put you up one level, they might have given you all three. Better not to chance it.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t.¡±


    The light in the sockets of the skull gleamed.


    ¡°Good. All you have to worry about then is if those idiotse back and try to kill you.¡±


    Tyron sighed heavily as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He really was tired.


    ¡°I thought they¡¯d havee back already, to tell the truth.¡±


    ¡°Might be taking them a while to work up the guts. Or perhaps they got scattered and haven¡¯t been able to get all their people back together.¡±


    The two sat and thought for a while before the Necromancer looked around suddenly.


    ¡°What time is it?¡± he asked.


    ¡°How the fuck would I know?¡±


    ¡°You know what I mean, Dove. How long until Yor is back?¡±


    ¡°Couple of hours, I think. Why? What¡¯s gotten up your arse? Not Yor? I didn¡¯t think she¡¯d be into that¡­ then again she has a very dominant personality.¡±


    ¡°Shut. Up. Dove,¡± Tyron grated. ¡°It¡¯s not that so much as I¡¯m worried she¡¯ll eat the survivors over there. I don¡¯t want to rescue these people only to have them sucked dry by someone ostensibly on my side.¡±


    ¡°I wish she¡¯d suck <em>me</em> dry.¡±


    ¡°Of <em>what?!</em>¡±


    ¡°... ectosm?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not a thing!¡±


    ¡°Look. Obviously you¡¯re stressed. If you¡¯re that worried about getting attacked, why don¡¯t you put your fucking skills to use and learn a little more about who these guys were, and what they were nning to do?¡±


    ¡°How am I supposed to do that?¡±


    ¡°Are you fucking kidding me? Are you a Necromancer, or what? Go Necromance! You can speak to the dead can¡¯t you? Aren¡¯t you doing it right this second?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Right.¡±

 Chapter B2C6 - Words with Death

    Chapter B2C6 - Words with Death


    It was somewhat embarrassing to have forgotten he had this ability. Tyron had been so focused on perfecting his ability to assess, prepare and Raise Skeletons that his other abilities had dropped almost totally from his awareness.


    Specifically, his ability to speak to the dead.


    The spell was certainly an interesting one, and something he¡¯d love to study in further detail, but as it didn¡¯t directly lead to the creation of superior minions, and therefore wouldn¡¯t help him to level, he¡¯d left it for more important things.


    As night began to fall over the farmstead, Tyron hesitantly wandered over to the house being used by the survivors. When he made it to the door, he took a deep breath, then knocked a few times before stepping back.


    He couldn¡¯t hear much on the other side. It was almost unnaturally quiet over here most of the time, doubly so when you considered the dozen or so children inside. When it wasn¡¯t quiet, it was usually because someone was either screaming or crying, or both. Tyron preferred it quiet.


    After a few moments, the door swung open and he saw Ate, thedy who had met him by the hand pump earlier. He breathed a quick sigh of relief, though he tried to hide it. Of all the wives who had been saved, she was the most¡­ capable, though she was still quite injured and seemed incapable of looking him in the eye.


    ¡°Y-yes? Is there something we can do for you?¡± she asked timidly.


    Bit of a silly question really. What could they possibly do for him?


    ¡°No. No, of course not. In fact, is there anything I can do for you? Do you need anything else? I¡¯m happy to go looking if there¡¯s a shortage.¡±


    The young widow held up her hands.


    ¡°Oh, ah. We¡¯re fine for the moment¡­ thank you.¡±


    The two fell silent for a moment as Tyron struggled to deal with the awkward situation. He felt terrible for what these people had gone through, but anything he said or did just felt so hopelessly smallpared to their needs.


    ¡°I, uh, just wanted to say I was going to use the courtyard for a ritual. I would appreciate it if someone kept an eye on the little ones and made sure they didn¡¯te out. It may be a little¡­ disturbing for any of you to see it.¡±


    tes eyes widened in fear for a moment before she looked down and nodded repeatedly.


    ¡°Yes. That will be fine. We will be careful. Thank you.¡±


    So saying, she stepped back and closed the door softly.


    Job done, Tyron turned around and let out an explosive breath. Every interaction he had with the survivors was painful in the extreme. He¡¯d saved them from a terrible fate, that was true, but it was hard for them to be grateful in the moment. They¡¯d lost their families, their futures, their life¡¯s work. Some of them had lost children.


    They were shattered people who could barely, just barely, take care of each other. Any time he was around them he felt he had to step carefully otherwise they may just break, fall to pieces like dropped porcin.


    He¡¯d done whatever he could in terms of supplies and aid, but that was the extent of his capabilities.


    If his mother and father were here, it would be a different story. They wouldfort them, make them food, give them a shoulder to cry on, a sympathetic ear. They¡¯d stay for a week or more and slowly bring them out of their shells, slowly help them pick up the pieces of their lives.


    He just wasn¡¯t built that way.


    Dealing with people was hard. Thankfully, he could now focus on something much simpler. Namely, dealing with the dead.


    He stepped around the courtyard, remembering exactly how it had beenid out after the battle. He¡¯d rather not have used the courtyard at all, but the closer he was to the site of the death, the better he would be able to use the magick.


    He decided he¡¯d quite enjoy a chat with his old friend Davon. After making brief preparations, he began to incant the ritual.


    Commune With Spirits was a curious piece of spellwork. Truth be told, Tyron didn¡¯t understand half of it. Even now, he didn¡¯t know if what he conjured forth was an actual ghost, the soul of the recently departed, or simply a ¡­ psychic imprint left of the ambient magick.


    There was a real chance that the Dove he spoke to every day was not, in fact, his actual departed friend. He might be, but Tyron just didn¡¯t know. It was something he¡¯d rather not think about.


    The words rolled from his tongue, each syble giving shape and purpose to the magick he drew from within himself, assembling the ritual piece by piece.


    When it was done, he brought his hands together with a sharp p, cutting off the flow of words. This was the first time he¡¯d used the spell for its intended purpose, and he was a little nervous as he waited for something to happen.


    A mist appeared over the ground where Davon had died. The air grew colder and flowed inward, rapidly building the mist into a swirling column. Tyron studied it. The mist was cloudlike, thick, and it flowed and twisted to unseen currents, but never extending far outside the column.


    Two lights began to glow within, cold and blue, those eyes did not belong to any living creature. Tyron recognised the look of the dead.


    <em>Speak</em>.


    It wasn¡¯t with words that the shade spoke, or even with its mind, as the Abyss did. It was the hiss of a de sliding deep into a soul. It was the whisper of winter pulling the heat from a dying man. Tyron had nonguage to describe how he knew what had been said. But he did.


    ¡°Is that you, Davon?¡± he asked.


    <em>You have pulled me here. Speak.</em>


    The spirit didn¡¯t seem particrly chatty.


    ¡°You seem to be in a rush, Davon. Got somewhere to be?¡±


    Normally Tyron wouldn¡¯t mock the dead, but in the case of Davon and his band of merry thugs, he could break with his normal habits. These people deserved no respect, not even in death.


    The mist roiled faster as the shade grew agitated, the eyes narrowing to slits.


    <em>You killed me. </em>


    ¡°Sure did.¡±


    <em>I will kill you!</em>


    The fog boiled forward, the eyes and <em>something</em> else suspended within leaping forward to strike him. Except it couldn¡¯t.


    A golden shield sprang into being around the Necromancer, fending off the mist that shrank back from it instinctively.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s going to work, Davon. You¡¯re stuck here until I release you,¡± Tyron stated with a wry grin.


    There was something unhealthy about taunting your enemies from beyond the grave. Tyron felt he was enjoying it more than he should. He tried to get back on track.


    ¡°Give me the answers I want and you can return back to¡­ your grave.¡±


    <em>Speak!</em>


    The mist calmed once more, the current easing until it once more driftedzily around itself. The eyes remained cold and baleful, but Tyron felt there was not much he could do about that.


    ¡°Your little gang here. How many of you were there?¡±


    The shade roiled for a moment before it replied.


    <em>Twenty five. </em>


    That was more than he¡¯d expected. There hadn¡¯t been that many when he¡¯d arrived. He frowned.


    ¡°How many did Monty take with him when he left? He was the leader of the group, wasn¡¯t he?¡±


    <em>Half. His idea to rebel. Convinced the others.</em>


    Not what Tyron wanted to hear. He¡¯d only killed six bandits before they¡¯d fled the scene, spooked by his undead. That meant there may well be neen still out there.


    ¡°Nearly done with you Davon. I want you to tell me why Monty left. Where did he go? When do you think he will be back?¡±


    Those cold eyes burned with a savage light as the shade replied.


    <em>Went to recruit. Farringer farmstead. Two day trip. More hands. More girls. Back soon.</em>


    The Necromancer''s face twisted. These scum weren¡¯t happy with the little slice of paradise they¡¯d carved out for themselves? Was this Monty trying to set himself up as a bandit lord?


    The glee he saw in the shade sickened him. Were these people even human any more?


    ¡°You think they can kill me, Davon? When this idiot gets back, you really think it matters how many people like you he brings?¡±


    <em>You¡¯ll die. Vengeance.</em>


    ¡°After I kill them, I¡¯ll raise their bones as new servants. Then I¡¯ll talk to you again, just so you can sleep forever knowing that I survived.¡±


    Tyron forced a sick grin.


    ¡°In fact, I might go grab your bones right now. I carved the meat from your corpse, you know? Now I might just raise you so perhaps you might contribute something useful for once in your miserable existence.¡±


    The shade roiled, the mist twisting this way and that at a furious pace. It went to rush toward him once more, but Tyron ended the ritual with a contemptuous wave.


    At once the column of fog began to dissipate, falling as if it were being sucked slowly into the ground. The eyes faded as they too were pulled down, a long hiss of anger and despair echoing out as the shade was sent back to wherever it had originated.


    When it was done, no sign remained of the magick he had performed. Tyron stood alone over the dirt and gravel that marked the ce Davon had died.


    ¡°Well,¡± he sighed to himself. ¡°That was creepy.¡±


    ¡°If you find conversing with a mere shade to be more than you can handle, I am <em>most</em> concerned for your future.¡±


    Tyron jumped as he heard the soft voice breathe into his ear. He spun to see Yor standing ufortably close, her perfect features set in an alluring smile.


    She¡¯d managed to find herself a dress at some point. Humble and in, it had likely belonged to one of the farmwives, but somehow she made it seem like a ball gown. The dignity and grace of her bearing was such that it likely didn¡¯t matter <em>what</em> she wore, she would look like nobility all the same.


    The Necromancer blushed and stepped back to create a little space, his heart rate elerating.


    ¡°Oh. Ah. Hi, Yor. I didn¡¯t realise the¡­ uh¡­ sun had gone down.¡±


    She watched his reaction with mild amusement. For a moment, he feared she would step forward and draw close again, but thankfully she remained in ce.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± she drawled, ¡°you were most focused on your discussion with that <em>thing</em>.¡±


    She sniffed.


    ¡°Ghosts and shades. Such ungrateful and <em>undignified</em> creatures. Only when bound to serve can they be relied upon.¡±


    ¡°Are you saying¡­ he might have lied to me?¡±


    ¡°That is indeed possible,¡± Yor smiled, ¡°but that is not <em>quite</em> what I am saying. What I want tomunicate ¡­ is that <em>nothing</em> can be relied upon that is not bound to your service by chains stronger than steel.¡±


    ¡°So I can¡¯t trust you?¡±


    The vampireughed, a throaty, musical sound that set his blood racing.


    ¡°Of course not, sweetling. <em>Never</em> trust a Vampire. That is simplymon sense.¡±


    A timely reminder. He wasn¡¯t good at dealing with Yor. She was enchanting to look at, her every gesture, every word, was designed to draw him in. Which was entirely the point. She wasn¡¯t a woman, she was a poisoned chalice. Every aspect was designed to be a lure, but if you tried to drink, you would die.


    Or in Tyron¡¯s case, likely be turned into a creature like her, more likely than not bound to her service by means he didn¡¯t understand.


    Somehow, even knowing she would kill him wasn¡¯t enough topletely kill his attraction. It wasn¡¯t hard to imagine just how quickly Dove would have died by her hands were he still living.


    He¡¯d have invited her to a private room within ten seconds of seeing her. Then been exsanguinated. He would probably say he¡¯d have died happy.


    ¡°Since you admit I can¡¯t trust you,¡± he said slowly, ¡°then I want to say something clearly. I would ¡­ be grateful¡­ if you didn¡¯t hurt any of the people staying here. The women and children have suffered greatly. I would spare them further pain if I could help it.¡±


    One elegant eyebrow arched.


    ¡°You think I would prey on these people?¡±


    It was a nice sentiment to hear, but he was confused.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t?¡± he asked.


    From what he knew of the Vampire, she didn¡¯t care much for mortals of any variety. They were food to her, little more than cattle.


    Yor sighed.


    ¡°You can put your mind at rest. I have no intention of feeding on these humans. For now, I am well sated, I have no urgent need to ke my thirst. They are safe from me.¡±


    ¡°... For now?¡±


    Her eyes glinted. Once again he caught a glimpse of the wild beast that dwelt within that alluring shell.


    ¡°For now,¡± she confirmed. ¡°If my need grows dire, then I will feed, from whatever source is avable. All I can promise you is, that should the need arise, they will not suffer.¡±


    So saying, she turned and walked away, soon vanishing into the shadows and disappearing from the courtyard altogether. Tyron stared after her for a minute before he shook off his daze.


    That had been far more of a concession than he¡¯d been expecting from her. She¡¯d never indicated anything other thanplete contempt for the living before. Was there something about these survivors in particr that Yor would avoid harming them if she could? Or was she just trying to keep him happy in the hopes he would ept her offer?


    The thought worried him, but he pushed it away. He¡¯d learned other things that would need to be dealt with. The farmhouses had grown dark now, only a few candles lit inside the buildings casting a tiny flickering light outside. With a word, Tyron summoned a globe to illuminate his path and rushed back into the home he shared with Dove.


    ¡°How¡¯d it go, kid? Good chat with a dead guy?¡±


    ¡°In a way. Apparently, the people we fought here were only half of them. The other half went with the leader to ¡®recruit¡¯ at another farm.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ shit. That¡¯s not good.¡±


    ¡°No it isn¡¯t. There could be as many as twenty or thirtying back, and we have no idea when they might get here. Last time they got spooked by the skeletons and ran for it, but they¡¯ll be ready this time, assuming they meet up with the others.¡±


    Without the advantage of surprise, his skeletons wouldn¡¯t be as effective. They were decent enough fighters, especially against former farmhands without anybat skills, but they weren¡¯t reliable in a fight where they were outnumbered. More minions than the enemy was the safest ce to be.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a lot of work to do,¡± Tyron fretted, ¡°I need to raise more skeletons. Anything less than twenty won¡¯t be nearly enough.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got enough remains,¡± Dove pointed out, ¡°you could even work on some bone armour with the leftovers.¡±


    A beat.


    ¡°Or you could just run for it,¡± the skull pointed out. ¡°You have no obligation to be here when those thugs get back.¡±


    Tyron froze. It was an option, that was definitely true.


    ¡°What about the survivors?¡± he said.


    ¡°Kid, <em>they</em> don¡¯t have to be here either. They can run like hell back east and they¡¯ll bump into yers and marshals eventually.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s too dangerous,¡± Tyron frowned, ¡°with the rift-kin still out there, they won¡¯t make it far. Having to travel with the kids, there¡¯s no chance they¡¯d even outrun the bandits, and they <em>would</em> go looking for them. You know that Dove, surely.¡±


    The skull was silent for a moment.


    ¡°Just be careful kid,¡± he said finally. ¡°You have no reason to get yourself killed protecting others. You think these people would protect you? From the marshals? From the magisters? They¡¯ll hand you over with a smile, no matter what you might have done for them.


    ¡°You almost died for them already. That should be more than enough. Don¡¯t forget who you are, Tyron. Don¡¯t forget the situation you are in. You¡¯re an ouw, just the same as those bandits are, and if the marshals catch up with you, you¡¯ll share the same fate. Don¡¯t make an emotional decision, that¡¯s all I¡¯m saying.¡±


    Tyron clenched his fists.


    In many ways, Dove was right. He knew that. He understood it, but that didn¡¯t mean that he had to ept it.


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to leave them to die,¡± he growled.


    He stalked his way upstairs, sat down at a table covered in bones, and got to work

 Chapter B2C7 - Reap the Harvest

    Chapter B2C7 - Reap the Harvest


    Tyron pushed the fatigue away and worked through the night. He pushed his magick relentlessly, examining bones, checking them for leaks, repairing any damage he could and then trying to work out how the Bone Armour spell worked.


    He hadn''t had much time to y with it, just like a few other things he had learned recently. The little he''d been able to understand of what he''d received was that he could use existing bones as a form of protection, but exactly how didn''t quite make sense to him. Was he able to bind them to himself, or to his skeletons? Imagining skeletons wearing bones on top of bones was a strange image.


    Would he be able to fuse the bones together into tes of armour? Or perhaps he could attach them to his minions to absorb damage?


    Out came his reliable aid, the notebook and quill, and he got to work transcribing his thoughts. Over time he was able to tease out fragments of knowledge he had and begin to piece together a moreplete picture. It was absorbing work and he lost himself in the scratch of pen on paper as he wrote down sigils in certainbinations, crossed them out and started over again and again.


    After going through this process multiple times he was able to make more rapid progress than in the past. The pieces might be different, but he''d had a lot of experience putting puzzles togethertely, some of the strategies were sure to transfer. Every now and again he would take a break and work with the bones, emptying his mind and employing his magick before going back to the book to try again.


    Halfway through the night he had a working model, though heboured on it further, trying to understand it better before he attempted it. There was little chance he could work on improving or adjusting the spell with a single night''s work, but he would do everything he could to tease out as many wrinkles as he could.


    <em>"Practice makes perfect", Beory told him. He''d found her ying mes across her fingers at the kitchen table during one of their stays. He''d been ten years old? Or eleven? She smiled as she watched the fire dance, guiding it with nothing but the force of her will. "It''s foolish to use magick in battle that you haven''t honed to the utmost degree. Even reaching the maximum level isn''t enough, you should be as familiar with it as you are with breathing. The same goes for swordsmanship. Your father practises every day, despite being the best. Why do you think that is?"</em>


    Like everything his mother had ever told him, it was good advice. Unfortunately his current circumstances made it all but impossible to follow that wisdom. If he had the time, he would dly refine his techniques to a razor sharp point before putting himself in harm''s way, but he didn''t have that luxury. If this ability could help keep him alive, then he would use it, regardless of the risk.


    In the hours before dawn, he began to doubt himself.


    Should he be creating new minions right now? He had the bones avable, he could stitch a few together at least, bringing his numbers back to an even ten, but he hesitated. He wanted to see the results of his current tests as his next round of skeletons. Tenplete sets of bones were currently separated and spread through the second floor, gradually building up a concentration of death magick within each other. Once they were ready, he had a feeling they would be the best servants he''d ever made. At the very least, he expected to learn something significant.


    But if the thugs returned while he waited, what would he do? He didn''t have enough minions to fight off twenty or more men, even if they had been farmers andbourers before the break. Unable to contain his fears any longer, he pushed his notes aside and began to prepare two fresh skeletons.


    Despite his fatigue, the work was familiar, and in a strange way, rxing. Sense the bones, repair them, prepare them and then move onto the stitching. His hands danced through the air ceaselessly as he wove the intricate patterns necessary to allow his undead to move. Threads of magick connected to the tips of each finger bound and curled around each other as he worked. When the two skeletons were ready he performed the ritual, his focus in hand, the words rumbling from his mouth to change reality as he created a twisted mockery of life.


    With the two minions ready, he felt somewhat assured and returned to his work. Ten skeletons was hardly better than eight in fighting the sort of numbers he feared woulde, but with this many he may be able to drive them off once more. His support spells were bing a force multiplier for his undead and he had a decent reservoir of spare energy now, even when maintaining ten skeletons.


    Perhaps the bone armour would take up some of that¡­


    A few hours after the sun had risen, he began his first trial of the spell. Arranged on the floor around him were a selection of dozens of bones, most of them the longer variety, shins, femurs, radius and ulna, though a decent number of smaller varieties were mixed in. He blinked his eyes a few times, trying to drive away the grainy feeling before he began to work the spell.


    The energy began to flow from his body, into the air, and then to infuse the bones around him. He wasn''t trying to fill them, or bind them together, as he did when creating a minion; instead he was connecting them, to each other, but also to himself. Glowing with the distinct dark aura of death magick, the bones drifted through the air before they began to arrange themselves on Tyron''s body.


    When the process wasplete, the Necromancer inspected himself with aplicated expression on his face.


    Suffused with magick, the bones added ayer of protection, he couldn''t deny that. They formed a strange sort of armour that covered his arms, chest, back and thighs. He wasn''tpletely encased in it at least, there were gaps between that would certainly allow an arrow head through if the shooter were urate enough. Were someone to try and cut him, though, they would need to cut at least one bone before they bit into his flesh.


    The spell did what was advertised¡­ it formed ayer of protection formed from bones¡­ which was certainly useful. It was just¡­


    "Do I really want to walk around covered in human bones?" Tyron muttered to himself.


    To top it off, he probably looked ridiculous. Actually, should he even be worrying about that? Some of these bones belonged to the men the bandits had impaled, the men whose widows were still here on the farm! What in the name of the divines would they think if they saw him? He almost dismissed the spell on the spot, but decided against it, he at least wanted to get Dove''s opinion on it.


    "You look like a fucking idiot."


    "Yes. I was worried about that," Tyron slumped.


    In truth, it shouldn''t matter if he looked stupid so long as the spell helped keep him alive. Even though he knew that¡­


    "Hang on kid, don''t dismiss it just yet. Let me get a better look."


    The eyes of the skull glowed bright with the characteristic dark purple as Dove took a better look at him.


    "Truth be told, you look stupid all the time, so I''m not sure the bones have much of an impact on that," Dove said, "on the plus side, any help surviving is good. It''s not like you have a spare set of armour in your back pocket."


    "My father told me never to use armour I wasn''t trained for," Tyron said hesitantly, "so I never bothered taking any."


    "Good advice," Dove grunted, "and the weight can make it harder to cast spells. How are the bones weighing you down?"


    "They''re surprisingly light, to be honest." The Necromancer raised and lowered his arms experimentally. "But how much protection will I really get from this? Bones are nice and all, but I don''t expect them to stop a sword."


    "Don''t underestimate them. For starters, there''s magick involved, so they''ve likely been hardened by the spell. We may also be able to treat or prepare the bones before you use the spell. This is literally the first time you''ve used the technique, so don''t get too down on it."


    The Summoner made some good points and Tyron looked down at himself with new eyes, trying to imagine how effective this new spell could be with more investment.


    "How much energy is it taking to maintain it?"


    "A fair bit," Tyron admitted, "not that I don''t have enough, but it feels inefficient."


    Above almost everything else, he had to be efficient with the magick he had avable. He needed to have as many minions as possible, and he had to be able to support them to ensure they fought as well as possible. All of it took arcane energy and no matter how much he had, it never seemed like enough. Finding ways to waste less magick took up much of his time when tweaking his spells at the moment and likely would into the future.


    "Again, don''t stress too much about that," Dove advised him, "we can improve it over time, and again, a little protection is better than none. Can you use this on a skeleton as well?"


    "Probably, but the cost is too prohibitive for the moment."


    "That might be another avenue to explore in the future. For now you should definitely spend a little time, if you have any to spare, developing this spell. All of this is for nothing if you die."


    Tyron nodded, then hesitated.


    "Still¡­ I don''t really feelfortable wearing human bones¡­ I know it''s useful, but¡­"


    "Kid, it would be a worrying fucking sign if you were suddenly fine walking around with bits of dead people magickally attached to you. It''s creepy and disgusting. Would I do it? No, not in a million years. Not for all the boobs in all the realms. But you? You''re desperate. That tends to limit your choices. It''s not ideal, but I think you''ll have to get used to the idea. With a little luck any morons we run into might decide your love of corpses has driven you insane and flee the moment they catch a glimpse."


    "Unlikely¡­"


    "Anything is possible."


    There came a knock at the door and the two froze for a moment.


    "That''s¡­ not their husbands is it?" Dove whispered.


    "Yes it bloody is!" Tyron hissed.


    "Oh¡­ shit. That''s¡­ I''m going to sleep."


    The light began to fade from the sockets of the skull.


    "Dove, don''t you dare!"


    "Some things I simply can''t bear to see. This is one of them, good luck."


    Tyron cursed under his breath as the glow faded to nothing. The knock came again and his mind raced to think of a way to avoid this scenario unfolding. Perhaps if he stayed quiet? But what if it was important? Could he afford to¡­


    The decision was made for him when the door handle began to turn.


    With no further recourse he leapt forward to grip it from the other side and brace the door with his foot.


    "Ah- He- hello," he stammered. "I¡­ uh¡­ don''t think you shoulde in right now. I''m¡­ doing magick."


    It was some even he had to roll his eyes. Surely he could havee up with something better than that.


    "Oh. I''m sorry, I didn''t mean to interrupt you¡­"


    The voice on the other side of the door was soft and hesitant, one that he didn''t recognise. Someone he hadn''t spoken to, most likely. There was silence for a few moments as Tyron stood, braced against the door to prevent it opening.


    "Yes?" he asked, "was there something?"


    "Ah. Yes. Ate sent me. I-I was to tell you that one of the boys spotted people¡­ from the south window."


    Her voice trembled with fear as she spoke and Tyron could practically feel her broken thoughts dart away from memories she didn''t want to touch.


    "Go and lock your building," he told her, trying to sound confident, "I''ll take a look and see if they want to talk. Nobody is going to hurt you."


    "Th-thank you."


    The presence stepped away on unsteady feet as Tyron slowly released his grip on the doorknob. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. It was too soon. The skeletons upstairs wouldn''t be ready for hours. He''d gambled they''d be ready in time, and it seemed as if he''d lost. He cursed himself.


    <em>Too greedy, you idiot. Always too greedy. Should have yed it safe.</em>


    At least he''d listened to his instinct enough to raise another two minions. He considered waking Dove, but decided that he didn''t have the time. With a thought he summoned the skeletons to himself as he prepared to step outside. His sword belted to his waist and with a fully armed contingent of skeletons, Tyron opened the door on the outward facing side of the building. Hopefully the widows and children were busy boarding up and locking their building, but he''d rather not be seen by them if he could avoid it. There was no need to traumatise the kids any more than they had been.


    He walked around the outside of the farm houses until he reached the southern side. It wasn''t difficult to spot the group approaching; in fact, they made no effort at all to conceal themselves. There were only five of them, which was a relief. If they meant to attack immediately, surely they would have brought everyone.


    <em>Or they''ve sent the others around the sides.</em>


    Despite being ttened and trampled by the rift-kin, the fields surrounding the farmhouses were filled with ces to hide amongst the crops. There could be a thousand men out there and he wouldn''t know it. Tyron frowned and sent five of his minions into the courtyard. Not just to protect the others, but to watch his back. He didn''t want to get surrounded without a path of retreat.


    He watched carefully as the five in the distance continued to walk along the road, only to blink repeatedly when they stopped a hundred metres from the buildings. He waited for them to approach further, but they didn''t move. Apparently they wanted him toe to them. He was willing topromise, to a point. He walked out, his minions in front, until he had covered half the distance between them, then he stopped.


    The two sides appraised each other for a time.


    Tyron had made no attempt to hide what he was, the skeletons wore no hoods or cloaks, and he could see the unease on the faces of the men as they gazed on his undead. He also noticed they didn''t much like looking at him, either. For a moment he couldn''t realise why, then remembered he was still covered in literal human bones. Dove had been right.


    In contrast, the five men before him didn''t seem all that impressive. Humble, dirty clothing covered their sun darkened,bourer frames. Of the four, only the one in front stood out. More confident than the others, he stood with one thumb hooked into the front of his overalls and a hat pulled low over his face.


    "Are any of you named Monty, by any chance?" Tyron called out and broke the uneasy silence.


    "Aye, that would be me," the man in front smiled easily, "who might you be,d?"


    Tyron ignored the question, and the slight insult.


    "Davon says hello," he said.


    Monty raised a brow.


    "He''s alive?"


    "No."


    The Necromancer tapped the bones protecting his chest.


    "Though, in a way¡­ I feel as if he''s still with me. Do you take my meaning?"


    The man grinned before he leaned forward and spat on the ground.


    "You''re a piece a work, aren''t yad? Walkin'' in front of us, disrespectin'' the remains of our friend."


    Tyron could sense his mistake as the bandit leader spoke. The fear remained in the eyes of the others, but there was anger there now as well.


    "Not sure if that''s an insult or aplimenting from a murdering rapist, Monty."


    "Ah, now that might be fair enough. S''true after all. I''ve broken thew of thend, all the boys ''ave, and we''ll hang fer it should the marshals get hold of us."


    Blue eyes glittered like ice chips beneath the brim of the hat.


    "But that''s something we ''ave inmon,d. Somethin'' tells me the magick you done with the dead ain''t exactly smiled upon. Seems like we might be in a simr position right now, when ites to witnesses."


    Tyron nodded slowly. He understood what the scum was driving at. The bandits couldn''t allow the women and children to survive, otherwise they''d be arrested and killed once order returned. They had always nned to kill them, and in their eyes, Tyron intended to do the same. After all, he couldn''t conceal his passage with all of these living witnesses, and what dark magick wielding mage would tolerate that?


    The difference between Tyron and the bandits though, was that they could freely speak to the marshals and submit to a status ritual. Unless every single one of them had been stupid enough to ept an illegal sub-ss, they would be able to get thew on their side, something he could never do. He grit his teeth. If he were even twenty metres closer, he''d likely take a shot with a magick bolt and try to take the man''s head clean off.


    "What do you want, Monty? Speak inly." He affected a bored attitude.


    The former farmhand spread his palms wide, an affable expression on his face.


    "We''d be happy if you jus'' decided to walk away. Leave the womenfolk here and we''ll be makin'' sure they don''t have much to say to thew. In return, we''ll keep our mouths shut. No need to go spookin'' the marshals about the walkin'' dead."


    In other words, move along, let them re-establish their little slice of paradise and they''d kill everyone and promise not to rat him out. It was bullshit of course. They had no reason to keep their word, and would probably just ambush him on the road when he tried to leave anyway. Besides that, Tyron had decided he would stand for something, and this wasn''t it.


    "Let me be clear," he said, his voice cold, "if you want these farms back, if you want those women and children back, then youe and take them. Bring everyone you have, and die like the cowardly human filth that you are. I''ll be delighted to rip the bones from your flesh and send your souls howling into the abyss before I raise you to serve my purpose."


    He leaned forward and spat on the road in front of him before he turned on his heel and strode toward the farms.


    "You sure''n that''s what you want?" Monty called at his back. "No need to be dyin'' now!"


    He didn''t respond, there wasn''t anything to say. Hopefully they''d give him enough time to prepare his defences. If they waited until nightfall¡­ maybe Yor would like to spend a little time with those gentlemen.

 Chapter B2C8 - The Finest Servants

    Chapter B2C8 - The Finest Servants


    ¡°So you had a chat with the bandit leader and told him to fuck off?¡±


    ¡°Pretty much,¡± Tyron confirmed.


    ¡°You really intend to die for a group of women and children? I mean, noble as hell, admirable even, but I didn¡¯t think this was your goal. Didn¡¯t you have some shit you wanted to do?¡±


    Dove sounded exasperated, and he was. He sympathised with Tyron¡¯s position, he wasn¡¯t a monster. The poor widows they¡¯d found had been abused, raped and forced to watch their families die, alongside their children. It was inhumane and cruel on an almostedic level. Why the hell were a bunch of idiot farmhands putting people through this ridiculous level of suffering?


    So the kid wanted to protect them, obviously, that was the natural impulse. But Dove couldn¡¯t shake the opinion that if he stayed and tried to fight, he would most likely die.


    ¡°Tyron, as much as you might feel like a badass, you have to keep in mind how weak you are,¡± the skull tried to exin, ¡°you¡¯re still not level twenty, still with your base ss. Your stat gain is basement level horse dung and you¡¯ve no ess to advanced skills and spells. You¡¯re as weak as the piss they passed for beer back at the Knight¡¯s Corner.¡±


    Holy <em>hell</em> that pub had sucked.


    ¡°Anyway. If you try and fight thirty men by yourself, evenbourers, you are going to get your clock cleaned. That¡¯s not a good thing, by the way.¡±


    The Necromancer frowned, irritated.


    ¡°And so what if you¡¯re right? Just because I¡¯m likely to lose, I¡¯m supposed to walk away? Leave those people to suffer and then <em>be murdered</em> at the hands of scum?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be alive, which would give you a hell of a lot more agency than if you were dead, you hear me? Once you die, it''s over¡­ for most people. My situation seems to be a little unique. You wouldn¡¯t be around to raise yourself.¡±


    Tyron ced both his hands t on the table.


    ¡°I know you¡¯re only looking out for me, and more than that, I know that you¡¯re <em>right</em>. I probably can¡¯t win. I will most likely get myself killed and that¡¯ll be the end of it. But I promised myself, Dove, I promised that when I started this, I would use my ss to help people. It would be almost impossible to find a more clearcut moral decision than this one. I <em>have</em> to stay and prove that Necromancers don¡¯t have to be evil, that I can save lives and contribute, even with this ss.¡±


    The young man¡¯s eyes burned with determination, and Dove could only sigh as he realised he wasn¡¯t going to convince him.


    ¡°I hate to break it to you kid, but I seriously doubt they will ever change their opinion on the legality of Necromancers.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean I don¡¯t try,¡± Tyron stated. ¡°Now, enough of this rubbish, we¡¯re just wasting time. We need to think about how we win. What¡¯s the first move?¡±


    ¡°Pray?¡±


    ¡°Dove¡­¡±


    ¡°Alright, fine. Let¡¯s wait for night time, hopefully they won¡¯t attack before then, and have a chat with Yor. If you¡¯re lucky, she¡¯ll let you lose your virginity to her before biting your throat out. That¡¯s the only way I can see you getting lucky before death, kid.¡±


    The young man groaned and leaned forward until his forehead rested on the table¡¯s wooden surface.


    ¡°Look, my ability to appreciate the stakes here and take it seriously is a littlecking and I don¡¯t think I¡¯m entirely to me for that,¡± Dove defended himself. ¡°If you want some real advice, even though it won¡¯t get youid, you should talk to the widows and ask them to help. If any of them can shoot a bow that¡¯ll be a huge help.¡±


    ¡°I talked to them before I came back here,¡± Tyron spoke without lifting his head from the table. ¡°Their lives are at risk, I had to tell them first.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a surprisingly mature move of you. How¡¯d they take the news?¡±


    ¡°How do you think?¡±


    ¡°I think they were traumatised all over again.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    ¡°But, and this is crucial, can any of them shoot a bow?¡±


    ¡°Ate said they would do what they can. They know they can¡¯t run and aren¡¯t exactly happy about the idea of going back under the thumb of Monty. They¡¯re acting as lookouts for us right now. There¡¯s someone in each of the four buildings on the second floor.¡±


    ¡°Right. That¡¯s awesome.¡±


    Tyron lifted his head, the skin having gone red from being pressed into the hard surface.


    ¡°Any other bright ideas?¡± he asked the skull.


    Dove thought for a moment.


    ¡°Not much, to be honest. You need more minions, you know that much. Either you hold off for a few more hours and use the ones upstairs, or you get to work on some fresh bones now. Other than that, there isn¡¯t much you can do. Unless you have¡­ other magick you can draw on in a pinch.¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± the Necromancer hesitated.


    He <em>could</em> use a ritual and contact one of the patrons. The only issue being, he had no idea if their intervention would be a help or a hindrance. What would happen if he contacted the court again? Another vampire dropping in on him? Perhaps one less willing to wait before turning him into an undead, blood drinking nightmare. No thanks. The Abyss? He may be able to learn something useful, but he may lose his sanity in exchange. He wasn¡¯t so foolish to assume he had experienced the worst of what that strange realm had to offer. As for the Dark Ones¡­ who knew?


    Despite his dire circumstances, he didn¡¯t feel he could justify taking the risk of enacting one of the rituals he had learned from Anathema.


    And he was surprisinglyfortable with that. The decision had been made to avoid leaning on the sub-ss as much as possible and he wanted to stick to that.


    ¡°No,¡± he shook his head. ¡°I haven¡¯t gotten anything I can use.¡±


    ¡°Then we are back to bony boys,¡± Dove said. ¡°If someone is looking out for you, then get upstairs and work on them bones. You aren¡¯t much good for anything else.¡±


    As much as Tyron wanted to argue that point, he couldn¡¯t. At his level, with the collection of skills and spells that he had, he <em>wasn¡¯t</em> useful outside of creating minions.


    ¡°Alright, you might as welle up to.¡±


    He grabbed the skull with one hand and made his way to the second floor. Checking in on his tests, he could tell the bones were nearing full saturation. In a few hours he¡¯d be able to use them to raise new skeletons, but did he dare wait that long?


    Did he have to?


    ¡°Can you think of a reason I couldn¡¯t gather some of the bones together and start threading them?¡± he asked.


    Dove thought for a moment.


    ¡°Not off the top of my bald shiny head. As far as we know, the bones won¡¯t start to form a wild undead unless there¡¯s enough skeleton to create a functional one. If you put the leg bones together, they shouldn¡¯t start to knit themselves and walk around.¡±


    Tyron pinched his brow as he considered the problem.


    ¡°We can y it safe enough that even that shouldn¡¯t be an issue. I can gather feet and shins together, hands and forearms in another room, then the ribs spine and hips in another. I¡¯ll keep the skulls separate and only bring them in at thest minute. That way I can do almost all the threading in advance, and the bones should gather death magick faster considering there will be more of them in proximity.¡±


    ¡°Makes sense to me. Crack in.¡±


    Which is exactly what he did. With the widows and their children on the lookout, he absorbed himself in his work. The Necromancer almost ran from room to room, gathering the bones as quickly as he could and cing them in their new configurations. The moment things were in ce, he began to work on the threading, starting with the ankle joints.


    Gathering the many small bones of the feet together and connecting them to the shin was a pain,plex and time consuming. It was also massively important. Without a properly functioning foot, the resulting minion couldn¡¯t even walk, not especially useful, and Tyron has spent a great deal of time fretting over ways to create a better woven joint. He wouldn¡¯t say that he¡¯d mastered it, but he¡¯d certainlye a long way from the early days, his more recent minions were better bnced and possessed a much smoother gait, which meant they could walk a lot faster.


    One those were done, he jumped to another room and worked on the hands and wrists. Another finely detailed piece of work. Holding and striking with weapons involved a huge variety of muscles and joints in a humans, and although he didn¡¯t need to replicate that level ofplexity, he still had to do a lot of threading before his skeletons could articte all of their fingers and properly rotate their wrists.


    Hepleted ten hands in a row before he ran to another room and started working on ten spines. All the while he kept checking on the amount of death magick contained in his specimens, waiting for the moment they reached full saturation. They were close now, the flickering energy that moved between them continued it¡¯s mysterious jumping, leaving behind traces of magick in its wake.


    Any moment, Tyron expected someone to rush into the room he was working in and tell him the bandits wereing, or to cry out in fear and pain as Monty and his crew sprung out of the long grass and attacked. But it didn¡¯t happen. As he continued to weave one segment after another, sweat dripping from his nose and he concentrated fiercely, working as quickly but wlessly as he could, there was no attack.


    Perhaps his threats had scared the bandits? Perhaps they were waiting for nightfall in order to sneak up on them? Or maybe they¡¯d abandoned the farms, unwilling to fight a strange mage they didn¡¯t know or understand.


    Whatever the case, they gave him enough time toplete his work.


    Tyron and Dove watched anxiously as the bones continue to rue death attributed magick, the energy in each climbing until they were full, atst. The two nervously observed the bones, Tyron carrying his friend and advisor from room to room as they watched to see if anything would happen.


    If the arms suddenly came to life and tried to strangle the life out of him, he¡¯d like to see theming, after all.


    Thankfully, that didn¡¯t happen. Piece by piece, he began to assemble the first skeleton, working on the joints as he brought the legs together, connecting them to the hips, then attached the arms. When everything was in ce, he collected the skull and put it down in its ce.


    The moment he did so, he could feel a strange energye over the remains. The air around the bones was different, and he felt a faint stirring of magick within them. Before anything could happen, he hastily finished his work, stitching the neck together and enacting the ritual.


    As he spoke the words and felt the power flow out of him, Tyron was shocked to realise that something was pushing back against him, but as he exerted his will, it quickly faded and the spell took hold.


    Without the need toboriously fill the skeleton with his own magick, the spell was rtively easy to cast, not requiring him to invest nearly as much arcane energy. He constructed each of theponents required for aplete minion and brought the ritual to an end, watching cautiously as his new servant pushed itself to its feet.


    It sat in his mind just the same as any other minion, and responded the same when he gave it instructions. Despite that, he still felt something was¡­ different about it, he just couldn¡¯t put his finger on what it was.


    But since it didn¡¯t try to bite his face off, he decided that was good enough and got to work on the others. For several hours he worked without rest, bringing the bones together andpleting the final elements required at a furious pace beforepleting the process with the ritual. Each time, something pushed back on him, but he quashed it sessfully and proceeded with the cast.


    By the time the sun fell, he had ten, brand new minions, perhaps his finest to date, lined up before him on the second floor.


    ¡°Anything different about them now that they¡¯re all up and together?¡± Dove asked.


    Tyron stared hard at the skeletons, then extended his senses towards them.


    ¡°There¡¯s something¡­. I just can¡¯t tell what,¡± he muttered.


    He stepped toward them.


    ¡°Perhaps if I examine them a little closer¡­¡±


    A shout went up outside.


    ¡°... or not,¡± he said and swiftly ordered all of his skeletons to gather on the ground floor.

 Chapter B2C9 - Vengeance

    Chapter B2C9 - Vengeance


    Twenty skeletons. That was the following that Tyron had managed to create after his desperate struggles to master his Necromancer ss. He was proud of what he¡¯d achieved. He didn¡¯t want to be boastful, but he felt certain that under his circumstances, most would struggle to do what he had done, or learn what he had learned.


    Each of the minions stood armed with simple weaponry, swords and axes, though only eight had shields. As the skeletons gathered in the bottom floor of the farmhouse, he could feel the drain on his magick rise precipitously. A full twenty might be more than he could support after all.


    He rushed over to his back and fumbled around until he found a few arcane crystals and jammed them into his pocket. He¡¯d likely need them before the fight was done.


    ¡°Kid, take me with you.¡±


    Tyron screeched to a halt. He turned to stare at the skull sitting motionless on the table, his two eyes aglow with magick.


    ¡°You want toe out there with me?¡± he asked, confused.


    ¡°Heck yes. Do you really think I want to sit here on the table and sleep while there¡¯s a fight to the death going on? Besides the fear of missing out on the fun, I do actually have a valid reason for this request.¡±


    ¡°Which is?¡± Tyron prompted uneasily.


    ¡°I refuse to be stuck in this skull for the rest of my afterlife, kid. You agreed to set me free, remember? If it looks like you might lose, I want you to smash my skull and break the ritual. I will not be used as a desk ornament for a horny, murderous farmhand for the next dozen years, alright? So take me with you.¡±


    ¡°Dove¡­¡± Tyron muttered, his hands hanging by his side.


    He didn¡¯t have time to process how he felt about his friend''s request, so he snatched the skull from the table in his left hand as he rushed toplete his preparations.


    ¡°I need to figure out a way to attach you to my belt or something,¡± he huffed, ¡°I want both hands free for this.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather you didn¡¯t. I don¡¯t especially feel the need to get closer to any ¡®bones¡¯, if you take my meaning.¡±


    ¡°I get it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m talking about your -¡±


    ¡°I said I get it!¡±


    Once he was ready, he ordered his twenty skeletons to step into the courtyard and followed quickly after them. He¡¯d rather not parade his undead in the open where the children could see them, but they had bigger things to worry about right now.


    When he stepped onto the sandy gravel of the courtyard he found Ate outside, along with a few other widows, each of them armed with the short hunting bows that weremon in the frontier farmingmunities.


    As he drew closer he could see the fear in their eyes ¡ª several were physically trembling ¡ª but also their determination. These women were prepared to fight.


    ¡°How are the others?¡± he asked.


    Ate shook her head.


    ¡°Not good. I¡¯ve left Donna and Bridget to watch them and take care of the little ones. They¡¯re too frightened to help.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t really me them,¡± Dove said, ¡°these bastards need a right kicking in the balls.¡±


    When the skull spoke out of the blue, the widows jumped, shocked to hear a voice emanating from human remains.


    ¡°Oh. Uh. This is my friend, Dove. I¡­ uh¡­ attached his spirit to his skull¡­ after he died.¡±


    At his exnation four sets of horrified eyes turned themselves from the skull, to him.


    ¡°Yeah. I don¡¯t think the exnation really helps you out in this case, kid. Should have just told them you found me or something.¡±


    ¡°Is he¡­ safe?¡± Ate asked hesitantly.


    ¡°Who, Dove?¡± Tyron looked down at the skull sped in his left hand. ¡°Completely. He can¡¯t even move. He can see, and talk, that¡¯s about it.¡±


    ¡°Instead of reminding me how shitty my current circumstances are, maybe we should be getting ready to fight off these arseholes? Don¡¯t you think?¡± Dove broke in.


    ¡°Right! Ate, you and the otherdies should head to the second floor. That¡¯s the safest ce to shoot from, even if the view isn¡¯t the best.¡±


    ¡°What about the roof?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Too open,¡± he shook his head. ¡°Do as much as you can, but try to keep yourselves safe. I¡¯ve got more minions with me this time, we¡¯ll be able to hold them off on the ground.¡±


    He tried to sound more confident than he was. In truth, he had no idea how well his minions would fare against prepared, human opponents. If the once-farmers were able to shake off their fear, they might overpower hisparatively clumsy skeletons in minutes. He¡¯d have to make good use of his other spells to ensure that didn¡¯t happen.


    Thedies ran to reach their posts and Tyron rushed to do the same. The bandits had been seening up the south road, but again he couldn¡¯t bring every minion to that side in case they circled around. Reluctantly, he left five behind and took the others through the walkway between buildings to stand on the exterior of the courtyard.


    A group of men were walking along the dirt road, unhurried and making no attempt to conceal themselves. As he counted their numbers, the young Necromancer¡¯s heart began to sink.


    ¡°How many, kid?¡±


    ¡°Looks like¡­ almost forty.¡±


    ¡°Ouch.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°On the bright side, they have minimalbat skills, probably bugger all levels in anything other than farming, and no feats that aren¡¯t rted to vegetables and cows.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true.¡±


    ¡°On the down side, there¡¯s forty of them and only one of you. Twenty one if you include the skeletons. Twenty five if we include the widows. Also, your skeletons arepletely rubbish when they¡¯re outnumbered.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ is also true. Thanks, Dove.¡±


    ¡°Any time you need me kid. I¡¯m here for you.¡±


    As idiotic as it was, the former Summoner had a point. His skeletons were fine, good even, but he knew perfectly well that they were far better off when they outnumbered their opponents as opposed to the other way around. In a three or four to one fight, their clumsy movements and wide openings were hard to exploit, but like this, they would be hard pressed to hold their ground.


    ¡°The odds are what they are,¡± Tyron said, his expression grim. ¡°We may be able to frighten them off. They¡¯re not professional soldiers, just thugs.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t underestimate them, kid,¡± Dove warned. ¡°If those farmwives are alive when the yerse through, then they¡¯re dead meat, and they know it. They might just be thugs, but they are desperate thugs. If you weren¡¯t even more illegal than they are, they¡¯d want you dead just as bad.¡±


    The idea that he was more wanted than a gang of murderers and rapists was enough to get a wry smile from Tyron, despite the circumstances. If only a person''s crimes showed on their status sheet. That would simplify a few things. Sadly, that wasn¡¯t the world they lived in.


    As the bandits approached, he overrode Dove¡¯s objections and tucked him into the loose belt that held his scabbard. The skull rode on his right hip, nowhere near his groin, but that didn¡¯t stop the man fromining.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to have words about this,ter,¡± he grumbled.


    ¡°You want to be close enough that I can crush you, so I have to do this. It¡¯s not like I can wear you like a hat.¡±


    ¡°... I¡¯d be a fantastic hat.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the point. Now shut up, I need to focus.¡±


    The Necromancer stepped forward and looked up to his right and left. In the windows overlooking the road to the farm, the widows, including Ate, had taken up position, bows clutched in white knuckled grips. He tried to signal something encouraging to them, but ended up wavingmely.


    Not for the first time he wished he had just a dash of his father¡¯s easy charm.


    When the bandits were a hundred metres away, they slowed and stopped as Monty stepped from the crowd and approached another few metres. The man looked much as he had before, except now he carried a crude shield that they¡¯d nailed together using loose wood. Against untrained archers without skills and feats, it would probably do¡­ just.


    ¡°Hoy there,d!¡± The bandit called, a smile on his face as he wavedzily. ¡°I hope yer don¡¯t mind, I brung a few of me mates back with me.¡±


    ¡°You could state the obvious, or you could say what you want,¡± Tyron growled back.


    He flicked his vision to the minions in the courtyard for a moment. Nothing yet. The crook may be trying to stall him out, so he¡¯d need to keep his eyes open.


    His reply only broadened the grin on Monty¡¯s face as he held his hands wide.


    ¡°Same as before,d. You can piss off, an¡¯ we¡¯ll be having these here farms back.¡±


    ¡°The women and children?¡±


    The group behind Montyughed and the man himself chuckled openly.


    ¡°Aye, we¡¯ll be havin¡¯ them too.¡±


    ¡°These guys fucking <em>suck</em>,¡± Dove muttered. ¡°I¡¯ve seen some real top-grade pricks in my time, but holy shit.¡±


    ¡°Like I told you before, if you want them,e up here and pay the price. All I want is your bones!¡± Tyron reached out and grasped one of his new skeletons by the wrist, lifting the limb and making the skeleton wave back and forth at the bandits. ¡°Your friends seem happy with the arrangement.¡±


    Theughter switched to ugly muttering as he mocked their dead friends. The expression on Monty¡¯s face hardened.


    ¡°Do you know what it¡¯s like,d, ta be given Farmer as yer ss?¡±


    ¡°You want <em>sympathy</em> from me?¡± Tyron called, incredulous. ¡°Might be a littlete for that, you piece of filth.¡±


    ¡°Oh aye. We done terrible things. But that¡¯s what it takes to change yer fate. See, most o'' theds were raised out here, workin¡¯ odd jobs until we get our ss. Farmer, or Labourer, or Tradesman. Then we supposed to go make a life fer ourselves, but it¡¯s a little hard to be a farmer when yer family can¡¯t feed ya, let alone buy a farm.¡±


    The men all nodded, their faces hard as they stared up at the farm houses.


    ¡°So what are we supposed ta do? We sign on as farmhands for richer men an ve away makin¡¯ money for someone else. Not much of a life if ya ask me. Then the monsters came, an'' we got ourselves a little chance. We can finally make somethin¡¯ of ourselves.¡±


    ¡°You wanted thend, so you killed the men who owned it? You really think you could just take their ce and nobody would notice?¡±


    ¡°Well now, who¡¯s to say it weren¡¯t the kin that did it? Ain''t nobody around who can say otherwise. Well, there won¡¯t be.¡±


    ¡°And their wives and children? Did they have to suffer like they did?¡±


    Monty held his hands up, palms out, and shrugged.


    ¡°That¡¯s just a side benefit, as it were,¡± heughed.


    The blood boiled in Tyron¡¯s veins.


    ¡°Come up and die, Monty,¡± he called back. ¡°I¡¯ve nothing else to say to you while you¡¯re living.¡±


    ¡°You might be some fancy mage,d, but you can¡¯t beat this many of us. Give it up and walk away.¡±


    Tyron turned his back on the man and stepped back into the protective ring of skeletons. The bandit leader could shout all the nonsense he wanted, he wasn¡¯t going anywhere.


    He quickly ran through the spells he could utilise in this situation, and tried to decide which he should prepare first. He was so deep in thought, he didn¡¯t even realise that Monty had started calling to the widows.


    Whatever had been said was lost to him, but the reply certainly wasn¡¯t.


    ¡°Die you fucking bastards!¡± Ate screamed as she leaned out the window, her face twisted with rage as she let fly an arrow from her bow.


    The shot sailed through the air in a graceful arc and sank deep into the leg of a bandit who stumbled to the side with a cry of pain, clutching at his wound. This signalled the other widows, who also fired their first arrows out of the upstairs windows. Under fire, the former farmhands rushed to protect themselves, their crude shieldsing to the fore. After a few moments of arranging themselves, they charged toward the farmhouses, giving a ragged cry.


    ¡°If I die today, instead of these shitmongers, I¡¯m going to be very upset with you, Tyron,¡± Dove remarked.


    The young Necromancer gripped the hilt of his sword tight.


    ¡°Me too.¡±

 Chapter B2C10 - Killing Fields

    Chapter B2C10 - Killing Fields


    The arrows continued to be fired from above, but little resulted from it. These weren¡¯t professional archers or even casual hunters shooting, after all, but it forced the bandits to approach with a little caution and Tyron was grateful for the extra time.


    ¡°Any advice?¡± he asked, his voice shaking.


    ¡°Not really. Try to keep a cool head. Remain aware of your surroundings¡­ that¡¯s about it.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯ll try.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the spirit. Nowe on, kill some shit.¡±


    The words of his friend twisted in his gut slightly. Despite everything that had happened, he still found it difficult to kill people.


    <em>It¡¯s either them or you, Tyron. You wouldn¡¯t blink twice if Yor killed them. Do it!</em>


    The young Necromancer grit his teeth and hardened his will. He wouldn¡¯t die here, he refused to allow it.


    The bandits advanced steadily, huddled together with their crude shields held high. Forty metres. Thirty metres.


    The moment they crossed that threshold, Tyron stepped forward. He spoke the words, snapped out a few gestures and then thrust his palm forward. The magick bolt sped from his open hand, crunching into a leading man¡¯s thigh. The bandit cried out and copsed to one knee as the others flicked their eyes from the windows to the young Mage.


    Tyron¡¯s hands were already moving when someone, possibly Monty, yelled ¡°Run!¡±, the second bolt flying out to m into a shield that dropped just enough to take the blow.


    As a group they charged, rushing over the final gap as the Necromancer skipped back into the protective ring of skeletons, his hands already in motion as the Words of Power rolled from his tongue.


    The two lines shed with shouts of anger from the bandits and cold, emotionless steel from the skeletons. With their shields up, his front rank of minions absorbed the initial blows, but were pushed backwards by the belligerent men. Tyron felt his magick reserves drop precipitously as the skeletons drew deeply on his power to strengthen themselves.


    Bony heels dug into the grit and skeletal fingers curled around the handles of their weapons as the purple fire in their eyes ignited all the brighter.


    In the rtively narrow gap between buildings, the bandits couldn¡¯t use their full numbers to beat down on his minions, but they could brace against each other and push into his line. Unable to match the force being applied to them, his front line began to buckle.


    He couldn¡¯t panic. If he lost hisposure and failed to cast, he was dead.


    Words and gestures came together in a final flourish as hepleted the spell.


    <em>Death des</em>.


    The dark energy of Death manifested around the des of his minions, causing the bandits to pull back slightly. When the skeletons struck, their des bit deeper than before, empowered by his spell. It was an equaliser, but not enough on its own.


    No time to rest. Tyron snatched an Arcane Crystal from his pouch and stuffed it between his teeth before he began to cast again.


    The sound of metal on metal, the shouts and screams ofbat, the faces twisted with rage in front of himbined to overwhelm his senses. The young Mage pushed his concentration to the limit and took another long step back to put more distance between himself and the brawl as he continued to work.


    The Shivering Curse would help even the ying field even further, slowing and weakening the bandits. Once that spell was in ce, he¡¯d be free to cast bolts or attempt to dominate minds to tip the bnce even further.


    ¡°Get the fucker!¡± he heard Monty yell as the bandits surged again, shoving into the skeleton wall, hard. ¡°Once ''e¡¯s dead it¡¯s over!¡±


    <em>You have to get past the minions first, idiot,</em> Tyron sneered in his mind as he continued to cast his spell.


    A dull impact rocked his left side, throwing off his rhythm. Surprised, he nced down to see a handaxe lodged into his bone armour. A secondter, the pain blossomed as blood began to flow.


    He froze in shock for a full second before he ducked to the side, just in time to avoid another axe hurled from the rear of the bandit pack.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± he cursed as he used his right hand to pull the crude hatchet from his shoulder.


    A roar went up from the bandits when they realised he¡¯d been wounded and they surged again. The skeletons pushed back, drawing more power from their master to fight. Tyron grimaced and sucked on the mage candy harder, trying to supplement his own energy.


    A quick flex of his left hand revealed the extent of the damage. He could use it, but it hurt like hell. If he hadn¡¯t had the bone armour on, it would have gone much deeper, perhaps even lodged in the bone.


    <em>You sted idiot</em>, he cursed himself.


    Of course they could throw shit at him. They might not be trained soldiers, but they were smart enough to throw a damned axe or knife. He¡¯d looked down on them.


    He twitched as he felt one of his skeletons go down. They¡¯d managed to grip its shield and pull it forward away from the others. Exposed, a sharp blow to the skull had been enough to see it off.


    <em>Not going out like this. No fucking way</em>.


    To make himself a harder target, Tyron slid down onto his knees and began to cast the Shivering Curse once more. The pain in his shoulder was fierce, but he forced himself to bear it. He couldn¡¯t afford the dy a one-handed cast would cost him.


    Another skeleton went down as the fighting at the front intensified. Monty was urging his men to push forward, his voice rising above the din as he cursed and roared at them to fight harder. It wasn¡¯t going well.


    <em>Don¡¯t think about it</em>. <em>Focus!</em>


    Nothing mattered but the spell. Finish the spell!


    <em>Shivering Curse.</em>


    The moment the spellpleted, he felt the heat around him drain away. In the epicentre of the magick, it was sure to feel much worse. The cold suffused air began to leach into the bandits, slowing their movements and buying more time.


    ¡°What the hell is this?!¡±


    The slight hint of fear in that voice was music to Tyron¡¯s ears. If one broke and ran, more would follow. He rose from the ground, but kept his head down, wary of being hit again. Blood continued to flow from his wound and he could only spit in frustration that he hadn¡¯t brought anything to bandage himself or stem the flow.


    He flicked his eyes upward. It was still light, but not for long. Every minute brought the sun lower on the horizon.


    ¡°Ignore it! Push through!¡± Monty bellowed.


    The second rank of skeletons thrust their weapons awkwardly, not coordinated enough to take advantage of the narrow openings when they appeared. Even so, they¡¯d managed to score a hit here and there. Several of the bandits were bleeding and several more had suffered from wounds inflicted by the archers above.


    Ate was still screaming and shouting like a demon, as were a few others, but Tyron couldn¡¯t hear well enough to know what they were saying. Perhaps just as well.


    He clutched at the sword on his waist again, but let it go just as quickly. With his poor skill, there was no point drawing it. He needed another spell.


    The Necromancer locked eyes with one of the bandits in the front row, a scruffy bearded man who looked no older than twenty-five. Muscled like a smith orbourer, he sported a savage grin as he rammed his crude shield against the skeleton line over and over, trying to break them.


    <em>You¡¯ll do.</em>


    Deftly, he wove together a shorter magick, desperate to slow the enemy''s momentum.


    <em>Fear</em>.


    Suppress Mind may have worked, but he didn¡¯t want to expose himself to a potentially difficult battle of wills in the middle of the fight. He¡¯d be unable to focus on himself and likely be brained by a thrown brick or some other nonsense.


    Instead, he wanted to weaken the bandit frontline. What better way than to inflict them with fear?


    A wry grunt of satisfaction left him as he felt the spellplete and take hold, his target immediately stiffening, eyes going wide. There were many aspects to the spell that Tyron didn¡¯t understand, but he knew enough to understand that the magick was somewhat akin to a spike, one that drove deep into the target mind and unleashed <em>something</em> upon it.


    The powerfully built bandit began to shake as his wild eyes flicked around himself, as if seeing things that weren¡¯t there. Low, pitiful moans dripped from his lips, almost inaudible in the din, and his arms fell limp by his side as he tried to flinch away from the skeletons in front of him.


    <em>Magick Bolt</em>.


    The spell mmed into the man¡¯s exposed head with a sickening <em>crunch</em>, and down he went. Confused shouts rose from amongst the bandits as they pulled their man back, but Monty¡¯s voice rose over all of them.


    ¡°Get that <em>fucking</em> kid!¡±


    Tyron ducked as a wave of thrown weapons came his way, half a dozen of them crashing into his skeletons and throwing them off bnce, the others missing their target entirely.


    ¡°Who¡¯s next?!¡± he yelled back at them.


    He put all the confidence he could muster into his tone, but inside, he didn¡¯t feel it. He clutched at his wounded shoulder with his right hand. His clothes were slick with blood now, he was starting to feel light headed. That wasn¡¯t good.


    He was preparing to start another spell when he realised someone was tugging on his cloak. He spun quickly, throwing the small boy behind him off bnce and down into the dirt. The kid looked up at him with fear and cringed.


    ¡°What?¡± Tyron demanded. ¡°Quickly!¡±


    The boy shivered before he raised a shaking hand, pointing back to the courtyard.


    ¡°Moree,¡± he stammered. ¡°From the south!¡±


    <em>Shit</em>.


    ¡°Get back inside, hurry,¡± he urged the boy as he pulled him up with his good arm and pushed him back toward the house.


    A quick cast of minion sight confirmed what the kid had said. His five reserve skeletons could see men approaching, though he couldn¡¯t be sure how many there were. In a minute, they¡¯d be in the courtyard.


    What could he do? By the five, what could he do?!


    He tried to calm down and think. He could abandon the fight here and try to deal with this new group. His skeletons would fare much worse without his support. Death des and the Shivering Curse wouldn¡¯tst forever, and when they ran out, the remaining bandits would make short work of his minions. But if he could finish the others ande back before that happened, he may still be able to hold.


    He could order his minions to return and protect his back from this new group. He¡¯d be fighting on both sides, but he¡¯d be surrounded by skeletons and able to influence both fronts at least.


    But that would mean nothing was preventing the new group from entering the houses.


    ¡°Damn it,¡± he ground out.


    He ordered his remaining minions to hold the line, turned and dashed away as he ripped his sword free. His left hand felt numb now, but he could still move it. That would have to do.


    He ran to where his five minions were gathered and directed them forward to confront the new group.


    When they came into sight, his heart sank. There were ten of them, grinning as they swung their crude weapons back and forth in their calloused and dirty hands.


    ¡°Oy there,d,¡± oneughed, ¡°ready to get what¡¯sin¡¯ to ya?¡±


    Tyron shed a magick bolt straight into his gut.


    ¡°Shut up and die,¡± he spat, ¡°I don¡¯t have the time.¡±


    As one of their number copsed with a groan, clutching at his belly, the smug looks vanished from the others'' faces and they advanced quickly to engage his skeletons.


    No time to work up a spell, Tyron realised his magick was draining incredibly rapidly and crunched down on the crystal in his mouth, shattering it instantly. He snatched another from his pouch and threw it in his mouth before he brought his de up to divert a crude swing.


    He hadn¡¯t trained in a long time, and it showed in his clumsy form. His father would have shaken his head in despair if he¡¯d seen how slow his son¡¯s riposte had been, but in the moment, Tyron didn¡¯t care. By some miracle, he actually connected and cut a deep line in his attacker''s arm before he shuffled back to make some space. Outnumbered, his skeletons were being battered, and there were still two more mening after him, as the one he¡¯d injured picked himself up and swapped weapon hands.


    ¡°Yer fucking dead,¡± the bandit growled.


    ¡°You first,¡± Tyron growled back.


    The two men rushed him, and Tyron tried to slip to his right, shing a wide cut to discourage them, but his footing was terrible. Off bnce, the swingcked power and the farmhand batted it aside with what looked like a woodcutter¡¯s axe.


    <em>Pull it back faster than you send it out,</em> his father¡¯s voice whispered in his ear, <em>attack fast, regain your form faster. That¡¯s the key</em>.


    He moved almost instinctively, pulling the de back to himself as the axeman brought his weapon high with a bellow.


    <em>The point does more damage than the de, son. The de¡¯s the shy bit, the point is for killing.</em>


    It was a terrible stab. His weight wasn¡¯t fully behind the strike, the line of his arms wasn¡¯t correct, the angle of the de wasn¡¯t straight, but against an unarmoured man, it hardly mattered. Before the axe coulde crashing down on him, the de slid straight through the bandit.


    <em>Between the fifth and sixth rib</em>, he noted, detached.


    The air burst out of the man and he dropped. Tyron watched the light fade from his eyes for a short moment before his other opponent attacked, mming into his left side and knocking him off his feet.


    Tyron sprawled in the dirt, trying to avoidnding on his injury as he rolled. He tried to bring his de up, but the bandit was there too fast. Metal shed in the dying light and Tyron scrambled to one side, narrowly avoiding the strike. He got back to his feet just in time to catch the next attack on his de.


    The bandit surged forward, locking their two weapons together as he tried to use his weight to bear down on him. The man¡¯s stinking breath blew straight into his face and the mage quickly realised this was a fight he was going to lose. With his left arm injured and with less physical strength, he¡¯d be overpowered in short order.


    <em>Drop the left and cast a bolt as quick as I can.</em>


    Just as he pulled his left hand from the hilt and began to flick the gestures required, something speared into his opponent in the corner of his vision. The bandit went stiff, just as shocked as Tyron before he copsed to the side.


    Stunned, Tyron turned to see a furious farmwife, tears running down her face, with a pitchfork gripped in both hands.


    ¡°Glynnis?¡± he gaped.


    ¡°Kill the bastards!¡± she screamed as she ran forward, half a dozen others on her heels.

 Chapter B2C11 - Darkness

    Chapter B2C11 - Darkness


    The furious farmwives crashed into the fight with whatever tools they¡¯d had at hand. Stunned as he was, Tyron didn¡¯t have time to gape at the spectacle. As the man before him staggered with a pitchfork rammed into his side, the Necromancer hastily shed him across the throat and pushed forward to engage another.


    With Bone Armour providing at least some level of protection, he would rather the bandits targeted him than the unarmoured women.


    But those women didn¡¯t seem to share his concern. As he rushed to fight, he was confronted by the scene of enraged mothers stabbing, bashing and cutting, making their attacks with no regard for their own safety. The melee was so brutal, he didn¡¯t see an opportunity to throw a magick bolt without risking serious injury to the people he wanted to protect.


    ¡°You piece of shit!¡± Glynnis screamed as she rushed forward, blood dripping from the prongs of her pitchfork.


    Tyron¡¯s five skeletons had already been reduced to three when the help had arrived, but now the numbers advantage had tilted in their favour. Cursing solidly, he adjusted his grip and stepped around the melee, looking for an opening.


    The moment he found one, he lunged forward, putting his weight behind the de as well as he could with one uninjured arm. Once again, he felt the point slide through living flesh as he punctured a human being, the breath rushing out of the man as his lung copsed.


    Tyron ripped the de free just in time to deflect a wide, horizontal swing that threatened to take his head off. The bandit¡¯s eyes were wild, his face twisted into a snarl that Tyron didn¡¯t realise was matched on his own. Bigger and stronger, the criminal bull-rushed him, weapon held defensively and shoulder lowered.


    The Necromancer could barely remember the footwork his father had taught him, but he managed to slide out of the way just in time. His de cut a clumsy line as he moved, barely enough to draw blood, and he cursed hisck of speed.


    The wound further enraged his opponent, who bellowed like an animal and turned to charge again.


    Someone was screaming nearby, a high-pitched wail that drilled into Tyron¡¯s ears. Had one of the widows been injured? The thought distracted him for a fraction of a second, enough that this time, he was too slow to move.


    Wise to his movement, the bandit tracked him better as he tried to sidestep. Tyron¡¯s eyes widened as he saw the steeling towards him. At thest second he rotated his wrists and tried to parry.


    Pain ignited across his hip on the right side and he hissed as the bandit crashed into him, sending them both sprawling onto the ground. Blood welled from the new wound, soaking into his pants. He was already starting to feel cold, this was thest thing he needed.


    He dropped his sword before hended, thudding into the ground and knocking the wind out of him temporarily. His opponent was more sprightly and scrambled after him on his hands and knees, murder in his eyes. Tyron sucked in a breath before his hands began to move and his tongue obeyed him.


    <em>Magick Bolt</em>.


    He flung his hand forward and flung the missile forward where it crunched into the man¡¯s head less than a metre from his palm. Blood sttered across his face, forcing him to blink and wipe at his face as he tried to clear his vision. He pushed himself off the ground and gathered his sword before staggering back to the bandit now writhing on the ground clutching what remained of his face.


    A swift stab to the chest finished him and the Necromancer blearily turned to find his next opponent. Except there wasn¡¯t one. The skeletons, what was left of them, shuffled over to him as the widows hurled abuse at the bandits who had turned and fled, leaving half their number dead on the ground.


    Not without inflicting casualties. More than one of the bodies slumped in the dirt didn¡¯t belong to their attackers.


    ¡°Make sure they don¡¯te back,¡± he rasped to no one in particr, ¡°I¡¯m going back to the other side.¡±


    ¡°I cane with you,¡± Glynnis stepped forward, determined to help.


    Tyron just shook his head.


    ¡°You need to be ready in case the skeletons fall. If I fail, then you need to fight them off yourselves.¡±


    His wounds burned with pain, but he grit his teeth and pushed through it. If he fell down now, what would happen to his minions? They¡¯d lose quickly without his support. So he limped and cursed his way across the courtyard and back to where the brawl continued on the other side.


    ¡°Kid, you¡¯re leaking a bit more than a person ought,¡± Dove remarked from his waist.


    ¡°No shit,¡± Tyron coughed. ¡°Thanks for the insight.¡±


    ¡°You should get yourself bandaged. Do it yourself or let one of the widows take care of it. If you bleed out, you aren¡¯t helping anyone,¡± the skull''s voice was uncharacteristically urgent.


    The young mage hesitated for a second, and in that moment he felt another skeleton go down.


    ¡°There¡¯s no time,¡± he grunted as he picked up the pace. ¡°Now shut up, I need to cast.¡±


    He had two minions left from the nk defenders and he sent them ahead to join the fray. In total, he was down to just eleven skeletons. His time away from this side had cost him dearly, the bandits able to push his creations back and pick them off.


    When he made it to the back ranks, his minions had been forced to give ground to the point they were standing in the courtyard proper. A little further and the bandits would be able to squeeze around them. It would be over if that happened, since Tyron would be trapped in a quickly diminishing circle of undead.


    His thoughts felt sluggish, his tongue thick in his mouth. Complicated casting might be out of the question, given the condition he was in. Best to keep it simple.


    Being careful not to be an easy target, he picked out a bandit at random and began to cast Fear again. The rebellious farmhands were tiring, but they could sense victory was close. Between the buildings, they were much safer from the archers. If one of the women were to lean out the window to shoot, they made themselves vulnerable to thrown hatchets and knives, which had kept them away so far. All they had to do now was tear apart a few more undead and they would pour into the courtyard.


    It was that confidence that Tyron attacked. Like a dagger to the brain, his spellpleted and stabbed terror directly into the mind of his hapless victim. Too weak to resist the debilitating effects of the spell, the man began to shake, his eyes staring sightlessly at terrors that were not there.


    Which is when a skeleton, directed by Tyron, stabbed him right in the gut.


    As he fell down, clutching at his stomach, the Necromancer had already picked out a new target. As he raised his hands and began to cast, he realised with horror just how low his reserves of magick had be.


    At some point, he¡¯d lost the crystal in his mouth. Perhaps when he¡¯d been knocked down? It didn¡¯t matter. With shaking hands, he fumbled another from his pouch and between his teeth.


    Rather than absorb its energy slowly, he immediately bit down on it, releasing the contained magick within.


    ¡°Push,ds! Almos¡¯ there!¡±


    Monty¡¯s voice rose over the din again and Tyron grimaced. Of course that foul person was still alive. He¡¯d been hoping to find the man dead when he came back, but no such luck. He tried to spot him in the crowd, hoping to brain the bandit leader with a magick bolt, or even better, pump him full of terror. Unfortunately, Monty was smart enough to stay covered by his goons.


    Weakened as he was, the excess magick flowing from the shattered crystal in his mouth set Tyron¡¯s body shaking. As soon as the energy entered his body, it was pulled out again, fed to the minions in order to keep them moving. In another few minutes, he¡¯d bepletely dry and his skeletons would drop on the spot, unable to sustain themselves.


    <em>Isn¡¯t there anything I can do?</em> He thought desperately.


    He¡¯d done everything he could to strengthen his minions, but even so, they remained clumsy, slow and fragile. Did he really have to rely on them?


    One hand pressed into his side to help stem the bleeding, Tyron pushed forward until he stood directly behind the front line of skeletons. Only a few still had shields, the rest stood exposed, stabbing relentlessly, swords gripped tight in their bony fingers.


    He joined them, one good arm stabbing every time he saw an opening as he ducked and bobbed behind his undead. Over and over again heshed out, sometimes finding a mark, sometimes not, desperate for the fight to end.


    With the Necromancer so exposed to danger, the bandits redoubled their efforts, trying to strike him with whatever they had to hand. Hoes turned into spears, machetes used for clearing vegetation, crude swords and whatever else they¡¯d managed to get their hands on thrust toward him constantly.


    He did his best to dodge, but he wasn¡¯t perfect, getting nicked and sliced several times.


    <em>At least it takes the pressure off the skeletons.</em>


    And it did. A minute ticked by, then two, and his line held. Two more skeletons had gone down, but the bandits were suffering as well. It was impossible for Tyron to tell, but he felt their numbers were thinning. He couldn¡¯t see beyond the few right in front of him as he cursed and spat as he stabbed at them.


    He was so cold.


    The final dregs of magick stirred in his guts. He was running empty. He tried to focus, tried to think about what he needed to do, but it was so hard. Stab, duck, stab duck, stab duck. That simple pattern consumed all the attention he could muster and even that was growing impossible. The sword was so heavy in his grip he almost couldn¡¯t hold it up anymore.


    There was screaming. And yelling. From where, he couldn¡¯t tell, but suddenly there was no one in front of him to stab anymore. He turned to try and see where the bandits had gone. Did they get behind him? Had his magick run out?


    The skeletons were still standing, though, if only just. The light that burned in their eyes was dim, barely a wisppared to its normal glow. If the skeletons were still here, then where had the enemy gone?


    He tried to turn again, but that was the moment his hip decided it¡¯d had enough. The pain red and he staggered to one side until he ran into the wall and slid down. He ended up sitting, his back resting against the wall, and in that moment, he realised just how far gone he was. He felt like he had ice in his veins, his hands shook constantly and his vision was starting to blur.


    He might have done too much.


    ¡°You¡¯ve had an <em>eventful</em> day, haven¡¯t you?¡± a cool voice cut through the fog in his mind.


    He looked up to see Yor staring down at him, her lips drawn back to reveal her fangs, eyes burning with wild need.


    ¡°You will die soon if you aren¡¯t treated,¡± her eyes bored into his, capturing his attention. ¡°Are you willing to die, young Necromancer? Or will you be born again?¡±


    Tyron frowned. What did she mean? It was hard to concentrate. He was dimly aware of another voice speaking, someone he knew. Dove? He couldn¡¯t make out the words, something about those eyes held him.


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± he slurred.


    The Vampire leaned forward.


    ¡°Give me permission, and I will change you into one of <em>us</em>. You will live. Changed, yes. But you will live.¡±


    The young mage blinked slowly. He wanted to agree, something told him he should. Those eyes were like <em>fire.</em> What was Dove saying? He was louder now.


    Maybe it didn¡¯t matter.


    Before he could speak, Tyron slumped to his left as the light faded. Darkness imed him and he knew no more.

 Chapter B2 C12 - Old Friends

    Chapter B2 C12 - Old Friends


    The wheels creaked ominously as they rattled over the half-sunk stones that littered the road. Not for the first time that day, Elsbeth had to p a hand to her head to keep her hood from falling, and another hand to the post beside her so she didn¡¯t fall from her seat. She¡¯d learned from experience that Munhilde wouldn¡¯t stop the wagon when she lost her perch, expecting her to catch up and jump back on.


    ¡°Figure it out yourself¡± seemed to be a way of life for the older woman.


    ¡°Do you think we¡¯ll be stopping soon?¡± she asked, working to inject some cheer into her voice.


    ¡°Not long,¡± Munhilde grunted, ¡°Long Field farmstead about thirty minutes away.¡±


    Then silence.


    She was a woman of few words, this priestess of the dark gods. Elsbeth found getting information from her was akin to pulling teeth. Since she¡¯d hoped that this person would be her teacher and mentor, she was endlessly frustrated with herck of progress.


    <em>Patience</em>, she schooled herself.


    If she wasn¡¯t being told much, there had to be a reason for that. Maybe she was simply supposed to learn by watching. Except it had been <em>weeks</em> since they had left the vige behind, and she had learned almost nothing!


    Patience is a virtue, but she felt she was quickly running out of hers.


    In truth, she hadn¡¯t learned <em>nothing</em>. The two had spent their time travelling between remote viges and farmsteads where they were always weed, if somewhat reticently. Munhilde would speak to people, tend to illnesses with poultices and herbs that she kept in the wagon, peddle goods and exchange news.


    In many ways, they were like travelling peddlers, and Elsbeth had found the experience to be pleasant. She met new people, cared for the horses, Tum and Rum, and slept in the wagon at night. It was peaceful, it was quiet, and she felt she was helping people.


    But what had been shocking had been the number of people they met who spoke to her teacher about the Dark Gods. Men and women, old and young, came forward to converse with her in hushed and reverent tones, asking for blessings, asking for intercession or for prayer.


    Elsbeth hadn¡¯t known what she¡¯d expected to see in the followers of the Three. Somehow, she¡¯d thought they would look different, been marked apart from the others, but, of course, they weren¡¯t. She would never have known of these people¡¯s secret faith if she hadn¡¯te in thepany of a Priestess of the Dark.


    Which was also her ss now.


    The revtion, when she had finallypleted the status ritual and saw it written down on the page, had been bittersweet. Things had not worked out the way she¡¯d hoped, but she had still found gods who were willing to ept her. Just not among the Pantheon she¡¯d worshipped all her life.


    ¡°Have you spent time with these people recently?¡± Elsbeth continued in her dogged attempt to draw her teacher into conversation, the bright smile on her face showing perhaps a few more teeth than she intended.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t seen Long Field for two years,¡± Munhilde replied after thinking for a moment, then fell back into silence.


    Elsbeth felt her face start to hurt.


    ¡°Is there anything you can tell me about the people we might meet there?¡± she asked cheerfully.


    She tried to say it cheerfully. Her teacher eyed her for a moment before she snorted.


    ¡°Avery runs the ce, generally speaking. He¡¯s a good enough sort, for a follower of the Rot,¡± she said.


    Elsbeth almost jumped. The other woman seldom mentioned anything to do with the gods without being prompted.


    ¡°Do they tend to have a particr temperament then? The people who worship Rot?¡±


    She spoke as casually as she could, fearful that her teacher would m up. Munhilde grimaced.


    ¡°There¡¯s a certain outlook thates from being close to it. It¡¯s not umon for farmers who follow the Dark to go that way. Any sort of job where your hands are wrist deep in the cycle of life and death tends to have Rot worshippers amongst them. Tanners, Butchers, Lumberers and the sort. Healers too.¡±


    ¡°Healers?¡± Elsbeth was surprised. ¡°I thought they would want to avoid decay as much as possible.¡±


    ¡°Everything is in a state of decay,¡± Munhilde shook her head, her eyes still on the road before them. ¡°From the moment we are born to the moment we die and then well afterward, we are rotting. This goes for all things living or dead. Even stone is subject to erosion, being worn down over time. Nothing is permanent in this realm or any other.¡±


    ¡°It sounds¡­ a rather unpleasant way to look at the world,¡± Elsbeth hesitated to say. ¡°Is there no hope or joy found in creation?¡±


    Munhilde spat over the side of the wagon. Rum flicked her tail at the wet sound.


    ¡°That¡¯s nonsense talk of the five. It¡¯s not unpleasant, or bad, or good, or anything of the sort. It just <em>is</em>. Talking pretty words like <em>hope</em> and <em>joy</em> don¡¯t change what is. It¡¯s only when we ept the way of our world that we can start to do something with it. There is no room in the thoughts of the Dark Ones for <em>wishing</em>. Acknowledge reality and move from there.¡±


    This was more than the older woman had said on the subject of their shared gods for days and Elsbeth listened with a keen ear. She didn¡¯t always like what she heard about those she served, but she never ignored it.


    This certainly fit what she knew of them already. The Three were cold, indifferent gods, uninterested in changing the day to day reality of the people who worshipped them. In many ways, they were alien,pletely divorced from the human experience that she and others shared with the Five Divines.


    It gave her pause.


    ¡°Why do people worship the Three?¡± she asked, her voice low, and reflective. ¡°They don¡¯t like to answer prayers, they don¡¯t like to help people. What do their followers gain?¡±


    It was a thought she¡¯d had several times but hadn¡¯t been bold enough to utter out loud. Now that her teacher was in such a talkative mood, she dared to ask for an answer.


    To her surprise, Munhilde actuallyughed. She¡¯d never heard this womanugh in a month!


    ¡°You followers of the five imposters are all the same,¡± she wheezed. ¡°You view your ¡®gods¡¯ in such a transactional way. What can I get out of it? What¡¯s in it for me? How are they going to help and influence <em>my</em> life? Pah!¡±


    She spat again.


    ¡°Do you expect a <em>real</em> god, a truly divine being, to fly down from the sky and ask for your devotion? To bargain like a street whore? Don¡¯t be ridiculous. We worship them because that is what they deserve, and because they are beings of whim. There is no harm in currying favour with beings so much greater than ourselves.¡±


    The older woman eyed her sideways.


    ¡°They are not above bestowing gifts on those who serve them well, you know. I, for example, received a blessing of the Crone many years ago.¡±


    As much as she wanted to ask, Elsbeth held her tongue. It wasn¡¯t her ce to ask for such personal information. Even if she burned to know. Munhilde watched her wrestle herself for a full minute before she sighed.


    ¡°You¡¯re damned <em>nice</em>. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever met a Priest or Priestess of theirs who was so pleasant in my entire life.¡±


    She looked pensive for a moment before she shrugged to herself.


    ¡°Perhaps that exins their interest in you. They want to make the first ever <em>kind</em> Priestess of the Dark.¡±


    ¡°I wish that was the reason.¡­¡± Elsbeth muttered.


    Munhilde waited for the girl to borate, only to be met with silence. So she clicked her tongue and urged the horses up the broken road.


    ¡°Nearly there,¡± she said, ¡°you can see the farmhouses up there, clustered around each other. We¡¯d be there already if the roads hadn¡¯t been torn up by the kin.¡±


    Elsbeth grew quiet when the rift-kin were mentioned. They had heard word of the break just in time to seek refuge in a nearby vige. It had been a horrible sight. She shuddered to recall it.


    ¡°Wait.¡± Something in Munhild¡¯s tone brought her from her introspection. ¡°Something¡¯s off.¡±


    When Elsbeth studied the distant buildings more carefully, she could see the damage. Broken window frames, cracked masonry and shattered tiles evidenced the carnage that had swept through this area.


    ¡°It seems they suffered dreadfully during the break,¡± she said softly.


    ¡°Not that,¡± Munhilde snapped, ¡°look at the fences.¡±


    She did, puzzled.


    ¡°They¡¯re broken. Is that shocking?¡±


    ¡°They should be fixed by now. Even right up next to the farmhouses, they haven¡¯t been repaired. Avery runs a tight ship up here, there¡¯s no chance he would have let things lie for this long.¡±


    With a pull on the reins the horses stopped and the two Priestesses waited and watched the houses in the distance. The younger with a quizzical expression, the other more irritated.


    ¡°Hold on a moment,¡± Munhilde muttered before she closed her eyes.


    Communing with the Dark Gods was nothing like what Elsbeth was used to. Her teacher needed no kneeling or borate ceremony to speak with them. In a rare moment of generosity, Munhilde had confessed that she didn¡¯t so much ¡°speak¡± to them as gain an impression of what they wanted to convey, which was usually nothing.


    She held her breath as the other woman sat, hands folded in herp and eyes closed,muning with powers older than civilisation. Finally, she breathed out a long sigh and urged Tum and Rum on again.


    ¡°There had to be a reason they pulled me out this way,¡± she said. ¡°This might be an eye-opening experience for you, girl.¡±


    Something about her expression told Elsbeth that questions wouldn¡¯t be wee, so she steeled herself and kept her eyes open as they approached. Surprisingly, there were no signs of life within thepound until they were right on top of it.


    ¡°Wait right there!¡± A woman yelled down from the second floor as they entered the shadow of the building. ¡°I have an arrow trained on you. Identify yourself.¡±


    ¡°Ate Avery. You should recognise the woman who married you,¡± Munhilde huffed, scowling up at the window. ¡°Put that bow down before you hurt yourself.¡±


    A scrambling could be heard overhead.


    ¡°Is that you, Priestess?¡± the same voice asked, shocked.


    ¡°Obviously. Are you going to show your face or am I going to talk to an open window?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be right down!¡±


    A minuteter, a red-faced middle-aged woman raced between the buildings to stand beside the horses and stare up at them. A myriad of emotions passed over her face and then, taking Elsbeth by surprise, she burst into tears.


    Munhilde climbed down from the cart and folded the wailing farmwife in a tender embrace.


    ¡°There, there,¡± she said. ¡°I can see you¡¯ve been through a great deal. Let¡¯s go inside and you can tell me all about it.¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± Ate cried, ¡°it¡¯s the boy! Please, Priestess, you have to heal him!¡±


    Minutester, they stood over the sweating, pale form of a young man, unconscious in bed. His breath came in shallow gasps as he lolled back and forth, his limbs trembling at the extremities.


    And six undead skeletons watched them, their eyes burning with purple light.


    Elsbeth brushed away the tears welling in her eyes as she looked down at Tyron.


    ¡°We have to heal him,¡± she pleaded with her teacher, ¡°I know him.¡±


    The Priestess stared at her with hooded eyes.


    ¡°The Dark Ones are known to grant favours,¡± she said, ¡°but always for a price.¡±

 Chapter B2C13 - In Dreams

    Chapter B2C13 - In Dreams


    Tyron slept. Wild magick, absorbed from the crystals, ran rampant throughout his body. It invaded his muscles, poisoned his blood and tore at his tissues. Without proper treatment, his wounds festered. Waves of heat rolled from his head to his toes, the pain prodding at the edges of his feverish dreams.


    Magnin pped him on the shoulder, his face filled with pride. His father slid his de between his ribs with casual ease while his mother watched, her face cold and impassive. A brand burned into his arm, seared into his flesh against his will. Teeth in his neck, red ambrosia being pushed into his veins. Walls opened up, peeling away like theyers of an onion, whispers and madness enveloping his twitching form.


    All of these images and so many more shed through his awareness, though he did grasp them whole. He felt adrift, the waters sometimes still and sometimes churning with wild frenzy.


    He craved those moments of oblivion, when his consciousness faded to ck and the visions could torment him no more.


    Rarely, he felt lucid enough to ponder his experience. Had Yor infected him with Vampirism? Had the denizens of the Abyss damaged his mind? Or was he simply dying? Without proper treatment, his injuries might not have been enough to kill him, given how tough he had be, inhumanly so, butbined with crystal poisoning, he was vulnerable.


    But such moments of lucidity were few and far between. No sooner had he drawn his thoughts around himself and begun to see clearly than they were ripped away again, casting him back into the dreams.


    How long did it go on? He couldn¡¯t know, he only knew when it ended.


    In the grip of a vision in which a pragmatic Hakoth carved away his flesh, the butcher deboning him like a fish, Tyron found himself suddenly in control. The delirium faded, as if someone hadnced the boil and pus were draining out.


    Before he could appreciate what had happened and organise his thoughts, he <em>shifted</em>. From floating in the darkness, he found himself suddenly in a new ce. He couldn¡¯t see clearly at first, but as the seconds stretched out, he began to recognise the shapes around him.


    Trees. Ancient, ferocious, trees. Gnarled and bent, they nevertheless exuded an inexhaustible tenacity, as if a thousand storms wouldn¡¯t be enough to blow them down. Twisted roots broke the dark, loamy soil around their trunks, forming shadows that feltke-deep, just as still and filled with danger.


    <em>Is this a dream? Or did I just die?</em>


    Perhaps he¡¯d finally sumbed to his injuries and this was the afterlife. If so, it wasn¡¯t what he¡¯d expected, though if anyone should have an idea what they would find after death, it should be a Necromancer. He¡¯d have to ask Dove at some point.


    ¡°You¡¯re a difficult one to get hold of, young Mage.¡±


    The voice was soft, yet reverberated in the air with a power that couldn¡¯t be denied. Tyron whipped around to see a figure standing not three metres away, robed and hooded, its face wreathed in shadows.


    He tried to speak, only to find he couldn¡¯t. No sound came from his throat, no matter how many times he tried.


    ¡°Unfortunately, you may not be permitted to speak in this ce,¡± the figure apologised, ¡°it is a privilege that you have been brought here at all, but as one who does not follow the Dark Ones, there are limits.¡±


    Tyron scowled. Not permitted to speak? Had he been summoned in dreams to be <em>lectured at</em>? He wished Dove was here so he could tell this figure of shadows to fuck off.


    ¡°There is much of your parents¡¯ attitude in you,¡± the figure chuckled, ¡°you share theirck of respect. Let me tell you then, where you are.¡±


    The thing gestured to the surrounding woods.


    ¡°This ce is known by many names, but you may call it the Dark Forest. This realm is the residence of the Old Gods, the Crone, Raven and Rot. I am their humble Messenger.¡±


    <em>I can¡¯t call it anything if I can¡¯t speak, </em>Tyron grumbled. <em>And what was that about Magnin and Beory? Have they been here before?</em>


    He supposed he shouldn¡¯t be surprised. The air here felt thick with age and secrets, rich in darkness. It smelled like danger and adventure in equal measure.


    ¡°You have not called to the Old Gods, despite earning their blessing,¡± the Messenger continued. ¡°You have invited danger down upon you, danger of the most terrible sort. You will thrive so long as the Dark Ones find you interesting, but since you have failed to reach out to them, they have begun to grow bored.¡±


    The Messenger leaned forward, and Tyron shrank back from it as its power pressed down on him.


    ¡°Due to your¡­ reticence, they have chosen to be more <em>direct</em>. Now that you are here, you may listen to their demands.¡±


    He could feel them, in that moment, far away, beyond the horizon, but watching. They loomed at the edges of his awareness, titans staring down on an ant to watch it struggle.


    <em>In the seat of their power, they can kill me with a thought.</em> He was sure of it.


    ¡°The purpose of the Anathema ss is to give you hope of survival, to support you in your growth against the odds the five have stacked against you. It is also to give you an opportunity to decide upon a master.¡±


    The Messenger raised a slender, warped finger and moved it back and forth.


    ¡°You have run out of time to make your decision, so it has been made for you. Swear allegiance to the Dark Ones, abandon any ties to the others and serve as you are destined to serve, that is their demand.¡±


    The three titans shifted, oh so slightly, yet waves of power rushed through the forest, bending branches and sending leaves flying, ripped from the branches on which they¡¯d hung. They were leaning in.


    <em>What the hell is going on?</em> he thought desperately. Why had they brought him here? What was so special about him that they would be so interested?!


    ¡°If you agree, in principle, to their request, then you will be healed. Even now, two Priestesses of the Old Gods are by your side. Once you have recovered, perform the ritual and bind yourself to them formally. That is the price,¡± the Messenger whispered gleefully before it waved a hand.


    An image appeared, fading into existence from the shadows. Golden haired, pale-skinned, someone he remembered well.


    <em>Elsbeth?</em>


    ¡°I believe this young servant of the Old Gods is known to you. Should you require any¡­ <em>extra</em> persuasion, then know that her life also resides in your hands. If you refuse the generous offer that has been put before you, then she will pay for your insolence. With her life.¡±


    <em>You piece of¡­.</em>


    No matter how hard he tried, he couldn¡¯t speak a word of protest, the air simply wouldn¡¯t move in his lungs. Even if he could shout and yell his anger and protest, what good would it do? To the three figures that presided over this ce, he was less than powerless. Even their Messenger could annihte him in an instant. They had no need to threaten Elsbeth at all, he waspletely within their power, yet they did it anyway.


    He slumped. He didn¡¯t have a choice but to ede to their demands. He looked into the shadow, ready to acknowledge his submission.


    ¡°This is <em>poor</em> form.¡±


    A new voice emanated through the domain, one that he did not expect.


    <em>Yor?!</em>


    And there she was, elegance personified, dressed regally in red, her snow-white skin shining like a beacon in the shadows. She stepped between the trees gracefully and came to stand next to him. He might have found her presenceforting, if not for the beastly glow to her eyes.


    The Messenger grew still at the Vampire''s approach, disapproval radiating from its warped form.


    ¡°Why are you here, dead-thing? You have not been invited.¡±


    The threat was clear in its tone, and the darkness thickened around them. The forest reacted poorly to Yor¡¯s intrusion, but Tyron weed it. Would she be able to extricate him from this situation? He held his breath as she confronted the emissary of the Old Gods.


    ¡°I would not have needed toe if your patrons had not be so <em>impatient.</em> The Anathema ss is not granted by them alone; there are three who have a im to this one. You are breaking the rules.¡±


    ¡°You speak to me of rules,¡± the Messenger hissed, ¡°standing alone in the realm of my gods? They could destroy you in an instant.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, they could,¡± Yor agreed, and for the first time he noticed a tremor in her voice. She hid it well, but she was <em>afraid</em>. ¡°But you have erred in one respect. I did not quitee here alone. The Mistress would like a word.¡±


    She held up a hand and revealed a blood red gem in her hand. The jewel began to shine as a scarlet mist seeped from it, taking shape as a glowering, bloodshot eye.


    ¡°Forgive my intrusion.¡±


    The voice that emanated from the eye that hung over Yor¡¯s head as a bleeding moon was anything but apologetic. Radiating age old authority and the expectation of being obeyed, the voice alone was almost enough to drive Tyron to his knees.


    ¡°Ie as an honoured guest,¡± it continued, ¡°to remind you of your obligations. To attain the loyalty of an Anathema through such base maniptions is¡­ beneath us, and against the agreement.¡±


    The Messenger hissed softly, the two points of light deep within its hood narrowed to slits as it red back at the eye.


    ¡°Your Court has no authority in this ce,¡± it stated as the ghostly image of Elsbeth dissipated, ¡°you cannot prevent us from doing as we wish.¡±


    ¡°You are right, I cannot prevent it,¡± Yor¡¯s Mistress admitted, ¡°but should you insist on this course of action, I will be forced to inform our other partner of your¡­ <em>transgressions</em>. I would be most interested to see what happened next.¡±


    The Messenger radiated fury as it listened to these words, but from the distant titans, Tyron could sense the faintest hint of¡­ amusement? The three shifted again and the forest rocked.


    ¡°You and your servant may depart in peace,¡± the Messenger grated.


    Yor closed her hand and the gem faded, along with the eye. She bowed, hands sped together before the vampire too vanished from the forest.


    ¡°You are in luck, boy,¡± the Messenger said, all traces of anger gone. ¡°The Old Gods are once again amused. They will allow you to be healed, though they expect you will remember this favour.¡±


    The creature waved a hand.


    ¡°Wake,¡± it said.


    And he did.


    Disoriented and confused, he shot upright in bed, gasping for air as he nced wildly around. All the panic and terror he had felt in the Dark Forest rushed through him and he felt as if he would fall back into unconsciousness at any moment.


    ¡°Breathe, Tyron, just breathe,¡± a voice said from beside him and he focused on doing just that. He dragged in slow breaths as his heart slowly calmed and the trembling in his limbs ceased. His hands found his side, only to recognise that his wound was gone, and his shoulder was fine as well.


    He¡¯d been healed? Just as the Messenger had said?


    ¡°I¡¯m so d you¡¯re alright,¡± the person beside him said before two arms were thrown around him and that familiar golden hair was right beneath his nose.


    ¡°Elsbeth?¡± he muttered. ¡°Why are you here?¡±


    ¡°Is that all you have to say to the person who saved your life?¡± she sniffled, thenughed. ¡°It¡¯s a good thing I arrived when I did, you may not have survived otherwise. I¡¯m surprised you were able tost as long as you did with the injuries you had.¡±


    She let him go and leaned back, brushing the tears from her eyes. She looked just as she had in his dream, when they¡¯d said she served <em>them</em>.


    ¡°Elsbeth¡­¡± he reached out a hand to rest on her shoulder, ¡°what¡¯s happened with you? Why aren¡¯t you in Foxbridge?¡±


    She smiled, and despite everything, he felt his heart warm at the sight.


    ¡°There¡¯s a bit of a story to tell.¡±

 Chapter B2C14 - Distance

    Chapter B2C14 - Distance


    ¡°Rufus was always a self-centred prick, but even I didn¡¯t expect him to go <em>that</em> far.¡±


    Elsbeth tried not to wince at the naked dislike in Tyron¡¯s tone. She didn¡¯t feel much different about Rufus after all that had happened, but somehow it still hurt to think of how her childhood friends had hated each other without her noticing.


    ¡°Was it always like that?¡± she asked, her voice soft. ¡°I believed we really were friends, the four of us. I have so many happy memories of the time we spent together. I can¡¯t believe it was all a lie.¡±


    The Necromancer blinked, perhaps taken aback by her naivety. Even now, she didn¡¯t understand? What else would have to be done to her before she threw away her desire to see the best in people?


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say that we hated each other¡­¡± he tried to find the words to exin it, ¡°... more that we were just waiting, wasting time until the Awakening. Until you get a ss, it''s almost as if you haven¡¯t been born. All the ns in your head, every ambition you¡¯ve ever had, every dream, are just that, dreams. The four of us hung out together and I think we genuinely did have good times, but, to me, none of that was real. We were just waiting, sitting inside a little bubble. The day of the Awakening, that bubble popped, and real life began.¡±


    He scrubbed a hand through his dark hair.


    ¡°Take Laurel for example. She and Rufus have been sleeping together for years, but does she really care about him? Not really. She was just bored, twiddling her thumbs and waiting for the day her life truly began.¡± He paused for a moment as he recalled just what he was speaking of and to who. He hung his head. ¡°Sorry. I forgot.¡±


    Thest time they¡¯d met he¡¯d thrown Laurel and Rufus¡¯ rtionship in her face to upset her, helping him escape as he rattled the Swordsman and drove a wedge between them.


    Elsbeth drew a shuddering breath.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she said, though her eyes were a little damp. ¡°I still can¡¯t believe I had no idea.¡±


    ¡°I think you were just too kind to see the three of us for who we really were,¡± Tyron said. ¡°Rufus is an angry prick who¡¯ll do anything to get out from under the thumb of his father. He has big dreams and doesn¡¯t care if he hurts people to achieve them. I think you saw him as bright, filled with energy and hope, but you couldn¡¯t bring yourself to acknowledge whaty underneath.


    ¡°Laurel is just selfish,¡± he chuckled to himself, ¡°like a cat. She¡¯ll go with the flow as long as she gets what she wants. She¡¯s nice enough, good for augh, and can get along well with people, but I don¡¯t think she invests much of herself in others. She¡¯s just chasing the warm spot as the sun moves around.¡±


    Picturing the tanned forest girl as azy feline fit more than the Priestess expected. She smiled as she imagined Laurel hissing as someone tried to shift her away from the hearth.


    ¡°As for me,¡± Tyron smiled a lopsided smile, ¡°I was a moody, withdrawn prick who was terrified he wouldn¡¯t live up to the expectations he¡¯d put on himself. Any future in which I didn¡¯t achieve what my parents had achieved was aplete failure in my eyes.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a freakishly high bar,¡± Elsbeth observed.


    The Sterms were¡­ legendary. Famous yers throughout the province, and perhaps even beyond. Magnin was talked about as possibly the finest swordmaster alive. Trying to live up to that standard was¡­ impossible.


    ¡°Which is why I was such a gloomy bastard,¡± Tyron confessed. ¡°I was terrified, all the time.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean <em>was</em>?¡± A voice rang out from beside the bed in which Tyron sat.


    ¡°Shut up, Dove,¡± Tyron rolled his eyes.


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying, you¡¯re still a cloud of gloom. You spend more time with dead people than living ones.¡±


    ¡°Of course I do. I¡¯m a fucking Necromancer, aren¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°Somehow I don¡¯t think thatpletely exins it.¡­¡±


    ¡°Tyron,¡± Elsbeth broke in, blinking, ¡°who is talking?¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Tyron paused, ¡°sorry. I¡¯ve gotten used to having him around, I probably should have introduced you.¡­¡±


    <em>To who?</em> Elsbeth thought as she looked around.


    Tyron pointed to the skull that sat on the table beside him.


    ¡°That¡¯s Dove,¡± he said. ¡°Dove, this is my friend, Elsbeth.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s always nice to meet a beautiful woman. I¡¯m pleased to make your acquaintance.¡±


    The Priestess stared at the skull as the eyes glowed with soft purple light, seemingly leering back at her.


    ¡°Dove was a yer, a Summoner,¡± Tyron tried to exin. ¡°He was going to die. Well¡­ he <em>did</em> die, but I saved him and bound his spirit into his skull.¡±


    ¡°Saved me?¡± Dove spat. ¡°Imprisoned me, you mean! You greasy, fuckless twat¡­. I¡¯m only still around because you refuse to release me and allow my soul to find its rightful ce at the bosoms of the goddess! Specifically, the right bosom! I had that spot picked out since long ago!¡±


    ¡°Dove, shut up for a minute or I¡¯ll stick you in the manure pile,¡± Tyron grated.


    He waited for a moment and when no further words came from his skullpanion, he nodded.


    ¡°You really are a Necromancer,¡± Elsbeth said. ¡°I couldn¡¯t believe it for the longest time¡­ despite seeing the evidence with my own eyes. I just. I couldn¡¯t imagine you having to live that kind of life. I always thought you¡¯d be off in a tower somewhere, nose deep in books and never sleeping.¡±


    The Necromancer smiled ruefully.


    ¡°It kind of is like that. Except you rece the tower with a room filled with bloody bones.¡±


    Her eyes widened in shock at the admission.


    ¡°Tyron,¡± she hesitated, ¡°you haven¡¯t been¡­ killing people, have you?¡±


    He held up his hands and waved them in denial.


    ¡°What? No! I¡¯ve been working with bones that I¡¯ve found. That¡¯s why I went up to Woodsedge. I was looking for the bones of yers who¡¯d been lost in the forest. I figured those were the only remains I could get my hands on without anyone realising what I was doing.¡±


    She looked at him carefully, her blue eyes staring deep into his own.


    ¡®Well¡­ I did have to kill the bandits here,¡± he admitted, ¡°and a few others.¡±


    ¡°I know what you did here to help these women,¡± she said and reached out to take his hand in her own. ¡°You did a good thing. I wish nobody had to die, but you protected people who couldn¡¯t protect themselves. You shouldn¡¯t feel bad about that.¡±


    Tyron looked down at his hand held so gently in hers and blushed.


    ¡°Uh. Thanks. I didn¡¯t want to do it¡­ I mean¡­ I <em>did</em> want to. Help them, I mean.¡±


    <em>You were doing so well</em>, he groaned to himself, <em>she touches your hand and you start stumbling. Pathetic.</em>


    ¡°Ahem,¡± he pulled his hand free. ¡°Anyway. You¡¯re a priestess of the Old Gods huh? That must be¡­ different.¡±


    She hesitated before nodding slightly.


    ¡°Yes. I don¡¯t really know much about them, but they are the gods who epted me. If I can serve them and help people then¡­ I¡¯m satisfied. It¡¯s not the kind of Priestess I expected to be, but I¡¯m still a Priestess.¡±


    <em>Those gods are willing to sacrifice you in a blink if it gets them what they want. Are you always going to end up tied to something that is happy to throw you away?</em>


    Yet he couldn¡¯t say that. After the pain she went through to get where she was, he refused to throw a wrench in her ns. After all, what would change if he did? Would the Old Gods allow her to escape their grasp now that they had her? Not likely.


    His resolve to avoid contacting them grew even more firm. If they would treat Elsbeth that way, he wanted nothing to do with them. Not that the Vampires were much better. Yor had saved him in the dream, but only to serve her own ends. He was caught in a three way tug-of-war between yers far greater than he.


    Like a rabbit being fought over by three starving wolves. However it ended, the rabbit never came out well.


    ¡°You¡¯re awfully quiet,¡± Elsbeth said.


    ¡°Just¡­ thinking. Both of us are on very different paths than we imagined. Rufus and Laurel are pretty much where they wanted to be all along, but the two of us are out in the wilderness with illegal sses.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true. Although mine only shows as Priestess when someone else assesses it.¡±


    The Necromancer''s eyes sharpened.


    ¡°Are you saying the Old Gods can hide a person¡¯s status?¡±


    ¡°In a way, I think so. Their servants would never have been able to survive in the empire otherwise.¡±


    <em>Damnation. </em>


    He might have to talk to them after all¡­. Although, chances were the Court could probably do the same. Vampires would surely be exposed instantly if their status was tested, yet he knew for a fact that they were able to operate in cities, Yor had hinted as much many times. Perhaps even the Abyss would have a method.


    Why had he never thought of this before?


    <em>Because I want to rely on them as little as possible. Who knows what price they would extract in exchange for this knowledge? Yor would demand I be one of them and serve her mistress for a thousand years. The Old Gods probably want to use my soul as a chew toy or some nonsense. How can anyone know what the Abyss wants?</em>


    ¡°In truth, I haven¡¯t learned much yet,¡± Elsbeth confessed. ¡°My teacher, Munhilde, who I came with, is rather close-mouthed. No matter how much I wheedle, she doesn¡¯t seem willing to share anything with me.¡±


    Tyron snorted.


    ¡°Those gods don¡¯t strike me as the kind to care much for ¡®wheedling¡¯. Don¡¯t they like the direct approach?¡±


    She eyed him sideways.


    ¡°How do you know anything about them? I thought they were supposed to be a secret. Though I suppose there are worshippers hidden everywhere.¡±


    She gasped.


    ¡°Are Magnin and Beory¡­?¡±


    ¡°What? Of course not!¡± Tyron spluttered. ¡°They aren¡¯t religious in the slightest.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    They fell silent for a moment.


    ¡°Well, I suppose I¡¯ll be able to learn something today. Munhilde is holding a burial service for those who died in the fighting. I haven¡¯t seen her do one of those before.¡±


    Tyron stared.


    ¡°She¡¯s going to <em>what</em>?¡± he squawked.


    ¡°A¡­ burial service?¡±


    ¡°No she <em>isn¡¯t</em>,¡± he said and threw back the nket.


    He spun in the bed and nted his feet on the floor only for his head to spin at the sudden movement. Elsbeth reached for his shoulder to steady him.


    ¡°Careful! You lost a lot of blood. Munhilde was able to heal your wounds, but you aren¡¯t ready to get up.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have time to wait,¡± he replied as he looked beside the bed for his shoes and shirt. ¡°In fact, I¡¯ve already waited too long. If the marshals or yers catch up to me, then I¡¯m dead. I have to keep moving.¡±


    ¡°You have to <em>heal</em>,¡± Elsbeth insisted. ¡°If you run off now, you¡¯re only going to fall over in ten minutes. What do you care about the burial anyway?¡±


    ¡°Because those bodies are <em>mine</em>. She can¡¯t have them.¡±


    He red at Elsbeth and she withdrew from him, frightened by his sudden intensity.


    ¡°You want¡­ their bodies? What for?¡± she asked, wide-eyed.


    He tried to suppress his impatience as he pulled his boots out from under the bed and shoved his feet into them.


    ¡°Because I¡¯m a Necromancer. What do you think I need them for? I lost almost all of my minions in that fight, I have to make more to rece them. Where am I supposed to get the materials that I need? You want me to raid the local graveyard and pull some rtives out of the ground?¡±


    ¡°They aren¡¯t materials¡­ those are people.¡±


    ¡°They <em>were</em> people. Bad ones. If I can take what¡¯s left of them and turn it into something useful, then that¡¯s a good thing. Besides, I need this to continue to advance my ss. Without creating minions, without having them fight, I¡¯m stuck.¡±


    Elsbeth wanted to tell him he could renounce his ss if he really wanted to. He could go back to living a regr life, but she knew it was toote for that. Tyron wasmitted now.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go talk to her then,¡± she said as she stood. ¡°You need to stay in bed.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. I¡¯ll tell her myself.¡±


    He wobbled the moment he stood, but firmed himself and brushed past Elsbeth on his way out the door. Almost without thinking he ordered his remaining skeletons to follow behind and the minions shuffled out, drawing on his replenishing magick as they did so.


    He found the Priestess in one of the fields outside the courtyard, helping some of the farmwives dig holes for the dead. The bodies were alreadyid out, most of them bandits, but some were not. He hadn¡¯t been able to save everyone, despite his determination. In fact, if Ate and the others hadn¡¯te to the rescue, he would¡¯ve been killed and the attack might have seeded. Their courage was incredible. They deserved to be buried with all the honour and dignity that could be mustered.


    But not the bandits.


    ¡°Some of these belong to me,¡± he said the moment he arrived, not wasting time.


    The Priestess Munhilde turned from her digging at the sound of his voice and looked him up and down.


    ¡°You¡¯re looking more sprightly than when I saw youst,¡± she drawled.


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Thank you for healing me,¡± he said after a pause.


    ¡°Are you sure it¡¯s me you should be thanking?¡± Munhilde pointed out, matching him frown for frown.


    ¡°I¡¯ll light a candle to the Old Godster,¡± he said before he pointed down at the banditsid out on the ground. ¡°But these are mine. I killed them, so I im the corpses for my own use. Putting them in the ground is a waste.¡±


    ¡°You would deny Rot his bounty?¡± Munhilde asked. ¡°Their flesh belongs to the soil, to break down, be eaten and turned into something new. This is the cycle, boy.¡±


    The gathered women watched the intery between the Necromancer and the Priestess nervously. They didn¡¯t want any conflict between these two who they respected. Nor could they ignore the armed skeletons who stood behind Tyron. Despite all he had done for them, they couldn¡¯t help but feel fear looking at the merciless undead.


    ¡°In that case, we don¡¯t have an issue,¡± Tyron countered. He gestured to the bandits. ¡°You can have their flesh, every scrap, but I want the bones. This means both of us are satisfied, no?¡±


    Munhilde eyed the boy as Elsbeth walked up behind him, looking faintly ill in the presence of so much death.


    ¡°You n on doing that work yourself, boy? Because I sure as hell ain''t going to.¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Tyron snorted, ¡°I¡¯ll butcher them myself. You¡¯ll get every bit of flesh and every drop of blood. I guarantee it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll <em>what</em>?¡± Elsbeth gasped.


    Munhilde held up a hand to silence her apprentice.


    ¡°Fine,¡± she said. ¡°We¡¯ve reached an ord. Rot will be satisfied, and you will have what you need, but you¡¯d best work fast. I want to close over these graves before tomorrow.¡±


    <em>He only just got up,</em> Elsbeth wanted to protest,<em> you know how badly he was injured!</em>


    ¡°Fine,¡± Tyron stated. ¡°I¡¯ll start immediately.¡±


    Without another word, he turned on his heel and left, but the skeletons did not. Instead, they walked to the bodies and, working in pairs, began to drag the bandits away.


    The survivors sighed with relief, d that the matter had been resolved, and tried not to think about what their young saviour was about to do. Elsbeth couldn¡¯t dismiss it so easily. She walked quickly to catch up with her old friend as he marched back to the building he¡¯d been resting in.


    ¡°Tyron. Tyron! Are you really going to¡­ to <em>butcher</em> those men?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said.


    ¡°But that''s¡­ that''s¡­.¡±


    <em>Inhuman</em>.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I have to do. I can¡¯t raise them as skeletons unless I remove the flesh first. I could¡¯ve turned them into zombies if your teacher hadn¡¯t demanded a cut for your god, but I don''t like zombies anyway.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re people, Tyron! You can¡¯t treat them like some animal!¡±


    The Necromancer rounded on her and Elsbeth stopped on the spot. Suddenly, the young man, her old friend, that she¡¯d been swapping stories with was gone. Every trace of the shy and awkward Tyron had vanished, revealing a cold, determined man with no patience for her meddling.


    ¡°That¡¯s exactly what they are. <em>Animals</em>,¡± he hissed. ¡°Don¡¯t dress things up and put on airs, Elsbeth. A person is just an animal who¡¯s smart enough to think they¡¯re different, but not wise enough to understand they <em>aren¡¯t</em>. Those men abandoned any im to being above beasts, and I¡¯ll feel no guilt for treating them as such.¡±


    She stepped back, appalled at the fury and contempt in his voice.


    ¡°A dead person is just skin, meat and bones, Elsbeth. That¡¯s the truth. The moment I¡¯m dead, everything special about me is gone. I don¡¯t care if you feed my body to a dog at that point. At least something gets fed. Now if you don¡¯t mind, I suggest you head back over to the other building. You probably don¡¯t want to watch whates next.¡±


    He turned his back on her and stepped inside, mming the door behind him. She stood on the spot and watched as the skeletons arrived, dropping the first two bodies on the ground just outside the door before they turned to retrieve more. From inside, she could hear the rasp of metal on metal, and it took her a moment to realise what was causing it.


    <em>He¡¯s sharpening knives</em>.


    Her stomach roiled at the thought and she hurried to get away. Despite her disgust, she found what Tyron had said repeating itself in her mind. It reminded her of what Munhilde had said, about epting reality for what it was, about not adding false meaning to a fundamental truth.


    <em>That¡¯s wrong. People believing in it is enough to make it real. A mother¡¯s grief for her child is real. The respect we pay to the dead might not make a difference to the deceased, but it does to the living. That makes it worthwhile.</em>


    She found Munhilde still in the field, digging. Elsbeth found a spare shovel and jumped down into the pit with her.


    ¡°That friend of yours is an interesting one,¡± her teacher said.


    ¡°What¡¯s involved in a burial dedicated to the Old Gods?¡± Elsbeth demanded. ¡°I want to know.¡±


    Munhilde paused her digging and turned to look at her apprentice, a hint of surprise in her eyes.


    ¡°That¡¯s the first time you¡¯ve asked me directly to teach you,¡± she observed.


    Elsbeth met her gaze.


    ¡°And?¡± she said.


    Munhilde nodded.


    ¡°And the Old Gods care only for those who are strong enough to fend for themselves. Listen closely girl, I¡¯ll only go through this once.¡±

 Chapter B2C15 - Sharing and Caring

    Chapter B2C15 - Sharing and Caring


    ¡°That friend of yours is awful pretty.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to work here, Dove.¡±


    ¡°I get that, I get that. I¡¯m just saying¡­ that she¡¯s pretty.¡±


    ¡°Elsbeth is pretty. Congrattions for noticing the bleeding obvious. What¡¯s next? Water is wet? The sky is blue? Yor is impossibly sexy?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s <em>quite</em> thepliment. I¡¯m pleased to hear my appearance elicits the desired effect.¡±


    <em>Oh, shit.</em>


    ¡°Fucking hell, Dove,¡± Tyron growled. ¡°You knew she was there.¡±


    ¡°I knew no such thing,¡± the skull said smugly.


    Despite his burning embarrassment, Tyron didn¡¯t stop moving his hands. It¡¯d taken long hours of work to butcher the bodies and now he was in the process of preparing the bones. That meant painstakingly examining them with magick, cleaning them until they were spotless, kickstarting their infusion with Death Magick and doing his best to plug any leaks.


    He¡¯d already finished working on the skulls, which were sitting in neat rows on a bed upstairs. He had twenty five bandit bodies to work with in the end, more than enough to satisfy his needs. He wasn¡¯t sure if he would take his numbers back to the twenty he¡¯d had when he was attacked.


    Perhaps he¡¯d be able to have more after he advanced his ss.


    Right now, he was working on a huge pile of finger bones. The most tedious part of the entire process. If he had to restart, he¡¯d probably m his head into a wall. He wouldn¡¯t stop for anything.


    ¡°I¡¯d almost started to think I was having no effect on you. Nice to see that despite your many <em>gifts</em>, you are still human.¡±


    Something about the way the Vampire spoke felt so intimate. Despite standing across the room, he felt as if she were whispering in his ear. It was more than a little distracting.


    ¡°Stop it, Yor,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯m trying to focus.¡±


    The Vampire pouted.


    ¡°I thought you¡¯d be a little more <em>grateful</em>, considering what I had to do for you.¡±


    <em>That¡¯s true</em>.


    ¡°I <em>am</em> grateful,¡± he stated. ¡°Though I do wonder if there may be a cost associated with said help.¡±


    Yor unleashed a throaty chuckle.


    ¡°A Vampire¡¯s help is never free. It¡¯s good that you have begun to recognise this.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t you <em>already</em> help him?¡± Dove pointed out. ¡°What are you going to do if he doesn¡¯t pay you back, un-help him?¡±


    ¡°We would simply refuse to help him again in the future.¡±


    ¡°Which would leave me ankle deep in the shit the next time the Old Gods decided to drop me in it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nice to see you understand your predicament,¡± Yor smiled.


    Dove was silent for a moment before he spoke up again.


    ¡°Kid, I know I haven¡¯t asked too much about it, but can we talk about the weird stuff that¡¯s happening with you? You have a ritual tomunicate with the Abyss, you managed to summon sexy-legs over there, and now you¡¯re talking about Old Gods? Whatever the hell those are. I¡¯m a little confused.¡±


    Tyron continued to work, but flicked his eyes towards Yor, who shrugged slightly.


    ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll tell you. This was forced on me, and I didn¡¯t want to have anything to do with it, but it looks like I don¡¯t have a choice but to confront the matter.¡±


    ¡°I assume we aren¡¯t talking about your Necromancer ss.¡±


    ¡°No, we¡¯re talking about the Anathema sub-ss that I received during my Awakening.¡±


    ¡°<em>During</em>? You got a sub-ss immediately?¡±


    Tyron nodded grimly.


    ¡°Yes. Three patrons <em>bestowed</em> the ss on me. The Abyss. The Scarlet Court. The Dark Ones. My first choices were to obtain a ritual that allowed me to contact them, which they pressured me to do every time I used the Status ritual.¡±


    ¡°Which exins the shitshow in Woodsedge.¡±


    ¡°I nearly died that night,¡± Tyron recalled. ¡°I could <em>feel</em> them scratching at my mind.¡± He shuddered. ¡°Not something I was keen to repeat.¡±


    ¡°I can <em>imagine</em>,¡± Yor drawled.


    ¡°It¡¯s not like talking to the Court was much more pleasant. I had to drain half the blood out of my body to get that to work.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing that says it has to be <em>your</em> blood.¡±


    ¡°Right." He rolled his eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll just sacrifice a virgin next time, shall I?¡±


    ¡°Oh no, that¡¯s not necessary at all,¡± Yor chided him, ¡°unless you are trying to contact the <em>truly</em> old ones. They are a little more traditional than the rest of us.¡±


    ¡°Well that¡¯s¡­ just great.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a lot to take in,¡± Dove said. ¡°So if I¡¯m reading the situation right, you are currently beholden to three ancient powers that have an equal im on you, and some of them are getting impatient. Am I right?¡±


    ¡°Basically, yes.¡±


    ¡°You''re fucked.¡±


    Tyron winced.


    ¡°Thanks, Dove. I think I worked that much out for myself. Any chance you can find a way for me to un-fuck myself?¡±


    ¡°First, that¡¯s a disturbing image. Second, not really. I don¡¯t know anything about the Court other than what I¡¯ve learned from closely observing our Vampiric friend over there¡­¡±


    Yor pulled her shawl a little tighter around herself.


    ¡°... and I¡¯ve never heard of any ¡®Dark Ones¡¯. I mean, I can assume a fair bit, given the name, but I have no clue what they might want or how to appease them.¡±


    ¡°I notice you didn¡¯t mention the Abyss,¡± Tyron¡¯s brows rose.


    The skull hesitated to speak.


    ¡°I¡¯m more familiar with that ce¡­ it¡¯s true. But¡­. What happened when you contacted them? You¡¯ve done it once?¡±


    ¡°Twice.¡±


    ¡°Fuck me, kid. How are you alive?¡±


    ¡°Luck, mostly. The first time was¡­ rough. I had to draw the circle in some dust, didn¡¯t have a focus, and the ritual wasn¡¯t well executed. There were several sigils where¡­.¡±


    ¡°Kid, you¡¯re shit hot at casting, we get it. Move on.¡±


    ¡°Ah, ok. Basically it felt as if a thousand voices were trying to drill into my head, babbling some sort of nonsense speech I couldn¡¯t understand. When I managed to force them out and regain control of myself, I saw a mass of ck tentacles forcing their way through the rift.¡±


    ¡°Abyssal¡­¡±


    ¡°I presume so. I ended the ritual and that was that. The second time I was much better prepared. I could even interpret thenguage a little. It felt as if they weremunicating in images, shes of scenes that were difficult to picture or understand. Eventually, I had to force the voices away and end the ritual before anything got through the rift.¡±


    ¡°By Selene¡¯s sweet supplicants, that is dangerous magick, kid. You''re lucky you weren¡¯t driven insane or eaten.¡±


    ¡°Communicating with the Abyss is always such a <em>trial</em>,¡± Yor sniffed, ¡°no elegance or decorum at all. It¡¯s obvious which of the three is more <em>pleasurable</em> to work with.¡±


    ¡°Putting that aside¡­. Look, I¡¯m no expert, but what do you actually know about the Abyss?¡±


    ¡°Pretty much nothing,¡± Tyron admitted. ¡°Other than the Abyssal entry in my parents'' yer manuals, I¡¯ve never read anything about it.¡±


    ¡°Right, well¡­ actually, am I alright to tell him this stuff?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Tyron frowned.


    ¡°I¡¯m talking to the Vampire, kid. Are you going to interfere if I educate him about one of your rivals?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Yor said. ¡°We aren¡¯t afraid of <em>healthy</em>petition.¡±


    ¡°Alright then. Let me get into a lecturing frame of mind. Just imagine me with a pipe and a drinking problem.¡±


    ¡°Got it.¡±


    ¡°So, the Abyss. So the rifts connect this realm to a bunch of other ones right? Realms that have been overrun with wild magick and turned into monster-making factories, intent on spreading the love. With me so far?¡±


    ¡°Everyone knows that much.¡±


    ¡°We always start from the fundamentals. Now, the Abyss itself is <em>not</em> a realm, it¡¯s not even a ce, as such. It¡¯s kind of like negative-space.¡±


    Tyron frowned as he continued to weave his magick.


    ¡°I¡¯ll need help with that one, Dove. Negative-space?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m no expert, like I said. The best way I can frame it is to say that in the ces where no realms exist, that¡¯s where the Abyss is. It¡¯s not a realm, or dimension in the sense that we understand them. It¡¯s what exists where those things <em>don¡¯t</em>.¡±


    ¡°Sounds¡­ weird.¡±


    ¡°We are only getting started. Inside the Abyss are a host of entities, each of them terrifying in their own little way. Most of them can¡¯t physically exist on this side of the Veil, which is why Abyssals are so nasty.¡±


    ¡°Because they can.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. And they are a fucking nightmare to kill. But even Abyssals are only a medium-sized fish in the nightmare ocean that is the Abyss. If you go a little deeper, push out a little further, you can talk to the big boys, the sharks and whales.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re more powerful than Abyssals?¡±


    ¡°Heck yes they are. Extremely powerful, and absurdly dangerous. From what I know, not only can they not exist on this side, they can¡¯t even <em>speak</em> to anything on this side.¡±


    ¡°Meaning¡­.¡±


    ¡°If you want to talk to them, you have to go <em>in</em>.¡±


    ¡°Fuck.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. And there endeth my knowledge. Every Mage who has anything to do with dimension magick learns this much, so we know what to look for in case someone is fucking with forbidden rituals. We are specifically <em>not</em> taught more than that so we don¡¯t start fucking with forbidden rituals.¡±


    <em>This helps exin why the Old Gods backed off when the Court threatened to tattle on them. They must have a pact with one of these whales in the Abyss. Something so powerful even the gods had to check themselves.</em>


    If he could forge an alliance with something like that¡­.


    ¡°The issue is, what do you have to offer to an entity like that?¡± Yor said. ¡°You need something to bargain with, something they have need of, otherwise you will simply be devoured.¡±


    ¡°And I suppose you know what that is?¡±


    ¡°I do, I¡¯m even willing to share it, if Tyron is happy to acknowledge the favour he owes us. That is all I ask.¡±


    ¡°Done,¡± he said decisively.


    He could already negotiate with the Court through Yor, and he could possibly do the same for the Gods through Elsbeth or Munhilde, but he <em>had</em> to be able tomunicate with all three if he wanted a chance of preserving himself.


    Yor¡¯s lips peeled back to reveal a fang-filled grin.


    ¡°Souls,¡± she said. ¡°They <em>love</em> souls.¡±


    -------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Tyron sat at the table and buried his head in his hands. It was well past midnight now, the flickering candlelight the only thing illuminating the empty dining room. That and Dove¡¯s eyes.


    He was getting faster at every aspect of minion creation, including the butchering, but it was still a time-consuming process, especially if he wanted to do it right. These bones were hisst chance to improve and refine his skills before hemitted to the status ritual and advanced his ss. Everything had to be perfect.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have a lot of time, kid,¡± Dove reminded him. ¡°This ce is going to get hot soon. And I don¡¯t mean in a sexy way.¡±


    The weary Necromancer lifted his head and rubbed vigorously at his eyes, trying to wipe away the sandy feeling he got every time he blinked.


    ¡°I know. I should be leaving tomorrow morning, if I want to be safe. The yers can¡¯t be far away.¡±


    ¡°Or the marshals. Heading up to the mountains andying low for a while is your best bet. Only problem being¡­.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t have ess to the materials I need. Unless I make the most out of what I have here, I can¡¯t advance my ss with confidence.¡¯


    ¡°Bingo. It might be worth holding off for a day in order to make preparations. Something to think about.¡±


    ¡°Just what I needed.¡±


    His body cried out for rest. He still hadn¡¯t fully recovered, despite whatever healing Munhilde had done, and he was bone weary on top. He had to sleep. With the bones properly prepared and in the process of saturating upstairs, all he could do was wait anyway.


    ¡°I¡¯m heading to bed,¡± he said as he stood, then paused. ¡°Any idea where Yor went?¡±


    ¡°Why? You thinking of inviting her to your boudoir?¡±


    ¡°I still want to live, thanks. I was just curious.¡±


    ¡°I have no idea. It¡¯s not easy for me to keep track of stuff in my current condition.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Tyron yawned. ¡°See you in the morning.¡±


    He raised his palm and created a globe of a light before blowing out the candles about the room. He wouldn¡¯t have many more nights in a proper bed, he had to enjoy them while he could.


    A gentle tapping sounded from the door.


    ¡°Tyron? Are you awake?¡±


    He turned to the door, surprised. Normally nobody bothered him in this house. The widows and children were happy to give the Necromancer his space.


    ¡°Elsbeth?¡± he called. ¡°Is that you?¡±


    ¡°Are you going to let me in or leave me on the doorstep in the dark?¡± she replied.


    The chair ttered to the floor as he stood in a hurry and made his way to the door with haste.


    ¡°Sorry about that,¡± he said as he saw her standing in the dark. ¡°Usually no one drops in on me when I¡¯m working.¡±


    The Priestess hesitated for a moment as she entered the building, before firming her resolve and stepping through. Thankfully, she didn¡¯t see any evidence of Tyron¡¯s ¡®work¡¯ in the room. She¡¯d been afraid that she¡¯d find¡­ in truth her imagination hadn¡¯t been sure where to go. Would she find Tyron wrist deep in cadavers, covered in blood and gore? She¡¯d envisioned him grinding bones to powder and doing gods knows what with it.


    ¡°Looking for the bloodstains?¡± he asked as he noticed her ncing about.


    ¡°Oh! Ah¡­ a bit, yes. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be,¡± Tyron shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t like it, but this is what I have to do if I want to continue in my ss. It¡¯s disgusting, and I threw up the first few times I did it. Turns out you can get used to just about anything.¡±


    ¡°We buried what you brought us,¡± she told him, ¡°or at least, what your skeletons brought us. I presume that was all the¡­ the¡­.¡±


    ¡°The flesh?¡± He chuckled. ¡°Yes. I kept the bones and put them upstairs. There is a¡­ process that they will go through before I can raise them as minions.¡±


    He invited her to sit at the table and summoned a few light globes to illuminate the room. Thankfully, he¡¯d packed away his butchering tools and cleaned up. The room had looked far more macabre a few hours ago. He¡¯d learned quickly that you needed to be thorough in these things. The stench of rotting flesh wasn¡¯t something he particrly enjoyed.


    ¡°It¡¯s hard for me to imagine that this is your life now,¡± Elsbeth admitted, ¡°chopping up corpses, using magick on human bones.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not exactly what I envisioned for myself, either,¡± he wearily smiled, ¡°but it is what it is. This is the ss I was given, so I¡¯m going to make the best of it. I can help people as a Necromancer, just like I helped the survivors here. I can fight in the rifts, kill monsters, save lives. If I get strong enough, do enough good, then they¡¯ll have to ept me.¡±


    He spoke with such confidence that Elsbeth almost believed him, but in the back of her mind, she couldn¡¯t forget the reason she had been rejected by the Divines.


    <em>It was Tyron</em>.


    The Messenger had told her point nk that he was the cause, though she had no idea why. The Five had turned her life upside down simply because she was his friend. What would they do to Tyron to make sure he was never able to seed?


    ¡°I hope thates true,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯ve done so much already. The women here, they suffered terribly. If you hadn¡¯te¡­ well, I¡¯m d you did.¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°Me too,¡± he said.


    The two fell into apanionable silence for a few minutes. For a short while, it felt like old times, spending time together without a purpose in mind, as good friends did. It was pleasant. Elsbeth was the one person Tyron feltfortable enough around to let his guard down and he¡¯d missed being able to properly rx in the presence of another person.


    ¡°I wanted to apologise,¡± Elsbeth spoke up. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to attack you over the bodies of the bandits. I was just shocked, I suppose. I knew intellectually what being a Necromancer meant, but being confronted with the reality of it took me by surprise. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    She looked directly into his eyes as she spoke and he could see she meant it. He brushed a hand through his hair and felt mildly embarrassed.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. I shouldn¡¯t have snapped at you the way I did. As I said, I had a hard time adjusting to it when I was starting, there¡¯s no reason why you should be any different.¡±


    Elsbeth smiled, pleased to see her friend had returned.


    ¡°What do you n to do now? Are you going to stay a bit longer and help protect these people?¡±


    He shook his head.


    ¡°I wish I could,¡± he said regretfully. ¡°The yers will be clearing out the kin who came through the area after the break and the marshals will be shortly behind them. I might be doing my best to help people, but I¡¯m still illegal. If they catch up to me, I¡¯ll be dead.¡±


    <em>What a terrible way to live</em>, Elsbeth thought, and her sense of injustice rose. <em>He hasn¡¯t harmed anyone, only the ss is illegal. And who decides what makes a ss illegal anyway? What someone does with what they¡¯ve been given is the only thing that should matter.</em>


    ¡°Do you¡­¡± she hesitated, ¡°want me toe with you? I could help.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ wouldn¡¯t be right. You need to stick with your teacher and advance your ss. You won¡¯t be able to do that with me. What do you have to do to advance as Priestess of¡­ them, anyway?¡±


    Elsbeth sighed and leaned back in her chair.


    ¡°Tend to the faithful and perform miracles of your gods,¡± she quoted, ¡°whatever that means.¡±


    ¡°Miracles? Do you have any spells?¡±


    ¡°I had a choice of a few minor things at level two, cantrips I suppose you can call them.¡±


    ¡°What did you pick?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯tugh.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going tough!¡±


    ¡°I have a spell that helps preserve food¡­.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s useful!¡±


    ¡°Is it?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    They continued to joke back and forth, and for just a moment, they were able to forget all that had changed.

 Chapter B2C16 - Departure

    Chapter B2C16 - Departure


    Tyron heaved thest pile into the back of the cart. He groaned and rubbed his back. His Constitution might have toughened him up beyond what would have normally been humanly possible, but his Strength remained pitifully weak.


    ¡°That¡¯s why you use the skeletons to do the heavy lifting,¡± Dove advised from his position atop one of the poles that rose from the back corner of the cart. ¡°You¡¯re a Mage, it¡¯s undignified to lift things. We have minions and Strength-based allies for the manualbour.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still waiting for my magick to top off,¡± Tyron grimaced.


    The aftereffects of drawing on the arcane crystal too deeply were less than pleasant. Reduced energy replenishment was the lightest of it. Temporarily, his body was effectively intolerant of magick, which didn¡¯t go well when he contained a constantly refilling well of the stuff within his body. As long as he did his best to burn off the energy and reduce the rate of intake, the symptoms were minimised.


    If he¡¯d been unconscious, like he¡¯d been the first time, unable to deliberately rid himself of the energy, he¡¯d have been at risk of death again. He had Munhilde to thank for pulling him out of it this time.


    He was past the worst of it now and ready to fill himself back up, hence trying to reduce the amount of moving his minions needed to do.


    ¡°Is that all of it then?¡± Dove asked him.


    ¡°That¡¯s it,¡± Tyron dusted off his hands. ¡°We¡¯re ready to go whenever.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d better go and say your goodbyes then. Looks like the crew hase out to see you off.¡±


    Tyron turned to see the women and children gathering just outside the buildings. He groaned. This was not the sort of thing he wasfortable with. Elsbeth and Munhilde were both there as well.


    Seeing no way he could graciously avoid it, he trudged back towards the courtyard and stood awkwardly for a moment, not sure if he should be the one to speak first.


    It was Ate who broke the silence.


    ¡°We wanted to thank you,¡± she said. ¡°If it hadn¡¯t been for your help¡­ we would probably all be dead.¡±


    The Necromancer shrugged nervously.


    ¡°It¡¯s, ah¡­ no problem,¡± he said, ¡°and it¡¯s not over. You all need to be¡­ uh¡­ careful,¡± he finishedmely.


    ¡°We know,¡± the middle-aged widow nodded. ¡°We¡¯ll keep watch. Those bastards won¡¯t get anything but arrows if theye back here again.¡±


    He didn¡¯t doubt it. He turned to leave, but hesitated.


    ¡°When the yers get here¡­¡± he started.


    ¡°We won¡¯t say anything,¡± she assured him, her face determined. ¡°After what you¡¯ve done for us, we won¡¯t sell you out.¡±


    He was touched by the sentiment, but he didn¡¯t want these people to die on his behalf.


    ¡°... be careful,¡± he said, after a pause, ¡°if you get caught in a lie, you¡¯ll be killed. They may¡­ uh¡­ sense the magick used here, so you won¡¯t gain anything by trying to conceal me.¡±


    Uncertainty flickered in her gaze, and he tried to smile, to let her know it was okay, but it looked more like a grimace. He stepped over to Elsbeth.


    ¡°It was good to see you again, ¡®Beth,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m d things¡­ sort of worked out for you.¡±


    The blonde girl smiled sadly.


    ¡°I hope everything sort of works out for you too,¡± she said and stepped forward to hug him.


    He gave her a light pat on the back with one arm.


    ¡°You¡¯re a rare beast,¡± Munhilde told him when Elsbeth let go, ¡°an illegal Mage on the run. You¡¯ve managed to gain levels without getting branded. They don¡¯t like that. They¡¯ll being for you even harder now.¡±


    ¡°Who¡­ specifically are you talking about. The yers?¡±


    ¡°Them too,¡± Munhilde grinned. ¡°You need help if you want to survive. Call on the Three when you¡¯re ready. They¡¯ll take care of you.¡±


    <em>I bet they will</em>, he grumbled internally.


    He didn¡¯t trust himself not to say something he would regret to the priestess, he had no desire to antagonise her, or her patrons, so he simply nodded and turned. He walked back to the cart, and did not turn as he climbed up into the back as his remaining minions took up the burden and began to drag him back to the east.


    He¡¯d done something good here, helped people who were not in a position to help themselves. He wished he hadn¡¯t been forced to kill people, yet he did not regret it.


    ¡°Well, that was all kinds of fucked up in the end,¡± Dove remarked from his post. ¡°You¡¯ve probably got what you need, though. Ready to graduate from being a weak piece of shit?¡±


    ¡°You think I¡¯ve reached it then?¡± Tyron asked. ¡°I¡¯ve reached my goals?¡±


    ¡°I think after you bring your next round of bony boys into the world, you¡¯ll have done enough. More than enough.¡±


    Tyron nced down at the bundles of bones he had ced in the back of the cart. They were still ¡®cooking¡¯, if he were to borrow a term, not yet fully saturated with death magick. He¡¯d hoped to remain andplete his work at the farm, but he didn¡¯t have the time. After speaking with Elsbethst night, he had immediately begun to make his preparations to leave.


    His desire to stay had only grown stronger after spending time with her, and he recognised and feared that impulse. He wouldn¡¯t lose his chance at grasping hold of destiny to chase at the tail of his former crush. Elsbeth had her own path and she was facing it well. He would do well to do the same.


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll work on a few things while we travel,¡± he said, ¡°in a couple of days, we can stop, create the minions and then I¡¯ll check my status.¡±


    ¡°That should give us enough space,¡± Dove grunted. ¡°As long as we get far enough into the foothills, we shouldn¡¯t have any issues with yers and marshals. They don¡¯t give a shit beyond a certain point. Did you want to head back to the vige from before?¡±


    ¡°No. We need to head somewhere new,¡± Tyron said. ¡°I¡¯m not satisfied that ce is remote enough.¡±


    ¡°Fucking hell. More remote than that?¡±


    The Necromancer took hold of a tightly bound bag strapped to his waist.


    ¡°We need to be far from anyone with the senses to detect what we are about.¡±


    ¡°Got some rituals you want to cast?¡±


    ¡°I just might.¡±


    <em>Elsewhere</em>


    Rufus cleaned the blood from his sword on some grass before he inspected the edge. He¡¯d need to clean it properly back at camp, but it was important not to let liquids dry on the metal. Satisfied, he shoved the weapon back into its sheath.


    Around him, various others from the college were doing the same, tending to their gear, checking the dead for cores and pulling arrows from the corpses.


    ¡°Did you get a few kills, Rufus?¡± a voice called from behind him.


    Laurel stalked towards him through the woods, eyes flicking for targets. She was like a different person out in the wild, all signs of her usual,nguid behaviour reced by cold, deliberate efficiency.


    ¡°Three,¡± he said. ¡°You?¡±


    ¡°Five,¡± she replied, a satisfied gleam in her eyes. ¡°The experience probably isn¡¯t anything great, but it¡¯ll definitely help elerate my growth.¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°I kind of expected there to be more of them, to be honest,¡± he flicked a hand at the rift-kin corpses that dotted the area around them. ¡°For our first venture against the monsters, this has been a bit of a let down.¡±


    Laurel scoffed.


    ¡°You really think they were going to send us anywhere difficult? To fight against the serious kin? I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if some silvers have already swept through this area and we¡¯re just mopping up the dregs. Even so, we should be grateful.¡±


    She stalked over to one kin lying dead on the ground and nted her boot on it before pulling her arrow free. She inspected the arrowhead with careful attention before wiping it clean and stowing it away in her quiver.


    ¡°Normally we wouldn¡¯t get even this taste until we¡¯d advanced our ss, stuck in the college for a year. This little trip is going to cut months off of our training.¡±


    Rufus jangled a bag on his waist.


    ¡°And earn a little coin along the way,¡± he smiled.


    Laurel appraised him with that same, considering look. This trip had been good for Rufus. He¡¯d been getting clingy, and emotional, which wasn¡¯t like him. He¡¯d been so focused on his goal for so long, perhaps finally moving toward it had knocked him off the trail. He was back on it now, and his eyes burned with new confidence.


    ¡°Do you believe what they had to say? About Tyron?¡± she asked him.


    Any satisfaction fled from his face at the mention of that name and he stomped closer.


    ¡°Keep your voice down,¡± he growled. ¡°You want the others to know we have something to do with him?¡±


    ¡°It would hardly be illegal if we did,¡± she said, one brow raised. ¡°Besides, there¡¯s no one in earshot, which you¡¯d know if you were looking properly.¡±


    He nced around.


    ¡°You¡¯re right. Sorry. Do I believe it? No. You know him as well as I do. He might be ahead in magick, taught himself a thing or two, but to cause a rift to break? No chance.¡±


    ¡°So you think they¡¯re lying to us?¡±


    ¡°What I think, is that I don¡¯t care if they¡¯re lying to us. We know what he looks like, what he sounds like, and none of these other wannabes do. We have the advantage when ites to hunting that bounty.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t think Magnin and Beory would murder you in your bed for killing him?¡± Laurel asked. ¡°You saw what they did to the mayor¡¯s farm.¡±


    ¡°Do I believe it when they said his family were fine with it? No, that¡¯s more bullshit, but do I believe the Sterms go around killing yers they don¡¯t like? Also no. Besides, there¡¯s no guarantee they would ever learn it was us. I wouldn¡¯t mind splitting the gold with someone else and putting their name on the achievement.¡±


    ¡°Rufus, that¡¯s almost clever.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± he grunted. ¡°What do you think? Don¡¯t give me any nonmittal bullshit, either. I want something solid out of you for a change.¡±


    She thought carefully as she continued to scan around.


    ¡°There¡¯s more going on here than we realise. Tyron <em>is</em> a very capable magick user, and I believe he might have learned something dangerous enough to destabilise a rift, but that would be a long shot,¡± she conceded. ¡°But I¡¯m starting to think simrly to you. Who cares what else is going on? Tyron Awakened at the same time we did, he can¡¯t be very strong yet. No matter who finds him, he won¡¯t put up much of a fight, and <em>someone</em> is going to get that bounty, I don¡¯t mind if it¡¯s me. Though I wouldn¡¯t want many people knowing I was the one who did it.¡±


    Rufus grinned, but Laurel shook her head in warning.


    ¡°The chances we manage to track him down are almost nil. Keep that in mind. We are sweeping through the middle of nowhere, going from here all the way to the mountains. It¡¯s not as if we can just sneak off on our own. We¡¯re here for the kin.¡±


    ¡°I understand that,¡± he assured her, ¡°I just wanted to reach an understanding in case the impossible happens.¡±


    ¡°Gather in five! Move it, slugs!¡± came a roar from a distance off.


    ¡°Better keep moving then. See you tonight?¡± Rufus said.


    ¡°Until we leave the wilds, my tent is for sleeping only,¡± Laurel denied him.


    He shrugged. Might as well try his luck with someone else then.

 Chapter B2C17 - Be Reborn

    Chapter B2C17 - Be Reborn


    Tyron stared at his new minions. The skeletons stared back at him. He frowned. There was something¡­ different about them. He could feel it, but not identify it, like a word tingling on the tip of the tongue. He didn¡¯t <em>think</em> it was due to their appearance, all skeletons differed from each other, simply due to human physiology.


    He also couldn¡¯t find anything unusual about the way the magick moved between him and them, either. As far as he could tell, it functioned exactly as it always had. The new minions were drawing noticeably less than his old ones had, but that was simply due to his improvement over time.


    There was <em>something</em> else, and he couldn¡¯t work out what it was, and that was driving him slightly mad.


    ¡°Stop staring at them so hard,¡± Dove advised him, ¡°I can¡¯t tell if you''re trying to solve aplex magickal problem or you¡¯re just horny. I know we¡¯re pretty remote, but you can do better than the undead, man. There has to be a deer or sheep or something around here.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove,¡± Tyron grunted irritably before he sighed and shook his head. ¡°I give up,¡± he dered. ¡°I¡¯ve tried everything I can think of, but I can¡¯t figure it out. It¡¯ll have to wait until I¡¯ve got more time to find a solution.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s likely to be never, kid. Once you advance your ss, you¡¯re going to be doubly illegal in the eyes of the Magisters. Not only an illegal ss, but an unregistered bronze rank. And since you¡¯re a mage, they would <em>definitely </em>refuse to let you advance without getting marked.¡±


    Dove sounded a little sour as he mentioned the brand that every yer bore. More than a little.


    ¡°If everyone hates the brand so much, how do they keep getting away with it?¡± Tyron asked. ¡°yers aren¡¯t exactly easy people to control, after all.¡±


    ¡°Which is exactly why they go to these lengths to control them. A single mage with a level in the eighties could probably level a city with the high tier magick they have ess to. A swordsman like your father can cut through a million ordinary people in a day. Without the brand ensuring a level ofpliance, there would be chaos. At least, that¡¯s what they¡¯ll tell you.¡±


    The Summoner sounded as if he wanted to spit, but obviously couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°Fuck. At any rate, at this point, they have so many big dick yers branded that not doing it is basically a death sentence. All of the most powerful people in the empire have it, and they don¡¯t particrly want to spend the rest of their lives in perpetual agony, so they will cut your fucking head off if asked. Unless you can get yourself all the way to the upper levels without being detected, you¡¯re shit out of luck. Want to rank up? Get the mark. End of discussion.¡±


    Tyron absorbed this in silence. It made sense, in a cruel way. No other group was subjected to the same level of brutal control as the yers. In return, they were lionised, hero-worshipped by the people across the empire and richly rewarded, but for many, it surely wasn¡¯t worth it. His own parents were so fiercely protective of their freedom and independence, he simply couldn¡¯t understand why they would allow themselves to be controlled in this way. It went against everything he knew of them.


    ¡°If it¡¯s so bad, then why do so many people do it? Rogil and your team were pushing to promote out of silver, which meant even tighter restrictions on yourselves. How many yers turn their back on advancement and stay as they are?¡±


    ¡°Not many,¡± Dove replied, sounding bitter.


    Silence fell between the Necromancer and the skull for a moment as Dove organised his thoughts.


    ¡°A few do,¡± he said, ¡°usually at level thirty-nine or fifty-nine, they put their hands up and call it a day, never calling on the status ritual again and living out their lives without advancing to the next step. They stay at silver or gold, content with their lot and then die. But not many can do that. There are all sorts of chains that can bind a person, Tyron, all sorts of ways we can be made a ve. You know Magnin and Beory didn¡¯t want to take the brand, but they still did. Why?¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°There¡¯s a thousand-thousand ways to bind someone,¡± the skull repeated. ¡°Money, family, obligation,w, heritage, force. By taking the brand, your parents were able to make themselves so powerful that the brand itself was the only thing that bound them. No-one could tell them where to go, what to do, nobody could buy them off, threaten their wellbeing, except through the mark. They were able to free themselves of all but one chain. Not a bad trade off, when you think about the alternative.¡±


    The young mage thought back to survivors on the farm, those women and children, powerless to defend themselves, with no say in whether they would live or die.


    ¡°Even one chain would have been too many for them,¡± he said, ¡°but in the end, they bound themselves with two. They had me as well.¡±


    ¡°That may be true to an extent as well,¡± Dove chuckled, ¡°but at least that¡¯s one that they took on of their own free will.¡±


    <em>There is nothing that binds me</em>, he realised. <em>Only my family</em>.


    ¡°Why did you want to advance?¡± he asked his mentor after a pause. ¡°You didn''t want to stop, you weren¡¯t happy to stay still. If you hate the Magisters so much, why were you willing to let them have a tighter grip on you?¡±


    Those bare teeth seemed to grin evilly at him as the light red inside the skull.


    ¡°You¡¯re about to find out, kid. Stop fucking around and get on with it already.¡±


    Tyron froze for a moment before he smiled wryly. He¡¯d been dying, it was true. He was so nervous about this that he was looking for ways to put it off.


    ¡°That obvious?¡±


    ¡°Everyone¡¯s shit scared the first time. Especially in your case. I know some people who spend six months to a year making sure they have everything perfect before taking the leap, and I think you would too if you had the time. But you don¡¯t, so stop being such a wimp and fucking get it done.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Fine!¡±


    He blew out a lungful of air before he pushed himself to his feet. He had to be careful moving around inside the cave, the low ceiling was a feature he was getting particrly tired of.


    It¡¯d taken them three days to find this ce, and they needed Yor¡¯s help to boot. The Vampire had an uncanny ability to find little nooks and crannies that the sun would never touch. A necessary survival mechanism, considering what she was. They were higher in the foothills than they¡¯d been before, a couple of hours away from a small hamlet that they had yet to visit.


    Remote, isted, hidden. Perfect for a fledgling Necromancer wanting to work on hisst set of minions and advance. Tyron had gone all-in on those bones. He¡¯d picked over them with relentless focus during the entire journey, finding any weakness or impurity he could detect and purging it with extreme care. The saturation of Death magick had been monitored on an almost hourly basis and studied in minute detail. Everything he could think of that might have a positive effect on the resulting minion, he¡¯d done twice over. The stitching on most of the minions had been done multiple times, despite the tight time-frames he¡¯d worked in.


    The casting of the ritual felt like the culmination of his magnum opus. He¡¯d spent days working with Dove on the final version of the Raise Dead ritual. Entire sections had been rebuilt from the ground up, cutting and changing the form of the magick to produce a more efficient, robust version that he was inordinately proud of. A more experienced Necromancer, if one existed, would probablyugh at his flimsy attempt to improve and develop the magick, but with the limited knowledge and resources he had, Tyron felt confident it was the best he could do.


    The final set of minions, enough to bring his army back to a full twenty, were far and away the best he¡¯d ever produced. Their movement was smoother, quicker and more cost-efficient, their minds were sharper and the conduit that transferred his magick to them was as tight as a drum and half as leaky.


    He hoped it would be enough.


    Heart pounding in his chest, he rummaged in his pack until he was able to find his spare book and ripped free a page. Paper in hand, he found afortable spot on the floor, and prepared himself.


    ¡°Here we go,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°How <em>exciting</em>,¡± Yor whispered into his ear.


    ¡°Blood and bone!¡± Tyron jumped a foot in the air before copsing back down, clutching at his chest. ¡°You almost killed me, Yor¡­ what was that for?¡±


    ¡°You must allow me my <em>amusements</em>, given our remote and destitute location,¡± she said, red eyes dancing. ¡°But I apologise for dying the moment, I simply wanted to be here to witness the asion.¡±


    ¡°Still didn¡¯t have to scare me,¡± Tyron grumbled, and the vampire reached down to stroke his hair.


    ¡°Come now, the ritual,¡± she reminded him and Tyron focused on the paper before him.


    Some of the tension had drained out of him, but he still felt the blood pounding in his head as he nicked his thumb on his knife, ced his hand on the page and incanted the words. Immediately, the blood began to drain from the small wound on his hand and spread across the page, forming words that would change his life from that moment onward.


    Scarce able to breathe, he blinked rapidly and leant forward to read.


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>You have forged bonds and connections with others. </em><strong><em>Race: Human has reached level 14.</em></strong>


    <em>Your attempts at cooking have increased proficiency. </em><strong><em>Cooking has reached level 3.</em></strong>


    <em>Dismembering remains has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Butchery has reached level 5 (Max).</em></strong>


    <em>Intense study and application has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Corpse Appraisal has reached level 10.</em></strong>


    <em>Intense study and application has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Corpse Preparation has reached level 10.</em></strong>


    <em>Your use of Repository has increased proficiency.</em>


    <em>Your creation of new undead and your maniption of the spellform has increased proficiency. </em><strong><em>Raise Dead has reached level 10.</em></strong>


    <em>Your use of the spell Bone Stitching has increased proficiency. </em><strong><em>Bone Stitching has reached level 10.</em></strong>


    <em>Your use of Bone Mending has increased proficiency. </em><strong><em>Bone Mending has reached level 5.</em></strong>


    <em>Your use and study of Death Magick has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Death Magick has reached level 8.</em></strong>


    <em>Your use of Death des has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Death des has reached level 5.</em></strong>


    <em>Your use of Fear has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Fear has reached level 3.</em></strong>


    <em>Your use of Magick Bolt has increased proficiency. </em><strong><em>Magick Bolt has reached level 5 (Max).</em></strong>


    <em>You have used a sword in battle. </em><strong><em>Swordsmanship has reached level 2.</em></strong>


    <em>Your use of the Shivering Curse has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Shivering Curse has reached level 6.</em></strong>


    <em>Your use of the ritual, Commune with Spirits, has increased your proficiency. </em><strong><em>Commune with Spirits has reached level 4.</em></strong>


    <em>You have used Bone Armour to defend yourself from harm. </em><strong><em>Bone Armour has reached level 3.</em></strong>


    <em>You have experienced the world through the eyes of your minions. </em><strong><em>Minion Sight has reached level 4.</em></strong>


    <em>You have raised minions and they have fought on your behalf. </em><strong><em>Necromancer has reached level 20. You have received +6 Intelligence, +3 Wisdom, +3 Constitution and +3 Maniption.</em></strong>


    <em></em>


    <em>Your patrons are most amused by your struggling. They continue to watch you, and each other, with eager eyes¡­ </em>


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 14)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Necromancer (Level 20).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ul><li>Anathema (Level 10).</li><li>None</li><li>None (Locked)</li></ul>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    12


    Dexterity:


    11


    Constitution:


    52


    Intelligence:


    75


    Wisdom:


    37


    Willpower:


    36


    Charisma:


    16


    Maniption:


    29


    Poise:


    13


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 3)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Skill Selections Avable: 3


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 10)(Max)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 10)(Max)


    Death Magick (Level 8)


    Bone Mending (Level 5)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 10)(Max)


    Bone Stitching (Level 10)(Max)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 4)


    Shivering Curse (Level 6)


    Death des (Level 5)


    Bone Armour (Level 3)


    Minion Sight (Level 4)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 4)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 2)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    Suppress Mind (Level 4)


    Repository (Level 2)


    Fear (Level 3)


    <strong>Necromancer Feats:</strong>


    Skeleton Focus II


    Magick Battery I


    <strong>Anathema Feats:</strong>


    Repository


    Wall of Thought I


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    Words of Power (Initial): WIS +3 CHA +3


    <em>Necromancer Level 20: Choose two from Skills or Spells:</em>


    <em>Spells:</em>


    <em>Shorten Raise Dead - A modified version of Raise Dead that is quicker to cast.</em>


    <em>Bewildering Curse - Disorient and confuse those affected.</em>


    <em>Flesh Mending - Repair dead flesh.</em>


    <em>Death Bolt - Improve Magick Bolt to utilise Death Magick.</em>


    <em>Cloud of Death - Create a cloud of Death Magick that will invigorate and heal your minions slowly over time.</em>


    <em></em>


    <em>Skills:</em>


    <em>Flesh Crafting - Mould flesh as y.</em>


    <em>Empower Servant - Feed mana to your minions.</em>


    <em>Undead Control - Better control of minions.</em>


    <em>Flesh Joining - Connect multiple bodies together.</em>


    <em>Minion Commander - Better coordination of many minions.</em>


    <em>Ghost Speech - Better able to interact with spirits.</em>


    <em>Spirit Finding - A sense of where to find baleful dead.</em>


    <em></em>


    <em>Necromancer Level 20: Choose a Feat from the following:</em>


    <em>Low Light Vision - Increase the ability to see in poor light conditions.</em>


    <em>Death Sense - Sense the presence of nearby death magick.</em>


    <em>Grave Cloak - Hide more easily in dark environments.</em>


    <em>Magick Battery II - Increase the natural capacity for Magick.</em>


    <em>Skilled I - Choose two General Skills to increase the maximum level from five to ten.</em>


    <em>ss Focus I - Choose an additional Necromancer Spell or Skill.</em>


    <em>Efficient Minions I - Allow your minions to require less Magick to move.</em>


    <em>Death Eater - Consume Death Magick.</em>


    <em>Zombie Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Zombies.</em>


    Tyron pumped a fist in triumph. He¡¯d done it! Not only had he been able to max Corpse Preparation and Appraisal, he¡¯d also pushed Bone Stitching and Raise Dead to the maximum as well. His final push had paid dividends after all.


    The surge of glee was immediately followed by a faint aftertaste of bitterness. Had he been free to experiment and take his time, he had no doubt he would have been able to raise Death Magick to level 10, along with other anciry skills and spells that may have opened up interesting options.


    <em>Have to be satisfied with what I have. I¡¯ve done far better than expected given the circumstances. Celebrate!</em>


    And he had. He¡¯d managed to master each of the core skills to the fullest extent possible in his initial ss. This was the minimum benchmark to achieve a decent progression, and he¡¯d done it.


    ¡°How¡¯d it go, kid?¡± Dove asked, his voice tense.


    ¡°I got it,¡± the Necromancer confirmed.


    ¡°Fuck, yes! Nice going kid!¡±


    ¡°<em>Congrattions,</em>¡± Yor said.


    ¡°Alright, sort out your level twenty shit, and then we can get to the real deal.¡±


    He nodded and turned back to the page. There were a few new options to go over, he had to pick a feat and two new ability selections. This would be hisst opportunity to pick new Spells and Skills from the base Necromancer ss, anything he let go here he may never see again, so he had to be careful.


    There were several new options, as well as old ones that were of interest to Tyron. First he turned his attention to the new entries. He gained two new selections at level eighteen, and another two at level twenty. These four were Cloud of Death, Minion Commander, Ghost Speech and Spirit Finding. It was interesting that right at the end he would be offered two new spirit rted Skills. He felt that if he chose these he might be offered a spirit focused advancement, but he wasn¡¯t that tempted.


    Cloud of Death was interesting, though he feared it may prove too energy intensive. Creating any sort of ambient field of magick would doubtless be a huge drain on his reserves.


    <em>Am I ever going to be offered something cheap?</em>


    Likely not¡­.


    It might well be worth taking the spell now, in the hopes that he would be able to someday remedy his magick economy, but that could be risky. Tyron would be better served by something that would pay off now, and provide further dividends in the future.


    Minion Commander appealed to Tyron for this reason. The core of the Necromancer ss was the minions, and he knew he should do everything he could to improve and empower them. He¡¯d had many discussions with Dove on the subject of staying true to the core of his vocation. Trying to turn himself into a pseudo-mage, with as many shy spells as possible, would only make him a crap mage, and a mediocre Necromancer.


    Anything that directly rted to improving his undead was a solid choice in his eyes. For a change, the skill seemed rtively self-exnatory. Mentally directing the skeletons was an imprecise art, and any assistance he could gain from the Unseen would be wee. Undead Control spoke to the same need. If being better able to controlrge numbers of minions would be good, then so would being able to better direct smaller groups, especially if he became able to create moreplicated and potent servants. Being able to extract every drop of power from such creations would be crucial to his sess.


    He confidently ced a thumb mark next to Minion Commander and Undead Control, and moved on to his Feat.


    He¡¯d basically already decided he was going to choose Magick Battery II. The only thing that might have dissuaded him from that choice would have been another Skeleton Mastery feat appearing, but none did. It was clear going forward that his spells would require huge reserves of magick. His Intelligence continued to rise far above his other attributes, and along with it his capacity, but more was more.


    It was likely he would never be able to have enough.


    He confidently ced another thumbprint next to Magick Battery II and carefully checked his choices. Satisfied, he nodded to himself and then ended the ritual.


    He felt the changes begin to take ce, the power and knowledge flowing into him as they always did when the ritual came to a close, except this time, something was different. The ritual didn¡¯t end; instead, the page pulsed.


    Tyron shook off the mise that gripped him as a result of the Unseen¡¯s hand. He had more to do. He leaned forward and ced his hand on the page once more. Again, the blood was pulled from his veins and onto the page as more words took shape. When it was done, he swallowed thickly and leaned forward to read.


    ¡°Come on kid, what have we got?¡± Dove demanded.


    <strong>Necromancer has reached level 20. </strong>


    <strong><em>Select a ss Advancement from the following:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Necro-Acolyte: </em></strong><em>Delve deeper in the mysteries of the Necromancer. </em>


    ¡°That¡¯s the generic nonsense you always get,¡± Dove said dismissively. We should be able to get something more specialised.¡±


    <strong><em>Skeleton Master: </em></strong><em>An expert of bone-based Undead.</em>


    ¡°Like that,¡± Dove noted with satisfaction. ¡°This will likely give you ess to more powerful varieties of skeletons, and perhaps give you those juicy Skeleton Master III and even IV as well.¡±


    <strong><em>Necromancer Spirit-Tuner: </em></strong><em>One who invites the spirits andmands them.</em>


    Tyron frowned. He didn¡¯t think he¡¯d be offered anything spirit rted.


    ¡°Probably just because your Commune with Spirits spell reached a certain level. It sounds interesting, but holy shit these descriptions are garbage. It¡¯s like this for every ss, but they usually have the benefit of drawing on years of documentation. You, on the other hand, are running blind.¡±


    <strong><em>Undead Weaver:</em></strong><strong></strong><em>An expert in the creation of minions.</em>


    ¡°Oho,¡± Dove noted with interest. ¡°I think this is the one you¡¯ve been offered for mastering the basic Skills. These sorts of sses usually focus on improved fundamentals.¡±


    <strong><em>Horde Initiate: </em></strong><em>A Master ofrger gatherings of Undead.</em>


    ¡°My guess is you were offered this one due to having a certain number of minions under yourmand at once. Pretty obvious this is a quantity over quality direction.¡±


    Which wasn¡¯t what Tyron was interested in. He wanted the best minions possible, and then to try and find other ways to increase the number he could maintain.


    <strong><em>Dark Ritualist: </em></strong><em>One who delves into hidden magicks.</em>


    ¡°I¡¯d say this is just from having ess to several rituals with sufficient levels,¡± Dove surmised. ¡°Another sideways advancement.¡±


    Anything that depended on the levels he gained in Anathema rituals wasn¡¯t something Tyron wanted to pursue.


    ¡°Well then. What do you think you want to pick?¡±

 Chapter B2C18 - Turning

    Chapter B2C18 - Turning


    Tyron thought seriously for a time before he replied.


    ¡°Some of them we¡¯ve discounted. Acolyte is the generic choice and I think we can safely dismiss that.¡±


    ¡°As I said, sometimes these generic choices are the right ones. We can assume that picking this will advance you down the path you¡¯re currently on. You¡¯ll get the option to summon new undead, more feats along the line of what you¡¯ve already seen. Options to upgrade existing skills. All that shit. Maybe fatter zombies.¡±


    ¡°You know how I feel about zombies,¡± Tyron tried not to sound elitist.


    It wasn¡¯t that zombies were <em>bad</em>, per se, but he just felt they were <em>inferior</em>. Why not make a skeleton out of that body? They were tougher, faster, stronger and didn¡¯t stink to high heaven.


    He knew exactly why. Zombies were quicker and dirtier to create. A ughtered vige could be turned into a mass of shambling horrors in a rtive sh. To make his preferred minions, a lot ofbour was required to butcher and stitch them, a waste of time to a Necromancer who wanted fast levels.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. You hate the fleshy types. All about bony boys. Well, I have good news for you, Skeleton Master sounds like it''s right up your alley.¡±


    ¡°Would it actually be worth it?¡± Tyron pondered. ¡°I do prefer skeletons to the other undead I¡¯ve had the option of creating so far, and since I already have skeleton mastery feats, I¡¯ll always want to make them a focus of mine. But does that mean I want to take this ss? It might narrow my options <em>too</em> much.¡±


    He wouldn¡¯t care if he could no longer progress by summoning zombies, but if he couldn¡¯t create anything other than skeletons, he might be limiting himself.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯d have no variety,¡± Dove mused, ¡°but you would definitely have less. There are stronger types of skeleton than just the basic junk you¡¯ve been running around with, and I don¡¯t doubt that this ss would give them to you eventually.¡±


    The Necromancer could remember a few things he¡¯d read in his parents¡¯ manuals on different sorts of undead. In terms of skeletal varieties, he could only recall Revenants and Liches as being distinct from basic skeletons. A Revenant was essentially a spirit bound into the remains, simr to Dove¡¯s situation right now, except withplete control of the whole body. A Lich was something else entirely, essentially a mage who had turned themselves into an undead in order to avoid death.


    There was only one way for Tyron to make one of those and he wasn¡¯t particrly keen on the idea. He quite liked his flesh, thanks very much. Besides, if he wanted to be an unliving nightmare made manifest, he had an option to hand. Whether Vampirism or Lichhood was the preferred method of eternal life, he didn¡¯t want to consider. Zero steps down that path was the correct number of steps.


    More potent varieties of skeleton were certainly a powerful draw to Tyron. He was so proficient at making them already, having invested time and effort to improve at bone stitching and butchery. In terms of short term power, this was undoubtedly the best choice for buffing up his minion options.


    When it came down to it, the short term might be all he had.


    ¡°Is it really necessary to trap a spirit in order to create a Revenant?¡± he asked. ¡°I don¡¯t want to enve the spirits of the dead to create my minions.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you don¡¯t, do you? Funny, I never noticed,¡± Dove retorted sarcastically.


    ¡°Can you just answer the question?¡±


    ¡°Fine. Under protest. In short, I don¡¯t fucking know. Knowing <em>about</em> undead is not the same as knowing how to make them. Revenants are certainly a step up from basic skeletons, though, much more feared and able to utilise aspects of the Unseen in a limited capacity.¡±


    ¡°Like using Skills and abilities?¡±


    ¡°In a very minor way. Even that is enough to put them way higher than your regr troops over there. If those advantages don¡¯te from a living spirit, then I have no idea where you¡¯d get them.¡±


    If his minions were actually able to utilise simple skills, such as swordsmanship, they would be far more deadly. The prospect was enough to excite the young mage, but not enough to wipe away the negative association he had with enving the dead. He may eventually be put in a ce where he had no choice but to engage in such practices if he wanted to progress, but he hoped not.


    He thought of the stone in his pack and then wrenched his thoughts away.


    It was this line of thought that leaned him away from Spirit-Tuner. It would likely be a powerful option, giving him immediate ess to ghosts as minions, or at least quickly. Until he could reconcile the practice with his morals, though, he would rather avoid it. Besides, if he stepped over the line and began to perform tasks that others would see as truly immoral and unforgivable, then what path back to society remained for him? It was a narrow thread of hope that he clung to, he knew there was almost no chance he would ever be epted, but he refused to let it go. He needed that hope. He was dangerously close to losing it already. He thought of what was hidden in his pack, but wrenched his thoughts away. He had to focus.


    Horde Initiate and Dark Ritualist were both dismissed after little consideration. It was impractical for him to run around with a huge number of minions anyway, let alone difficult for him to secure that many remains. Quality over quantity had been Tyron¡¯s Necromancer motto from the beginning and he wasn¡¯t going to change now. As far as the ritualist went, he wasn¡¯t interested in sending his ss down a sideways path like that.


    There was no point pursuing a different aspect of his magick than the one he was on. He¡¯d already poured everything he could into improving his minions, it would be a massive waste to throw away those gains and focus on something else.


    Which left the Undead Weaver. This was what he had unlocked for mastering the basic skills.


    ¡°I know what you¡¯re thinking, kid. Skeleton or Weaver. With theck of information we have, the choice basically boils down to power now, or powerter. My guess is that picking the Bone Master will give you ess to a spell or skill that would immediately improve your skeleton creation. I don¡¯t know what it would be, bone hardening, bone stiffening, rigid bones, glory bones except only effective in the morning.¡±


    ¡°You done?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got more¡­.¡±


    ¡°Pass.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Weaver is more likely to boost your initial skills, building up a firmer foundation, and then possibly give you ess to simr abilities as the other sses, but further down the line.¡±


    <em>¡°A strong foundation is what all the best yers have,¡± Magninughed. ¡°Having swordsmanship at level thirty might not be as sexy as ten levels in ¡®legendary dervish style¡¯ or some bullshit, but it¡¯s ten times as effective. People chase the shy stuff way too early, it¡¯s a ssic mistake. As long as you progress, the shy stuffes on its own in time. Running after it is aplete waste of time.¡±</em>


    ¡°Undead Weaver,¡± Tyron stated confidently.


    ¡°You sure, kid?¡± Dove queried.


    ¡°Positive.¡±


    ¡°Alright, stick a paw print on that sucker and get ready.¡±


    ¡°Ready for what?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll find out,¡± Yor smiled.


    Not sure what they were on about, Tyron swallowed and pressed his bloody thumbprint next to the Undead Weaver entry on the status page. Then he ended the ritual.


    At once, a sensation he had felt before swept over him. He was pulled from his body and into the endless void of darkness and light once more.


    <em>The Awakening</em>.


    The voice of infinity spoke to him once more. Was it the gods? Or did the wordse from the Unseen itself?


    <em>Tyron Sterm. You have dedicated yourself to the pursuit of your dark craft and have chosen to pursue it to perfection. Your embrace of the Necromancer path shows your ss was no error. Control you desire, and control you shall have.</em>


    <em>You are Ascending.</em>


    <em>+10 to all stats.</em>


    <em>You are able to advance Mysteries to the next stage.</em>


    <em>You have received the ss: Undead Weaver.</em>


    <em>A seeker of perfection, the Undead Weaver is an expert crafter of the minions for which they are feared. To advance, create Undead, have them fight in your name, and improve your craft.</em>


    <em>ss Attributes per level:</em>


    <em>Strength +1;</em>


    <em>Constitution +2;</em>


    <em>Intelligence +3;</em>


    <em>Wisdom +1;</em>


    <em>Willpower + 1;</em>


    <em>Maniption +1;</em>


    <em>Poise + 2;</em>


    <em>The maximum Skill limit of Raise Dead has been increased to 20.</em>


    <em>The maximum Skill limit of Corpse Preparation has been increased to 20.</em>


    <em>The maximum Skill limit of Corpse Appraisal has been increased to 20.</em>


    <em>You have been granted the Skill: Minion Modification. This allows you to change and improve undead that have already been created.</em>


    The knowledge flooded into his mind, then he was mmed back into his body. Every inch of him burned, physically and mentally. He groaned slowly and slumped forward.


    ¡°It''s fucking wild, right?¡± Dove chortled.


    <strong><em>In the ruins of Woodsedge</em></strong>


    Beory looked out over what remained of the former frontier town from atop the city wall. At least, atop a stable piece of it. When the rift-kin hade through the area, they hadn¡¯t bothered to use the gates. Enormous gaps had been smashed through the town¡¯s defences by the big critters, allowing the smaller ones to run rampant throughout.


    After all this time, one might have thought the signs of conflict would have faded, but they were still there to see for someone with an experienced eye. Sun bleached bones, picked over by wildlife, were scattered here and there. Dark, rust coloured stains that some might mistake for dirt, or soot, Beory knew to be blood.


    Many had died in the catastrophe here, too slow to escape the oing horde. She struggled to bring herself to care.


    Impatient, she tapped her foot on the wall as she looked into the distance. The trees were still thick enough to block her eyes, but to her arcane senses, the rift was as clear as day. The energy there still swirled chaotically. One realm smashing into another tended to have that effect. Yet it was much subduedpared to what it would have been as little as a week ago. The magick unleashed in the collision had dispersed now, returning the rift to a ¡®normal¡¯ state.


    Although it would never go back to exactly what it had been before. After the break had urred, the rift would be wider, more powerful kin would be able to squeeze through. One step closer to this world falling into the abyss, just as the others had.


    ¡°What¡¯s taking him so long?¡± she muttered under her breath.


    There was a twitch at the edge of her senses and she huffed. By the time the breath had passed her lips, Magnin stood next to her on the wall, a broad grin on his face.


    ¡°You¡¯re looking as beautiful as when Ist saw you, my flower,¡± he said.


    ¡°That was five minutes ago,¡± she replied.


    ¡°That exins it then,¡± he said, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. Beory rolled her eyes.


    ¡°Enough of that. Did you see it?¡±


    ¡°Of course I saw it. What do you think I was doing over there?¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    Magnin gestured indifferently.


    ¡°It¡¯s wider. Of course it¡¯s wider. What the hell did they think was going to happen? You have a break, the rift gets wider.¡±


    ¡°How much wider, I think, was the question they wanted answered,¡± Beory rolled her eyes. Her husband, as usual, was being deliberately obtuse.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got the readings,¡± he said, rolling his shoulders. ¡±When the ro¡¯w catches up with us I¡¯ll be able to send them back.¡±


    He cast his eyes down across the ruins of the town. His expression hardened.


    ¡°This didn¡¯t need to happen,¡± he said.


    ¡°Do you feel guilty?¡± Beory asked him.


    He looked at her, a brow raised.


    ¡°No. Should I?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± she scoffed, ¡°but I wanted to make sure. You often get the wrong idea stuck in your head.¡±


    ¡°Worry not, my dearest. I save all of my loathing for those who deserve it, rather than myself.¡±


    Beory nodded, satisfied, before her eyes grew misty.


    ¡°Tyron was here,¡± she said quietly. ¡°I can sense his magick.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Magnin panicked. ¡°Do you think he made it out?¡±


    ¡°He was here after the break. I can tell.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a relief.¡±


    Beory wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.


    ¡°I want to see him, Magnin. I want to see my boy.¡±


    The swordsman stepped forward and embraced her gently.


    ¡°We can¡¯t do that. You know we can¡¯t do that. Not until the end.¡±


    ¡°I know. But it¡¯s hard.¡±


    ¡°Of course it is. It was your idea.¡±


    They remained like that for several long minutes, bnced atop the wall around Woodsedge.


    ¡°It¡¯ll start again tomorrow,¡± Beory said, freeing herself and wiping her eyes. She looked up into Magnin¡¯s eyes, letting him see the steel in her own.


    ¡°It¡¯s been a nice vacation,¡± he grinned. ¡°I was almost starting to miss getting tortured.¡±


    ¡°How long can we hold on this time?¡±


    He shrugged.


    ¡°A couple of weeks. Maybe. I think they¡¯ll go harder this time. The powers that be want this mess done and dealt with. They¡¯ve run out of patience.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll get their wish. I just hope theye to regret it.¡±


    Magninughed.


    ¡°Of course they will. We made sure of it.¡±

 Chapter B2 C19 - Baby Steps

    Chapter B2 C19 - Baby Steps


    The skeletons moved with their usualck of crity as they fought. Eerie silence surrounded the minions, advancing and cutting down the rift-kin without any utterance leaking from their glowing skulls.


    Tyron was used to it by now, but every now and again, he was reminded of just how spooky his undead were in battle. No doubt this had served him well against the bandits; the former-farmhands would never have seen, let alone fought, anything so unnerving in their lives.


    Against more determined and experienced foes, it wouldn¡¯t make a difference. Against infuriated monsters like the kin, it made no difference at all. Arms folded, he watched as the skeletons struggled to pin down their more manoeuvrable foes. The smaller creatures from the rift were no real threat to his minions, and the minor damage they managed to inflict could now be repaired with bone mending, but the undead still struggled to keep up.


    Tyron watched them fumble about until they finally managed to corner thest of them and stab it to death. He shook his head.


    Without his interference and aid, his skeletons were still rtively woeful fighters. If he didn¡¯t direct them with his thoughts, empower them with spells or employ his magick on their opponents, through his curse or by dominating their minds, they struggled even against creatures weaker than himself.


    And he was <em>weak</em>.


    Though, perhaps not as much as he¡¯d been before. He looked down at his hands at his side and flexed his fingers into a fist. There was strength there now that he¡¯d never experienced before.


    A t plus ten to every aspect of himself might not sound like much, but it represented a near doubling of some of them. He was stronger and quicker than he¡¯d ever been before. Even if just a little bit, it helped to round out how lopsided he had be with his oversized constitution and intelligence.


    ¡°You¡¯re looking pensive, kid. Need to shit?¡±


    ¡°I was just thinking about how different I feel after advancing.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s good, right? You might be a scrawny mage, but now you can walk up to any seventeen year old in the empire and snap their arms like twigs. It¡¯s great for fighter types too. They get a little extra boost in the brain-zone so they aren¡¯t quite sopletely fucking stupid all the time.¡±


    ¡°I was also thinking about how weak my skeletons are. If I don¡¯t help them, they¡¯re pretty underwhelming.¡±


    ¡°Underwhelming? You¡¯re being way too kind. They¡¯replete trash. Even with your bone stitching at the level it is, they just aren¡¯t that coordinated, nor do they think quickly. With enough numbers, they can surround stuff and club it to death, but that¡¯s about it.¡±


    ¡°I was just hoping they¡¯d be¡­ doing better by now,¡± Tyron sighed. ¡°I¡¯ve worked so hard to make them as well as I possibly can. It kind of feels like I¡¯ve wasted my efforts.¡±


    He was more than a little disheartened, to tell the truth. He¡¯d been helping his undead in battle either directly or indirectly, sometimes directing them without being conscious of it, ever since he¡¯d begun his journey as a Necromancer. Only now did he begin to think of what they might be capable of without him interfering on their behalf.


    ¡°Look, kid. You <em>have</em> done well with them. As far as undead go, the bony boys you¡¯ve put together are good. Just try to keep in mind, you only <em>just</em> advanced for the first time. You are now officially the lowest rung, bottom of the barrel, useless hunk of dung type of yer out there. You just walked out of the academy, thinking that you¡¯re hot shit, but everyone knows you¡¯re garbage, they¡¯re just too polite to say it.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Dove,¡± Tyron said wryly.


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying there¡¯s a long way to go! Wait until you see the feats, spells and abilities you get offered as you level up your new ss. There¡¯ll be some good stuff in there, I promise. Not to mention, you need to get to figuring out new ways to assess and create undead. When those basic Skills hit twenty, your skelly boys will be a hell of a lot better than they are now.¡±


    ¡°Still a long way to go.¡±


    ¡°Abso-fucking-lutely.¡±


    The young mage sighed and mentally gathered his twenty skeletons together. As they assembled around him, he pulled his coat a little tighter to protect against the biting wind.


    In the foothills of the western mountains, the weather was dismal almost all year round, and now was no different. Grey clouds hung low over ahead, threatening to unleash a downpour that would no doubt soon begin. A freezing wind blew, whistling through the jutting rocks and sending the long grasses to roll like an ocean in a storm.


    For a brief moment, he envied the skeletons, and Dove, for theirck of care toward the cold, but the feeling quickly vanished. Being able to feel wasn¡¯t a negative just because it was chilly. Lich-hood was not in his future.


    Though he did idly wonder if vampires felt the cold.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯re going to find much else,¡± he sighed. ¡°Not many rift-kin made it this far. I probably haven¡¯t even killed enough to gain a level.¡±


    ¡°Doubtful. It¡¯s slim pickings here, that¡¯s for sure. Do you think it¡¯s time to try and move to somewhere with a little more activity? Back to Woodsedge maybe?¡±


    Tyron shook his head. Going back to the site of the break would be a disaster. More than a few yers had seen him there, along with his minions, enough that surely someone survived. He didn¡¯t doubt they¡¯d be looking for him there.


    <em>Not that there are many options. It¡¯s not like rifts are around every corner and behind every door. </em>


    There was another further south, with an apanying yer keep, but the journey would take almost a week, and that would likely be the ce they expected him to go. There were rumoured to be unstable rifts in the mountains, though remote enough that no one had investigated.


    Until a rift grew strong enough to regrly allow the passage of rift-kin, the empire didn¡¯t bother with them. He could go looking in the mountains, except hispleteck of mountaineering would likely mean such an expedition would result in his own death.


    <em>Nowhere to go except deeper into the province.</em>


    Except he couldn¡¯t go there either, not until the yers and marshals finished their sweep and went back to regr duties. He was frustrated, but he didn¡¯t have many options.


    ¡°Come on then, Dove. Let¡¯s head back.¡±


    ¡°Why do you say that like I¡¯m in any way involved? You are literally carrying me. You think I can choose to walk off into the night? I¡¯m a skull!¡±


    ¡°Alright! Fine. Be present as I walk back to the camp then.¡±


    ¡°Why thank you. I refuse. I¡¯m going to sleep.¡±


    ¡°Gods damn you, Dove.¡±


    But the light was already gone from those hollow eyes as the once Summoner retreated into the semi-aware state that passed as sleep for an undead.


    Tyron sighed heavily as he began to trudge back. The ground was muddy and the long grass wet, which made the walk perfectly distasteful. He would have enjoyed some conversation, but he couldn¡¯t really begrudge his friend the little control he had over himself. Talking or not talking, sleeping or not sleeping, those were the only options Dove had left to him now.


    Again, Tyron felt guilty for the position he had forced the man into. Dove hadn''t asked for this cursed existence, and he¡¯d tolerated it with remarkable patience, all things considered. They were well past the time that Tyron had promised he would release the trapped spirit, but he knew he¡¯d be dead without Dove¡¯s help. He still intended to keep his promise and release him, but the time never seemed right.


    The Necromancer sighed and rummaged in his pack, withdrawing something hard and round wrapped in a ragged cloth. Held in his hand, he beheld for a few long moments.


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you feel like talking¡­.¡± he trailed off.


    There was no response from the stone, and Tyron sighed again before he packed it away again.


    ¡°Probably for the best. I don¡¯t think you want to know where you¡¯re going.¡±


    Circumstances were conspiring to trap him once again, and Tyron would kick and thrash as hard as he could to make sure that didn¡¯t happen. Without a safe way to progress, and with the ins too dangerous to traverse, he was stuck sitting in a cave, waiting until his time ran out.


    There was temptation to go hunting, as he had before. He could find more bandits and kill them, harvesting them for the materials he needed to create new minions, progressing his ss throughbat at the same time. Monty was still out there, along with the remnants of his bandit group. If anyone deserved death at the end of a skeleton¡¯s de, it was that bastard.


    But he gave up on the idea. It was just too dangerous for him to be down there, but theck of options left him feeling pressured. He was going to have to do something he didn¡¯t want to try and find a path forward. He could only hope it would be worth the price.


    The wrapped stone weighed heavily in his pack as he continued to trudge back. He could still remember, likely he would never forget, the night he got it.


    <em>Tyron sat in the darkness after Elsbeth had left. Tomorrow, he would need to leave the farm and head into the wilderness again. Yor would be pissed. This backcountry collection of farmhouses was a shining beacon of civilizationpared to the viges in the foothills, and for some reason, he got the impression she didn¡¯t much appreciate the rough conditions. Used to slightly better treatment was Yor.</em>


    <em>She¡¯d have to deal with it, the same as he did. This would be a dangerous period, out in the wilderness.</em>


    <em>He leaned back in his chair, allowing his light spells to fade and the darkness to enfold him. How had things gotten to this point? Cursed with a ss he didn¡¯t ask for, he¡¯d left hoping to carve out some space for himself, and now he found himself in the centre of a cosmic tug-of-war he didn¡¯t know anything about.</em>


    <em>The Dark Ones. The Scarlet Court. The Abyss. He understood little about any of these factions, and yet they were powerful beyond belief, and each interested in controlling his fate.</em>


    <em>Why? Why did he matter so much? Was he just a pawn, expected to dance for their amusement? He gathered that they found his struggles interesting, a diversion to distract them from their eternal boredom, but was there something more? </em>


    <em>The questions frustrated him, and the only way to get answers meant giving things he wasn¡¯t prepared to give.</em>


    <em>What choice did he have?</em>


    <em>Of all the prices that had been asked, there was one he could pay. Though he may be damned in the doing of it.</em>


    <em>Tyron closed his eyes, and breathed. When he opened them again, a feverish light burned inside. Had anyone been there to see, they would recognise the look on his face as the same he¡¯d had when Dove had been recreated as a skull.</em>


    <em>As the first hints of light began to creep over the horizon, Tyron stood before a baleful spirit, ring at him from within its maelstrom of twisted energies. In one hand, he held a palm-sized stone, while the other hand was held nonchntly at his side, a grin frozen on his face.</em>


    <em>¡°Nice to see you again, Davon,¡± he¡¯d said.</em>


    You live¡­.


    <em>The ghost had rasped at him, cold fury and anger rising like steam from a kettle.</em>


    <em>¡°You didn¡¯t really think I¡¯d be killed by more like you, did you Davon? Your bones fought well, I must admit. How many of your ownrades did your skeleton kill, do you think?¡±</em>


    You will die soon, worm. You will enter this godless mist and I will feast on your spirit.


    <em>The smile faded from Tyron¡¯s features, but the mad light in his eyes did not dim. He hefted the stone in his hand.</em>


    <em>¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s going to happen,¡± he said, barely more than a whisper. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about this, Davon. I really am.¡±</em>


    What¡­ are you saying? You threaten me, when I¡¯m already dead?


    <em>Tyron looked down, then nodded.</em>


    <em>¡°It turns out, there are worse ces for a soul to be. Again, I¡¯m sorry about this, but it¡¯s time we get you into your new home.¡±</em>


    <em>The spirit screamed, towards the end, but locked away in the rock by Tyron¡¯s ritual, there were none who could hear it.</em>

 Chapter B2C20 - Step Beyond the Veil

    Chapter B2C20 - Step Beyond the Veil


    ¡°Kid, as much as I admire your colossal sack, I¡¯m worried those same pendulous balls are blocking your vision, like a hairy, wrinkled blindfold. This is not a good idea.¡±


    ¡°In an <em>unusual </em>turn of events, I find myself agreeing with the skull,¡± Yor said. ¡°There is too much risk involved. These are powers far beyond your ken. Perhaps one day, you will speak with beings such as these, but that day is far from this one.¡±


    Tyron dropped the bag he was rummaging through and turned to face hispanions, his brow creased with anger.


    ¡°Then what do you expect me to do?¡± he said, voice sharp and hard. ¡°I don¡¯t have unlimited time, like you keep telling me, I have to rush, but how? Stuck in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to hunt, unable to move lest I¡¯m caught. If I don¡¯t advance, then I¡¯m as good as dead, but <em>I can¡¯t do anything</em>.¡±


    It was unusual for Tyron to be this harsh, and it was clear, even to Dove, who was gradually losing his eye for human emotion, that he was close to breaking under the pressure.


    Retreating to this cave and advancing his ss had been a necessary step, and an important milestone, but it had also been a trap. As the young Necromancer had said, he was stuck.


    ¡°I understand what you¡¯re saying, kid. I really do. But if you¡¯re going to take risks to get out of this situation, then I can suggest other, less dangerous alternatives. For example, run across the ins stark naked with a sign saying ¡®Necromancer¡¯ dangling from your rod.¡±


    Yor nced down at the skull.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t he have to be¡­.?¡±


    ¡°As red, and as hard as an Ironwood Staff, yes. It¡¯d be a challenge, but I think the kid would be up for it. He can rise to the asion. If anything, the experience might harden him a little. Let him know that the real world won¡¯t let him slide in without resistance.¡±


    ¡°Is this funny to you?¡± Tyron asked, anger bubbling beneath his tone.


    ¡°No! It¡¯s not fucking funny! You understand that what you¡¯re proposing is obscenely dangerous, right? My dead body is a hundred kilometres away and I still feel it edging toward the nearest door.¡±


    The skull¡¯s eyes shed with purple light.


    ¡°I am dead serious when I say that trying to move across the ins and avoid capture is less risky than this. You should seriously consider it.¡±


    ¡°Even if I manage to cross, where would I go?¡± Tyron asked tiredly.


    He¡¯d considered this. He¡¯d considered everything, this was hisst choice, not his first. Options were dropping away by the hour like sand slipping through his fingers. If he managed to sneak past the yers and marshals rolling out over the ins, he could then travel to another yer keep and try his luck hunting stray rift-kin. Except, it would simply take too long.


    Forget the difficulty of hiding his undead, both during the journey and after they arrived, or whether he would even have sufficient hunting to level up, he would never get there. His parents would eventually bepelled to get him, it was only a question of when. He had to act as if he had less than a month left.


    ¡°Any other rift in the province is too far for me to reach in time, as well you know,¡± he continued. ¡°I don¡¯t have a choice. I¡¯d rather not do this, believe me, but what else can I do? I¡¯m not trying to align myself with the Abyss, but if I can negotiate somehow, they might be able to provide an answer that can help me. It¡¯s desperate, I know, but I <em>am</em> desperate. Without throwing myself to the Old Gods, or making myself a vampire, I don¡¯t see any other path to find a way out.¡±


    He was clearly frustrated. Tyron didn¡¯t want to rely on the patrons in any way if he could help it, yet circumstances kept driving him towards them. If any of the three would have information that could help him, it would be the Abyss, and with the spirit of Davon bound to the stone in his pocket, he had something he could use to pay for it that wasn¡¯t his eternal servitude.


    ¡°My presence may help, somewhat,¡± Yor said, ¡°but it is far from an aegis of protection. The Abyss isn¡¯t known for its <em>adherence</em> to rules or <em>etiquette</em>. The entities you seek may rip you apart the moment they see you.¡±


    ¡°But not you?¡± Tyron asked, eyes sharpening.


    ¡°No. I have the means to protect myself, even in that ce. I would not risk <em>eternity</em> for you, Tyron.¡±


    He grunted. That made sense. The Vampire was happy to have him in her debt, but not so much she¡¯d risk herself unnecessarily. He thought of how she had intervened to save him from the Dark Ones. She¡¯d been afraid then, though she¡¯d hidden it well. With her Mistress¡¯ protection, Yor had been able to negotiate with creatures far beyond her in power. It was exactly that disy that had convinced him his current course of action was possible.


    ¡°Good. I¡¯m going to prepare the ritual. I¡¯ll be ready in two hours, then we go through.¡±


    ¡°Is that really enough time for you?¡± Yor asked, an elegant brow arched.


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°Of course. I¡¯ve performed this ritual before, I know how it works. Having said that, I have a few ideas on it. Dove? Are you willing to help me go through a few things, or are you going to sulk?¡±


    ¡°By the ripe tits of the Holy Mother, kid. You really know how to try a person¡¯s patience. I¡¯m dead and you <em>still</em> manage to piss me off. Yes I¡¯ll help you. I just want you to know that I¡¯m not happy about it. You¡¯re probably right about doing this, but by my own shiny bone-head, I don¡¯t like it.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    He strode over and picked up the skull.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get to work.¡±


    For the following two hours, he bickered back and forth with Dove as he set to putting down the ritual circle. Multiple times, the former Summoner sniped at him for his steady hand and perfect eye, even resorting to trying to distract him at key moments, much to Tyron¡¯s irritation. Despite his affinity for such tasks, he was still human. He was forced to make corrections several times, losing valuable time.


    Despite this, the circle wasplete to his satisfaction within the time allotted. He stillcked the materials to do such work properly, so he¡¯d drawn the circle in dust again, but at least this time, he had experience on his side. With his ritual focus and the modifications he¡¯d made, he was confident he would be safe, particrly with Yor by his side.


    The vampire watched from the side as he cast the spell, a long and difficult process that required all the focus he could muster. When it was done, the break in the veil hovered before them, a perturbation in the air, as if a stone had been dropped in a pond before him.


    Along with the rift came the voices, soft at first, pricking at his mind as they whispered their maddening truths.


    Tyron gripped his ritual focus in one hand, held before him like a ward as the circle glowed bright beneath his feet. From the side, Dove watched as the rift began to leak pure darkness, limbs of twisting non-stuff pushing into a reality that was never intended to hold them.


    An Abyssal. Even dead, Dove felt a shiver of fear in his soul. Such a creature was beyond dangerous and he never wanted to be this close to one in his life, or afterlife for that matter.


    ¡°Fucking¡­ <em>balls</em>,¡± he muttered, forck of anything better to say.


    A frown creased Tyron¡¯s face as he fought off the voices, unable to see the danger creeping closer. Before the writhing tentacles found him, Yor was there, a hand raised, palm out, projecting a blood red wave of light. The Abyssal reacted the moment it was touched by that baleful glow. At first it retracted, like an animal prodded unexpectedly, jerking backwards into the rift. After a moment it came forward again, its uncountable tendrils drifting and waving towards the glow.


    <em>She¡¯smunicating with it</em>, Dove thought wonderingly. <em>That shouldn¡¯t be possible</em>.


    He looked at the vampire anew. Despite what he knew about her, which admittedly wasn¡¯t much, he hadn¡¯t thought highly of the society she purported to represent. She¡¯d been big on promises, but hadn¡¯t delivered anything tangible in terms of magickal knowledge or ability. But here, now, there was evidence of what she and by extension her people were capable of. The ability to navigate andmune with the Abyss¡­ it was staggering. Summoners would give their left tit and both nuts to hold such knowledge. What could they learn? What mysteries had they unravelled?


    He hungered to know. Recognising the instinct in himself, he did his best to brush it off. He was dead, and would stay that way. If he became self-absorbed in his pursuit of magick, he would fail in the only reason he still remained on this ne: helping the kid.


    ¡°I have secured passage,¡± Yor said, snapping Tyron¡¯s eyes open. ¡°Are you ready?¡±


    The young mage swallowed and nodded slowly, clearly still disturbed by the endless voices.


    ¡°Take me with you,¡± Dove said suddenly.


    Tyron snapped his gaze down to the skull before he reached down and lifted it from his perch on a nearby stool with one hand.


    ¡°Change your mind?¡± he asked his friend.


    ¡°Not really, but this is a chance to see something I never imagined I would. Also, I don¡¯t want to be stuck in a cave with a creepy tear through the veil of reality hovering in front of me.¡±


    Though he didn¡¯t want to say it, the Necromancer was deeplyforted by Doveing along. He took a deep breath and shook his head to clear it of whispers, then turned to Yor and nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯m ready,¡± he said.


    She grinned suddenly, revealing her pointed fangs, before she turned toward the tear and began to walk through, projecting the red light in front of her as she went. As she advanced, the abyssal retreated, retracting its limbs back through the rift.


    The moment the vampire came into contact with the veil, her figure blurred, bing indistinct and frayed around the edges, like a tapestry unravelling. Tyron swallowed and stepped forward alongside her.


    What he saw beyond the veil was¡­ nothing. Darkness, an utter andplete void that stretched to eternity. He shifted his head to look behind and found he could see his own ritual, a slight tear in the boundless nothing, the flickering light of the cave beyond.


    The voices were louder now, insistent and urgent, shing images and thoughts into his brain, spikes being driven straight into his thoughts. He growled and focused himself, using all of his mental discipline to force them away. Yor watched him with understanding in her eyes.


    ¡°Not toote to turn back,¡± she said.


    ¡°No,¡± he said heavily. ¡°I¡¯m fine. Let¡¯s continue.¡±


    She nodded and turned back to the rift behind them. With one swift motion, she raised her wrist to her mouth and bit. From the wound, a stream of dark, pulsing blood began to flow, rising from her wrist and twisting through the air like a ribbon.


    Tyron watched, amazed, as the blood flowed in and around itself, whirling into aplex shape that wrapped around the rift, forming a shield of protection that glowed with power.


    ¡°This will prevent any of the denizens of this ce from being able to move through the tear until we return,¡± she said. ¡°Once they taste the freedom of the other side, they are seldom willing to give it up.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t fucking say,¡± Dove remarked sarcastically, but Tyron could tell his heart wasn¡¯t really in it. Metaphorically speaking.


    ¡°You okay there, Dove?¡± he asked.


    ¡°This ce is giving me the heebie-fucking-jeebies, kid. You don¡¯t understand just what we¡¯re looking at, otherwise you¡¯d be right there with me.¡±


    ¡°You think I¡¯m not scared? At least you don¡¯t have the voices in your head.¡±


    ¡°True. They don¡¯t seem interested in the dead.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re quite finished <em>chatting</em>,¡± Yor interjected, ¡°we should advance. I cannot protect you forever.¡±


    For the first time, Tyron noticed that she seemed weakened, a slight tremor to her movements, a tiny quaver in her voice. What she¡¯d done for them was draining to her, massively so.


    ¡°Alright,¡± he said. ¡°How do we proceed?¡±


    ¡°Simply walk. When we are far enough from the tear, that which you seek will make itself known to you, but it cannot approach a breach in the veil. To do so would damage it, and your world.¡±


    ¡°We walk? On <em>what</em>?¡±


    Tyron had nonguage to exin the ce he found himself in. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, and yet¡­.


    He could talk, he stood upon¡­ <em>something</em>, and out there, beyond the reach of the light that Yor created, he could sense them, the abyssals, circling them as sharks eyeing helpless prey. Their voices were audible, but muted, scratched at the edges, as if they spoke to each other from close, yet far away at the same time. His eyes swam whenever he tried to focus, on anything at all.


    And always the voices, whispering, pushing.


    ¡°I honestly cannot exin. Walk, and try not to think about it.¡±


    And so they did. Shakily at first, they stepped away from the tear, which faded into the ckness behind them as they walked further out into the void. To help distract him from the voices, he engaged Dove in a hushed conversation about the Abyss, though there was nothing new the Summoner could tell him.


    When atst the tear had shrunk to almost nothing, Yor held up a hand, suddenly tense.


    Tyron froze, his eyes flicking uselessly around, meeting nothing but darkness on every side.


    And then the darkness <em>moved</em>.


    His mind <em>creaked</em> under the strain as it tried to process what continued to happen around him, yet failed. Dove was more articte.


    ¡°Fuck. Me,¡± the skull rasped.


    The¡­ <em>entity</em>, was enormous beyondprehension. Larger than a mountain,rger than a mountain <em>range</em>, it enveloped them, almostpletely, only a small gap remained back to the tear.


    Yet he couldn¡¯t see it. There was nothing to see. Whatever it was, it gave off no light, or sound. The Abyss was a void, the ce between ces, where nothing existed. The being before them was that nothing made manifest, a terrible state made manifest.


    ¡°It¡¯s listening,¡± Yor breathed to them. ¡°Produce your offering.¡±


    Tyron stood transfixed, almost not hearing her. This had been a mistake. This was something that even the Old Gods deferred to. What had he really hoped to achieve here?


    Hand shaking, he withdrew the stone from a pocket within his coat and held it aloft. Such a pitiful offering,pared to the being in front of him. He could not feel more insignificant, more inconsequential, than he did at this moment. This entity could smash the entire western province with a stroke, if it were able to touch it.


    The darkness around them stilled, for a brief moment, then two things happened at once.


    First, the stone in Tyron¡¯s hand crumbled to dust that bled into the void and vanished, consumed. There may have been a cry, a wail of despair that reverberated around them, or perhaps not.


    The second thing to ur was a st of searing pain that stabbed deep into the Necromancer¡¯s mind. He threw his head back and screamed through gritted teeth as images burned themselves into his consciousness, too bright for him toprehend.


    The agony was short lived, as he was unable to withstand it for long. Before the presence was done, he felt his legs give way as the pain receded and blessed oblivion embraced him.


    He awoke with a start to find himself inside the cave, staring up at Yor, who looked down at him solemnly, a hint of concern on her sculpted features. His head pounded, and he felt as if his blood crawled through his veins.


    ¡°What you just did was remarkably dangerous,¡± the vampire stated, ¡°I hope you were able to gain what you were looking for.¡±


    Tyron leaned back and closed his eyes. His entire body shook, with relief, or shock, or fear, he didn¡¯t know. He¡¯d been so <em>stupid</em>, and yet, he hadn¡¯t failed.


    He nodded shakily. Somehow, the being <em>had</em> understood what he needed, in a way.


    In the back of his mind, knowledge burned, ufortably. Were he to lift a hand and point, he could precisely identify the location of Monty and his remaining bandits.

 Chapter B2 C21 - The Price of Power

    Chapter B2 C21 - The Price of Power


    The countryside slowly rattled past as the cart followed a winding dirt track through the foothills. Tyron sat in his customary position toward the back, a femur held in his hands as he passed it back and forth, trying to focus his mind on it.


    He¡¯d been this way for hours, and Dove was starting to get sick of it.


    ¡°What crawled up your arse and died?¡± he demanded.


    ¡°W-what?¡± the young mage looked up, surprised.


    The skull that contained the Summoner''s spirit sat wedged between two bags of bones so it didn¡¯t bounce around in the back of the cart, and Tyron found his glowing eyes, frowning.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been sitting there squirming with a sour look on your face, not saying anything for hours. We both know what¡¯s bothering you, let¡¯s talk about it, let¡¯s flop it out and examine it in the true male tradition.¡±


    ¡°Dove, you don¡¯t need to insert your dick into every situation.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what my wife said.¡±


    ¡°Wait¡­ you were married?¡±


    ¡°No, not in the legal sense. Or the romantic sense. It doesn¡¯t matter. Stop trying to change the subject! Murder. We were going to talk about all the murder you¡¯re nning on doing.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s features twisted and he leaned forward to bury his face in his palms.


    ¡°This is why I didn¡¯t want to talk about it,¡± he groaned. ¡°I was hoping to avoid thinking about it at least for a while.¡±


    ¡°Except you didn¡¯t avoid thinking about it, did you? Every time you tried to focus on that chunk of bone you got a look on your face like you were about to throw up.¡±


    ¡°That obvious, was it?¡± Tyron sighed.


    ¡°It was even more obvious than that if I¡¯m being honest. I¡¯ve seen yers with dysentery that had a more cid expression than you had on. If the concept of murder is so disturbing to you, then why are we out here trundling about on the ins?¡±


    ¡°You know why,¡± the Necromancer grumbled.


    ¡°Exin it to me again. Just for funsies.¡±


    ¡°So I can get experience and resources to keep advancing my ss.¡±


    ¡°So, your n is to murder a bunch of people in order to empower yourself?¡±


    The mage lifted his head and set his jaw.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said.


    As much as he might try to dress it up, that was what he was going to do. He could make an argument that the men he was nning to kill were terrible, evil even. Rapists and murderers, they would be killed by the marshals eventually, once Ate and the others reported their experiences to the authorities. Did that make it right for Tyron to take thew into his own hands?


    No. Not even close.


    Little by little, he could feel himself being chipped away. Only the day before, he had taken the spirit of a person, a human being, and offered it to an otherworldly creature in exchange for knowledge.


    Was it really a soul? Was it a psychic imprint on the ambient magick from the moment of death? Did it matter, in the end? He refused to handwave his responsibilities away with weak justifications. The only way to face his actions and choices was head on.


    Ultimately, all of the morality boiled down to a single question that he continued to ask himself every day. He¡¯d asked it as he stood in the dark, stone in hand, preparing to conjure a spirit. He¡¯d asked it as he looked into the Abyss for the first time, and felt the madness imprisoned there creeping into him. He¡¯d asked it as he stood, shovel in hand, over the open grave of a recently departed member of his ownmunity.


    <em>Will you do this thing, or will you abandon your goals?</em>


    Was he willing to turn his back on all that he hoped to achieve, to reach the heights his parents had achieved, to be a force for good in the world and help turn back the tide of rift-kin that was slowly burying the realm in darkness? Or would he forge ahead, against his own instinct, against what he thought was the right thing?


    It was wrong to hunt and kill human beings to empower himself. It was an unarguable fact. Yet he was going to do it anyway, because he would rather do that than abandon his hopes and dreams.


    ¡°Am I a selfish person, Dove?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes,¡± the response was immediate.


    A flicker of pain crossed through the Necromancer¡¯s eyes. He¡¯d known it, but it still hurt to hear it said. He liked to think he wanted power for the right reasons, but ultimately he still wanted it for himself.


    ¡°Kid, everyone who pursues the heights is a selfish piece of shit in this ce. You have to be, really. Altruism is nice, don¡¯t get me wrong, it¡¯s great even. But any person who was able to scale the precipice and achieve those kinds of levels of personal strength is automatically selfish. The resources they had to expend to get there, the effort, the time, the energy, all of it could have been directed to another cause, but instead, it was devoted to the self. Your parents are a perfect example, Magnin and Beory do whatever the hell they want and always have.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve helped a lot of people.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a byproduct of their search for freedom. You know that as well as I do.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve never murdered anyone.¡±


    ¡°First, you don¡¯t know that. yers are asked to do all sorts of shit when they reach the top end. Rogil had us hunt down criminals a few times. They didn¡¯t get a trial, let me tell you now. Second, do you think they would havemitted murder if it was the only way for them to grow strong?¡±


    <em>They would have</em>. <em>They wouldn¡¯t even hesitate.</em>


    He didn¡¯t like to admit it, his parents were heroes in the eyes of the public, but he knew them better than anyone. The drive for adventure, and freedom, was all consuming inside those two. They would have pushed for it at any price.


    ¡°I guess what I¡¯m trying to say is, fuck Monty and those pricks. Heck, resurrect those arseholes and murder them twice. Don¡¯t get all in your feelings over a gang of literal pieces of walking shit.¡±


    ¡°I get what you¡¯re saying, but that doesn¡¯t make it right.¡±


    ¡°Kid. Tyron. Who fucking cares if it¡¯s right? Not this entrapped spirit, that¡¯s for sure. These guys need killing, you need levels and skeletons, it''s winning all around.¡±


    They didn¡¯t speak for a long moment as the cart continued to rumble forward. Eventually, Tyron broke the silence.


    ¡°Thanks, Dove.¡±


    Without the support of the skull, he likely would have driven himself mad by now. He knew he was in the wrong, but at least he felt a little better about it.


    ¡°No problem. Now, rather than moping, hopefully, you can start doing a better job making sure the marshals aren¡¯t about to leap over the ridge and punch us in the face.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been checking¡­.¡±


    ¡°Sure you have.¡±


    Tyron sighed and worked his magick for a moment. When it wasplete, his eyes flickered before being overtaken by vision from another source. Looking through the eyes of his skeletons, he scanned their surroundings before he dismissed the spell.


    ¡°Still nothing,¡± he said.


    ¡°Those bony boys have shocking eyesight. You really think using them for your lookouts is appropriate?¡±


    ¡°Unlike you, I don¡¯t have a spirit bird I can whip out to spy on things. Skeletons are what I have, so that¡¯s what I have to use.¡±


    He had four out there now, moving carefully through the brush while the rest of his minions pulled the cart. Every now and again, he would look through their eyes and see if anyone was drawing close. Out here on the ins, he was at constant risk of discovery by yers and marshals. Hopefully they wouldn¡¯t care enough about these rtively empty ces to search thoroughly for any stray kin.


    ¡°Which is why - ¡°


    ¡°Summoners are superior,¡± Tyron sounded out along with him, rolling his eyes.


    ¡°Nice to see you agree. Now if you¡¯re finally in a good headspace, let¡¯s see if we can work on your new stuff.¡±


    ¡°You mean my Minion Modification Skill?¡±


    ¡°Exactly. How does that even work?¡±


    It was an¡­ interesting ability, albeit a powerful one. Tyron had never really considered the possibility he¡¯d be able to make changes to minions that had already been created. Adjusting a ritual that had been enacted was very different from reforging a de. A ritual was aplex magickal construct with many moving, interlocking pieces. Sticking his hand in the middle and tinkering with it was, generally speaking, bad for the ritual and not great for his hand either.


    Except in this metaphor, the hand would be his <em>mind</em>.


    Yet this new Skill enabled him to do just that. It was remarkable.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ weird. It¡¯s like I can <em>peel </em>backyers of a minion and work on them before patching it all back together. I¡¯ve only attempted it a few times, it¡¯s such a strange sensation. I can even start to unravel their bone weaving and change sections.¡±


    The skull absorbed this information.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you understand how powerful that Skill is going to be in the long run. Having undeadgging way behind your current standard can get you killed. Not to mention the insane efficiency gain. You¡¯ll go through less remains to maintain a full contingent of your best minions, <em>and</em> you don¡¯t even need to find remains to practise your Skills.¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I mean, if you want to work on your Raise Dead, for example, you can bring over one of the bone-crew and start poking at the ritual. It might even give you insights you wouldn¡¯t otherwise get, being able to modify it after it was cast.¡±


    That was¡­ true. Tyron hadn¡¯t really considered it that way. He quickly ordered one of his skeletons to approach and watched as it awkwardly climbed into the back of the cart amidst the bags filled with bones.


    ¡°Workaholic,¡± Dove sniffed.


    The young mage grinned as he got to work, beginning to extend his magick and examine the conduit thaty between the skeleton and himself. Being able to make modifications as it functioned was an incredible opportunity and he wasted no time in starting as hemented back and forth with his friend.


    Despite how engrossing the magick was, in the back of his mind, the locations of the remaining bandits burned like candles. No matter what he did, it was impossible for him to truly dismiss them from his thoughts.


    They weren¡¯t that far away. He¡¯d likely run into a few of them tomorrow. A group of six, or perhaps seven, had broken off from the main group and appeared to have settled somewhere close to the foothills.


    Spectacrly unwise.

 Chapter B2C22 - Merciless

    Chapter B2C22 - Merciless


    There were more candles burning than the night before. When Tyron had gone to sleep, he¡¯d estimated there to be close to twenty of the small mes alight in the back of his mind. When he awoke, that number had grown. By how much, was difficult to say, many of the candles flickered so close to each other that determining an exact number was impossible. Even so, he was certain it had grown.


    That meant Monty had not yet given up on his twisted ambitions. He was recruiting. The thought of the chubby, in-faced farmhand despoiling even more families filled Tyron¡¯s chest with anger until he felt it would boil up his throat. Why weren¡¯t the yers and marshalls doing anything? Had they <em>still</em> not reached this area?


    If that was the case, they were dragging their feet, moving well behind the timetable he¡¯d expected from them. As a result, the people suffered.


    His skeletons moved with silent precision as he actively directed them with his thoughts. The isted farmhouse wasn¡¯t much to look at, far less prosperous than the four farmsteads they¡¯d assaulted in the past. This area was even more remote, thend less fertile and more difficult to work. Judging by the size of the building, it was unlikely more than four or five had lived there.


    Smoke curled from the chimney, indicating a well tended fire burned inside. As close as he was, Tyron could hear muffled voices from within, punctuated asional bursts of raucousughter and banter.


    Some part of him hated these men. The callous disregard for others, the brute, thuggish enforcement of their will against the helpless. They were everything his parents had taught him not to be.


    The Necromancer fuelled that anger, funnelled his emotions in the kiln until it burned hot and righteous. He needed that fire to do what had to be done, to take the next step.


    He was the aggressor this time, self-defence didn¡¯te into it.


    It was incredible how much of a difference each Skill made. Thebination of Minion Commander and Undead Control allowed him to direct the movements of his twenty skeletons like a conductor did his musicians. It was as if he were forming patterns in his mind, lines for the skeletons to move along. No longer did they crowd into each other, or even get their swords tangled in each other''s ribs (which had happened a few times, much to his embarrassment). They moved equally distant from each other, and his mentalmands shifted smoothly from one to the next.


    This was most definitely something he needed to raise as high as possible. He hoped it still worked as well when he had arger horde of undead. What would it feel like to direct an army of thousands like this? He could scarcely imagine the thrill of it.


    Unwilling to expose himself, Tyron remained crouched by the wall, his eyes narrowed to the point of almost being closed as he subtly wove his magick. He peered through the eyes of his skeletons as they wrapped around the humble building, poised beside windows, hunkered down next to doors.


    With their silent movement, and having been manipted to remain out of sight, the undead crept into position unnoticed. Without even realising it, the bandits had been enveloped in a skeletal fist.


    If he were to cast any of his more powerful support spells, the men inside were sure to hear him, so Tyron refrained, instead directing his minions to approach the front door.


    So fine was his ability tomand them, he could even direct a skeleton to step forward and grasp the door handle as he looked through its eyes. In one smooth motion, the skeleton pulled the door open with force and charged forward, followed closely by ten of its fellow servants.


    Seen through the blurred view of a skeleton, the inside of the house was even more of a mess than it would have seemed under normal circumstances. It had been ransacked, the cupboards kicked in, food trampled underfoot, pieces of furniture scattered across the floor. The men who sat in a loose circle around a firepit in the centre of what had once been a humble dining area, passing a half-empty bottle between each other, weren¡¯t much better. Dishevelled and unwashed, they appeared to have gone half wild, knotted hair and ripped clothing giving an animalistic cast to their appearance.


    That rage boiled up in Tyron¡¯s throat once more, threatening to choke him. He grimaced outside the building, his teeth clenched to hold it in as he directed his skeletons forward.


    The bandits snatched up weapons as they scrambled to rise to their feet, but they were much too slow. With his new abilities, it was trivial for Tyron to order his servants forward efficiently, dividing the skeletons between the seven targets. Swords thrust forward or fell down in crude overhead chops, cutting into flesh. Fresh blood sprayed as the bandits cried out in pain, the stter little more than a purple haze in the eyes of the skeletons.


    Only a few managed to rise to their feet unharmed, but Tyron was ready for them, rotating skeletons from the wounded targets to overwhelm the others. One skeleton swung in a wide arc from right to left, forcing the former farmhand to block to the side, while another undead stepped forward with a stab directly to the chest.


    In moments, the fight had gone out of them. Takenpletely by surprise, they¡¯d been overwhelmed in an instant. Two leapt out the windows, smashing through the wooden shutters only tond at the feet of waiting minions. Others surrendered, clutching at their wounds with one hand as they attempted to keep the life from seeping from their bodies, the other raised in the air, dropping their weapons to the floor.


    So easy. Too easy. It shouldn¡¯t be this simple to kill, yet here he was. Strange to think that a small group of normal people were simply no threat to him anymore. Their Skills and Stats were so much less useful in battle than his own. Even if these men had been prepared for his arrival, he still would have overwhelmed them by adding his own magick into the mix. Only yers or higher levelled marshalls could fight him now.


    This was the progress he¡¯d made after the suffering and effort he¡¯d put in.


    Despite the surge of pride he felt, he was all too aware of what even one yer at the same level as himself would do to him. A swordsman at level twenty would carve through his skeletons as if they weren¡¯t even there, moving with preternatural speed and grace. In fact, such a fighter could probably ignore the undead altogether. Stronger and faster, they could home in on him and cut his head from his shoulders, and there was precious little Tyron would be able to do about it.


    Something for him to consider in the future. Countermeasures had to exist, though he wasn¡¯t sure what they might be. For now, he had seven human lives to deal with.


    ¡°Lie down on your bellies,¡± he shouted through the wall. ¡°Keep your hands away from your weapons!¡±


    He had to repeat himself twice to be heard over the begging and cursing. Soon each bandity helpless, a skeleton pressing a de into their backs as the others collected the simple arms they¡¯d gathered.


    Hatchets, crude cudgels and various other farm implements. Only one had a proper weapon, a morningstar of basic make. It would be a good weapon for a future minion since the skeleton¡¯sck of coordination wouldn¡¯t matter as much. Perhaps the bandit would be able to keep using it in the next phase of his existence.


    Tyron pulled his thoughts away from that grim thought.


    With the situation in hand, he stood and made his way around the building and in through the door. The banditsy bleeding, cursing, one of them sobbing, with his skeletons stood over them. As he entered, they began swearing, threatening and begging in equal measure, voices filled with rage and despair.


    They truly were a pathetic sight.


    He realised then it had been a mistake toe inside. Seeing them for himself made it all the more difficult to do the next part. He worked to stoke the heat of his anger, hoping his outrage would help him do what needed to be done.


    Yet the more he tried to feed the fire, the colder he became. All his emotions and doubts felt burned away, leaving nothing behind. His footshed out as he kicked one of the bandits in the leg.


    ¡°Get up,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll talk to you outside.¡±


    At his mentalmand, three more skeletons entered and watched the man as he came to his feet. Wary of any desperate attacks, Tyron kept his distance as the hollow-eyed, gaunt figure was marched from the small home with several des poking him in the ribs.


    ¡°Easy there, ya fucking walking bones. I¡¯d like to keep my ribs on tha¡¯ inside, unlike yaselves.¡±


    <em>Not likely</em>.


    Once they were outside, Tyron sized up the bandit more carefully. He was clearly at the end of his tether. The pants he wore had been sturdy, workmans gear at one point, but now they were tattered. Torn in several ces, frayed all over and with no sign of repair, his attire told a tale of a man on the edge.


    <em>Life must have been a little rough since they lost their little slice of paradise.</em>


    Likely this was why these seven had broken away from the main group. The situation was getting more desperate this far west. Marshals and yers still hadn¡¯t arrived to restore order, there was little to no trade and supplies were growing thin.


    Not for the first time, Tyron was grateful he didn¡¯t have to feed his minions anything other than magick. Yor was also blessedly low maintenance. Though he worried often if people in nearbymunities were vanishing into the night.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure if I recognise you,¡± Tyron said. ¡°You didn¡¯t happen to try and storm a farm recently? Left a good number of your friends behind, dead on the ground?¡±


    The bandit eyed him warily.


    ¡°Aye, mage. I was there.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t seem all that angry about seeing me again.¡±


    The man shrugged.


    ¡°I figure we deserve it, after what we done. Monty was sayin¡¯ we could live free after, but I wasn¡¯ sure.¡±


    ¡°You feel bad for what you¡¯ve done?¡± Tyron asked, a little surprised.


    The bandit slumped forward, his eyes devoid of emotion.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯ matter now. Jus¡¯ kill me and be done, mage. I don¡¯t got nothing to say.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s quite a bit you can tell me, the only real question is how much work I need to put in before I get my answers. You can talk to me while you¡¯re alive, or we can carry on this conversation after you¡¯re dead. Which would you rather?¡±


    His captive¡¯s face paled as he took in his words.


    ¡°Ya can¡¯t do that. Ya can¡¯t take my soul.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather not have to,¡± Tyron said honestly. ¡°Tell me what I want to know about Monty, and you¡¯ll get a clean death. Refuse, and I¡¯ll be forced topel your spirit to talk.¡±


    It turns out that the idea of being interfered with after death was rather disturbing to most people. Even if the bandit was resigned to the fate of his remains being converted to an undead, he was far more opposed to the idea of Tyron binding his spirit in any way.


    There wasn¡¯t much to be learned about Monty and his gang. After being defeated by Tyron, they¡¯d retreated in disarray, fighting amongst themselves, losing several members as their bickering escted. Ultimately, Monty had retained his leadership and directed the rest to find new targets. These seven had broken away to try and find a more out of the way ce where they couldy low and hopefully avoid the consequences of their actions.


    Tyron didn¡¯t bother asking what had happened to the families who had lived here, and his captive didn¡¯t volunteer the information. There was no need to say it out loud.


    When he was done, Tyron turned and walked away as his skeletons raised their des at his mentalmand.


    He could still hear the screaming, despite the distance he put between himself and the house. At least, mercifully, it didn¡¯tst long.

 Chapter B2C23 - The Change

    Chapter B2C23 - The Change


    It was difficult not to get to work on the remains straight away. For a moment, he had tough at himself. What had he be? No sooner had he finished killing seven people than his fingers began to itch for his carving knife. He ryed the feeling to Dove when he picked up the skull and his friendmiserated in his traditional fashion.


    ¡°You were always a creepy fucker. If anything, the Necromancy has allowed you to truly express your true self. The love for carving human flesh was inside you all along.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove,¡± Tyron rolled his eyes. ¡°I did not want to butcher people.¡±


    ¡°I notice you said ¡®did not¡¯ and not ¡®do not¡¯, you sick bastard.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t create minions without getting at the bones, you idiot skull.¡±


    ¡°Hey, no judgement here. I¡¯m only surprised you didn¡¯t get straight to chopping.¡±


    The Necromancer blew out a breath along with his frustration. Dove was always difficult when he felt he needed to lighten the tension.


    ¡°I need to perform the status ritual, as well you know. With these seven dead, along with the rift-kin that I yed, I might have enough for two levels. I can¡¯t create new minions until I see what choices I get.¡±


    ¡°Well hurry up and get to it, man. I might be dead, but I don¡¯t have endless patience. The first choices you get in a new ss are usually pretty damn swish. A little reward for making it over the hump.¡±


    ¡°What did you pick, when you reached twenty-two?¡±


    ¡°I was able to make a new, more powerful spirit contract. Swimming the astral sea, looking for a creature that vibed with me, those were the days. Up to that point, all I had was my stupid bird. Don¡¯t get me wrong, he¡¯s awesome, but much less impressive than a kick-ass wolf who can eat rift-kin for breakfast.¡±


    ¡°I bet¡­. How did you even level up with nothing but a hawk?¡±


    The eyes of the skull flickered in amusement.


    ¡°Not all of us were on the run from thew, kid. I was in a mage academy, getting drunk, practising magick and trying to getid. Took me two years to settle my foundation and ascend my ss. I didn¡¯t have to fight a rift-kin until I¡¯d reached level twenty four. Not directly, anyway.¡±


    ¡°That sounds nice,¡± Tyron sighed.


    He certainly hadn¡¯t had that luxury.


    ¡°If you think all kin are the same as the little shits that you¡¯ve fought so far, you¡¯re out of your mind, kid. Go through a rift and take a peek at the other side if you get the chance. You¡¯ll shit your dark, ominous robes inside a minute.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn''t doubt it.¡±


    If that weren¡¯t the case, superhuman people like his parents wouldn¡¯t have had to spend all of their time travelling to hotspots, clearing rifts when the yers hadn¡¯t been able to keep up.


    If just anyone could do it, no one would need to scale the heights of power in the way they had.


    ¡°Hopefully something goodes up,¡± he sighed, ¡°I need all the help I can get.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m hoping for sexy ghosts.¡±


    Tyron hesitated. He couldn¡¯t help it.


    ¡°Why¡­ would they be¡­ sexy? Exactly?¡±


    ¡°Why in the name of all that is good and holy would you create an unsexy ghost?¡±


    The young mage hung his head. He should have known not to ask, of course he should have known. After all this time, how could he still be asking, expecting something other thanplete nonsense?


    ¡°I¡¯m going to perform the ritual. Don¡¯t speak to me, until it''s done. Or ever again.¡±


    ¡°You got it.¡±


    <strong>Events:</strong>


    <em>You have directed your horde with precision in battle. <strong>Minion Commander has reached level 2.</strong></em>


    <em>You have coordinated the actions of your undead to great effect. <strong>Undead Control has reached level 2.</strong></em>


    <em>You have experienced the world through the eyes of your minions. <strong>Minion Sight has reached level 5.</strong></em>


    <em>You have enacted the ritual and gained knowledge of it. <strong>Pierce the Veil has reached level 5.</strong></em>


    <em>You have used your abilities to make changes to already raised minions. <strong>Minion Modification has reached level 2.</strong></em>


    <em>New Undead have been created. <strong>Raise Dead has increased proficiency.</strong></em>


    <em>You have applied your skills to assess and prepare the dead. <strong>Corpse Appraisal, Corpse Preparation have increased proficiency.</strong></em>


    <em>Dark Magick has been used to create the Undead. <strong>Death Magick has increased proficiency. </strong></em>


    <em>You have raised minions and they have fought on your behalf. <strong>Undead Weaver has reached level 22. You have received +2 Strength, +4 Constitution, +6 Intelligence, +2 Wisdom, +2 Willpower, +2 Maniption and +4 Poise.</strong></em>


    <em>The Abyss wees your sacrifice, even as it delights in the taste of your thoughts. The Scarlet Court is content with your progress, so long as you recall the favours you owe. The Dark Ones remain amused at your antics. For now. <strong>Anathema has reached level 11. You have received +2 Constitution, +2 Intelligence, +2 Willpower.</strong></em>


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 14)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Undead Weaver (Level 22).


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ul><li>Anathema (Level 11).</li><li>None</li><li>None (Locked)</li></ul>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    24


    Dexterity:


    21


    Constitution:


    68


    Intelligence:


    93


    Wisdom:


    49


    Willpower:


    50


    Charisma:


    26


    Maniption:


    41


    Poise:


    27


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 3)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Skill Selections Avable: 3


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 10)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 10)


    Death Magick (Level 8)


    Bone Mending (Level 5)


    Minion Commander (Level 2)


    Undead Control (Level 2)


    Minion Modification (Level 2)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 10)


    Bone Stitching (Level 10)(Max)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 4)


    Shivering Curse (Level 6)


    Death des (Level 5)


    Bone Armour (Level 3)


    Minion Sight (Level 5)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 5)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 2)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    Suppress Mind (Level 4)


    Repository (Level 2)


    Fear (Level 3)


    <strong>Necromancer Feats:</strong>


    Skeleton Focus II


    Magick Battery II


    <strong>Anathema Feats:</strong>


    Repository


    Wall of Thought I


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    Words of Power (Initial): WIS +3 CHA +3


    <em>Undead Weaver Level 22. Choose an additional Skill:</em>


    <em>Spirit Binding - Create Minions from the spirits of the dead</em>


    <em>Ghoul Flesh - Instil Death Magick into the flesh of the deceased</em>


    When he looked down at the paper and took in just how far he¡¯de, it was hard not to get emotional. It had been a struggle, and he¡¯d had to fight for everything he¡¯d achieved, but the results were there on the page.


    Officially, he¡¯d be a bronze rank yer if he didn¡¯t possess this illegal ss. One of the superhumans responsible for defending the people from the rifts and fighting to maintain this world.


    He shook his head.


    <em>I¡¯ll make it happen,</em> he vowed to himself, <em>someway, somehow. I¡¯ll make it happen.</em>


    His physical body had never been stronger or more durable than it was right now. Sadly, his flexibility and coordination remained rather pathetic, he wouldn¡¯t be beating anyone in a swordfight, but he could live without that. All he had to do was find ways for his undead to hold their own against other high levelled individuals and he¡¯d never have to worry about fighting anyone hand to hand.


    His Intelligence tranted to a vastly increased pool of magick to work with, and the mental muscle to wield it. His Wisdomgged behind, but not so far that it would be a detriment. His ability to handle his power had never been as fine as it had be now.


    He could handle far more skeletons now, perhaps as many as forty. The only thing holding him back was the need to move undetected on the ins. Toorge a group would make discovery all but certain.


    Still, new options, new spells, new avenues to improve his situation. He¡¯d been looking forward to seeing what the Unseen would offer him, but he wasn¡¯t immensely pleased with what he saw.


    Spirit Binding. Ghost minions. They would be useful, more than useful, but was Tyron really willing to bind the spirits of the dead into his service? Using the remains was fine, but this? He¡¯d promised thest bandit he¡¯d killed that he wouldn¡¯t use his spirit in any way.


    But the other option was even less ptable. Ghoul flesh? There was only one type of undead that possessed flesh, and that was zombies. Infusing the flesh with death magick¡­ would likely have the effect of preserving it, or perhaps even strengthening it. Stronger, faster zombies, possibly a whole new type of undead in their own right.


    ¡°What have you got, kid?¡± Dove asked.


    Tyron shared his options.


    ¡°Ghouls. Nasty buggers. Not really a zombie, they¡¯re a whole different thing. Faster, harder hitting, but more reliant on the integrity of their flesh than a zombie, so they¡¯re squishier.¡±


    ¡°What about the other?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean? It¡¯s Spirit Binding. It couldn¡¯t scream ¡®ghost¡¯ any harder if it tried.¡±


    The Necromancer pulled a face.


    ¡°Don¡¯t give me that look, you ponce,¡± Dove scoffed. ¡°Spirits are awesome. Invisible most of the time, they can float about and get into all sorts of shit. Right pain in the arse.¡±


    ¡°Can they fight?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure about that. Just because I¡¯ve seen undead doesn¡¯t make me a damned expert.¡±


    ¡°If you had to guess?¡±


    The skull sat silent for a moment.


    ¡°If you held a de to my throat, I¡¯dugh at you, then say probably not. Spirits capable of causing harm, or at least severe harm, certainly do exist, but I think they¡¯ll be higher level than what you¡¯ll be offered right now.¡±


    ¡°Why couldn¡¯t they just have given me a better form of skeleton?¡± Tyron groaned.


    He¡¯d had enough moral quandaries to deal withtely, he didn¡¯t need this on his head as well. He¡¯d found the resolve to hunt down and kill the bandits to continue growing, though it had been difficult. Now was he really going tomit further and start enving spirits of the deceased?


    ¡°Stop being such a pansy about it,¡± Dove rebuked him. ¡°You know as well as I do that the only sensible choice is the ghosts. You don¡¯t have the Skills or Feats to support flesh-based undead, and the spirits will fill in a niche that you need. With a few invisible ghosties spying for us, our chances of slipping through the ins undetected will shoot through the fucking roof.¡±


    The former Summoner was right. It was the obvious choice. That didn¡¯t make it any easier for Tyron to ept it.


    ¡°Look. Negotiate with them or something. Give them a period of time they¡¯ll be bound and then release them voluntarily afterwards. Same as you¡¯ve done with me, except you¡¯ll actually keep your promise.¡±


    ¡°Dove, I <em>will</em> release you.¡±


    ¡°Good. I¡¯d be really pissed off otherwise. Does that soothe your conscience a little?¡±


    Strangely enough, that <em>did</em> sound more ptable to Tyron.


    ¡°So I wouldn¡¯t keep them forever, just for a period of time?¡±


    ¡°Basically, yeah. Just say, ¡®hey, it sucks, you¡¯re going to be an undead ghost-thing. Good news, I¡¯ll let you free after a year¡¯ and then go on with your day.¡±


    It took a little longer for Tyron to convince himself this was a good idea before he eventually ced his thumbprint next to Spirit Binding.


    As always, the inrush of energy from confirming the Ritual left him breathless and lightheaded as the power of the Unseen suffused him. New knowledge trickled into his mind, a new magickal technique that would allow him to create a new type of servant.


    His love for magick was such that, despite his earlier misgivings, he already wanted to experiment with the new method. There would be a great deal to learn, slivers of knowledge that may be applicable in other ces. His fingers itched.


    This also meant that with every bandit he killed, there existed the potential to create two minions, rather than the one. The bones would of course be turned into a skeleton, but the spirit could now be used as well¡­.


    Tyron destroyed the paper marked with his blood and stood with a sigh.


    ¡°Alright then. Time to go have a chat with some pissed off bandit ghosts.¡±


    ¡°Hey, you do you. I think I¡¯ll sleep.¡±


    The light faded from the skull¡¯s eyes, leaving Tyron on his own. He huffed and picked up his friend before starting to trek back to the cart. It was never a good idea to dive into a new magick without some thought and preparation, so once he found the worn wooden transport, he rummaged in his pack for his book and sat Dove on a corner post before returning to the building.


    The details of this new method were still sorting themselves out in his brain, and Tyron needed to put them more or less in order before he dared to use it. He ordered the skeletons to drag the corpses out of the building and found a more or less clean chair to sit in and get to work.


    The new method was¡­ difficult. To utilise a spirit and turn it into an undead minion was something of a process. The¡­ subject¡­ needed to be housed in a shell before it could exist and operate as a minion, which was what this new ability did. He could use his magick to form an intangible¡­ housing, in which a spirit could be bound.


    Oncepleted, he would then be able to cast Raise Dead, to create the conduit between the spirit and himself and bind it to his service.


    Presumably, he wouldn¡¯t need to construct a nascent mind within the undead, since it would already have one, which meant he could likely abridge the ritual to exclude those parts. A thought for another time.


    ¡°Right, then,¡± he said as he put down his pen.


    He perused his notes one more time before he made his way outside to look at the seven dead bandits on the ground.


    ¡°Well. I promised you that your spirit would be free from interference. So you¡¯re out.¡±


    He turned to the other six.


    ¡°But you guys are all fair game.¡±


    To negotiate with the spirits, or tell them his conditions, more urately, he would need to speak to them before he raised them. He rubbed his palms together. It was time for magick.

 Chapter B2C24 - Ghosted

    Chapter B2C24 - Ghosted


    ¡°Blood and bones, that¡¯s cold!¡± Tyron eximed as a shiver ran through his arm.


    He snatched the limb back from the edge of the cart and rubbed it vigorously, encouraging the blood flow as he red at the nothing on his right. Except it wasn¡¯t nothing, as well he knew.


    ¡°They got you again?¡± Dove chuckled. ¡°Man, these guys really know how to hold a grudge.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not even certain they¡¯re doing it on purpose,¡± Tyron muttered. ¡°They kind of drift in ce when they aren¡¯t actively moving somewhere.¡±


    ¡°They coincidentally happen to drift into you multiple times?¡± Dove was sceptical.


    ¡°They shouldn''t be able to act against me in any way. Part of the Raise Dead ritual builds in controls so that they can¡¯t refuse orders and can¡¯t harm me.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps it doesn¡¯t count as harm if all they do is make you cold and piss you off. I¡¯m not surprised they¡¯d want to rebel given the circumstances. Imagine working for an honest living your entire life and then getting enved by some fluffy-chinned punk <em>after</em> he murdered you. That¡¯s rough.¡±


    The Skull made a clucking sound as he mulled over the monstrous actions Tyron hadmitted. For his part, the Necromancer stared hard at his friend, not rising to the bait. Describing the men as having worked ¡®an honest living their entire lives¡¯ was too much, even for the former Summoner. These guys had been thieves, killers and rapists.


    No matter the reason, Dove continuously poked and prodded Tyron about his new minions, wheedling away, despite having convinced him to do it in the first ce!


    Simply one of the ways the skull continued to be both a weepanion and a total pain in the backside at the same time. Tyron ignored him for a moment and directed his thoughts toward the connection he shared with his undead. The seven bandits he¡¯d killed had been processed and would reach saturation in a few hours, after which he nned to raise them as skeletons. His loyal bone-centric minions were not what he had his mind on for the moment though, he was more interested in the other six.


    As he engaged the mental connection they shared, he shuddered again at the strange, alien touch of those undead minds. The skeletons barely had a thought in their heads at all, so they didn¡¯t give this kind of feedback. A skeleton was almost like a magickal construct, in a sense, one made using human remains. The ¡®mind¡¯ was entirely artificial and they were as pliable as wooden dolls, with no resistance or desires of their own.


    The ghosts were different. Bound by magick and chained by ritual, a crude facsimile of a human mind was contained within each. They didn¡¯t think clear thoughts; for reasons Tyron didn¡¯t quite understand, theycked even the limited capacity tomunicate they¡¯d had in life.


    His current working theory was that the vessel, or container, that he had created was too crude an implement for their spirit to inhabit fully. This would mean they were incapable of employing the full range of their thoughts and emotions, leaving the ghost as a rtively simple creature.


    It was also possible that dying and leaving the body tainted had changed the spirit in some way. Even in conversation when he employed the Speak with Dead ritual, the ghosts had been¡­ different from their human selves. Cruder. Vengeful. Being bound in their new form hadn¡¯t seemed to perk them up any. If anything, it made them worse.


    As he touched minds with his new minions, cold, numb fury was all he could sense from them. Currently, four of them were spread around the cart in a rough square, with skeletons a further hundred metres in. The other two were beside him on either side of the vehicle, with one getting a little too close every time they stopped.


    He quickly enacted the spell that allowed him to ¡®see¡¯ through the eyes of a minion. The ghosts possessed even poorer vision than the skeletons, but made excellent scouts. Near invisible, they hovered above the ground like a freezing wind. If someone were to get too close, they would more than likely notice the unnatural cold before they managed to see the faint, purple outline of the spirit.


    Seen through the eyes of the ghosts, the world was a twisted nightmarendscape covered in strange purple winds. It was unnerving to look at, but far better than being blind, something that proved especially important as he checked the third ghost.


    ¡°Damn,¡± he said. ¡°Looks like a patrol.¡±


    ¡°Bound to happen eventually. Good thing we don¡¯t look suspicious.¡±


    Tyron stared at him.


    ¡°What? Sure, I¡¯m a talking skull, and the cart is filled with bags of meticulously sorted bones, and we¡¯re surrounded by the walking dead, but other than that, we¡¯re good.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not funny.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you hurt my feelings. Except I don¡¯t have any, I¡¯m a spectre clinging to the mortal ne by unnatural means.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove.¡±


    Tyron tuned out the skull and focused through the eyes of his servant once more. It was hard to tell, but he felt there might be three or four of them. yers, merchants or marshals, it was impossible to tell. He could move the skeleton nearby closer, or go himself for a better look, but he felt it was best not to take chances. The group wasn¡¯t travelling directly for them, but would pass them some distance to the north.


    ¡°Hup.¡±


    He jumped down from the cart so the skeletons could move it more easily and instructed them to drag it from the path. The frequent mounds and hills of the foothills were well behind them now, but that didn¡¯t mean there weren¡¯t ces to hide. Vegetation became moremon on the ins, thendscape dotted with copses of trees between developed farnd.


    ¡°More and more peopleing through the ins,¡± Dove remarked from his position atop a corner post of the cart. ¡°Not really the best time to be nning mass murder, now is it?¡±


    ¡°Not like I have a choice,¡± Tyron said. ¡°They aren¡¯t far away now. We could probably reach them tonight if we don¡¯t run into more travellers.¡±


    He reached out again and shifted the position of his scouts, making sure he maintained a perimeter. It was inefficient to keep the undead so far from him, but he could spare it. His capacity continued to grow as he progressed, to the point he could easily maintain his current minions, even if the ghosts took far more than a skeleton did.


    Much of that could be put down to his sloppy work creating the vessels for them. For a first attempt, it wasn¡¯t terrible, but much like his early bone-stitching, there were many errors. He wasn¡¯t confident enough in the technique yet to try and improve his existing spectres, but with more practice, he would be able to fix them, somewhat.


    ¡°That means Yor will catch up to us before we reach them. You think she¡¯ll want to help out?¡±


    ¡°Yor?¡± Tyron pondered. ¡°I don¡¯t think so. She hasn¡¯t been too keen to help me thus far. Not overtly, anyway.¡±


    ¡°I got the impression she <em>really</em> didn¡¯t like this particr bunch. She wasn¡¯t her usual self around the women at that farm.¡±


    ¡°Are you suggesting¡­?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m saying it''s natural for her to have sympathy. She may be an inhuman, blood sucking monstrosity now, but once upon a time, she was a human woman. If she wants to rip the lungs out of one of those bastards and then wring them out like a wet cloth into her open mouth, I wouldn¡¯t be shocked.¡±


    ¡°That sounds¡­ disturbingly specific.¡±


    ¡°You telling me you <em>haven¡¯t </em>fantasised about that?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m saying, Dove, yes.¡±


    ¡°Weak.¡±


    Tyron shook his head, but kept his eyes on the travellers through his ghost. He didn¡¯t neglect to check via his other scouts also, making sure he kept tabs on all directions.


    ¡°Alright, we can keep moving,¡± he said. Instructing the skeletons to return the cart to the trail, he leapt up into the back again. ¡°Another few hours and we¡¯ll make camp. Do a bit of scouting.¡±


    ¡°Any ideas on how you¡¯re going to approach Monty and his merry band? You don¡¯t have the benefit of being on the defensive this time, it¡¯s going to be tricky.¡±


    Tyron thought for a moment.


    ¡°We¡¯ll need to see where they holed up to get a better idea,¡± he said, ¡°and I¡¯ve got a few things to go over with you regarding the spells I have. I think we can work out a couple of things that might help. There¡¯s another seven skeletons to add to the crew as well.¡±


    ¡°Hopefully it¡¯s enough.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s not much I can do if it isn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Well, there¡¯s always Yor.¡±


    ¡°Dove¡­.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you, man, the lung has a surprisingly spongy texture. She could get a lot of juice out of there. Running over her arms and face¡­ fucking sexy stuff.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a twisted, depraved man, Dove. Death doesn¡¯t seem to have helped that any.¡±


    ¡°I think it just removed the few inhibitions I had left.¡±


    ¡°Whose idea was it to bring you back to life? I must have been drunk.¡±


    ¡°Hate to break it to you, kid, but with a constitution that high, you may never get drunk again. There¡¯s special brews made for tough yers, but they¡¯re expensive as heck.¡±


    ¡°Great.¡±


    The two continued to bicker as they rode the cart forward into the fading light.


    <em>Elsewhere on the ins.</em>


    Laurel slid her fingers along the string of her bow, marvelling once more at the fidelity she felt against her skin. As she grew in strength and her skills improved, it was as if the bow had be a part of her body, an extension of her hand in every sense of the word. She¡¯d heard that from several trainers and students who worked exclusively with one weapon, that the more you levelled your ss, the more dependent on the weapon you became.


    When she caressed the string, she would swear it caressed her back.


    And she was yet to ascend. Just what would her bow be when she was level sixty? Or eighty? She shivered. Just imagining it sent a thrill rushing through her. Wary of distracting herself, she bit her cheek, letting the shock of the pain sharpen her mind.


    It was cold on the ins; a chill wind blew her cloak against her body as a light drizzle fell from overhead. Dreadful weather for an archer, yet still they were sent out to scout ahead, as always. Lucky her abilities could mitigate the effects of damp on the string, or else she¡¯d be totally useless.


    At least her eyes were alight in the darkness, seeing clearly where others could not. She stepped across the terrain like a ghost, leaving almost no footprint as she went, all senses open wide.


    The cluster of buildings loomed in the distance, a faint outline against the grey sky. Perhaps a viable camping location? Some proper shelter from the weather would be wee for the yers, despite their high levels of endurance.


    <em>Too soft</em>, was her opinion. <em>I spent longer out hunting in the woods without a single level to my name</em>.


    But what was this? Light? Flickering through a window, a fire then? Fire meant people. Possibly bad people.


    Her finger danced down the string once more before she reached behind to pull an arrow from her quiver. She slotted it against the string in one smooth, silent motion as her eyes widened and her nose red. She would need to get closer, there was nothing to see from here.


    A defensible set of farm houses. Rather impressive for a group of families living this far out. Laurel circled around the perimeter and saw that only half the buildings were upied, the other two were dark and cold. She crept closer.


    She could smell food cooking, and there wasughter, from children?


    She rxed her grip on the string with some disappointment as she approached to peer through a window. She glimpsed a gathering of women and youngfolk, gathered around the hearth before she tucked her head away. She sighed.


    As yers, they hadn¡¯t just been tasked with destroying any rift-kin they came across. They were also expected to check in onmunities they found and ensure they were safe. Which meant she had to go and talk to these people.


    She sighed again and slid the arrow back in her quiver. Might as well get this over with. She stepped back from the window, not wanting to spook anyone, and called out to them.


    ¡°Ho the fire! yer patrol!¡±


    She could hear the startled exmations from inside and soon a face appeared, along with a simple bow pointing out into the dark. It was almost cute.


    ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± a woman demanded. ¡°Speak your name.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Laurel Macraith,¡± she called back, ¡°a scout from a yer hunting party. We¡¯ve been asked to check every settlement we find.¡±


    There was a long moment of silence before further words were spoken.


    ¡°Are you alone?¡±


    ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°Thene in out of the rain.¡±


    When she stepped inside, she was surprised to see how fearful these women were, throwing nces at her knives and arrows as they clutched their children to them.


    She shook out her dark cloak and nodded to them, taking a moment to scan the room. Only a momentter did she realise what was wrong. This wasn¡¯t enough people to have worked such arge property. More to the point.


    <em>Where are the men?</em>


    Could all of them have died defending their families from the kin? Possible, but unlikely. Something far darker had taken ce here.


    Laurel looked from face to face until she found someone prepared to meet her eyes.


    ¡°Can you tell me what happened here?¡± she said.


    The middle aged woman stared back through hooded eyes.


    ¡°Not much to tell,¡± she said, ¡°bandits killed the menfolk and took over. We were rescued a while back and have been staying here since, trying to make some order of the ce.¡±


    The archer nodded gravely.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry we took so long to get here,¡± she said quietly.


    And she was.


    ¡°Were you rescued by another yer group?¡± she asked.


    The mood shifted in the room, like a wind curling around a guttering candle, the warmth was sucked away. She waited, but it seemed no one wanted to give an answer. There was something suspicious here.


    It was for the marshals to deal with, not her. From the sounds of things, they¡¯d have their hands full with this ce. Someone else''s problem.


    ¡°It was the Necromancer boy,¡± someone said.


    Laurel¡¯s eyes widened, turning to this new voice as the others hissed and growled at the woman.


    ¡°What? He said to tell them. That¡¯s what he told us to do!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve no shame, Bessun,¡± another woman spat.


    ¡°I¡¯m only doin¡¯ what he said to do,¡± Bessun said defensively, a child curled on herp looking frightened. ¡°This the only way we don¡¯t get more trouble. We don¡¯t deserve any more trouble.¡±


    A hush came over the room at those words, but Laurel didn¡¯t care. She stepped forward, her eyes alight, a smile on her face like a cat with one paw nted firmly on a bird¡¯s wing.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell me a little more about that?¡±

 Chapter B2C25 - The Chill of the Grave

    Chapter B2C25 - The Chill of the Grave


    Tyron crouched in the bushes, Yor¡¯s words still running circles through his head.


    ¡°It¡¯s important that you clean up your own messes,¡± she told him, that feral gleam in her eye. ¡°The Court has sent me to watch over you to some extent, to offer advice and of course to ept your request to join our <em>association</em>.¡±


    She grinned then, revealing her fangs and perfectly aligned teeth.


    ¡°For that to happen, however, you must be <em>worthy</em>. So far, I am impressed with what you have achieved, but you could be so much <em>more</em> than this. If you depend on me, then should I take that as an acknowledgement that you align with my faction?¡±


    Her tone implied that he already was leaning that way, considering the favours he already owed the vampires. If he wanted her to help fight his battles, then he may as well formalise the arrangement.


    He refused.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. Should you find yourself on the edge of death, I will find you. The offer I make at that time will be far worse than what you would get right now, but I feel that you may ept it anyway.¡±


    In that moment, the wless seductress fell away and she allowed him to glimpse the beast that dwelled within. She gazed at him like a wolf staring at a hunk of raw meat.


    ¡°I-I¡¯ll keep that in mind,¡± he swallowed, his mouth turned dry.


    ¡°Do,¡± she said, once again the elegant and sophisticated Yor that he knew.


    Hidden in the bush, he shivered and pulled his cloak around him once more. It was so easy to forget what she was, sometimes. He was beginning to think she went out of her way to remind him, lest he begin to underestimate her.


    She¡¯d already appeared to him when he was on the verge of death once; he didn¡¯t look forward to a repeat.


    So he was on his own for this fight. Unless he counted Dove as helpful in any way. He looked down at the skull.


    ¡°What?¡± Dove said, a faint glow in his eyes showing he was alert.


    ¡°Just wondering if having you around means I have help or not.¡±


    ¡°How about fuck you? Big bad Necromancer, with your ghosts, and your skulls. How many of your lousy minions would stand up to my star wolf? Huh? Yeah, that¡¯s what I thought. No help. If I¡¯m no help, then set me free this instant.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tempt me,¡± Tyron chuckled.


    ¡°You <em>are</em> going to set me free though, right? We¡¯ve had a number of conversations about this, but I like to check in every now and again.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Dove. I¡¯m going to set you free.¡±


    ¡°Good to know. Now stop procrastinating and go murder these pricks already.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes, but the Summoner had a point. He <em>was</em> distracting himself from the task at hand. He still wasn¡¯tfortable with attacking and killing people, even people like this. He hoped he never would be, if he was honest with himself. With a little luck, once he was done with these bandits, he¡¯d be able to make his way to another rift and battle rift-kin. Those were enemies he was happy to kill.


    He could feel them now. After what the Abyss-creature had done, they stood out in the night like sparks shining against a dark background. Be there trees, bushes or walls between them, it was impossible for the bandits to hide from him.


    Not far to go now, just a few kilometres. Being cautious, he wouldn¡¯t move until he had a clearer picture of whaty ahead. Thankfully, he no longer had to put himself at risk to gain that type of information.


    With a mentalmand, he ordered his ghosts forward. Filled with resentment, they obeyed, drifting over the surface as near invisible spirits. They felt¡­ stronger now, more tangible, their emotions boiling closer to the surface than they had before.


    It was possible they were suppressed in some fashion during the day. Perhaps daylight interfered somehow with the binding? Or was it the other way around, something about nighttime strengthened it?


    He shook his head. As much as he¡¯d like to follow that thread, he needed to concentrate. If all went well, he would kill dozens of people before the sun rose.


    Such a surreal thought.


    He quickly enacted the magick and peered through his minions¡¯ eyes, cycling through the ghosts as they spread out and advanced. Under the moonlight, what he saw through them was even more ethereal and disturbing. Thendscape was twisted, covered in purple mist and winds, distorted in strange, unnerving ways. Despite the dizzying feeling and overall unease he felt, it was possible to filter it out and get a reasonable picture of what they were looking at, especially when they got close.


    He sucked his breath in through his teeth and slowly curled his hand into a fist.


    <em>Damn you, Monty, you prick. Did you know I wasing?</em>


    He¡¯d expected to find the bandits living as they had before, repeating the same course of action in the hopes of riding out the storm in a remote location. It would have been horrific, more murder and brutal treatment for the original owners of thend, but as long as he got them all, it would be over.


    Instead, they¡¯d done something else. Through the twisted vision of the ghosts, he could see a small vige, smoke rising from the chimneys of several buildings and light spilling through doorways and windows as people settled in for the night.


    <em>What are they ying at?</em>


    Had they taken the people hostage? Or killed them? He didn¡¯t see anyone staked on the street at least. He grit his teeth and ordered his minions closer. He had to know what he was dealing with.


    It was difficult for the ghosts to see details, but as they drifted up to windows or slipped through walls into houses, it appeared as if nothing was awry. Families were resting after dinner, or preparing to sleep, performing the multitude of little tasks that needed doing as they wound down their day.


    Tyron sent the ghosts to locate the bandits and he found some, sleeping in haylofts or spare beds, chatting andughing with their hosts. He grit his teeth as the spirits swept through the dozen or so houses that made up the vige and the same scene was repeated over and over again.


    <em>Those pricks</em>.


    They were hiding in in sight, using the vigers as cover. He could almost imagine the scene, Monty and his crew staggering down the road, exhausted and bloody, begging to be taken in and shown charity. After the break, it would¡¯ve been simple to paint themselves as the survivors of a farmstead that had been overrun.


    Most of them werebourers and farmhands, it would be trivial to make use of their skills to ingratiate themselves in this smallmunity, make themselves useful as they waited for the marshals to sweep through.


    They¡¯d be caught eventually. Once Ate and the other survivors told their story, these men would eventually be tracked down and put to death. For now, though, they bought themselves time, nestled here amongst their living shield.


    ¡°Fucking arseholes,¡± he sighed as he withdrew his vision.


    ¡°You¡¯re way too young for that. Start with the front, get some experience and then try the road less travelled. That¡¯s good advice.¡±


    Tyron was too irritated to even respond to that.


    ¡°They¡¯ve swanned into a vige and are acting like refugees,¡± he spat, staring through the dark at the lights that burned in his mind¡¯s eye. ¡°After everything they¡¯ve done? These shitstains¡­.¡±


    ¡°Whew. That¡¯s some brass-balled fuckery right there. If they weren¡¯t bandit scum, I¡¯d almost be impressed.¡±


    ¡°Well what the hell am I supposed to do now? They¡¯ve got dozens of innocent people down there amongst them. This isn¡¯t how I thought it was going to go!¡±


    The former Summoner didn¡¯t seem to think much of it.


    ¡°So? You think the vigers are going to jump up to defend these strangers? The moment you roll into town with your bone-patrol, most of them are going to roll under the nearest bed and shit themselves. Hopefully not in that order, for their sake. Your skeletons might be weak as piss, but someone who Awakened as a farmer isn¡¯t exactly shit hot in a fight. Can they nt seeds like a motherfucker? Absolutely. Can they kill anything that doesn¡¯t eat crops? Not so much.¡±


    ¡°But what if they do? I¡¯m not going to kill innocent people, Dove. That¡¯s a line that I refuse to cross!¡±


    ¡°That won¡¯t happen. Like I said, they¡¯re just going to run away.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t know that for sure. And what happens if the bandits use them as hostages? Threaten to kill them unless I walk away? What happens then?¡±


    There was silence for a moment as the skull contemted what the young mage was saying. Purple light flickered and danced in Dove¡¯s hollow eyes.


    ¡°Look, kid,¡± he said finally, ¡°there¡¯s a lot that could happen here. There¡¯s a world where you and I walk away from here, right now. Well, <em>you</em> walk¡­ never mind that. We leave, and then these bandits never hurt another soul, then they get arrested, put to death, and it¡¯s all over. No fuss, no muss. That¡¯s possible. How likely do you think that is?¡±


    ¡°Not very,¡± Tyron said.


    ¡°Of course it¡¯s not fucking likely. At the very least, they¡¯ll fight the marshals when theye to make arrests. There¡¯s another possibility, though. You go down there tonight, murder all of them, and no vigers are harmed in the process. None of them escape, and you collect Monty¡¯s soul and stuff it into a hollow bone for lonely men to stick their dicks in. How likely is that?¡±


    Tyron slumped.


    ¡°Again, not very,¡± he said.


    ¡°So we end up with a middle ground. If you go down there, things are going to get fucked up. The vigers will see you, run from you, maybe try and attack you. Monty may even try to rally them to his defence, screaming about the evil mage who¡¯se to kill them all. So fucking what? Do you remember why we¡¯re here?¡±


    The Necromancer swallowed and nodded, reluctantly.


    ¡°I need levels,¡± he said.


    It sounded so selfish when he said it out loud. Was it really alright for him to be doing this for such a reason?


    ¡°Exactly. There¡¯s no point backing out now when you¡¯ve alreadye this far. There¡¯s thirty-odd sacks of progression down there, so sharpen up a stick and go poke ¡®em full of holes. Spook the vigers off as best you can, grab what we can and run for it.¡±


    The empty sockets of the skull glowed brighter.


    ¡°Listen, kid, every high ranked yer is a selfish piece of shit when you get down to it. If you¡¯ll forgive me, your parents are exhibit A right down to fucking Z.¡±


    Tyron nodded. There was no denying that.


    ¡°I get that you don¡¯t want to act solely in your own interests, that¡¯s great, but if you aren¡¯t prepared to take this step, then what are you going to do? Give up?¡±


    What <em>were</em> his options? Rifts existed to the east and south, but it would be more than difficult to get out there, impossible even. He needed to be stronger, to improve his abilities and acquire better ones. As he was right now, he¡¯d be annihted by the first yer he came across.


    If he walked away from this vige out of fear of killing the locals, and then came back a weekter to find the men on stakes and the women in cages, what would he say to himself then?


    <em>No choices. There¡¯s never any choices.</em>


    ¡°I¡¯ll do it,¡± he said, ¡°but I refuse to kill any innocents. If they fight, I¡¯ll just have to take it as best I can.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s the best decision,¡± Dove agreed. ¡°You¡¯ll want to have an exit n in ce, though. The moment we leave, they¡¯ll be screaming to thew at the top of their lungs. You¡¯ll be even more wanted than you are right now with thirty murders to your name.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Dove,¡± Tyron said, sarcasm dripping from each word. ¡°I appreciate the warning.¡±


    It sounded bad, but in reality, he was already being hunted, so not much would change. He would need to clear out of the area and hunker down somewhere for a while, since they¡¯d swarm over this vige once the word got out.


    ¡°Alright then. Did you want toe along or should I leave you behind?¡±


    ¡°Fuck that,¡± Dove said. ¡°I wanna see that fat fucker Monty beg. If I had my spells, I¡¯d feed him to my star wolf, and when he came out the other end, I¡¯d banish the shit to the Abyss. No way I¡¯m missing his death.¡±


    Tyron paused.


    ¡°Do Astral beings shit?¡± he asked, curious.


    ¡°What? No, of course not. That shouldn¡¯t get in the way of a good diatribe, though. Stop worrying about the fucking details!¡±


    ¡°I just wanted to know.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re too inquisitive, that¡¯s your damn problem. Always have to know everything.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s probably why I achieved two magick-rted Mysteries before I ranked up.¡±


    ¡°... Nobody likes a showoff, you big-headed bastard. You fucking¡­¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that? Didn¡¯t hear you at the end there.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you, Tyron. By the tits, you piss me off sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Love you too. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    With a silentmand, he directed his skeletons forwards. The sleepy vige sat quiet in the dark as the Necromancer and his skeletal minions surrounded them. des bare,

 Chapter B2C26 - Slaughter

    Chapter B2C26 - ughter


    There was no need to fight fair, not against opponents like these. Tyron stepped through the darkness with care, directing his minions forward, surrounding the prey.


    It was almost unfair. In his eyes the bandits were torches in the dark, he knew where each and every one of them was. This close, he could tell when they stretched or reached behind to scratch their backsides.


    The first fell quietly and quickly. Weary and wanting to sleep, a figure stepped out behind a house to take a piss against a tree. Silent as death, three of the skeletons stalked him in the night, walking up behind and ramming their des through his back.


    He didn¡¯t get a chance to scream.


    <em>One down</em>.


    How nice would it be if they all obliged him in this way, but there was no chance of that. Inside the buildings, they sat ory, unsuspecting, and he would have to go in and get them.


    The ghosts drifted through the vige as Tyron gathered them to him, the air growing noticeably cooler as they approached. There was still some low hanging fruit he could pick before the vigers would be alerted to his presence. Best to make life as easy as possible.


    Skeletons moved through the vige in groups of five or six, their des wreathed in Death magick. He had them surround several buildings, but he brought another group with him behind the vige¡¯s small tavern.


    There was a small stable there, and in the stalls, another two bandits were curled on the hay. After a moment of hesitation, Tyron tilted his head to one side and sent his six ghosts forward.


    As far as he knew, they were useless in battle, not really able to touch or grasp anything mundane, but a thought stuck in his head. Whenever he brushed against them, they elicited a painful cold.


    What would happen if they were to move inside another person?


    Eyes on the two stalls, he ordered his minions forward. The spirits drifted, malevolence rolling off them in waves as they approached the closed wooden gates and phased directly through. The figures stirred as they felt the unnatural chill, but he didn¡¯t give them time to react, directing the spirits to move directly within the two men, three ghosts each.


    The moment the bandits felt the ice freeze their blood, they sat up with startled exmations that died in their throats. Like vultures, the undead descended on them, pressing themselves into bandit flesh and each other.


    Tyron felt his magick reserves drop precipitously. Apparently, it was not as easy for the spirits to move inside a living creature as it was for them to pass through a wooden wall. The results were worth the expense, in the end.


    A faint gurgling and scratching could be heard from where he stood as the two men thrashed and tried to cry out, but were unable to make a sound. The ghosts took cruel pleasure in bringing suffering to the living; he could feel it through the link, the satisfaction they felt in freezing those men to death.


    It took them several minutes to finally pass away. He suspected, but couldn¡¯t know for sure, that it could have been over quicker than that, but the spirits had taken it upon themselves to extend the suffering of their victims.


    <em>Sick bastards.</em>


    He wondered if all spirits would be this twisted, or if the bandits he had killed and ¡°recruited¡± were particrly vengeful against their still livingrades.


    <em>Another two down</em>.


    It was good to know his new minions weren¡¯t totally useless in a fight, even if the cost was far too high. Though he wouldn¡¯t wish such a death on anyone, he¡¯d prefer to put down as many targets in silence as he could, but it wouldn¡¯t be economical. This would eventually boil down to a fight, and he would need magick to support his troops.


    Still, he kept the spirits close, he could use them in a pinch.


    Sensing no more easy prey, there was little for Tyron to do but approach one of the houses, and knock on the door.


    ¡°Who the fuck is that?¡± a voice called jovially from inside.


    <em>Probably thinks I¡¯m a neighbour.</em>


    ¡°Just calling in,¡± Tyron said.


    The door was pulled open to reveal a bleary-eyed farmer staring out into the night. Dim light from the fire spilled through the entrance, but Tyron hardly needed it to find what he was after. There were three of them inside.


    Before the viger could react, Tyron dove forward, shouldering the door open and pushing the man back. With a short mentalmand, the six skeletons rushed into the small house, eyes aglow.


    The moment he saw the undead storming into the house, the farmer stumbled back until his shoulders hit the wall, his face pale with fear.


    ¡°I¡¯m not here for you,¡± Tyron said to him, but he wasn¡¯t sure he was heard.


    The bandits had barely rolled out of their nkets before the skeletons were on them, stabbing viciously. The men cried out, one of them shouting ¡°you!¡± when he saw Tyron in the room.


    But there was no escape for them. Taken by surprise and unarmed, they went down quickly.


    Once his targets were dead, he directed his minions to leave, holding the door open while they moved passed, holding the gaze of the terrified farmer as they did.


    ¡°I¡¯m only here for them,¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t get in my way.¡±


    With that, he shut the door and moved to the next building.


    He got through two more houses before someone bothered to ry the rm, another five bandits dead, then people began to pour from the houses. Half-dressed and clutching farming implements or crude weapons in their hands, the vigers stumbled out into the dark alongside the bandits. Calling and cursing, they tried to make sense of the situation, but it was the ¡®guests¡¯ amongst them who were first to realise what was happening.


    ¡°It¡¯s him!¡±


    ¡°Kill that fucker!¡±


    ¡°Find the bastard!¡±


    Chaos erupted between the houses as vigers screamed in terror at the sight of the walking dead amongst them while the bandits tried to group together to fight them. Amidst it all, Tyron hunted them, coordinating his minions to gang up on every target they could reach as they stepped outside.


    Several figures broke and ran into the darkness, desperate to flee the danger. Tyron¡¯s head swivelled rapidly as he tried to track the bandits in the dark, his hands raised ready to cast, bone armour wrapped around his forearms. Before the situation could devolve further, someone stepped up to take control before Tyron killed too many.


    ¡°Necromancer!¡± Monty bellowed. ¡°Foul magick! He¡¯ll kill all of ye if ye let him! To arms! To arms!¡±


    Despite predicting this would happen, Tyron still found it difficult toprehend the gall of the man. He wasn¡¯t skilled enough with words to even attempt to talk the crowd down, which was why he¡¯d never tried to make the attempt. All he needed to do was keep the vigers out of his way as long as he could.


    Another bandit went down, several des buried his back as people screamed in fear.


    ¡°Monty you piece of shit!¡± Tyron bellowed. ¡°Did you really think you could hide where I wouldn¡¯t find you? Your bones belong to me, yours and every idiot you dragged down with you!¡±


    ¡°To arms!¡± Monty bellowed. ¡°Fight fer yer life!¡±


    Small fights broke out as the bandits began to organise themselves, battling back against the undead. Some tried to find torches to light, but it took time, time in which the skeletons had a powerful advantage. The eyes of the dead didn¡¯t care for light or dark, they saw as well in the night as they did in the day.


    A chaotic situation, one that he had prepared for, but was overwhelming nevertheless. In his mind, he directed his minions as best as he could, grouping them against their foes so they always held the numbers advantage. Several vigers had responded to Monty¡¯s call, rushing to fight against him with whatever they had to hand. It was recklessly brave andplicated the battle massively, as he had to take care not to hurt them.


    ¡°Come on, Monty!¡± Tyron called, mocking. ¡°I can see you, hiding in the back. Why don¡¯t you step forward for once? I¡¯m sure your men are sick of dying for you by now!¡±


    The chubby bandit leader continued to rush around on the backline, urging others to put themselves in harm''s way rather than step forward himself. An expected show of cowardice, and a frustrating one. If he could silence that voice, this would be over so much faster.


    As more torches began to be lit, Tyron made sure to slip into the shadows. The longer it took them to find him, the better off he would be. Directing the battle from the backlines was the correct move for a Necromancer, though he could appreciate the irony of baiting Monty for doing the same.


    ¡°Protect your children! Protect your wives!¡± Monty roared as he rallied more into the fight. ¡°There¡¯ll be none left alive if he wins!¡±


    By now, any vigers who hadn¡¯t run screaming into the night were scrambling to arm themselves, he needed to push hard. At his direction, the six ghosts drifted forward, homing in on six bandits engaged in a shoving match with his frontline of skeletons.


    Despite his best efforts, the skeletons were not nearly as strong as he¡¯d like, and even the farmers were able to match them in this respect. By locking up the undead¡¯s des with their own shovels, picks and implements, they could lean on them and allow their fellows to hack at the vulnerable bones.


    Only by outnumbering the opponent could the skeletons protect themselves from this tactic, but with more vigers joining the fight, the numbers were turning against him.


    Near-invisible and dripping with malice, the spirits drifted between the skeletons and plunged into their targets, causing the men to scream and gurgle as the cold prated their flesh and went straight into their bones. An opening that Tyron capitalised on immediately. Skulls grinning, the skeletons took their freed des and rammed them straight through the chest of their opponents. Straight through the ghosts at the same time.


    <em>Another six down</em>.


    The skeletons pressed forward and Tyron felt the bandits and their allies start to waver. It was time to make his move. He ran his hands over the modified bone-armour that covered him, as if to reassure himself, before he strode forward, nked by two skeletons he had held in reserve.


    He spun magick almost absent-mindedly, creating a bolt that he held ready in his right hand, his eyes locked on one figure that zed in his mind.


    <em>Not getting away this time, you fucker.</em>


    As he stepped into the light, he could see fear ignite in the vigers¡¯ eyes. He could imagine how he looked, unkempt, covered in bones that bound themselves to his body like barbaric armour. The bandits weren¡¯t much better. He had killed so many of them already and now here he was, ready to do it again.


    ¡°I¡¯m here for the outsiders! Vigers can leave and be spared!¡± he yelled again, hoping some would listen and make a break for it.


    In the thick of the fighting, it was unlikely any could hear him, but it was worth a shot. His face settled in grim lines as he once again ordered the spirits forward.


    He¡¯d wanted to preserve his magick, but he couldn¡¯t allow this to go on.


    The ghosts responded, dripping with malice as they wrought devastation on their former allies. Seeing an opening, Tyronunched the bolt from his open palm, catching a bandit in the thigh. The man copsed, crying out in pain as he clutched at the wound. A skeleton put him out of his misery.


    That figure zing in his mind was hesitating now, he could see it, but he wouldn¡¯t allow him to go. He ripped his sword free from its scabbard and charged, shing at the bandits in his way.


    ¡°You monster!¡±


    A vige man, no older than twenty, rushed him from the side, a woodcutter axe raised high in both hands. With a swiftmand, a skeleton stepped in front of the man, taking his charge and knocking him back.


    ¡°Run,¡± Tyron barked at him.


    Fear and rage twisted the face of the young man into something inhuman as he battled against two instincts. Fight or flee? The Necromancer took that choice away.


    A skeletal foot nted itself on the viger¡¯s chest, a de was ced at his throat. It would tie up a minion, but he could afford to pay that price.


    Monty had seen enough. As others still fought the clearly losing battle in the night, he turned and broke into a run.


    <em>Not likely</em>.


    Casting one handed, Tyron summoned a bolt to his left and dashed after him. Without the benefit of whatever the Abyss had done to him, the bandit leader would likely have seeded in escaping. After taking ten steps from the nearest torch, the scenery vanished into darkness, but that wasn¡¯t enough to hide from Tyron, not for someone marked for death.


    He sprinted after him, his eyes locked on that form he could feel running ahead. A palm thrust forward, a pulse of magick shot out into the night.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± the bandit cried.


    Then Tyron was on him, sword right into the cursing man¡¯s back.


    ¡°Hey there, Monty,¡± he grinned. ¡°Nice of you to stick around.¡±


    ¡°Yer fuckin¡¯ crazy,¡± the man said, ¡°yer a twisted bastard.¡±


    ¡°Bit riching from you, a murderous, raping piece of shit.¡±


    He reached forward and grabbed a fistful of hair.


    ¡°Get up. You¡¯ll being with me for a moment.¡±


    ¡°Kill me, ye gutless worm.¡±


    ¡°Oh no. Don¡¯t you worry, someone else is going to decide your fate, not me.¡±


    With his sword pressed into Monty¡¯s back and maintaining his grip on the bandit¡¯s hair, he marched the stumbling, cursing and threatening bandit back to the vige.


    The fighting was over. Several bandits and all of the vigers had fled, running out into the cold and dark. He hoped they would be alright out there. Likely they would stay away until morning before returning to see if he was gone, or try to make it to a neighbouring settlement. Either way, Tyron wanted to be gone before they returned.


    Although there was still that one man, pressed to the ground by an undead foot. Tyron would have to deal with himter. He issued mentalmands and saw his minions get to work, gathering bodies,ying them out, preparing the ground for the business toe. More than twenty corpses to be processed, far too many to let them go to waste.


    ¡°By the five. Yer a monster.¡±


    Monty sounded terrified as he saw the undead moving in the flickering light. Tyron chuckled.


    ¡°Monty, you have no idea what a monster is. But you¡¯re going to find out.¡±


    ~~~~~~~~~~~


    ¡°I was surprised to hear you call me,¡± Yor said, ¡°things seemed to go well enough without my help.¡±


    ¡°They did. I wanted to give you a¡­ gift, of sorts,¡± Tyron replied.


    The vampire eyed the quivering bandit, her eyes shing red as she looked him up and down.


    ¡°You wish to make an <em>offering</em> of this¡­ creature?¡±


    There was something formal about the way she said it that caused Tyron to hesitate, then choose his words carefully.


    ¡°I¡­ felt that you had a particr dislike for¡­ these men. In particr, for the one who led them. I thought you might like to¡­¡± he searched for the right word, ¡°... determine his fate?¡±


    ¡°What the fuck?¡± Monty whispered as he stared ahead at the woman before him.


    A smile flickered across Yor¡¯s face, gone as quickly as it appeared.


    ¡°You know that this would have no bearing on any debt you owe the Court? This is a separate exchange between the two of us?¡±


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°Not even an exchange, a gift freely given.¡±


    ¡°Then release him, and step back.¡±


    The Necromancer did as she asked, releasing Monty and taking several quick, long strides backward. The bandit stumbled forward, unbnced by the suddenck of pressure, but before he could take another step, Yor was there.


    She shed before him, arms snaking forward and snatching him up, twisting the bandit so she held him from behind, her chin resting against the pale flesh of his neck.


    She smiled.


    ¡°There are two ways I can do this,¡± Yor breathed as she ran a tender hand down the side of her captive¡¯s neck. ¡°I can give you pleasure beyond your mortal imagination. An indescribable sensation running through every inch of your body.¡± She smiled and tightened her grip on the bandit leader. ¡°One taste and you will be addicted. You¡¯ll <em>beg</em> me to drain you each and every night, throwing yourself at my feet like a dog. Eventually, that is what you will be, an animal, crawling on all fours, desperate for any nce I would spare you.¡±


    The vampire¡¯s voice had lowered, bing husky as her breath quickened. Her lips parted and she ran her tongue down the side of Monty¡¯s neck, tracing the artery that pounded with his lifeblood.


    ¡°Or I can make it <em>agony</em>,¡± Yor whispered into his ear. ¡°Pain like you cannot <em>conceive</em>, as I tear the soul from your body. I¡¯ll drink every drop of blood you have in you, then drink your spirit. You¡¯ll feel it, as you settle into my stomach and I consume everything that you are, have been and will be.¡±


    She slid her grip on the bandit until she held him by the shoulder with her left hand and a fistful of hair in the right. Her hands tightened, nails digging into flesh, causing red blood to flow. Monty whimpered.


    The eyes of the vampire zed with beastly glee, her face twisted into a feral visage, all trace of humanity gone.


    ¡°Which fate do you desire?¡± she sighed. ¡°Choose <em>quickly</em>, I have little patience left.¡±


    If he took longer than a few seconds, Tyron suspected she would simply tear into him. The need for blood radiated from her in a scarlet aura he could see with his bare eyes.


    ¡°Tha first one,¡± Monty begged, ¡°please. ¡®Av mercy on me. Tha first one.¡±


    Yor listened to his pleas with hooded eyes. She pulled him towards her.


    ¡°No,¡± she said.


    Her mouth opened wide, giving Tyron a clear view of the four elongated fangs, before she bit down, sinking her teeth deep into the bandit.


    Monty screamed. He wailed as if every part of his body were afire. It was terrible to hear, the despair and fear and agony so total as to be all-epassing. Tyron wished he could close his ears, but he couldn¡¯t. He couldn¡¯t even look away.


    Yor¡¯s eyes locked on his and he watched them ze with obscene tion as she fed.


    Itsted far too long, the scream ongoing until thest moment. The corpse of Monty, the would-be bandit king, fell to the ground, drained of blood, and even more than that. His skin was already turning grey, as if all that had been vital within him was gone.


    Yor stood over the body, breathing heavily, blood running down her chin, trickling off her fingertips. She brought a hand to her face and licked the blood from each digit, and sighed.


    Then the monster was gone. She flicked her fingers and the blood flew from her body to spatter on the ground. Once more she stood tall, calm and wless, a sly smile on her lips.


    ¡°Your <em>gift</em> is most wee,¡± she said. ¡°Now you must quickly prepare. We cannot linger long.¡±

 Chapter B2C27 - Over the Bridge

    Chapter B2C27 - Over the Bridge


    ¡°Come on.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to work.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no fucking way you don¡¯t agree.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d really like to not be part of this conversation.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have a choice. I refuse to speak of anything else until this is done. You can either answer my question, or punt my soul into the great beyond, and I think we both know you still aren¡¯t ready to do the second. So. Watching Yor suck the soul out of that fat fuck has got to be the hottest damn thing I¡¯ve seen in my life <em>and</em> afterlife. Tell me you agree.¡±


    Tyron rolled his head back and looked at the sky, as if hoping a way to escape this discussion might strike him like a bolt from above. He might even ept a lightning strike at this point.


    Despite being bloody up to his elbows from carving through human remains, thinking back to the¡­ disturbing sight of Yor feeding was enough to make him queasy.


    ¡°Look, if you¡¯re going to force me to state an opinion, then I will. Rather than ¡®arousing¡¯, I would describe the experience as ¡®disturbing¡¯ and ¡®horrific¡¯. Dove, she <em>ate</em> his <em>soul</em>.¡±


    ¡°So fucking sexy,¡± the skull breathed..


    ¡°I knew you were a little disturbed when you were alive, but I didn¡¯t realise you were <em>this</em> twisted,¡± Tyron observed, then grunted as he pulled a femur free from the meat of the leg with a wet pop.


    He ced the bone to one side before picking up his cleaver. Shins were next.


    ¡°Do you think being trapped in a skull is warping you in some way? Or were you always this bad?¡±


    ¡°Honestly, I think being dead has nted my views a little bit. It¡¯s not like I have balls, or emotions, or a dick, or feelings anymore, so even I wouldn¡¯t describe it as a physical arousal. It¡¯s something deeper than that, more meaningful.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t get it, the souls I recruited¡­¡±


    The skullughed.


    ¡°... to be ghosts are basically pissed off a hundred percent of the time. The only thing they like is murder, and even then, they only enjoy it in a pissed-off sort of way. Howe you¡¯re basically the same as you were when you were alive, with the possible exception of being even more of a pervert?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just a far superior soul,¡± Dove said, sounding smug. ¡°Comparing <em>me</em> with some chumps who pushed a wheelbarrow for a living? You¡¯re being ridiculous.¡±


    Tyron paused for a moment as he looked at his friend and mentor.


    ¡°Is that really a thing? You have a stronger soul based on your ss and levels?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea. Sounds like something a Necromancer should figure out. Souls and bones and shit, that¡¯s your trade, not mine.¡±


    The young mage grunted and brought down his cleaver heavily. Was there a difference between souls? Some qualitative distinction that allowed some to keep their personalities more or less intact, even beyond the grave?


    <em>Is resurrection possible?</em>


    A shiver ran down his spine. The thought was tantalising, and he couldn¡¯t ignore it once it had wormed its way into his head. If a soul were sufficiently powerful, say a top-grade yer, would they be strong enough that they retained their thoughts and memory perfectly after death?


    A simr process must be used to create a Lich, he realised. A powerful mage capturing their own soul and then animating their remains with it.


    <em>There¡¯s no way it¡¯s that simple. If it were, it would be way moremon. If I can realise this after a few months, then surely every mage in the empire has been able to realise the same thing. Where¡¯s the catch?</em>


    ¡°I really don¡¯t understand why you find this so twisted, though,¡± Dove was saying. ¡°Yor is smoking hot, that¡¯s obvious, and the idea of ripping the soul out of a piece of shit like Monty, causing him unspeakable suffering in the process, is a pure justice boner on top of an already delectable cake. What¡¯s not to love?¡±


    ¡°I think half the reason you want to have this conversation is because it¡¯s nighttime and you know that she¡¯s probably listening in. You just want to make her ufortable. I don¡¯t understand why you¡¯re so keen to sexualise a vampire, who by her own admission, is incapable of physically engaging in the act.¡±


    ¡°Which act?¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡±


    Time for the feet. Extracting all the bones from the dense sinews in there was aplete pain. If he could find a way to dissolve flesh without having to spend a feat or spell choice on it, he¡¯d be a happy Necromancer. Even if he only used it for feet and hands, the process of extracting bones would be twice as quick.


    ¡°How can you say I¡¯m the one sexualising her? She literally flesh-formed her own body to be an irresistible honeypot. I¡¯m merely describing the reality that she created! A sexy fucking reality!¡±


    ¡°I think the reason it''s weird,¡± Tyron said as he got to work after checking the edges on his thinner knives, ¡°is because the trap is only supposed to work on people who don¡¯t know it¡¯s a trap. In your case, it seems to have heightened your interest, not lessened it. That¡¯s weird. By extension, you are weird. I¡¯m trying hard not to judge you, in some ways I find the obsession fascinating. I¡¯m pretty sure the only reason she hasn¡¯t ripped out your soul and eaten it is because she thinks that might be what you want.¡±


    ¡°I dream about it every day,¡± Dove sighed.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m talking about, that right there.¡±


    For the next while, Dove remained blessedly quiet as Tyron continued to work. When he finally finished with the feet, he took a step back from the impromptu butchering table he¡¯d set up in the centre of the vige and had his skeletons collect the flesh to take to the midden. Another pair of skeletons then took the bones and he absently directed them toy them out in the correct pattern, adding another full set to the others he had alreadypleted drying around the fire pit.


    So much work to do and only one night to get it done.


    His fingers ached already, and he was barely halfway through the bandit corpses. The bones wouldn¡¯t even be the end of it, he still had the spirits to deal with. He wouldn¡¯t turn them all into ghosts, but that didn¡¯t mean he would let them go to waste either. He had a few ideas he wanted to test.


    It was a shame he didn¡¯t have Monty¡¯s soul, but he¡¯d received a worse fate than anything Tyron could concoct. He was still being digested in the guts of a vampire, and from what he gathered, it wasn¡¯t an overly pleasant experience. He wanted to ask Yor more about it, but seeing the animalistic gleam to her eyes, he¡¯d decided now would be a¡­ dangerous¡­ time to talk.


    ¡°Bring over the next three,¡± he ordered out loud and mentally at the same time.


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk to the minions. You asked me to remind you.¡±


    ¡°... Right.¡±


    <em>So easy to forget. Don¡¯t talk to the minions, idiot.</em>


    In some ways, it felt more natural to speak to them out loud, even if it served no purpose. Taking any strides toward humanising his undead was a mistake.


    <em>If I didn¡¯t have Dove around, I might have already gone mad</em>. <em>It¡¯s not healthy being surrounded by undead ves all the time. I need people to talk to as well.</em>


    Which reminded him of his ¡®prisoner¡¯. He stepped to one side and washed his hands in the bucket he¡¯d fished up from the well. Before walking a few doors down to a small building being watched by four skeletons and knocking.


    ¡°Caelum? You in there?¡±


    He waited for a moment, but no reply came.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t answer me, I¡¯m going to go in there¡­.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯te in!¡±


    ¡°So you <em>are </em>there.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to talk to you, monster!¡±


    ¡°This again? These men were criminals. They did terrible, terrible things.¡±


    ¡°Says you. We spent a week with them, they worked like dogs to help support everyone in the vige.¡±


    ¡°I bet they did, but think for a second. If I¡¯m really a terrible Necromancer who murders everyone and turns them into undead, why are you alive? Why did I go to such lengths to keep you vigers alive? Doesn¡¯t make much sense unless I¡¯m telling the truth.¡±


    ¡°... It¡¯s hard to take your words as truth when you¡¯re outside cutting bodies apart¡­.¡±


    <em>Everyone gets hung up on the butchery, even more than the Death Magick!</em>


    Tyron sighed. He wasn¡¯t going to convince anyone he was a hero after running into their vige and cutting down ¡®refugees¡¯. No point dwelling on it, he had work to do and he needed to get going.


    ¡°Open up the door, I¡¯ve got another three for you to check.¡±


    The skeletons hadin the bodies on the ground and the mage conjured a light for the young viger to see. He was confident that no unmarked person had been killed in the attack, but it didn¡¯t hurt to have someone check the corpses.


    ¡°Stand back,¡± Caelum said, voice shaking.


    Tyron took a few steps back and the door opened a crack, just wide enough for the ¡®prisoner¡¯ to see out. He eyeballed the bodies on the ground before a finger extended through the gap.


    ¡°That one. That¡¯s Gully, he lived with us for six months.¡±


    The Necromancer stared down at the corpse in shock.


    ¡°You¡¯re sure?¡±


    ¡°Of course I¡¯m sure. Gully came at harvest time and stuck around working on the Perkins farm. So much for only killing the ¡®bandits¡¯, murderer.¡±


    ¡°T-that doesn¡¯t make sense,¡± he muttered. Everyone who¡¯d died had been marked, he¡¯d been so careful. His skeletons had not driven their weapons into anyone without him checking first. He hadn¡¯t made any mistakes, he was sure of it!


    He leaned forward to look at the body more carefully. It was intact, no puncture wounds or cuts. What had killed him? Realisation struck him. This one had died to the ghosts! One of the two in the stalls, among the first to be killed.


    There was no chance he¡¯d made a mistake; that hadn¡¯t taken ce in the chaos of the fighting, but in the dead quiet. He could remember the two figures, zing in his awareness through the wooden doors.


    Either the beast in the Abyss had made a mistake, or¡­.


    ¡°This prick signed up with the bandits,¡± he sighed.


    ¡°You expect me to believe that?¡± Caelum retorted from behind the door.


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°No. No, I don¡¯t.¡±


    Didn¡¯t matter that it was the truth, if he tried to exin how he knew, he¡¯d damn himself even further. He continued to look down at the body on the cold ground. Had this man even done anything wrong? Or was the intent enough?


    How was he to know what measures the Abyss used to judge such matters? Ultimately, it was his responsibility, as he had trusted their decisions implicitly. A mistake it was toote to back down from.


    ¡°I¡¯ll bury this man,¡± he said. ¡°Thank you, Caelum.¡±


    The viger mmed and locked the door once again, but not before shooting one final re through the gap. A few skeletons approached and withdrew the viger corpse as Tyron frowned, frozen in thought. Ultimately, there was nothing he could do to change the situation, no matter how much he hated it. He returned to his workbench, had his minions drop a new body on it and got to work.


    He lost himself in the butchery, his movements efficient and precise as he cut away the flesh, severed tendons and procured what he needed for his craft. The useless flesh was taken outside of town and dumped in a midden pit he had a pair of skeletons dig, while the bones were carefully sorted, washed and dried on the ground before being stored. He was at it for hours, his hands, arms and shoulders aching until he was interrupted.


    One of the ghosts was the first tip off he received as it moved, drifting away from its post without being asked. The Necromancer stood to wipe his hands, mentally checking on the spirit before flicking his vision to it.


    Positioned to watch the area between the vige and the woods most had escaped to during the night in case anyone returned, the ghost had wandered away from its spot. With a thought, he ordered it back into ce, demanding the ghost turn around so he could see around it.


    Nothing¡­ at least, nothing obvious. What was going on?


    Moments before he would dismiss the disturbance and go back to work, he lost contact with a skeleton. He whipped around in time to see the bones crumbling to the ground, the light fading from the skull as it dropped.


    A man was there, de in hand, running towards him. Running fast. Running <em>really</em> fast.


    ¡°Oh, FUCK!¡± Tyron swore as he turned to snatch the only weapon he had to hand off the table: his cleaver.


    ¡°What?¡± Dove spluttered,ing awake in a rush. ¡°Fucking balls! Run, kid!¡±


    But there was nowhere to run. Skeletons came running, snatching up their weapons, but they couldn¡¯t make it in time.


    Steel shed under the light of his globes, cutting straight for his neck. Sweat broke out of every pore in Tyron¡¯s body as he ducked low and felt the wind of the de pass over him.


    <em>First cut.</em>


    He lifted his head and brought his cleaver up at the same time. Through some miracle, he managed to catch the next sh straight on the edge of his knife.


    Sparks flew as the sword bit deep into the cleaver and Tyron¡¯s wrist bent back to the point of breaking as he absorbed the shocking force of the blow.


    ¡°I needed that knife,¡± he ground out.


    His free hand shed through several symbols as he formed a bolt, releasing it at point nk range the moment it was ready.


    The body that had been overpowering him one second spun gracefully away the next, almost yanking the ruined cleaver from his hands in the process. He managed to hold onto it, but only barely. Unbnced, he tried to reset his feet, but was too slow.


    A vicious stab shot out of the shadows, the sword-tip headed straight for his heart.


    <em>Fucking-</em>


    Tyron threw himself into a spin, barely avoiding harm as he pulled back his left shoulder as the de scraped passed the bone armour on his chest.


    <em>Where now?</em>


    He was off bnce and vulnerable. Where would the next strikee?


    <em>Head or gut. Head or gut. Head!</em>


    Without seeing where the strike wasing from, he snapped his arms up on either side of his face, palms inward.


    CRUNCH!


    The sword smashed into the bonesshed with magick to his forearms, splitting them apart and biting into his flesh. Blood sprayed and Tyron grit his teeth to ward off the pain.


    Purple eyes swarmed in the dark, des shing and the figure was gone, sliding backwards and away from the minions before stopping ten metres away.


    ¡°Ohhhh shit. Not good. NOT good!¡± Dove chattered.


    ¡°Shut up, Dove,¡± Tyron ground out, not taking his eyes from his opponent.


    The fight to this point had taken mere seconds and already, he¡¯d nearly had his heart cored like an apple and been forced into a fifty-fifty with his life on the line.


    yer.


    This was a yer. One of the vigers must have stumbled into a scout doing the rounds and they¡¯de running to kill the evil Necromancer. At least, he hoped it was a scout. If there was more than one, he was dead already.


    The swordsman, or some variant, watched carefully as the skeletons gathered themselves, but didn¡¯t wait long before making his move. He adjusted his grip on the de, leaned to the side, then flickered and vanished.


    Or at least it looked that way.


    Two skeletons died before Tyron realised where the yer had gone, cursing as he turned.


    <em>Magick you idiot, you have to use magick.</em>


    He was a poor fighter at best, he had to use the strengths of his ss to fight back. He raised his hands and began to chant, shing through the sigils at record pace as he desperately sought to level the ying field.


    From nowhere, knives shed from the shadows, aimed straight for his head. Two shield skeletons stepped forward to catch them, leaving Tyron free toplete his cast.


    <em>Death des</em>.


    The moment he finished, he moved straight to the next.


    <em>I have to slow him down. I can barely keep up with my eyes, my skeletons could swing for a year and might never hit him.</em>


    With a defensive group of undead and more arriving, he had to get his support spells out now. If he lost more skeletons before they came into effect, there may be no point in having cast them at all.


    Quicker than ever, the words rolled from his tongue, each enunciated perfectly, the timing and rhythm wless. Unwilling to allow him to work his magick, the swordsman went on the attack.


    Directing his minions at the same time as workingplicated spells was taxing for Tyron and he almost fumbled his words as he tried to react. Steel shed in a glittering arc and another two minions were lost. The swordsman rushed through and the skeletons swung at shadows and dust, too slow to respond.


    Another charge, another glittering sh, another minion crumbling to the ground.


    <em>This isn¡¯t good!</em>


    He finished the spell with a roar, his hands snapping down as his magick poured into the ground beneath his feet.


    <em>Shivering Curse</em>.


    Perhaps it was counterintuitive to cast it on himself, but the undead weren¡¯t affected and now it was impossible for the swordsman to attack without being within the radius.


    Hands free, Tyron quickly snapped together a pair of magick bolts and held them at the ready. The swordsman sized him up for a moment and Tyron did the same.


    He was young, perhaps not even level twenty yet. If he was, then he wasn¡¯t far past it.


    <em>Thank anyone who¡¯ll listen for that. If he was level thirty, I¡¯d be less one head.</em>


    ¡°No chance of a conversation?¡± he said quietly.


    The swordsman shifted then shook his head slightly.


    As expected.


    ¡°Come on then.¡±


    Weapon-based sses, especially light weapons such as the sword, were highly mobile killing machines. The fight between them was never going tost long.


    <em>I can¡¯t keep him off me, not for long. All I need to win is to hold him still for one second. One second and I win.</em>


    Tyron grit his teeth. This was going to suck.


    He spread his minions slightly and had them lower their weapons, ready to stab. That should make it a little harder for the yer to run in, or risk being impaled on the magick infused des.


    Apparently, it didn¡¯t matter. The swordsman shed left and right, carving through two more skeletons in an instant before dashing through the formation and out the other side.


    Two magick bolts flew through the air before thudding into the ground as the yer twisted out of the way. A skeleton stepped forward and thrust, only to receive a sword through the skull for its trouble.


    Two more bolts formed and he fired them right away. The swordsman was constantly on the move, and the formation adjusted moment to moment as more skeletons were picked off.


    <em>Damn.</em>


    A wide swing with an axe, and suddenly there was an imbnce in the line, right in front of the Necromancer.


    Like a hawk swooping on exposed prey, the yer darted in. Tyron felt the shadow of death reach out toward him as that sword closed in, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. He brought his arms up to cover his heart.


    Pain exploded in his gut and the sword stabbed clean through, sliding between the gaps between the bone armour and out his back.


    Quick as a snake, Tyron¡¯s hands shed down to grip the yer¡¯s forearms.


    ¡°S-sorry about this,¡± he gurgled, blood already dripping from his lips.


    The yer tried to yank the sword free, but he held on, then the ghosts were there.


    Bone-piercing cold surrounded them as three spirits drifted into the swordsman. The man stiffened, then wrestled as he realised something was wrong, but Tryon held on.


    Thunk, thunk thunk!


    Muscles frozen, the yer couldn¡¯t react as the skeletons closed in. The three closest plunged their weapons into his flesh, the Death Magick coating sizzling against his skin.


    They stabbed over and over again as the ghosts locked up his body with their prating cold. Soon, the light faded from his eyes and he slumped to the ground. Tyron stood over the corpse, de punctured straight through him and bleeding all over the ground.


    ¡°Ow.¡±


    He spat a mouthful of blood on the ground next to him.


    ¡°This is going to be real bad.¡±

 Chapter B2C28 - Hunted

    Chapter B2C28 - Hunted


    Sword still embedded in him, Tyron staggered toward thergest building in town. He needed paper, badly.


    ¡°Kid? KID? You still alive over there? Please, by the melons of the mother, don¡¯t be dead. I don¡¯t want to spend the rest of my life in a ss case being studied by mages. Tyron? You alive?¡±


    ¡°Shut¡­ up¡­ Dove,¡± the Necromancer squeezed out as he walked past.


    ¡°Oh thank FUCK. How the hell did you manage to win? Swordsman is a shitty matchup for you, maybe the shittiest. Wanna turn me around so I can take a look at you?¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± he said.


    In the back of his mind he pondered just what he was going to do to get out of this mess. Could he treat his wound? Was there anything he could use in this vige to help clean and bind it? Another part of him was wondering what the consequences of killing a yer would be. There must be a cleanup crew not far from here. Surely they would hunt him once they learned what had happened. How much time did he have? Did this mean he would continue to be pursued even after the stray rift-kin were eliminated?


    Another part of him dwelled on the sinking feeling that his dream of one day being epted was now more remote than ever, if not dead entirely.


    <em>I killed a yer. Damn it all.</em>


    He hadn¡¯t had a choice. That was starting to be a recurring theme. He <em>never</em> had a choice. Would he ever be in a position to choose for himself again? Thest time he¡¯d made a meaningful decision about his own fate was when he chose to run rather than give up his ss, his chance to rise.


    He shoved the door open with his shoulder, careful not to catch the sword still lodged in him on the frame as he entered.


    ¡°Light.¡±


    He rummaged around with blood-slick hands until he found what he was looking for, a town-ledger, used to track births and deaths in the vige as well as otherings and goings. Hands shaking, he ripped out a page and made his way to a table.


    <em>Breathe. Just breathe.</em>


    Adrenaline was only now starting to leach out of his system. The pain was incredible, worse than anything he¡¯d ever felt. Should he remove the sword? Or would that hasten the bleeding and make things worse? Medical knowledge had never been a speciality of Tyron¡¯s; he was paying for that now.


    One thing he did know, only his higher than normal Constitution was keeping him standing. Thanks to his Necromancer ss, he was far more durable than a person had any right to be. It was the only thing that gave him any chance of surviving this mess.


    Which was why he needed to perform the ritual. Should he gain a few levels, it would toughen him up further. He could only hope it would be enough.


    One hand on the paper, he enacted the ritual and watched the letters form. No need to cut himself this time, blood still ran in bright red rivulets down his forearms where he¡¯d been wounded.


    Eyes swimming, he skipped over the bulk of the messages. He had no interest in learning if his Cooking had increased again. After a time, he found what he was looking for.


    <em>You have raised the dead, honed your craft and done battle with your minions. <strong>Undead Weaver has reached level 25. You have received +3 Strength, +6 Constitution, +9 Intelligence, +3 Wisdom, +3 Willpower, +3 Maniption and +6 Poise.</strong></em>


    That was excellent, a new spell or skill along with a feat. It had been worth making this trip to gain these levels. Unfortunately, directly beneath was something else he didn¡¯t want to see.


    <em>Your patrons delight in the chaos you sow. Like ripples expanding from a stone dropped in a pool, your actions distort the future in so many ways. The Dark Ones remain most entertained, you are safe from their hands, for now. The Scarlet Court watches with interest as your mind continues to grow, their desire for allegiance grows apace. The Abyss hungers, only secrets and souls will sate them, and not for long. <strong>Anathema has reached level 14. You have received +6 Constitution, +6 Intelligence, +6 Willpower.</strong></em>


    The stat gain was wee, as was the chance to choose new abilities, but the acknowledgement of his ¡®patrons¡¯ was not.


    ¡°Enjoying the show?¡± he spat as he red at the roof.


    Distant powers and their observations could wait, the ritual required his focus for the time being. He was in less than ideal condition to be choosing new abilities, but he would do the best he could. Time pressed.


    His eyes fell to the bottom of the page where he was required to make his choices.


    <em>Better get to it before I bleed out on the floor. </em>


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised Yor hasn¡¯t shown up to offer a twisted deal,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Oh, I wouldn''t be so <em>crass</em> as to assume you are on yourst leg, yet,¡± came her voice from behind him.


    Tyron didn¡¯t turn, but smiled briefly.


    ¡°And here I thought you might be losing interest.¡±


    ¡°My Mistress remains interested, but the terms she desires are not ones you would be willing to ept in your¡­ current condition.¡±


    ¡°I have a sword in me, just how much worse does she think it¡¯s going to get?¡±


    ¡°<em>Much</em>.¡±


    <em>Well, that¡¯sforting.</em> Though, I suppose it simply confirms that Yor expects me to survive this on my own.


    The pain was overwhelming, but he was able to endure it, if only just.


    <em>Focus. Finish the ritual. Look for something that will help you survive.</em>


    There were two new choices for Undead Weaver, along with the previously declined Ghoul Flesh.


    <em>Bone Animus - Reces Bone Stitching and increases the maximum level to 20. A finer weave allows more strength with less magick.</em>


    <em>Empowered Bone Armour - Reces Bone Armour and increases the maximum level to 20. A modified spell to enable greater protection.</em>


    Neither was an aid to him in his current circumstances, but both were choices he otherwise liked. He ced a bloody mark with his thumb next to Bone Animus and moved on to the feats.


    <em>Zombie Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Zombies.</em>


    <em>Skeleton Focus III - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.</em>


    <em>Spirit Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Spirits.</em>


    <em>Flesh Mastery - Increased skill with flesh based undead and abilities.</em>


    <em>Bone Mastery - Increased skill with bone based undead and abilities.</em>


    <em>Spirit Mastery - Increased skill with spirit based undead and abilities.</em>


    <em>Minion Controller - Improve the capacity to direct undead.</em>


    <em>Undead Specialist - Increase the maximum level of Raise Dead by ten.</em>


    <em>Intelligent Dead - Improve the minds of undead minions.</em>


    <em>Boon Giver - Spells and abilities that empower the dead are strengthened.</em>


    Much as he had suspected, each of the feats was rted to his minions. That fell in line with the direction of the ss, and under normal circumstances, he would be pleased to see them. There were many he would like to take, though he could only select four. The sight of Skeleton Focus III was a jolt of energy. If there was a three, then there may even be a four. Since he was stacking bonuses, then stacking them as high as he could was a good choice.


    He wished there was more time to consider each option, consult with Dove, but there wasn¡¯t.


    A thumbprint was ced next to Bone Mastery and he moved on.


    Hopefully, the patrons had something he could use to assist in his current situation.


    <em>Anathema has reached level 14. Choose two of the following:</em>


    Two choices to make, four new abilities. As ast resort, Blood Healing may serve his needs, but he would rather avoid it if possible.


    <em>Air of Menace - Surround oneself in a dread aura.</em>


    <em>Pain - Inflict the target with severe pain.</em>


    <em>Invasive Persuasion - Open a weakness to maniption in a suppressed mind.</em>


    <em>Fear Imnt - Leave an impression of fear within a suppressed mind.</em>


    <em>Blood Healing - Convert the blood of others to a healing serum.</em>


    <em>Eyes of Blood - See sources of blood nearby.</em>


    <em>mour - Conceal your features.</em>


    <em>Rot¡¯s Favour - Encourage Infection</em>


    <em>Abyss Tongue - Commune with the realm between.</em>


    <em>Soul Transfusion - Consume a Soul to heal the body.</em>


    ¡°Huh,¡± Tyron grunted.


    He wasn¡¯t surprised to see an ability like Soul Transfusion pop up. Almost exactly what he needed in his current circumstances. He had an abundance of souls around him at the moment, vile killers every one of them. He could conjure one and consume it in minutes, easy as snapping his fingers. And after he¡¯d done it once, how easy it would be to do it again. He could already feel the justifications bing less and less difficult to find. How long until he didn¡¯t care at all anymore?


    <em>You think because I¡¯ve sacrificed one soul, I¡¯ll be prepared to do it again? And once I do, it¡¯ll be so easy to turn around and offer more to my ¡®patrons¡¯.</em>


    The ground felt slippery beneath his feet. Dark Gods, Vampires and Abyssal Deities, those were the source of the abilities the Anathema ss offered. Corruption, deception, domination and death, that was what they wanted to give him. It wasn¡¯t hard to see what they wanted to make of him, the path they seemed so determined to set his feet upon.


    <em>They can fuck off.</em>


    He grit his teeth and put a mark next to mour and Invasive Persuasion. Both abilities would prove useful in his attempts to try and deflect people who happened toe across them. He hadn¡¯t wanted to manipte anyone that way, but that¡¯d been naive.


    Better to dominate their mind and have them forget they ever saw him than to kill them.


    As for his wound, he would need to survive as best he could on his own. He¡¯d been wrong to think he could rely on anyone else. The patrons would help, but only on their own terms. Choices made, he grit his teeth, grasped the sword and slid it out of his guts before he ended the ritual, letting the weapon tter to the floor. The sudden rush of power was shocking, as always. New knowledge etched itself on his brain even as the Unseen reached into his body, changing it from within.


    He grew stronger, tougher, smarter, more persuasive, more determined. All of it was wee, but the toughness was what he cared about right now.


    ¡°Thank goodness for it.¡±


    He could finally appreciate why the Necromancer ss received so much constitution. Of course everyone would ignore the minions ande for his head if they could. The only way to survive was to be able to take a hit and keep going.


    Clutching at his wound, he staggered about, looking for something he could use to bandage himself. An old curtain had to suffice, torn in strips and bound around his midsection.


    Job done, he went outside to find Dove hollering at nothing.


    ¡°Kid? Kid! You still alive? The fuck is going on?!¡±


    ¡°Shut it,¡± he ground out as he made it back to the table.


    ¡°Holy shit! Are you alright?¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m not alright, I had a fucking sword in me. I got some levels, hopefully it¡¯ll toughen me up enough to survive. Now try and shut up, I¡¯ve got a ton of things to do and this hurts like¡­¡± heughed and then grunted in pain, ¡°... a stab wound.¡±


    ¡°Things to do? Did your fucking ballsnd on your head? You need to get out of here!¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t leave yet,¡± Tyron said as he cast his eyes about for stones. ¡°There¡¯s too much here I can¡¯t afford to leave behind.¡±

 Chapter B2C29 - Necromancy

    Chapter B2C29 - Necromancy


    The cart rattled over the uneven road and Tyron groaned.


    ¡°Fucking, shut up already.¡±


    The young mage grimaced as he tried to resist touching his side for the umpteenth time. It didn¡¯t help. In fact, all it did was get blood on his hand and irritate the wound.


    Another jostle, another groan.


    ¡°By the tits, shut your damn mouth! You had the chance to fix the wound and you passed it up, so fucking deal with it!¡±


    Tyron sat up with difficulty, the pain from his wound a constant throbbing that reverberated through his entire body.


    ¡°You¡¯d really eat someone¡¯s soul to heal yourself?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes I fucking would! I can¡¯t believe how stupid you are. I think your damn balls are too big for your own good, it¡¯s making you stupid, or blind. Is that it? You can¡¯t see past your own colossal fucking sack and notice the obvious solution right in front of your face?¡±


    Ask a stupid question¡­. He chuckled.


    ¡°Maybe I am, stupid that is.¡± He gestured to his pants, stained red with drying blood. His own blood. ¡°As you can see, my testicles are quite standard, but I can¡¯t deny that I¡¯m dumb enough to risk my life over pride.¡±


    As tempting as it was to argue back at the skull, to defend his morals and point of view, there really wasn¡¯t any point. Dove was worried about him, that was why he was so angry. The pragmatic Summoner wouldn¡¯t hesitate to sacrifice one of those bandit souls to heal him if he could. Before he¡¯d died, he¡¯d already shown he was willing to kill others to keep Tyron alive.


    Stupidity and pride. He refused to rely on the patrons, refused to y their games. A dumb decision if ever there was one, and it was pride that got in his way. He would do it himself, and do it his own way, or not at all.


    <em>They won¡¯t fucking control me. I refuse to be controlled</em>.


    A sigh emanated from the skull and Tyron turned his weary gaze back to his friend.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t stupid, kid. We both know that. I think I¡¯m starting to see your parents in you atst. Magnin and Beory are legendary for wanting to go their own way, and it seems like the apple didn¡¯t drop far from the tree.¡±


    Tyron felt a warm glow inside at beingpared to his parents.


    ¡°You really think so?¡± he said.


    ¡°Oh goddess, don¡¯t look so pleased. Oh that¡¯s disgusting. You have the look of a loving child yearning for the approval of a parent all over your face. It¡¯s too pure for me. Get it away before I manifest spirit spew. Turn me around or something, for fuck¡¯s sake!¡±


    Augh bubbled up in his chest, which caused another spike of pain, which was followed with another groan.


    ¡°Serves you right,¡± Dove said acerbically as Tyrony clutching at his side. ¡°Don¡¯t let me see your inner-self ever again. I¡¯m here to help a badass, killer-crazed Necromancer get some revenge on the pricks who branded me, not babysit a vulnerable young man who didn¡¯t get enough love as a child.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t I be both of those things?¡±


    ¡°No, no you fucking cannot.¡±


    The twopsed into silence and Tyron reflected on the previous night. He¡¯d killed a yer, but he shied away from examining that thought too closely.


    It was what it was and he couldn¡¯t do a thing about it. He refused to give up, so he had to keep going forward, that was all there was to it.


    Killing bandits had proved to be a profitable endeavour in terms of experience and levels, as he¡¯d hoped it would be. Everything had be a blur after he was wounded, but he must have collected bones from ten corpses, and at least five spirits before the light had begun to creep over the horizon.


    To stay any longer than that would have been foolish in the extreme, so he¡¯d gathered his work and left.


    It was mid-morning now, the sun edging closer to its zenith.


    <em>I should have stolen a cart with a roof on it</em>.


    At least it wasn¡¯t too hot out here in the western province, otherwise having the heat beating down on them all day would have been too much to bear.


    <em>Stop your whining and get to work</em>, Tyron admonished himself.


    He¡¯d achieved his goal of securing more levels. He hadn¡¯t been able to get all the bandits, much to his irritation, several of them still burned in his awareness, fading into the distance as the cart rolled forward. It was unlikely he¡¯d get a chance to go back and get the rest, so they were in the clear, for now.


    As a reward for the risks, hard work and stab wound, he¡¯d been able to take a giant step forward in his Undead Weaver ss, gaining his first feat and a new ability to boot.


    Upgrading his Bone Stitching skill excited him even further than the feat, to be honest. Taking such basic, fundamental skills and pushing them as far as possible was the hallmark of a true expert, so his Father had always said, and he knew this had the potential to be huge.


    Empowered Bone Armour would be nice, and he would be extremely tempted to select it in the future. After receiving his first serious battle wound, he was eager to put further impediments between him and getting hurt, but for now, his minions took priority.


    He¡¯d spent the hours groaning in the back of the cart trying to digest the information granted to him by the Skill, and he felt he was approaching the point where he would need to test some things.


    Moving slowly, he raised his hands and began to weave. Then stopped and shook his head. He tried again. After a few seconds, he paused once more and frowned.


    Something wasn¡¯t right.


    Nearby, a bag of leg bones sat against a pile of others, still slightly damp at the bottom from having the washed femurs and tibia thrown in. He pulled it towards him and fished a few out, hoping that working on actual bones might help him concentrate.


    His gut ached something fierce, but he tried to focus and push the pain away. He had to endure, or else he may as well roll over and give himself up.


    Arranging the bones with care, he even grabbed a fib for good measure, he brought to mind everything he¡¯d learned about the knee joint.


    It¡¯d taken many iterations, but he¡¯d eventually settled on a weave for the knee that he felt struck a good bnce between power, efficiency and support. Could he make a better joint if he wanted to? Absolutely, but it would require significantly more work. There simply wasn¡¯t the time to produce the absolute best.


    As his Mother had always said, <em>¡°an eighty percent result only requires fifty percent of the effort. Sometimes it¡¯s worth it to push for the final twenty, and sometimes it isn¡¯t.¡±</em>


    Tyron judged that in this instance, it wasn¡¯t.


    Again, he raised his hands and prepared to weave, but just as he started, curling those first few threads around each other, he realised it felt wrong.


    Something he was doing didn¡¯t mesh with the way the upgraded skill wanted him to work, but what was it? Thinking hard, he looked down at the bones arranged in hisp. Bone Stitching was a technique that involved using threads of magick to create a weave that mimicked the properties of muscle and tendons. Skeletons obviouslycked those things, so this was a requirement for them to be able to move. The upgraded Skill, Bone Animus, should work in a simr way, but be improved in some fashion.


    With knowledge crammed into his skull by the Unseen, he felt that was the case, but he couldn¡¯t quite figure out how it was meant to be done.


    Letting his instinct take over, he brought his hands forward again, but this time he didn¡¯t summon the threads from his fingertips immediately, but tried to listen to those fragments of instinct he had been granted.


    His hands drifted closer to the bones, then closer still. He kept expecting that he would feel the right moment to bring out the threads and continue to work, but to his surprise, that didn¡¯t happen. Instead, his hands continued to move forward until they were resting on the cold surface of the bone themselves.


    <em>Of course. Why didn¡¯t I think of that?</em>


    Only now did he feel it was right to summon the threads, but not attached to his fingers, that wouldn¡¯t work for what the Skill wanted him to do. He had to create them <em>inside</em> the bone.


    What is the benefit of that? How would that help? Normally, the weave was created outside and then would tighten when he was done, bonding to the outside of the skeleton.


    If it were inside¡­.


    Would that be more efficient? Soaked inside the Death Magick contained within the bones themselves, would that have an effect? Or perhaps just being protected would make the weave more resilient to damage and wear.


    Curious, he began to try and manipte the threads, and quickly grew frustrated.


    This was ridiculous! Trying to weave inside the bones was like trying to stitch through a keyhole! Except even that tiny gap was blocked. What he was really doing was manipting the threads through a thin wall using only his mind.


    <em>Slow down, concentrate. You can do this.</em>


    It wouldn¡¯t do to be impatient. Tyron took a deep breath and focused. He¡¯d mastered Bone Stitching, though it had tangled his fingers into a useless snarl at first, he would do the same with this.


    So he began to work, letting everything else, even the throbbing pain of his wound, fade to the background as he devoted himself single-mindedly to moving the threads. He was sluggish. It was difficult to sense the threads, and difficult to move them. Doing both at the same time was almost impossible, so at first, he didn¡¯t try.


    He would shift the minute threads a little, then check them, then shift them again, over and over. After an hour, he¡¯d made some progress towardpleting the knee joint, and he was mentally exhausted.


    Were he in his best condition, working inside on a steady table, it would have gone much better. For now, this was the best he could do.


    <em>This is¡­ surprisingly difficult¡­ but it¡¯s interesting at the same time.</em>


    Despite not being able toplete the joint, he could tell there was something different about it. The weave felt¡­ more flexible, especially when he connected one bone to another. Probably because the weave connected <em>through </em>the bone rather than around them. That also gave him a lot of flexibility in the way he went about shaping the weave. In fact, he had many more options now that he didn¡¯t have to surround the joint.


    A thought struck him.


    ¡°Hey, Dove, someone with a spear doesn¡¯t have the same muscture as someone specialised in, say, a hammer, right?¡±


    The skull scoffed.


    ¡°Of course, itspletely fucking different. Even swordsmen are going to be built slightly differently based on the weight and length of the weapon they choose. I¡¯ve never swung a sword in my life and I know that much.¡±


    Tyron chuckled.


    ¡°I really am an idiot.¡±


    ¡°What now?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ all my skeletons have the exact same weave.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    ¡°But they don¡¯t all use the same weapons.¡±


    ¡°... Ah.¡±


    A pause.


    ¡°... About time you realised it, dipshit!¡±


    ¡°Dove¡­.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know. It¡¯s obvious when you think about it, right?¡±


    ¡°It sure is.¡±


    His new technique would allow for greater flexibility in the weave, which meant one skeleton could be differentiated further from another. It wasn¡¯t toote that he¡¯d only noticed this now.


    Possibilities began to unfold in his mind.


    The threads of magick used to form the weave essentially acted as an energy converter, taking arcane energy and changing it to movement, and also acted to bind the skeleton together. By changing the weave, he could do a ton of different things.


    His shield bearing skeletons could be bulked up with a thicker weave, allowing them to convert more magick to movement, effectively making them physically stronger. When they got into pitched battles and pushing matches, they would hold the line more effectively.


    He could add extra weave to a skeleton¡¯s legs and hips, allowing them to walk faster, or bulk up the shoulders of those using heavier weapons like maces.


    All he¡¯d really cared about before was efficiency. His minions had to be as efficient as possible so he could support more, but as his expertise increased, he was making efficiency savings in other areas. When he took into ount his vastly increased magick capacity, specialising his skeletons and allowing them to draw on more power wouldn¡¯t be an issue until he had almost fifty.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got so much to do,¡± he groaned.

 Chapter B2C30 - Flight South

    Chapter B2C30 - Flight South


    ¡°Did you hear something?¡± Tyron asked,ing alert suddenly.


    ¡°Uh¡­ no? Obviously, I didn¡¯t fucking hear anything. My hearing isn¡¯t exactly the best it¡¯s ever been right now.¡±


    ¡°Shut up for a second.¡±


    The skull grumbled quietly to himself but fell silent a few momentster as Tyron continued to survey the grasnd around them. For two days, they had continued their slow way south, trying to get lost in the winding trails amongst the foothills. It appeared to have worked, at least so far, as they hadn¡¯t seen any yers.


    They¡¯d managed to find a scattering of rift-kin, which had been somewhat surprising. Small scuttlers, hunting for any grazing animals or remotemunities they could find, easily put down by the skeletons.


    Tyron cocked his head and listened. The wind was a constant here, whistling between rocks and crags, but even so, he¡¯d thought he heard something.


    After a moment, there was no response, so he dropped the bandage in his hands and began to work his magick. Looking through the eyes of his minions, he found nothing, which was somewhat reassuring. Just to be safe, he redistributed a few, increasing the number of skeletons close to the cart.


    ¡°You¡¯re as jumpy as a flea in a fire, kid.¡±


    ¡°Do you me me? If a team of yers finds me, even trainees who haven¡¯t reached bronze yet, I¡¯mpletely fucked. I¡¯d rather not be dead, Dove.¡±


    ¡°Hey. Living the Lich life can¡¯t be all that bad. I mean, I¡¯m halfway there, and let me tell you¡­. I can¡¯t even pretend it¡¯s good, actually. This sucks. Are you going to bind that hole in your gut or what?¡±


    After a few more moments, Tyron lowered his head and got back to cleaning his wound. Superhuman physical toughness was one thing, but basic injury care to prevent infection would go a long way. As hard as it had been, he¡¯d had to force himself to stop, hide the cart behind the slope of a hill and remove his bandage to boil it.


    The fabric wasn¡¯t the best, but after twenty minutes soaking in water, it was clean enough that he took it out to dry. The wound itself¡­ wasn¡¯t pretty. It still ached like hell, though he was pleased to see it wasn¡¯t puffy or overly red.


    If there was any internal damage, he¡¯d have to cross his fingers and hope it was able to resolve itself. Thankfully, the de hadn¡¯t punctured a lung, but the chance it had perforated his bowel was very real. Unnaturally tough he might be, but there were limits.


    <em>Should I try to find a vige? See if they have a healer of some kind?</em>


    It was highly unlikely that they would, smallmunities couldn¡¯t afford the ministrations of someone with a proper, dedicated healing ss. More likely he¡¯d find someone with a Skill or two they¡¯d developed to help their neighbours and make a little extra coin on the side.


    But did he have the time? He might have to risk it. He finished wrapping the bandage and tied it off before he pulled his shirt back on.


    <em>Myst clean-ish shirt</em>.


    Thest one had an unfortunate hole through it, and some rather significant bloodstains. He¡¯d ditched it in a creek when he had the chance.


    Worse still, his cloak hadn¡¯te out unscathed, and there was no recement for that. Against the cold, he didn¡¯t have an option but to make the best of it.


    A momentter, he stilled, then continued to go about his preparations nonchntly. Several ghosts began to drift to new positions under his mentalmand.


    ¡°Just about time to get moving again,¡± he said to Dove, as casually as he could manage.


    ¡°I mean, I can¡¯t exactly move, you know,¡± the skull replied acerbically, ¡°I just sit in the back of the wagon for days on end watching the gorgeous scenery go by.¡±


    ¡°Oh,e now, what about the sparkling conversation?¡±


    It was all he could do not to scan the surrounding rock as he kicked over thest of the coals and pulled himself back into the wagon.


    ¡°Sparkling? Have you ever met yourself, Tyron? All you talk about is magick and whinge about getting stabbed.¡±


    ¡°All <em>you</em> talk about is magick and how much you miss having a dick.¡±


    ¡°A lot, by the way. My balls are a close second and third, but definitely the dick most.¡±


    The skeletons picked up the cart and began to rattle down the path as Tyron settled, doing his best to appear focused on the bones in front of him.


    Surreptitiously, he worked his magick, allowing his eyes to be overtaken by the vision of a ghost. Nothing. He shifted its position. Still nothing.


    Perhaps he was just being paranoid¡­.


    He tried another ghost. Nothing. One more, nothing. With a sigh, he shifted its orientation, about to give up, when he thought he noticed something.


    Did that rock¡­ move?


    Keeping the spirit at a slight distance to prevent its cold aura from giving it away, he had it rotate around the suspicious stone to get a better look.


    <em>Damn these horrible undead eyes. I swear I saw it shift.</em>


    The offending rock was positioned overlooking the slight dip where he¡¯d stopped to make a fire, perfect for someone wanting to observe him. Maybe he <em>was</em> paranoid, but he couldn¡¯t afford to take any chances.


    He waited, watching as closely as he could.


    <em>There</em>.


    That time, he caught it, he was sure of it. Someone was watching.


    <em>Blood and bone, </em>he cursed. He¡¯d been found.


    He swallowed, then began to prepare another spell as the cart continued to wobble its slow way down the road. There would only be one shot at this, and he had to win.


    Once he was ready, he breathed out, then snapped around in his seat, hands outflung to hurl the spell at his intended target.


    <em>Dominate Mind!</em>


    The instant he moved, the hidden observer did too, breaking cover to escape, but they weren¡¯t quick enough. The spell took hold and Tyron found himself locked in a deadly battle of wills with his opponent.


    Using this spell against a person was very different from using it against a rift-kin. The monsters weren¡¯t defenceless against it, far from it, they fought with a desperate, rage-fuelled frenzy, the madness that possessed all kin driving them to push back.


    But they weren¡¯t intelligent, they didn¡¯t understand what was happening to them, they justshed out. It was rtively easy to suppress them as long he was steeled for it.


    Using it against a person was another matter. They were more cognizant of the stakes, more cunning in how and when theyshed out.


    There was a cry from above as Tyron mmed his will against the observer¡¯s, but he didn¡¯t allow himself to get distracted. The stakes were too high for that.


    Eyes closed, sweat burst out off his brow as he brought his mind to bear. The yer fought back, for it had to be a yer, their will far stronger than that of the farmer he¡¯d done this to before.


    Like trying to pin down a snake, Tyron struggled to grab it safely, but it wasn¡¯t that easy. The yer writhed in his grip, stabbing in one direction one moment, then in another the next. To be sessful, he had to suppress thempletely, to the point they surrendered. Fearing for their life, the yer fought back furiously.


    Tyron grit his teeth and abandoned his careful strategy. Trying to pin down a snake without getting bit might be the smarter strategy, but he couldn¡¯t be cautious.


    Throwing away his sense of self preservation, he lunged forward with his will, driving directly into the mind of the yer. In return, he was pummelled, his opponentshing at him with wild abandon.


    He struck back again and again, smashing his will against theirs with cruel purpose. He would drive them to submit, <em>he had to</em>.


    A fierce headache blossomed behind his eyes as he was struck over and over, but he had the better of the exchange. Eventually, his opponent weakened, and he closed his grip around their mind ruthlessly.


    It was over, and Tyron fought back his distaste at the sensation of holding another¡¯s mind in his grip. He couldn¡¯t be squeamish now, the worst was yet toe.


    In a way, it was a good thing he couldn¡¯t see the yer clearly, whatever they¡¯d done to conceal themselves was still in effect. ording to his eyes, he was having a battle of wills with a suspicious rock.


    ¡°Kid? What the hell was that? I can¡¯t see.¡±


    ¡°yer,¡± Tyron said tightly.


    ¡°Oh, fuck!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright, I¡¯ve suppressed them.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s nice, I suppose. What happens when you release the spell?¡±


    ¡°Taking care of that now.¡±


    ¡°That sounds ominous. Can always use another corpse for the pile.¡±


    ¡°Not like that¡­.¡±


    With the yer held tightly in his grip, they were at his mercy. Unable to move or defend themselves, it would be simple to have a skeleton run them through, but that was a dead end, for him.


    He was already a marked man, yers didn¡¯t take it too well when their own were killed. Kicking the ho nest would only make things worse. If he took more lives, if more yers disappeared, they¡¯d never stop hunting him.


    When the rift-kin were dead and things returned to normal, the yers would return to the keeps and get back to doing what they do best. If he¡¯d murdered a bunch of them on the way, that wouldn¡¯t happen, they¡¯d stay until he was dead in the ground.


    <em>Take a breath, focus, don¡¯t fuck it up.</em>


    There hadn¡¯t been a chance to practise this, he didn¡¯t have a target after all. Perhaps he could have asked Yor, but he was likely to end up dead if he did.


    Focusing on the magick, he concentrated on the yer, or more specifically, on their mind. Now that he had them in his control, he was able to imnt a suggestion, to persuade them that they had seen something they hadn¡¯t, or more specifically, convince them they hadn¡¯t seen something that they had.


    <em>You found nothing. You saw nothing. No sign of a Necromancer. No tracks. No trail. No wagon. Turn and leave. </em>


    He repeated the thought over and over again, driving it into the mind he held in his grip. Drumming it over and over again, he gradually felt it take hold, sinking into the thoughts and settling there.


    <em>You found nothing. You saw nothing. No sign of a Necromancer. No tracks. No trail. No wagon. Turn and leave. </em>


    When he was satisfied, he slowly released his grip, then watched through the eyes of his ghost as the yer stood, the rock disguise falling away to reveal itself as a cloak.


    It was a woman, perhaps, it was hard to tell through the ghost¡¯s eyes, and she walked, zombie-like, away. Tyron breathed a deep sigh of relief and released the spell.


    ¡°We need to get moving,¡± he said to Dove.


    ¡°Oh, right. Well I¡¯ll get right fucking on that.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove.¡±


    ¡°More importantly, how in the name of fuck did you get that yer out of here?¡±


    ¡°Imnted a suggestion in their mind that they¡¯d never found us.¡±


    ¡°Oof. That¡¯s twisted, kid. Manipting thoughts like that? Disgusting. By the by, think we could stop by a brothel soon? I¡¯ve got some thoughts about this new ability.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re sickening, you know that?¡±


    Putting the protestations of the skull to one side, Tyron focused on having the skeletons move the cart as quickly as their boney feet would carry them. He needed to get south. Skyice Keep would be his next best bet of finding rift-kin to kill, and perhaps it would be a little safer, being the most isted yer-keep in the province.


    As long as they didn¡¯t get found again.


    ¡°Say, Dove,¡± he said, as the cart continued to rattle forward, ¡°I had a thought, about ghosts.¡±


    ¡°By the mother¡¯s milkers, kid. Can¡¯t we talk about breasts for a chance?¡±


    ¡°So, to create a ghost, I need to create a type of shell, right? A magickal construct of sorts? I¡¯ve been wondering if I can ovey that. You know the repository ritual?¡±


    ¡°How could I forget?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡±


    The two bounced ideas off each other for the next few hours, until night fell. Yor found them still arguing back and forth and rolled her eyes. Every night started the same way.


    ______


    ¡°How much longer, do you think?¡± Beory spat through gritted teeth.


    Magnin grunted, breath whistling as he tried to suck in air through the pain.


    ¡°Not sure,¡± he gasped. ¡°Th-they¡¯ve started working harder. D-don¡¯t you think?¡±


    They certainly had. It appeared the Magisters had grown tired of their resistance and redoubled their efforts. In a strange way, the increased pain pleased her. No doubt those pricks were sweating right now. They¡¯d never have expected her and Magnin tost as long as they had. Nobody had tried to circumvent the brand in centuries, nobody as good as her, anyway.


    The Magisters had beencent. The fact that she and her husband were still alive was proof enough of that.


    ¡°The brands aren¡¯t enough to kill us,¡± she ground out. ¡°Their only choice is to break us down.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Magnin tried to chuckle, but it came out as a pained wheeze. ¡°I-it¡¯s working.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re buying him time. Hold on.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    He¡¯d done so well, better than expected. His body might be grossly powerful, but his mind and will were more vulnerable.


    ¡°Every hour we can give him increases his chances. We have to hold.¡±


    Sweat poured from Magnin¡¯s brow and he grunted with every second breath. She¡¯d never seen him look so worn, not even in his youth.


    ¡°Did I ever tell you,¡± he wheezed, ¡°that I love you?¡±


    Her eyes softened, despite the agony that ripped through her.


    ¡°Yes, my heart. Every day.¡±


    ¡°G-good.¡±


    She reached out and ced a palm against his face.


    ¡°Just a few more days,¡± she told him. ¡°You can make it.¡±


    ¡°Course I can. Don¡¯t underestimate me, woman.¡±


    ¡°Never.¡±


    Not like the Magisters. They dared to try and clip her wings, Magnin¡¯s wings. Vengeance would find them, the entire empire would burn for what they¡¯d done.


    Of that, she was confident.

 Chapter B2C31 - A Mad Mage

    Chapter B2C31 - A Mad Mage


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ disturbing to look at.¡±


    ¡°There exists a certain <em>charm</em> in the way he moves.¡±


    ¡°Charm? Charm!? You¡¯re as twisted as I am, woman. He looks like a zombie fucking another zombie, except the second one is nothing but but an ass sewed onto a face.¡±


    The young Necromancer had been in this state for almost an hour now, demanding that they stash the cart in a crevasse, hidden from view as he grew lost in his thoughts.


    ¡°You exaggerate. Look at him closely, he is so taken by thoughts in his mind that physical reality has faded almostpletely from his consciousness. I have seen others like this, elders, when they fall into a trance contemting the deeper magick and the mysteries of the blood. Sometimes, they don¡¯t move for years at a time.¡±


    ¡°Still? He keeps jerking this way and that, I¡¯m worried he¡¯s having a heart attack! It¡¯s like he gets halfway into a movement before he has another thought and tries to move in a new direction.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fascinating.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s disgusting. I think he¡¯s drooling.¡±


    ¡°I suspect this is what he looked like when he discovered how to preserve your spirit.¡±


    An image shed into Dove''s mind, of Tyron leaning over him, the light of madness burning in his eyes as he¡¯d awakened within his own skull.


    ¡°I¡¯d rather not remember that,¡± Dove muttered.


    ¡°I feel it¡¯s a little hypocritical of you toin so much. After all, this is <em>your</em> fault, at least partially.¡±


    ¡°<em>My </em>fault? What did I do?¡±


    ¡°Your discussion was enough to give him some insight, resulting in this state.¡±


    ¡°Honestly, I¡¯m not even sure what he was talking about is possible. It¡¯s an interesting theory¡­ sure.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s possible.¡±


    The vampire¡¯s eyes gleamed in the dim light. It wasn¡¯t every day one had the opportunity to witness a genius at work, a talent so bright even her mistress had reached out to this backwards realm toy a im. Would he ze in glory here, or fall agonisingly short of a great leap forward?


    ¡°It is? Well, shit.¡±


    Their words weren¡¯t heard by Tyron. He felt as if he could barely feel his own body as thoughts raced through his mind, one chasing the other so quickly he could barely breathe.


    Spell matrices came together, were adapted and then discarded over and over again as he tried to make the possibility he had glimpsed into a magickal reality.


    <em>Mind. Spirit. Channel. Bond or connection? Need a conduit. Or housing. But how do they connect? What material, or method? </em>


    His thoughts flickered from problem to solution so fast, he felt as if his thoughts were vibrating. This wasn¡¯t helping, he needed to settle his mind, direct his energy more fruitfully.


    The young mage snapped back to himself and blinked rapidly.


    <em>Fuck, my eyes are dry. Was I not blinking?</em>


    No sooner had the thought urred to him then it was gone as he strode to his pack and pulled out his notebook. Fumbling with a shaking hand for his pencil, he ripped it out and began feverishly scribbling away on a fresh page.


    Conceptually, it was simple. Skeletons were limited by the simplistic construct that acted as their ¡®brain¡¯. Improving the construct was one thing, but that dealt with mind magick, an entire branch of spellcraft of its own, and one that Tyron had no familiarity with. So, how to make his skeletons less stupid?


    Rece their basic ¡®minds¡¯ with ghosts. Simple.


    Except it wasn¡¯t.


    There were dozens of intricateponents connecting the mind to the skeleton, none of which he fully understood. Spellforms ran through his head at a blistering pace, differentbinations of sigils flicking into ce before he dismissed them and started again.


    What was a spirit? Whether or not it was really the soul of a living person didn¡¯t matter; for his purposes, they were a magickal construct that could be bound to a semi-physical form.


    Spirit Binding allowed him to create a ¡®housing¡¯ for the ghost, one that enabled it to interact in the physical world in a limited way. To take that, and ovey it to a skeleton¡­.


    As his pencil continued to fly over the page, he began to mutter to himself as he tried to resolve the issues that prevented him from making his vision reality. Not ten metres away, Yor and Dove watched him rack his brain.


    ¡°If he¡¯s sessful¡­¡± Dove muttered.


    Yor nodded, the predatory gleam in her eyes brightening.


    ¡°Then he would have taught himself how to create a revenant.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s¡­ nuts.¡±


    It was <em>possible </em>to learn Skills and Spells without the influence of the Unseen, but that didn¡¯t mean it happened often. In fact, it was vanishingly rare, <em>especially</em> with moreplex abilities. Yet the longer he watched, the more he became convinced that something remarkable was about to happen.


    The three remained as they were for another hour until, finally, Tyron stood from his crouched position and turned to face them, the manic expression on his face eerily lit by the orbs he had conjured.


    He rushed toward them, then blew straight past, rummaging for the bones he wanted in the cart beforeying them down carefully on the ground. Without pause, the Necromancer began to thread the bones together, fingers dancing across the joints as he formed the threads of magick.


    ¡°Hey, tilt me down a little bit,¡± Dove asked the vampire beside him. ¡°I can¡¯t see.¡±


    ¡°There isn¡¯t much to see,¡± she told him, ¡°not yet.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to miss it,¡± the skull hissed, ¡°this could be something extraordinary right here.¡±


    Yor smiled cruelly and adjusted the position of the skull until he was facing directly downward into the wooden nks of the cart.


    ¡°Very funny,¡± Dove said acidly. ¡°Do you mind?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Yor said, but relented and repositioned him so he could watch Tyron work.


    ¡°I feel like he¡¯s getting through that faster than before,¡± he observed with interest as Tyron continued to flutter over the bones, hands shifting from one section to the next as he wove with dizzying speed.


    ¡°He seems to have achieved a high level of focus. His control over the magick is much better than usual.¡±


    In a rtively short time, Tyron sprang up and began to pace around the skeleton, as if examining something that normal eyes couldn¡¯t see. Eventually, he nodded to himself before dashing back to the cart to collect one of the stones stored in the back.


    Moving back to the bones on the ground, he carefully ced the rock inside the skull before he stood, stepped back and spread his hands.


    Dove tensed. Was the kid really just going to go for it? A modified ritual?


    ¡°Hey, Ty-¡± he began to say.


    He froze, his spirit gripped by something he couldn¡¯t describe, no longer able to echo out the words as he could before.


    ¡°Be quiet,¡± Yor said from beside him. ¡°If you distract him now, then who knows what might happen?¡±


    ¡°He might not kill himself!¡±


    ¡°Or the breakthrough he needs to survive will be lost.¡±


    The once Summoner stumbled in his words as the reality of that situation struck home. It was true. The kid progressed so <em>fast</em> that it was difficult to remember at times that it still wasn¡¯t fast enough. He¡¯de this far by pushing his limits as hard and as often as he could. If he stopped doing that now, at this critical moment, it may all have been for nothing.


    Unheeding of anything outside of his own mind, Tyron took a deep breath and began to speak.


    Create a body for the ghost out of magick, bind it to the skeleton, then raise it as an undead. Three separate processes, each requiring time, focus and meticulous attention to detail to perform correctly.


    It may have seemed mad, but Tyron¡¯s answer was not to perform these actions separately, but rather to do them all together.


    Not three individual tasks, but one.


    The instantiation of the ghost, binding it to the skeleton and binding it to him, he would do them all at once.


    Words rolled from his mouth as his hands flicked from one sigil to the next in an unceasing series. Magick began to flow in such quantities it could almost be seen, almost be felt, whipping around the Necromancer¡¯s cloak and ruffling Yor¡¯s dress.


    <em>The secret is in the bones!</em>


    It hade to him in a sh of inspiration. There had to be a reason the improved Bone Threading technique ced the weave within the bones, there <em>had</em> to be. He may not understand what it was, but he was certain it was there. Extending that logic, he knew that the bones of the dead were themselves repositories of magick, after all, they became saturated with death magick if given the opportunity.


    As the ritual continued, he infused the skeleton with his power, and at the same time, created a new form for the spirit to reside in, <em>inside </em>the bones.


    The spirit-binding flowed through the marrow as if it were always meant to be there, enveloping and embracing the threads within, which seemed toe alive through some will of their own.


    It was gruelling, difficult work, and Tyron felt as if his mind were being pulled in multiple directions as he tried to juggle so manyplex spellforms at once, but he persevered. The fric urging of his own mind wouldn¡¯t allow him to fail.


    Ghostly mes began to spread across the bones as the ritual continued, an ethereal purple fire that flickered in the darkness like a sputtering torch.


    ¡°There¡¯s no fucking way,¡± Dove breathed.


    On and on it went, more and more magick being pulled out and infused in the undead, until finally it was done.


    Tyron brought his hands together, the final syble ringing in the damp night air as he stared down at his newest creation with feverish glee.


    At first, nothing happened, then a light began to glow within the hollow eyes of the skull. Moving slowly, the skeleton began to rise, pulling itself up from the ground until it stood unmoving on its two feet.


    Still, that fire burned, tiny tongues of me that curled between the ribs and licked the darkness. Gradually, the mes began to gather, sliding along the skeletal frame to concentrate along the ribs until they seemed to ignite, creating a steadily burning fire that filled the undead¡¯s chest.


    ¡°Yes!¡± Tyron cried, punching the air in triumph before he rushed up close to the minion and inspected it carefully.


    ¡°That¡¯s not something he should have learned how to do for <em>quite</em> some time,¡± Yor smirked.


    ¡°Holy. Fucking. Balls,¡± Dove agreed.


    He¡¯d always known the kid was special. In the back of his skull, he began to wonder just what the future would actually hold. His best hopes for the Necromancer had been to thumb his nose at the authorities, kill a few marshals, piss off the Magisters a bit. At best, he¡¯d hoped he would grow strong enough to threaten them, make a ruckus.


    But now¡­ now, something entirely more grand may be possible.


    ¡°Congrattions, kid,¡± he said, louder.


    Tyron turned towards him, a broad grin on his face.


    ¡°I told you it was possible! I fucking told you!¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes you did. Quite the aplishment. You can be proud of pulling this off, unlike the pulling you did when you were younger.¡±


    ¡°Proud?¡± Tyron sounded almost puzzled. ¡°But I¡¯m not done yet! There¡¯s more work to do, much more. I need to make more, and I need to see what different bones and souls do. Or maybe the minion is stronger if I use the soul and bones of the same person? There¡¯s so much to figure out¡­.¡±


    Already muttering to himself, Tyron leapt into the back of the cart and started rummaging around until he found what he was looking for. Dove didn¡¯t see him until he¡¯d jumped back down, but when he did, he felt more than a little concerned.


    ¡°Kid, isn¡¯t that¡­?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Tyron nodded absentmindedly, ¡°these are the remains of the yer I killed. And I¡¯ve got his spirit right here.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ fuck.¡±

 Chapter B2C32 - Confronted

    Chapter B2C32 - Confronted


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ disturbing to look at.¡±


    ¡°There exists a certain <em>charm</em> in the way he moves.¡±


    ¡°Charm? Charm!? You¡¯re as twisted as I am, woman. He looks like a zombie fucking another zombie, except the second one is nothing but but an ass sewed onto a face.¡±


    The young Necromancer had been in this state for almost an hour now, demanding that they stash the cart in a crevasse, hidden from view as he grew lost in his thoughts.


    ¡°You exaggerate. Look at him closely, he is so taken by thoughts in his mind that physical reality has faded almostpletely from his consciousness. I have seen others like this, elders, when they fall into a trance contemting the deeper magick and the mysteries of the blood. Sometimes, they don¡¯t move for years at a time.¡±


    ¡°Still? He keeps jerking this way and that, I¡¯m worried he¡¯s having a heart attack! It¡¯s like he gets halfway into a movement before he has another thought and tries to move in a new direction.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fascinating.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s disgusting. I think he¡¯s drooling.¡±


    ¡°I suspect this is what he looked like when he discovered how to preserve your spirit.¡±


    An image shed into Dove''s mind, of Tyron leaning over him, the light of madness burning in his eyes as he¡¯d awakened within his own skull.


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    ¡°I¡¯d rather not remember that,¡± Dove muttered.


    ¡°I feel it¡¯s a little hypocritical of you toin so much. After all, this is <em>your</em> fault, at least partially.¡±


    ¡°<em>My </em>fault? What did I do?¡±


    ¡°Your discussion was enough to give him some insight, resulting in this state.¡±


    ¡°Honestly, I¡¯m not even sure what he was talking about is possible. It¡¯s an interesting theory¡­ sure.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s possible.¡±


    The vampire¡¯s eyes gleamed in the dim light. It wasn¡¯t every day one had the opportunity to witness a genius at work, a talent so bright even her mistress had reached out to this backwards realm toy a im. Would he ze in glory here, or fall agonisingly short of a great leap forward?


    ¡°It is? Well, shit.¡±


    Their words weren¡¯t heard by Tyron. He felt as if he could barely feel his own body as thoughts raced through his mind, one chasing the other so quickly he could barely breathe.


    Spell matrices came together, were adapted and then discarded over and over again as he tried to make the possibility he had glimpsed into a magickal reality.


    <em>Mind. Spirit. Channel. Bond or connection? Need a conduit. Or housing. But how do they connect? What material, or method? </em>


    His thoughts flickered from problem to solution so fast, he felt as if his thoughts were vibrating. This wasn¡¯t helping, he needed to settle his mind, direct his energy more fruitfully.


    The young mage snapped back to himself and blinked rapidly.


    <em>Fuck, my eyes are dry. Was I not blinking?</em>


    No sooner had the thought urred to him then it was gone as he strode to his pack and pulled out his notebook. Fumbling with a shaking hand for his pencil, he ripped it out and began feverishly scribbling away on a fresh page.


    Conceptually, it was simple. Skeletons were limited by the simplistic construct that acted as their ¡®brain¡¯. Improving the construct was one thing, but that dealt with mind magick, an entire branch of spellcraft of its own, and one that Tyron had no familiarity with. So, how to make his skeletons less stupid?


    Rece their basic ¡®minds¡¯ with ghosts. Simple.


    Except it wasn¡¯t.


    There were dozens of intricateponents connecting the mind to the skeleton, none of which he fully understood. Spellforms ran through his head at a blistering pace, differentbinations of sigils flicking into ce before he dismissed them and started again.


    What was a spirit? Whether or not it was really the soul of a living person didn¡¯t matter; for his purposes, they were a magickal construct that could be bound to a semi-physical form.


    Spirit Binding allowed him to create a ¡®housing¡¯ for the ghost, one that enabled it to interact in the physical world in a limited way. To take that, and ovey it to a skeleton¡­.


    As his pencil continued to fly over the page, he began to mutter to himself as he tried to resolve the issues that prevented him from making his vision reality. Not ten metres away, Yor and Dove watched him rack his brain.


    ¡°If he¡¯s sessful¡­¡± Dove muttered.


    Yor nodded, the predatory gleam in her eyes brightening.


    ¡°Then he would have taught himself how to create a revenant.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s¡­ nuts.¡±


    It was <em>possible </em>to learn Skills and Spells without the influence of the Unseen, but that didn¡¯t mean it happened often. In fact, it was vanishingly rare, <em>especially</em> with moreplex abilities. Yet the longer he watched, the more he became convinced that something remarkable was about to happen.


    The three remained as they were for another hour until, finally, Tyron stood from his crouched position and turned to face them, the manic expression on his face eerily lit by the orbs he had conjured.


    He rushed toward them, then blew straight past, rummaging for the bones he wanted in the cart beforeying them down carefully on the ground. Without pause, the Necromancer began to thread the bones together, fingers dancing across the joints as he formed the threads of magick.


    ¡°Hey, tilt me down a little bit,¡± Dove asked the vampire beside him. ¡°I can¡¯t see.¡±


    ¡°There isn¡¯t much to see,¡± she told him, ¡°not yet.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to miss it,¡± the skull hissed, ¡°this could be something extraordinary right here.¡±


    Yor smiled cruelly and adjusted the position of the skull until he was facing directly downward into the wooden nks of the cart.


    ¡°Very funny,¡± Dove said acidly. ¡°Do you mind?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Yor said, but relented and repositioned him so he could watch Tyron work.


    ¡°I feel like he¡¯s getting through that faster than before,¡± he observed with interest as Tyron continued to flutter over the bones, hands shifting from one section to the next as he wove with dizzying speed.


    ¡°He seems to have achieved a high level of focus. His control over the magick is much better than usual.¡±


    In a rtively short time, Tyron sprang up and began to pace around the skeleton, as if examining something that normal eyes couldn¡¯t see. Eventually, he nodded to himself before dashing back to the cart to collect one of the stones stored in the back.


    Moving back to the bones on the ground, he carefully ced the rock inside the skull before he stood, stepped back and spread his hands.


    Dove tensed. Was the kid really just going to go for it? A modified ritual?


    ¡°Hey, Ty-¡± he began to say.


    He froze, his spirit gripped by something he couldn¡¯t describe, no longer able to echo out the words as he could before.


    ¡°Be quiet,¡± Yor said from beside him. ¡°If you distract him now, then who knows what might happen?¡±


    ¡°He might not kill himself!¡±


    ¡°Or the breakthrough he needs to survive will be lost.¡±


    The once Summoner stumbled in his words as the reality of that situation struck home. It was true. The kid progressed so <em>fast</em> that it was difficult to remember at times that it still wasn¡¯t fast enough. He¡¯de this far by pushing his limits as hard and as often as he could. If he stopped doing that now, at this critical moment, it may all have been for nothing.


    Unheeding of anything outside of his own mind, Tyron took a deep breath and began to speak.


    Create a body for the ghost out of magick, bind it to the skeleton, then raise it as an undead. Three separate processes, each requiring time, focus and meticulous attention to detail to perform correctly.


    It may have seemed mad, but Tyron¡¯s answer was not to perform these actions separately, but rather to do them all together.


    Not three individual tasks, but one.


    The instantiation of the ghost, binding it to the skeleton and binding it to him, he would do them all at once.


    Words rolled from his mouth as his hands flicked from one sigil to the next in an unceasing series. Magick began to flow in such quantities it could almost be seen, almost be felt, whipping around the Necromancer¡¯s cloak and ruffling Yor¡¯s dress.


    <em>The secret is in the bones!</em>


    It hade to him in a sh of inspiration. There had to be a reason the improved Bone Threading technique ced the weave within the bones, there <em>had</em> to be. He may not understand what it was, but he was certain it was there. Extending that logic, he knew that the bones of the dead were themselves repositories of magick, after all, they became saturated with death magick if given the opportunity.


    As the ritual continued, he infused the skeleton with his power, and at the same time, created a new form for the spirit to reside in, <em>inside </em>the bones.


    The spirit-binding flowed through the marrow as if it were always meant to be there, enveloping and embracing the threads within, which seemed toe alive through some will of their own.


    It was gruelling, difficult work, and Tyron felt as if his mind were being pulled in multiple directions as he tried to juggle so manyplex spellforms at once, but he persevered. The fric urging of his own mind wouldn¡¯t allow him to fail.


    Ghostly mes began to spread across the bones as the ritual continued, an ethereal purple fire that flickered in the darkness like a sputtering torch.


    ¡°There¡¯s no fucking way,¡± Dove breathed.


    On and on it went, more and more magick being pulled out and infused in the undead, until finally it was done.


    Tyron brought his hands together, the final syble ringing in the damp night air as he stared down at his newest creation with feverish glee.


    At first, nothing happened, then a light began to glow within the hollow eyes of the skull. Moving slowly, the skeleton began to rise, pulling itself up from the ground until it stood unmoving on its two feet.


    Still, that fire burned, tiny tongues of me that curled between the ribs and licked the darkness. Gradually, the mes began to gather, sliding along the skeletal frame to concentrate along the ribs until they seemed to ignite, creating a steadily burning fire that filled the undead¡¯s chest.


    ¡°Yes!¡± Tyron cried, punching the air in triumph before he rushed up close to the minion and inspected it carefully.


    ¡°That¡¯s not something he should have learned how to do for <em>quite</em> some time,¡± Yor smirked.


    ¡°Holy. Fucking. Balls,¡± Dove agreed.


    He¡¯d always known the kid was special. In the back of his skull, he began to wonder just what the future would actually hold. His best hopes for the Necromancer had been to thumb his nose at the authorities, kill a few marshals, piss off the Magisters a bit. At best, he¡¯d hoped he would grow strong enough to threaten them, make a ruckus.


    But now¡­ now, something entirely more grand may be possible.


    ¡°Congrattions, kid,¡± he said, louder.


    Tyron turned towards him, a broad grin on his face.


    ¡°I told you it was possible! I fucking told you!¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes you did. Quite the aplishment. You can be proud of pulling this off, unlike the pulling you did when you were younger.¡±


    ¡°Proud?¡± Tyron sounded almost puzzled. ¡°But I¡¯m not done yet! There¡¯s more work to do, much more. I need to make more, and I need to see what different bones and souls do. Or maybe the minion is stronger if I use the soul and bones of the same person? There¡¯s so much to figure out¡­.¡±


    Already muttering to himself, Tyron leapt into the back of the cart and started rummaging around until he found what he was looking for. Dove didn¡¯t see him until he¡¯d jumped back down, but when he did, he felt more than a little concerned.


    ¡°Kid, isn¡¯t that¡­?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Tyron nodded absentmindedly, ¡°these are the remains of the yer I killed. And I¡¯ve got his spirit right here.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ fuck.¡±


    Tyron came awake with a start. He tried to pull himself up off his back only to twinge his gut and let out a groan, lowering himself back down to the hard wooden bed of the cart. Eyes closed, he reached down with one hand and pressed his palm into the throbbing wound on his belly.


    There was heat there, and the flesh was tender, but no worse than it had been thest time he remembered checking. There may be some level of infection, which meant he¡¯d better seek some treatment, but it wasn¡¯t worsening. That was something.


    Pain throbbed in his temples, along his back and in most of his limbs. Sleeping on a moving cart was a far cry from a feather bed. He must have been exhausted, copsing in here without so much asying a nket down? Exceptionally durable for a yer of his rank he may be, but there was no point punishing himself when he didn¡¯t have to.


    <em>Holy shit, my mouth is dry.</em>


    Without opening his eyes, he fumbled about, patting the various bags and packs around him until he found the water skin. Uncorking it, he brought the leather bag to his lips and drank deep of the cool, brackish liquid.


    <em>Need to resupply. Should be a creek or stream around here to get water at least.</em>


    The foothills were criss-crossed with little streams and brooksing down from the mountains, which meant fresh water was never too far away. Food and bandages were what he needed. If he¡¯d thought to gather more supplies from the vige when he¡¯d had the chance, he wouldn¡¯t need to risk it, but he¡¯d been interested in more¡­ Necromantic necessities.


    ¡°Oh, you¡¯re awake, kid. You¡¯ve been out of it for hours.¡±


    The young mage lifted his head to find Dove posted on one of the poles set in the corners of the cart looking down at him.


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    ¡°Why are you watching me sleep? It¡¯s creepy,¡± Tyron let his head fall back down.


    ¡°Not like I have a fucking choice now, do I? Yor set me here, against my will, I might add, and that was the end of it. Rather than look at you snoring, I¡¯ve been dipping in and out of sleep myself.¡±


    A thought urred to the Necromancer.


    ¡°Should I have a guess as to where you asked her to put you?¡±


    ¡°I think we both know I asked her to use my jaw and skull as a brassiere. She threatened to stuff me down your pants.¡±


    ¡°Blood and bone, I¡¯m d that didn¡¯t happen. What did you have to do to talk her out of that?¡±


    ¡°I had to give up something precious, something dear to my heart. I¡¯d rather not talk about it¡­.¡±


    ¡°All right, we won¡¯t then.¡±


    Careful not to pull at his gut muscles again, Tyron rolled to his side and levered himself up to a sitting position.


    ¡°Ow, fucking hell. My head is <em>killing</em> me. What the hell was I doingst night?¡±


    ¡°You¡­ don¡¯t remember? Were you drunk or something? If you were, I¡¯ll be even more pissed off. If I could work a ritual <em>half</em> that well when I was pissed, I¡¯d have been a fucking superstar at the academy.¡±


    Tyron frowned, then turned, his eye caught by the skeleton marching alongside the cart beside him.


    ¡°Holy shit!¡±


    It all came back to him in a rush. The breakthrough, the ritual, the spirit.


    <em>The Revenant</em>.


    ¡°Holy fucking shit! I did it!¡±


    ¡°Did it? You made four of the bastards. <em>Four</em>.¡±


    ¡°Four? Wait, I did! Why the hell did I do that? Only the yer would make a good revenant¡­.¡±


    ¡°Fucked if I know! I think you were so hooked on improving the method you couldn¡¯t stop yourself.¡±


    ¡°I guess I wasn¡¯t thinking that carefully about it. I get carried away sometimes. By the Five, what time is it?¡±


    When he looked up, the sun was clearly past the midway point and already descending.


    ¡°I slept for way too long. Have the skeletons been moving this whole time?¡±


    ¡°Well, you have a semi-intelligent minion to steer them now, so you figured it would be safe to sleep and let them keep you on the trail.¡±


    ¡°Semi-intelligent¡­.¡±


    He looked again at the revenant beside him and found it staring back at him, the glow burning bright in its empty sockets. The pain in his head red and he winced, lifting a hand to his temple.


    ¡°Right. Because they have a spirit in there.¡±


    That much was obvious. A revenant was abination of spirit and skeleton. Knowing that much had been the stepping stone that allowed him to make this breakthrough after all.


    ¡°Wait. Oh, SHIT. What have I done?!¡±


    ¡°There it is. Finally. I was wondering when the moral panic would kick in. You were stuffing souls into bones without a care in the worldst night. I knew it was too good tost.¡±


    Aghast, Tyron stared down at the skull, a horrified expression on his face.


    ¡°That was a yer¡¯s soul I used in that revenant. You¡¯re okay with that?¡±


    ¡°Kid, I¡¯m a soul locked inside my own skull. I couldn¡¯t give a flying fuck who you lock in bones. You took the spirit and rammed it in a stone, what the fuck were you going to do with it?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know! I thought I wanted to see if your theory was right and different souls were stronger or weaker.¡±


    Another stabbing pain in his head. Tyron winced and closed his eyes, realising after a moment just what was causing the problem. Through the connection he shared with his minions, something was¡­ off, a sensation he hadn¡¯t encountered before. When he focused on it, the feeling became apparent.


    From the revenant beside him, a constant scream of indignation and outrage poured into his head. The yer was roaring at him, not with words, but an outpour of emotion that battered him endlessly. Fear, horror, anger, fury. With no outlet to express itself physically, the yer struck back in the only way they knew how.


    <em>Stop it</em>, Tyronmanded.


    Cut off as if a flood-gate had dropped, the assault ceased, and he almost gasped in relief as the pressure abated. He hadn¡¯t realised just how draining it had been until he no longer felt it.


    <em>That shouldn¡¯t be possible, they shouldn¡¯t be able to act against me in any way.</em>


    Perhaps there was something wrong with the ritual? Had he not perfected the creation of a revenant after all? It was possible, he¡¯d been feeling his own way forward, after all.


    Even now, the skeleton red at him, the fire burning within its rib cage seemingly a visible sign of its burning grudge.


    ¡°This is too much. I shouldn¡¯t have done this,¡± Tyron despaired.


    ¡°Bitte now, kid. Same question as before: keep going, or turn yourself in?¡±


    The Necromancer hung his head, but he too felt a burning desire in his chest.


    ¡°Keep going,¡± he said grimly.


    ¡°Too fucking right.¡±


    ¡ª------------------------------------------


    ¡°I¡¯ve done what I can,¡± the viger said as she leaned back, a frown creasing her wrinkled features. ¡°The poultice should help to draw out the infection. Make sure you keep it clean and don¡¯t mess with the stitches.¡±


    She poked him in the side, eliciting a grunt as it twinged his stomach.


    ¡°Thank you very much,¡± he said as he sat up and pulled down his shirt.


    The woman was barely any sort of healer, she was some form of seamstress he suspected, but out here, she was all he could get. She knew it too, based on how much she charged him. Too tired to haggle, he¡¯d just dumped the coin on the table and watched her eyes light up.


    ¡°Don¡¯t know how you got stabbed and don¡¯t want to know,¡± she said as he gathered his things and prepared to leave. ¡°People here in Cliffside are good folk, we don¡¯t want any trouble.¡±


    He paused for a moment, then nodded.


    People eyed him with distrust as he made his way down the main street. There weren¡¯t many people in this remote mountain vige, perhaps as few as a hundred. Apparently, there was an active mine not far from here, with workers from several nearby settlements heading down for extended stints in the shafts.


    They¡¯d robbed him blind on prices, but he had what he needed. He kept his head down and walked with purpose. Skeletons and ghosts were posted close by, as close as he could get them without risking discovery, but he wouldn¡¯t feel safe until he was back amongst his minions once more.


    <em>Typical Necromancer attitude. The living seem less trustworthy by the day.</em>


    It would¡¯ve been funny if it didn¡¯t ring so true. He hadplete control over his servants, they were wed, but totally reliable. People were self-interested, just as he was.


    Checking the mour remained in ce, he paused for a moment before picking up his pace. They wouldn¡¯t recognise his face if someone were to ask if he¡¯d been here, which would make the time he¡¯d had to spend working on the fiddly magick worthwhile.


    Crafting a new appearance was a tiresome process, even with the knowledge the Unseen had granted when he¡¯d chosen the spell. The face he¡¯d ended up with was so aggressively nd he risked it not looking human at all, but every wrinkle and feature added increased theplexity that much more. He¡¯d done as best he could, but couldn¡¯t afford to dy any further.


    When thest of the worn houses was behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief, but made sure to keep half an eye on his back as he walked. He probably paid too much attention in that direction and not enough in front, otherwise he might have noticed who was approaching.


    ¡°Wait there a moment, friend,¡± a man said in an authoritative voice.


    Tyron started and replied without thinking much, still wary of anyone following behind him.


    ¡°Just passing by, my business is done.¡±


    He continued to walk, nodding his head and keeping his focus down, that¡¯s when he heard the unmistakable rasp of steel being drawn.


    ¡°I said <em>wait</em>,¡± themand was repeated, and this time, the threat of consequences was clear in his tone.


    Startled, the Necromancer looked properly at who was addressing him and nearly swore out loud.


    <em>Blood and bone! Marshals¡­. Why are they here?!</em>


    Two of them, weary from the road and covered in dust. If he was paying proper attention, he¡¯d have been able to spot theming up the road through the eyes of his ghosts. Perhaps his experience being jumped on his way to Woodsedge still weighed too heavily on his mind.


    Feet immediately ground to a halt in the face of the naked de and he raised his hands, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible.


    ¡°Sorry, Marshals, didn¡¯t realise I was talking to thew,¡± he said gruffly.


    <em>Do I even need to disguise my voice?</em>


    Probably not, but there was no reason not to. In the back of his mind, he made sure his minions came closer. This was almost the worst case scenario.


    The two officials watched him warily, the one who¡¯d spoken kept his de drawn before leaning back, keeping his eyes on Tyron, and muttering something to his partner. She approached, one hand on the hilt of her own weapon, the other extended in front.


    ¡°Your weapon,¡± she demanded.


    ¡°Of course. Here you are.¡±


    Desperate to diffuse the situation, he drew his sword and extended it, hilt first. The marshal seized it from him as if he were a live viper, retreating back to her partner¡¯s side and throwing the de to the ground.


    He suppressed a wince as it ttered against the stone. That sword hade from his father.


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem, officers?¡± he asked, trying to suppress his pounding heart. ¡°Have I done something wrong?¡±


    ¡°Turn around,¡± the man barked at him, face hard and unyielding. ¡°ce your arms behind your back, palms showing. Do it now.¡±


    Heart sinking, Tyron considered his options. Why were they suspecting him like this? Had he done something wrong? He tried to y for time. He couldn¡¯t allow himself to be arrested. If they bound him, there would be little he could do to protect himself.


    Marshals had a range of abilities they used to hunt and suppress criminals and suspects. Depending on their level, these two may be able to prevent him from casting magick at all if he let themy hands on him.


    ¡°I¡¯d really like to know what I¡¯ve done, officers. I¡¯m just walking. Seems a bit harsh to bind me over that.¡±


    He tried to sound as reasonable as possible but the faces of both Marshals hardened even further when he refused to cooperate immediately.


    ¡°There have been numerous reports of ouws and renegades in this region,¡± the man replied, his voice rough and thick with distrust. ¡°We are under instruction to take any suspicious character into custody and confirm their identity with a status check. Also, if I¡¯m not mistaken, that isn¡¯t your original face. Now. Turn. Around.¡±


    Worst case scenario. The two officers looked young, probably still in their twenties, yet this guy was experienced enough, or possessed an ability that revealed the existence of his mour.


    <em>Surrender, or keep going? Is your life over already, Tyron Sterm?</em>


    If only he were braver, then he might have the courage to follow his convictions.


    With a wave of his hand, he allowed the mour to fade, revealing his real features. As he¡¯d feared, the tension that rolled over the two Marshals showed that they recognised him.


    ¡°I¡¯m very sorry, officers,¡± he said, filled with regret. ¡°That isn¡¯t going to happen.¡±


    ¡°Run!¡± the man barked to his partner before he leapt forward with a roar, shing at Tyron¡¯s neck.


    To give her credit, she listened to her superior, turning and sprinting away as quickly as she could.


    CLANG!


    The Marshal¡¯s sword swept down, only to be met by another rising to block it. A burning skeleton stood between him and his quarry, having dashed with absurd speed to intercept the strike.


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    Tyron briefly considered trying to overwhelm the officer¡¯s mind, to persuade him he hadn¡¯t seen anything. It was tempting, so, so tempting, to try, but the risk was far too high. This was no farmer, this was an experienced Marshal of thew. Even if he seeded, does he try to convince the partner as well?


    What if one of them shakes off thepulsion? He wished he could, he <em>really</em> wished he could, but it wouldn¡¯t work.


    Skeletons had already intercepted the fleeing Marshal. She was fighting now, but the numbers were not in her favour and getting worse every second.


    Hands up, he began to weave a magick bolt in both.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about this, Marshal,¡± he said, ¡°I really am.¡±

 Chapter B2C33 - On the Trail

    Chapter B2C33 - On the Trail


    Laurel bent to touch the earth, trailing her fingers through the grass. Her father had trained her to track, starting when she could walk. He was a hunter by trade and by ss, his ability to find game was enhanced by the Unseen in numerous ways. She¡¯d marvelled at this skill as a child, scarcely able to believe he could smell a deer a kilometre away, or read the size and health of a herd from the tracks they left in the mud.


    That admiration had faded over the years. Even without the assistance of the Unseen, she had trained herself to bring down prey without his help. She¡¯d been able to feed herself since she was thirteen years old.


    Now that she had a taste of those Skills, it almost felt like cheating. She drew the air deep through her nose, a myriad of scents racing through her mind. Her eyes yed over the ground, telling her so much more than they should. The Unseen whispered to her through her abilities. Temperature, time, direction.


    Already, she felt like she could track the wind on a stormy day. What would it be like if she continued to level? The thought was enough to send a shiver running down her spine.


    ¡°What¡¯s the word? Any prey this way?¡±


    ¡°Tracks are three days old. Not much to speak of, some skitterlings and other smaller kin. They went West.¡±


    Her partner, another ranger trainee, though more focused on pure archery than she was, grunted.


    ¡°They probably won¡¯t want to pursue them further west.¡±


    The two of them could see the mountains rising in the distance. Towering snow-capped monstrosities that scraped the sky, the Titan range marked the western border of the empire.


    ¡°Do you think they¡¯ll ever find a way through?¡± she wondered idly, her eyes filled with the sight of fog shrouded cliffs.


    Craic scoffed loudly.


    ¡°Who gives a fuck? It sure as hell won¡¯t be me. Come on, let¡¯s get back.¡±


    Laurel grinned as she rose and turned, jogging to catch up to the wiry archer.


    ¡°With your tracking skills? You¡¯d freeze to death in a day.¡±


    ¡°Damn right, as would any sensible person. If they haven¡¯t worked out how to get through in a couple of hundred years, then they probably won¡¯t. Either way, I can be confident that I don¡¯t give a shit.¡±


    She liked Craic. He was totally focused on his craft, and utterly uninterested in getting in her pants. A rarebination when it came to the men she¡¯d met at the academy.


    The two made their way back to camp in silence, content to focus on cing their feet and absorbing the quiet ambience of the foothills.


    It was an hour before they returned to find tents being struck and provisions packed. Trainee yers sprinted as their teachers barked orders and marked notes on checklists as they ounted for inventory.


    Laurel and Craic shared a nce as they jogged through the chaos, looking for the captain.


    They found her in the centre of the maelstrom, her leathery face locked in an expression of perpetual disapproval. She stood, arms crossed, one foot tapping the ground and ring as the poor trainee reporting melted under her gaze.


    ¡°Enough!¡± she barked, having run out of patience. ¡°Piss off and find something to do. Anyone else have something useful to contribute? Ah, the scouts have returned. Don¡¯t stand there growing mould, get over here and report!¡±


    Never a patient person, clearly Captain Ruth had been having a bad day.


    The two Rangers rushed forward and saluted. Craic remained silent, so Laurel stepped forward to report.


    ¡°Spotted tracks of critter-size kin heading west. Three days old, found a little over an hour¡¯s march away.¡±


    The Captain and head of the yer college chewed over her report a moment, icy blue eyes staring hard into the distance.


    ¡°Thoughts?¡± she asked brusquely.


    ¡°Too far, too old,¡± Laurel replied immediately. ¡°If those kin are still alive, then they are up in the range. It¡¯ll take at least a week to track them down and the pack is too small to make it worth it.¡±


    ¡°What about the citizens in the remote viges who depend on us for protection?¡± the captain said, her voice quieting to just above a murmur. ¡°What about them?¡±


    Laurel shrugged.


    ¡°They need to fend for themselves, like they always do. The pack is small enough that they can handle it.¡±


    Ruth nodded slowly.


    ¡°Right answer. Pack your gear. Ten minutes, then report back for assembly. Go.¡±


    Craic and Laurel shared a nce before they turned on their heels and sprinted to their respective tents. Since they were backte, they were only given ten minutes to pack their stuff? Such bullshit!


    ¡°Laurel, what do you think is going on?¡± Rufus hissed as he staggered past carrying a wooden crate.


    ¡°How would I know?¡± she spat back as she tore through her belongings like a whirlwind, stuffing clothes into packs, rolling her bed and taking down her tent, all at the same time.


    ¡°I think they¡¯re pulling out,¡± he said. ¡°Heading back.¡±


    ¡°Rufus. Would you <em>shut the fuck up</em> for a minute? I¡¯ve got five minutes to pack my shit.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you say so? Grumpy bitch. Let me help.¡±


    Dropping the crate with a loud THUD, Rufus stepped over and dealt with the tent as Laurel finished everything else. With his assistance, she was barely able to finish in time to sprint back to the assembly, Rufus tagging along behind.


    Somehow, Craic was already there, radiating smug energy as he watched her approach.


    ¡°How?¡± she demanded.


    ¡°Some of us are just better,¡± he replied, solemn. ¡°Who¡¯s your friend?¡±


    ¡°Rufus,¡± replied the swordsman, extending his arm and gripping the other man by the wrist in greeting. ¡°Nice to meet you.¡±


    ¡°Craic. Ranger. Been scouting with Laurel here.¡±


    ¡°Were you able to keep up?¡± Rufus chuckled.


    ¡°Not hardly,¡± Craic grinned. ¡°She tried to run me into the ground. Mainly because she¡¯s bitter she can¡¯t shoot for shit.¡±


    Rufus¡¯ eyes widened.


    ¡°She¡¯s pretty damn good in my view,¡± he said, eyeing Laurel.


    It wasn¡¯t normal for her to let anyone insult her abilities, the fact she said nothing meant Craic must actually be better than her, and not by a little.


    ¡°Would you two shut up? The Captain is going to speak.¡±


    In the centre of a massed huddle, stood atop a chest, Ruth Finnar addressed the crowd.


    ¡°After three weeks of tracking and fighting, I¡¯m pleased to say that we are done here. As of today, our sweep isplete, the rift-kin have been routed, and we are clear to return. Your conduct during this brief campaign, as representatives of the Blue Steel training academy, and as future yers, has been¡­ eptable.¡±


    Her re seemed to suggest that ¡®eptable¡¯ was far from good enough.


    ¡°When we return, your training will adjust to reflect the shorings that have been exposed during this endeavour, rest assured of that.¡±


    Muffled groans rose from the gathered men and women, which only seemed to fuel the Captain.


    ¡°Stop whining. I swear you lot get softer every year. When I started working in the field, we were expected to chew granite and shit coal. If you want to live to reach Silver, then you¡¯ll do the same.¡±


    One more re for good measure.


    ¡°The higher ranked yers are finishing their sweeps and heading north to help stabilise the rift at Woodsedge and rebuild the keep. Those who haven¡¯t reached Bronze, which means you sorry sacks, need to get out of the way and finish your training.


    ¡°Final piece of business. It seems our friendly Necromancer has been busy in the region. If you recall, there¡¯s a sizeable bounty on his head, and it¡¯s gone up.¡± Her voice hardened. ¡°There are credible reports that at least one yer has fallen by his hand. A young swordsman named Liley from the shing de school.¡±


    Rumblings broke out among the crowd as Rufus and Laurel shared a long look.


    ¡°A hunting party is being put together,¡± the Captain announced. ¡°If you¡¯re interested, then speak to Brun here after I¡¯m done. Don¡¯t go thinking this will be easy money. One of you unranked has already died, you don¡¯t want to be next. We leave in ten.¡±


    So saying, she jumped down and pushed through her audience, already barking orders.


    ¡°What the fuck was that?¡± Rufus hissed, shocked beyond belief.


    ¡°Just what it sounds like,¡± Laurel replied, perturbed. ¡°A hunting party.¡±


    ¡°I thought the Necromancer was being chased down by the Sterms,¡± Craic mused, causing the two to jump, having momentarily forgotten his presence. ¡°I wonder if that has changed?¡±


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯re pissed that one of their own was killed,¡± Laurel mused. ¡°The bounty has gone up. I wonder if the colleges are footing the bill and putting their own group together.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t really think that he¡­¡± Rufus started, but fell silent at a re from Laurel.


    ¡°If the head of the school says that this Necromancer has killed a trainee, then that¡¯s what has happened.¡±


    ¡°Poor bastard. Can¡¯t even put his bones to rest,¡± Craic shook his head, and spat to the side.


    ¡°What are you thinking?¡± Rufus asked Laurel, his eyes intent.


    ¡°I can tell what you want to do,¡± she said, ¡°it¡¯s written all over your face.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve always been upfront. Whether you¡¯re going or not, I am.¡±


    He stepped forward, elbowing his way through the milling crowd on his way to talk to Brun.


    ¡°Well, he¡¯s keen.¡±


    Laurel stood pensively for a moment, a slight frown on her face.


    ¡°What are your thoughts about it, Craic?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Me?¡± the young archer shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t give a shit, personally. Leave hunting down the dangerous illegals to the professionals.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t tempted by the money?¡±


    ¡°No. Are you going to follow your friend?¡±


    ¡°I suppose I should at least find out what the conditions are.¡±


    Rolling her eyes, she pushed forward to find a small group already gathered around the chest, Rufus among them. When she arrived by his side, she tugged on his shirt to get his attention.


    ¡°What¡¯s the story?¡±


    ¡°He hasn¡¯t said yet, waiting to see if anyone else ising.¡±


    It took another minute or two for Brun to be satisfied. An instructor at the academy, he taught field medicine and wound care. An odd choice to stay behind and lead a hunt for a dangerous ouw.


    ¡°Alright then, folks,¡± the old man said, rubbing his hands together. ¡°We¡¯ve got ourselves a hunt. Three schools are sending out students and we¡¯ll take anyone who wants to go. We¡¯ve got two weeks to try and track this fucker down, after that, we¡¯re all heading home. He fucked up when he killed one of our own and the academies want him dead.¡±


    ¡°What about the pay?¡± a student asked impatiently. ¡°How¡¯re you going to split it?¡±


    ¡°Old school, no sharing. It all goes to whoever gets the kill,¡± Brun grinned. ¡°If you wanna get paid, then you need to be hungry.¡±


    ¡°Fuck that,¡± the man who asked the question spat and walked off.


    Brun watched him go, impassive, then smirked to those who remained.


    ¡°Bounty¡¯s been doubled. Two hundred sovereigns. Someone is going to be filthy fucking rich. Might as well be one of you, eh?¡±


    Rufus grinned like a wolf.


    ¡°Make sure you¡¯ve got the equipment you need. You can requisition anythingst second from the quartermaster, but you¡¯ve got less than five minutes to do it. If you run out of rations, you¡¯ll be eating your shoes, cause I sure as shit won¡¯t be giving you any of mine. Get to it.¡±


    Laurel sighed. There was no way Rufus wasn¡¯t going. Getting paid to kill his hated childhood rival? He¡¯d probably do it for free. As for her? The money would be nice. She had no support from her family, and life at the academy wasn¡¯t cheap. Rufus had helped her get established, but soon enough, she¡¯d need to be making her own coin.


    The profit from this hunt would help, but it wouldn¡¯t get her through the year. Once she graduated, she¡¯d need to make sure her gear was up to standard if she was going to hunt rift-kin, and that wouldn¡¯t be cheap.


    Tyron was going to die anyway. If that was the case, he might as well settle her debts while he was at it.


    ¡°I¡¯m in, but we agree on a fifty-fifty split,¡± she said to Rufus, who was only half listening. She stomped on his foot, causing him to yelp in pain.


    ¡°What the hell?¡±


    ¡°Fifty-fifty split, no matter which of us kills him. Agree or I¡¯m walking.¡±


    ¡°I agree, I agree,¡± he assured her. ¡°How would I even find him if you didn¡¯te along? Ow, my fucking foot.¡±


    ¡°Then listen next time.¡±


    Rufus grimaced then grew serious.


    ¡°Do you really think he was able to kill a swordsman? I can¡¯t imagine him killing anyone. He¡¯s been harmless since the day he was born.¡±


    ¡°You always underestimate him, then get pissed off when he does better than you expected him to. Normally, I¡¯d just watch the cycle repeat itself andugh, but this time, it might get me killed, so you need to get over it.¡±


    The swordsman¡¯s face grew darker, then he breathed out, releasing the tension.


    ¡°Fine. He killed a swordsman. Lucky we won¡¯t be working alone then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m serious, Rufus. If you can¡¯t deal with this hangup and do your job, I¡¯ll be turning around and heading back to the academy. I wouldn¡¯t mind the coin, but not enough to risk my life over it.¡±


    Rufus held up both hands.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got it. Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t underestimate him. This won¡¯t be like thest time, I¡¯ve learned a few tricks since then.¡±


    <em>You think he hasn¡¯t?</em> Laurel thought to herself.

 Chapter B2C34 - Dangerous Growth

    Chapter B2C34 - Dangerous Growth


    The numbers were shocking in and of themselves. He¡¯d known he¡¯d done something unusual, risky, something admittedly moreplex than what a Mage of his level should be attempting. He¡¯d been proud of himself, for having seeded, for having the inspiration to see the possibilities, and the daring to follow through.


    Now, he was just scared.


    ¡°D-Dove?¡± he stammered. ¡°This doesn¡¯t seem right. Something¡­ something is wrong.¡±


    The skull, sat on a nearby rock, scoffed.


    ¡°You fucking moron. By the gods, you shit me, Tyron. How can someone be such a gifted Mage, and be so fucking stupid at the same time?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve taught myself spells before!¡±


    ¡°You taught yourself how to cast <em>Light</em>, you braindead, dickless shitbag! Don¡¯t you think figuring out the method to create Revenants <em>by yourself</em> is slightly more impressive? The Unseen rewards feats such as that, which I assume is why you''re staring at the page like a gormless fish with a cock in its mouth.¡±


    He¡¯d gained levels, of course, in both his main and sub-ss. He¡¯d done a fair bit of fighting since thest time he¡¯d performed the ritual. The deeds he¡¯d been forced tomit were no doubt pleasing to the patrons as well, sowing unintended chaos in his wake.


    But some gifts belonged only to the Unseen to give, granted to those with exceptional insight into an aspect of its power. Not one, but <em>both</em> of his mysteries had been elevated by his sess, and by more than should have been possible.


    The entry on his status which had previously read:


    Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3


    Words of Power (Initial): WIS +3 CHA +3


    Now said:


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Advanced): WIS +20 CHA +20


    A dramatic change to say the least. What was truly shocking was that he didn¡¯t believe it was possible for a Mystery to progress this far at his current ss Level.


    Had the Unseen broken its own rules for him? Such a thing was unheard of!


    ¡°My Mysteries progressed, both of them,¡± he stuttered to Dove.


    The once-Summoner grunted.


    ¡°I figured as much. Judging by your reaction, they went further than you expected, right?¡±


    Tyron nodded numbly.


    ¡°Haaa. Fucking kid. If I¡¯d had balls like you¡­ I¡¯d have probably killed myself because I could never work magick the way you can. Which, for the record, pisses me off.¡±


    The skull muttered angrily to itself for a moment.


    ¡°Right. The biggest change you¡¯ll feel, greater even than the stat-boost, is the hand of the Unseen working in your favour. The mysteries represent your understanding and ability stretching beyond what is normally possible. To turn that difference into discernable power, the Unseen will put its hand even more firmly on the scale.¡±


    This was much as his Mother had told him. Both of his parents had possessed multiple Mysteries, all of them highly advanced. He hadn¡¯t really believed her when she¡¯d dered he would share the same status as them one day, though he¡¯d hungered for it.


    ¡°I¡¯m presuming your parents told you all about this,¡± Dove said shrewdly.


    Slightly embarrassed, Tyron nodded.


    ¡°Fucking hell. Sometimes I forget that you were raised by literally the two strongest yers in the fucking province.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ wouldn¡¯t say ¡®raised¡¯,¡± Tyron hesitated to say. He felt disloyal, even if it was the truth.


    ¡°You had ess to them, at the very least. There are a ton of people who¡¯d cut off their left nut to be taught just about anything by the Sterms. <em>Especially</em> your dad.¡±


    ¡°Why is that?¡±


    It never made that much sense to Tyron that his father was the more respected of the two. In his eyes, Magnin was the less responsible, less organised and generally more easygoing, whereas Beory was both driven and intense. Both were incredibly strong, though they possessed very different sses.


    ¡°I suppose the Magnin you know is a little different from the one most people hear about,¡± Dove observed. ¡°Look, Magnin Sterm is the fucking shit. You might not believe it, but he¡¯s legitimately one of the strongest swordsman in the Empire. The man is fucking godly. When youbine that with the fact that Swordsman sses are exceptionally powerful duelists, you¡¯ll realise that one on one, he¡¯s absolutely the strongest yer in the entire Eastern Province, and it isn¡¯t close.¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡±


    ¡°Your sword skills being so shit despite living in the same house as that man. It¡¯s hrious, in a way.¡±


    ¡°Thanks¡­.¡±


    ¡°Look¡­ I¡¯m reluctant to ask this, but since we¡¯re on the topic of Mysteries, my curiosity has been piqued and you¡¯re probably the only person who can answer this question. You¡¯ve seen your parents'' status sheets, right?¡±


    He had, once. The two of them had never really hidden it from him, but he¡¯d only worked up the courage to ask them that one time. He nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯ve always wondered how many Mysteries those two had unlocked. Any chance you can tell me?¡±


    Tyron didn¡¯t see the harm in it.


    ¡°My mother had five.¡±


    ¡°FIVE? What the fuck?! FIVE?! How is that even possible? She¡¯s a Mage, for fuck¡¯s sake! Are there that many Spell rted Mysteries? I¡¯ve never heard of that many! By the munificent mamarries of the golden goddess. That¡¯s bullshit!¡±


    Dove continued to sputter away for a minute until he finally managed to calm himself.


    ¡°I almost hate to ask¡­ what about Magnin?¡±


    Tyron hesitated.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I want to tell you.¡±


    If he got that sort of reaction for his mother¡¯s sheet¡­. He didn¡¯t want to deal with five minutes of solid cursing when he was halfway through a status ritual.


    ¡°You can¡¯t leave me hanging like this, you little shit! Don¡¯t tell me he has more than five. If it¡¯s more than five, I¡¯ll grow a new body right here and now just so I can shit myself.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s just focus on the status ritual for now, okay?¡±


    ¡°It <em>is</em> more than five, isn¡¯t it? Don¡¯t avert your gaze from me! You look as shifty as a brat with a pocket full of biscuits¡­.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not talking about this any more,¡± Tyron dered. ¡°I need to focus on this. Getting distracted during the ritual is a rookie move. That¡¯s <em>your</em> advice.¡±


    The skull grumbled a bit but subsided after a few moments.


    ¡°Hitting me with my own words. That¡¯s low,¡± Dove dered.


    Tyron was just relieved. If Dove had found out Magnin had eight Mysteries¡­ he might have had an aneurysm, undead or not.


    Three levels of Undead Weaver, and three in Anathema. Another incredible leap. He¡¯d expected his progress to slow dramatically after reaching Level 20, but so far, that hadn¡¯t been the case.


    This meant he had reached level 28 in his main ss and Level 17 in Anathema. Another wee injection of raw statistical power, and another chance to choose new abilities. Two for Undead Weaver, a feat and a new ability from Anathema.


    He didn¡¯t think too hard on the new Skill he had developed through his own methods, now listed amongst the others. Even if he tried to avoid it, his eyes still flicked to the name against his will.


    <em>Bone-Soul Melding - Level 3.</em>


    It was this technique that gave the ability to create Revenants, a more potent form of Skeletal Warrior.


    He slid his eyes down the page and carefully read through the options. Concentration and careful, measured thought was required at times like this. Making the right decision was critical.


    There were two options he hadn¡¯t picked so far for Undead Weaver: Ghoul Flesh and Empowered Bone Armour.


    Thetter was immediately attractive, for several reasons. Staying alive was his primary responsibility as a Necromancer, and this would be a significant upgrade to the only defensive magick he possessed. It also synergised with hisst feat selection.


    Still, he couldn¡¯t pick it immediately. There were four new items listed that he needed to consider first.


    <em>Advanced Death Magick - Reces Death Magick and raises the Level limit to 20.</em>


    <em>Bone Weapon Sculpting (Bow) - Create simple bows and arrows by moulding bones.</em>


    <em>Crepify - An infusion of power to Undead Flesh, rapidly healing damage and strengthening it for a duration.</em>


    <em>Death¡¯s Grasp - An offensive magick that wraps the target in Death Magick.</em>


    The Undead Weaver truly was a minion focused ss. Almost all of the choices he could make rted to them, which is why he had picked it after all. A true Necromancer was only as powerful as the undead he controlled. By continually doubling down on strengthening the creatures who fought on his behalf, he truly believed he would reach the full potential of the ss he had Awakened.


    When the moment arrived that even his basic skeletons became intimidating foes, he would have truly stepped into his power.


    With these four selections, there was a lot to think about. Crepify could be put asidefortably. He hadn¡¯t even dabbled with flesh-based minions, and at this point, was never likely to.


    Advanced Death Magick was attractive, despite his rtiveck of spells that utilised that particr attributed energy. The main spell he used which fell into this category was his literal bread and butter - Raise Dead. Anything he could do to further empower that Spell was worth considering.


    Although, another selection came along shortly after to help resolve this rtive shortfall. Death¡¯s Grasp. Finally, an actual offensive magick, though it sounded more as if it immobilised or hindered rather than killed. Which was perfect for his purposes.


    Except the other option was also tempting! Skeletal archers would give him the ability to diversify his troops. Somehow he knew, even before purchasing the Skill, that his skeletons would be perfectly capable of wielding these weapons, at a basic level at least.


    That meant there were four choices he wanted, but he could only take two!


    After careful consideration, he ced a mark next to Bone Weapon Sculpting and Death¡¯s Grasp. Advanced Death Magick and the improved Bone Armour were still well worth consideration. He¡¯d have to hope his ss threw him some choices he could safely overlook to go back and select them.


    Now for the Anathema choices.


    The feat presented him with a dilemma. He¡¯d hoped to see Wall of Thought II, and indeed, it was present on the list. Losing control of his mind terrified him, and this feat provided the best direct boost to his defence that he¡¯d seen. Working against and alongside dangerous powers, the one thing he could never afford to lose was the integrity of his thoughts.


    Yet Drain Life tempted him greatly. Direct experience of the suffering inflicted by a single wound had left him thoroughly disillusioned in his ability to function through the pain. Could he countenance consuming souls to heal himself? No. His moralpass may be sliding into the grey, but that, he would not conscience. Siphoning health in battle? That could definitely work. If it performed as described against rift-kin, even better. In fact, it would be perfect.


    With a sigh, he ced his mark next to Drain Life and moved on to selecting hisst ability.


    Only two opportunities remained to select Anathema spells and skills. Looking at the list, Tyron was quite happy to leave much of what he saw alone.


    Neither of the new abilities tempted him greatly, despite sounding rather strong.


    <em>Mind Siphon - Examine thoughts and memories of a Suppressed Target.</em>


    <em>Storm Cloud - Summon a magickally charged fog around yourself.</em>


    There was something on this list he wanted quite badly, something that he didn¡¯t think would normally be offered, and he was pleased to see it still remained.


    Blood still dripping from his thumb, he pressed it to the page beside Abyss Tongue.


    Mastery of this skill would bring the ability tomune directly with the Abyss without relying on Yor or the Vampires, freeing him of another hold.


    Choices made, he finished the ritual and leaned back with a sharp intake of breath as the power of the Unseen flooded through him. Strength and knowledge flooded into his mind and body until he felt like a waterskin about to burst.


    ¡°Holy shit, that was a rush,¡± he gasped once it was over.


    ¡°I bet that was a fucking big one,¡± Dove said, ¡°What with the mysteries and all that. I assume you¡¯ve got a bunch of crazy shit you want to try now. Anything good? Wailing Souls of the Damned or something?¡±


    Tyron still sat, breathing deeply as the changes continued to wrack him, puzzle pieces slotting into ce deep in his brain.


    ¡°Almost¡­ like that.¡±


    He cast an eye over the back of the cart at his dwindling bone supply. With his strength increasing, the number of minions he could maintain continued to grow, as did the demands on his resources.


    ¡°We are going to need a shit load more bones.¡±


    ¡°Well, unless you feel like murdering a whole bunch of people¡­¡± the skull trailed off meaningfully and Tyron simply shook his head. ¡°Then you¡¯re out of fucking luck.¡±


    ¡°No, there¡¯s a resource we can tap. A strategic reserve, if you will,¡± Tyron corrected his friend.


    He looked up at the sky to see the light beginning to fade.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have a lot of time on our hands either. Yor will <em>not</em> want to be part of this, and we can¡¯t risk getting caught. Dusk should be perfect for our needs.¡±


    ¡°What are you even talking about? Some buried reservoir of bones, just lying in the groun - oh I¡¯ve got it. Obviously. Right.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going back to my roots, Dove. The first thing I ever did as a Necromancer was rob graves.¡±

 Chapter B2C35 - So Many Bones

    Chapter B2C35 - So Many Bones


    <strong>B2C35 - So Many Bones</strong>


    ¡°I suppose watching that graveyard wasn¡¯t apletely moronic decision. I might owe that marshal an apology if I ever see him again.¡±


    ¡°Wait. You were watching a graveyard? Why? For me?¡±


    ¡°Yes, it was because of you. I was forced into a stupid stakeout, freezing my balls off in the middle of the night waiting for a Necromancer to show up and start shovelling graves.¡±


    ¡°It was way too dangerous for me to go to such an obvious ce for materials back then. The whole reason I was searching for bones in the forest was because I thought I wouldn¡¯t get caught that way.¡±


    ¡°Turns out you were fucking bang on.¡±


    ¡°And I mean¡­ why would I do the digging myself?¡±


    Dove had to agree. Tyron had thirty skeletons now, including his four Revenants, and the bulk of them swarmed over the small graveyard, harvesting bones. The kid had the foresight to keep a half dozen shovels in the cart, and now those tools were being put to good use. There was something oddly creepy about skeletons digging up graves, creatures of bones hunting for bones, it felt worse than if it were a person doing it, but they were undeniably effective.


    ¡°It¡¯s kind of nice how they don¡¯t get tired,¡± Dove observed. ¡°I¡¯d be knackered after an hour of solid digging.¡±


    ¡°As long as I don¡¯t run out of magick,¡± Tyron chuckled.


    The Necromancer had kept himself busy while his minions did the dirty work, sorting bones, tossing any that weren¡¯t suitable, sorting them into type, paying particr attention to those he could now turn into bows.


    He also examined each set of remains carefully, checking the progress of Death Magick saturation in each. There was at least some umtion in each of them, but it appeared that there wasn¡¯t enough to spark the ¡®sharing¡¯ response he¡¯d seen elsewhere. Or perhaps the graves were too spaced for the phenomenon to ur?


    More puzzles to solve.


    After removing what he needed to craft weapons, he would have to ensure what he brought with him wereplete sets of remains so he could start the process. Saturate them with Magick and prepare to raise them.


    With his rapid advancement, he could likely maintain close to forty skeletons right now, alongside his small contingents of ghosts and revenants. With his new archers added into the mix, he was beginning tomand his own little army of Undead.


    Which was exactly what he¡¯d been aiming for.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough, I think,¡± Tyron sighed as he stood and stretched out his back. ¡°I think we can pack the rest into the cart and get moving. We¡¯ve dyed enough already.¡±


    The small gravesite they¡¯d uncovered, several kilometres from a nearby vige, was secluded and quite private, nestled amongst the hills and ravines. That didn¡¯t mean he wouldn¡¯t get found if he stayed long enough. The fact he¡¯d been here was certain to be uncovered eventually, putting any hunters right on his trail.


    ¡°Who are you talking to, kid? Better not be the fucking minions.¡±


    Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°I¡¯m starting to think maybe it''s not so bad to speak my thoughts out loud to them sometimes. It feels strange just to order them around silently all the time.¡±


    ¡°Ah, you have embraced the madness, I see. Make sure you free me before you go fully loopy and start pissing in my head or something.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine.¡±


    With the skeletons gathered and the materials secured, there was no need to linger. Tyron took his position in the rear of the cart amongst the bags filled with rattling bones, setting Dove on the wooden nks next to him.


    ¡°All right, let¡¯s get moving.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s still weird.¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡±


    At his mentalmand, the skeletons, ghosts and revenants that made up his entourage gathered around the cart, some to guard, others to pull, and off they went. It was a grim procession to look upon, but the Necromancer at its heart had no thought for that.


    ¡°Time to get to work,¡± he muttered as he reached for a nearby bag.


    ¡°You sure about that, kid? When was thest time you slept?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been¡­ a while. But I¡¯m fine. There¡¯s a lot I need to do.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not smart, and you know it. Sleep is a weapon.¡±


    ¡°So is time, and I don¡¯t have enough. Stop fussing about me, Dove. If you need to p your metaphorical gums, then help me with these damn fingers. Do you have any idea how to make a bow?¡±


    ¡°How the fuck would I know -¡±


    Bickering back and forth, the cart continued to roll into the deepening night.


    <em>Hourster.</em>


    Leaning back with a sigh, Tyron finally let his aching hands rest.


    <em>I need a feat that makes my hands more flexible or something. Between the bone-threading and bow-making, I¡¯m working my hands harder than a lutist. </em>


    He massaged the digits with a groan as he surveyed the fruits of hisbour.


    <em>If I¡¯d had any idea how to make one of these, I wouldn¡¯t have had to waste a Skill choice on it. My father has a brain made of swords and my mother isn¡¯t interested in any weapon other than her staff. I don¡¯t think we even have one in the house.</em>


    <em>Had one.</em>


    He wasn¡¯t likely to ever go back to that house now. With everything that had happened, with the lives he had taken, he would likely never be forgiven. That meant he and his parents would never live under the same roof again.


    <em>But I won¡¯t stop pushing forward. That¡¯s what they told me to do. I refuse to let it end.</em>


    The bows he¡¯d crafted were fairly crude things, when he looked at them. That didn¡¯t mean they weren¡¯tplex and demanding to make. The Skill had granted him the basic knowledge, but as usual, it was up to him to put the pieces together, in this case literally.


    He wasn¡¯t sure what sort of bones would be required originally, something he could mould and bend into a normal curved, bow shape had been his guess. A femur or something simr.


    That had been incorrect. There simply wasn¡¯t enough flex in the material for that to work. Instead, he¡¯d needed smaller bones that he could then thread together. He could get two bows from a single spine, as it turned out.


    The technique was quite tricky, requiring some detailed work that he may never have worked out on his own. He now had the ability to shape the materials in a minor way, lengthening them and helping them slot together more neatly at the angles required. Of course, it wasn¡¯t enough just to link together lengthened sections of spine; if that was all he did, he¡¯d have nothing but a weird, segmented whip.


    After joining them together, <em>further</em> threading was required to pull the joints tight and provide the resistance needed to fire a projectile.


    <em>That</em> took him some time to work out. The string, of course, was rtively simple, a particrly dense thread of magick, linked to the bow at the tips, served this purpose just fine.


    The result was a crude-looking implementcking in artistry, but functional enough for his purposes, he hoped.


    The arrows were even more straightforward. Lengthened finger bones, joined and moulded together to form a smooth exterior and hardened at the tip. A clumsy bit of shaping done at the end to create a facsimile of fletching.


    The bows would work just fine with normal arrows, he suspected, but in the absence of a good fletcher, he would need to rely on what he could provide himself.


    ¡°Here you go,¡± he said tiredly as he handed the six bows he¡¯d managed to make over the side of the cart to his waiting undead. The skeletons reached out and grasped the weapons in their bony fingers, seemingly instinctively knowing how to handle them.


    <em>Must be basic information ced into their mind construct. They¡¯ve been able to swing swords and axes just fine, so I guess this isn¡¯t surprising. </em>


    Just to test, he had two of them fire a few arrows into the night, feeling the drain on his magick as they were used.


    <em>Well, it¡¯s me providing the energy for the bow and the string to function, I suppose.</em>


    Nothing major, but another thing he had to ount for when considering his magick expenditure.


    ¡°Oh, they''re up and firing, are they? Holy shit, those arrows are nightmare fuel.¡±


    ¡°They do look pretty grim,¡± Tyron mused as he picked one up and spun it in his fingers.


    Despite the work he¡¯d done on them, it was somehow still easy to tell they¡¯d once been human fingers. Something about the surface and the curves he hadn¡¯t quite been able to eliminate.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think they¡¯ll perform well at long range, but for now, these are good enough,¡± Tyron yawned.


    ¡°This is something you really need to improve at. A poorly made bow is about ten percent as useful as a well made one. Ditto for the arrows.¡±


    ¡°Where was all this expertise before?¡±


    ¡°Look, I can tell you what anyone knows. If you give a rubbish sword to Magnin, he can still swing the damn thing. You give a master archer a shit bow and arrows bent at right angles, and they¡¯ll fucking struggle. Some things are reliant on the quality of the tools.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    <em>Dammit. My eyes feel like sandpaper.</em>


    Rubbing at them didn¡¯t seem to help either. He needed to sleep, but he also needed to work on preparing his next round of minions. With the materials he had, he could easily bring his current total to forty. Before that could happen, he needed to examine the remains, correct any imperfections and start the saturation process. Always so much to do. Working in the dark was even harder.


    ¡°Actually, that reminds me. Didn¡¯t you know a technique to enhance your vision with magick, Dove? I remember you told me about that.¡±


    ¡°Of course I did. How do you expect a man to peer into the Astral sea with normal eyes? Just what do you expect to fucking see that way?¡±


    ¡°Does it help to see in low light conditions as well?¡±


    ¡°I mean. A bit. The primary purpose of the technique is to view shifts in magickal and astral energies, not that you see any of thetter down here. It can also be used to view magick residues, which can be handy in tracking down morons who don¡¯t contain their energy when casting rituals.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. I suck. Come on, then.¡±


    ¡°Come on¡­ what?¡±


    ¡°Teach me.¡±


    ¡°<em>Teach you?!</em> You want me to unveil the mysteries that I uncovered through my long career with hard practice and the whispers of the Unseen? You think I hand out that information so readily? You think you are <em>worthy</em> of it?¡±


    ¡°I mean¡­ yes? It¡¯s one little eye-spell, how hard can it be?¡±


    The skull spluttered for a minute before he grew silent.


    ¡°You know what? For any normal person, I would haveughed in their face had they said something like that. ¡®One little eye-spell¡¯, such idiocy! Spells and methods that affect your eyes are fucking difficult! AND dangerous! You can permanently damage yourself if you fuck this stuff up, there are some things your brain simply isn¡¯t meant to handle.¡±


    He thought for a moment.


    ¡°But when I think about all the bullshit you¡¯ve been able to do¡­ I can¡¯t help but think you¡¯ll pick this up in a few hours, wondering what I was on about when I said it was difficult.¡±


    Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°I¡¯m good at magick. That¡¯s nothing new.¡±


    ¡°<em>Good at magick</em>¡±, Dove mocked his tone. ¡°You¡¯re <em>good at magick</em> like your father is <em>good at swords.</em> It¡¯s such a moronic, idiotic phrasing, I almost want to give up my ghost right here and now. I think your problem is that your only real metric for measuring magickal ability is your mother. That woman is a freak of nature, the strongest Battlemage in a hundred years. No wonder your sense is so far off.¡±


    Tyron flushed with pride at beingpared to his father, and appreciated thepliments to his mother. Even so¡­.


    ¡°Try not to call my mother a freak of nature if you can help it, Dove. Since she¡¯s been ordered to hunt me down, you¡¯re likely to meet her at some point.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± the skull sneered. ¡°And what is she going to do? Kill me?¡±


    ¡°If anyone can work out how to annihte your soul, other than Yor, I think it would be her.¡±


    ¡°¡­ You might be right about that. That would seriously suck. Married women aren¡¯t my thing. Let¡¯s get started then, might as well get this done. After I teach you, I want you to sleep, I fucking mean it, too.¡±


    ¡°... Fine.¡±


    <em>Nearby.</em>


    ¡°Things are progressing faster than anticipated,¡± Yor said. ¡°At this rate, things may spiral out of our control. If that happens, I may not be able to deliver what you asked of me, mistress.¡±


    The vampire stood in the darkness, staring intently at a blood red gem cupped in her palm. Multifaceted, exquisitely cut, and filled with a strange, shifting darkness, the gem glowed with a soft pulsing light that illuminated her perfect features.


    ¡°You need not overly concern yourself, child,¡± a voice emanated from the stone. Refined, aristocratic, and impossibly cold, it was a voice no human could hope to speak with and one they would shudder to hear. ¡°I am confident you have represented our interests well. Regardless of whether the boyes to our side, he will be sympathetic, and remain in our debt. For now, that is enough.¡±


    Despite the words of reassurance, Yor flinched, a shiver of fear running through her undead veins. The Mistress was consistent in all things, especially her treatment of failure. It was a fate she would do anything to avoid.


    ¡°I can still seed, mistress,¡± she insisted, her voice firm as she masked her fear. ¡°You requested I bring the boy before you of his own free will, and I will not disappoint you.¡±


    She had wanted to refuse when handed this task. To travel to such a backward ce, with barely a trace of her people¡¯s power in order to recruit a nascent, barely qualified mage. It was a fool¡¯s errand, so she had thought.


    Once the order hade down from the Mistress herself, there was nothing she could do about it.


    Since she had been here¡­ her opinion had begun to change. There was something about this boy, about Tyron. It was his blood. As time passed and he rued more strength, the scent grew stronger and stronger. He reeked of magick.


    ¡°Do not make me repeat myself.¡±


    That voice, already as cool as a winter blizzard, froze even further. Yor bit her lip to still her trembling. Should her voice betray her terror, life in the court would be over.


    ¡°I apologise, Mistress.¡±


    Still steady, there was pride in that.


    ¡°You will not be punished. Circumstances move outside of your awareness. Whether you seed or not, the boy will be bound to me in other ways. For now, that is enough.¡±


    ¡°I hear and understand you, Mistress.¡±


    ¡°For now, you will continue to observe. Events areing to a head on that side, and I expect that the fates will not be kind to the boy. Shield him from what you must, but only at thest. Tempered steel is far more valuable, after all.¡±


    ¡°It will be as you wish.¡±

 Chapter B2C36 - Raven Words

    Chapter B2C36 - Raven Words


    Children smiling with a tired sort of joy was a balm to the heart, Elsbeth decided. She rose from where she had been crouched as the small gathering of young folk ran back to their parents. Such expressions had been rare over thest few weeks, more often than not, families were in mourning, mothers and fathers having fallen in the chaos that followed the breach.


    She brushed her hands on her skirt before looking around the small clearing. A fire crackled on the eastern side of the camp, the deer roasting over the open me filling the area with the scent of smoking meat. Small groups of adults stood here and there, discussing in hushed tones.


    Munhilde moved from one group to the next, speaking quietly for a few moments with each. Elsbeth knew the pattern by now, offering words offort, asking what she could do to help, offering the support of the Dark Ones.


    At the thought of her new Gods, her smile faltered for a moment before she recovered it. She could feel them now, ever so slightly. Once upon a time, the presence of the Goddess Selene had hovered over her, like a light hanging just beyond the corner of her eye. It¡¯d felt stronger when she prayed.


    Any sense of the Five Divines was gone now, reced by a different sensation.


    Rot, Crone and Raven. Not really their names, but rather words that evoked their spirit, something that people could understand. When she took a step, it was as if they hummed in the ground beneath her feet. The Old Gods were bound to thend, to the realm itself, in an intrinsic way she had only just begun toprehend.


    The Five always felt as they were above, looking down on their servants from some lofty position. The Three were not like that. They never looked at her, as far as she could tell, they simply <em>were</em>.


    ¡°Teacher,¡± she greeted the older priestess when she caught up to her between groups. ¡°Is there anything else I can do here?¡±


    Munhilde frowned. Elsbeth knew the woman well enough by now to recognise that the expression wasn¡¯t directed at her, it was the face she made whenever she was thinking. The lines on her forehead deepened further whenever she tried tomune with the Will of the Old Ones, causing her to look positively furious.


    ¡°There are a few more I need to speak to. A few have requested that we perform a Rite of Knowing, which I will get you to do, but we will have to move apart from the main group. Many here do not approve of the faith and it isn¡¯t wise to test them.¡±


    Elsbeth nodded in understanding as she felt a knot of excitement bloom in her chest.


    ¡°Very well, Teacher. I will wait for you.¡±


    Opportunities to perform the Rites were rare, at least so far during their journey. Elsbeth had only recently learned two of them, the Rite of Knowing, and the Rite of Health, and she¡¯d only been able to attempt them once before.


    Along with her growing collection of minor miracles, they represented the sum total of her progress as a priestess. She was proud. Tyron had grit his teeth and walked forward on his path despite everything arrayed in his way. The challenges ced in front of her were not nearly so significant, so she had gotten on with it, her newfound determination enough to have her badgering her teacher constantly for new bits of lore and wisdom.


    After another ten minutes, Munhilde returned to her and then eyed a few people in the clearing, gesturing them toe over. An eclectic mix of men and women, some former mechants, others farmhands or tradespeople, walked towards them, excusing themselves with a few muttered words.


    The small group wandered through the forest for a time, hardly speaking. Elsbeth didn¡¯t have a mind for conversation anyway. She ignored the sounds around her, of rustling grass and snapping twigs, instead focused internally on the Rite she was to perform.


    When sufficient distance had been put between the group and the clearing, Munhilde directed them to form a circle. Elsbeth stayed by her teacher¡¯s side as the others moved to stand as directed, creating a loose ring with two metres between each person.


    When it had been done to the priestess¡¯ satisfaction, she nodded and gave her student a pat on the shoulder.


    ¡°Rx yourself,¡± the older woman advised, ¡°you are a vessel. The Raven will give, or will not, neither result is in your hands.¡±


    Elsbeth nodded firmly and stepped to the centre of the circle, taking slow, steadying breaths to calm her heart. Tomune with the gods on behalf of the people was the primary responsibility of any priest or priestess. She had always expected to be an intermediary of the Divines, but they had rejected her. Now, an entirely different pantheon could enact their will through her, if they chose.


    She sped her hands before her, bowed her head and spoke, intoning the first words of the Rite.


    ¡°Youe before the Raven,¡± she said, ¡°the Watcher Who Rides the Storm, the Sky Father, the Wings of Doom. For what reason do you approach?¡±


    Unlike the Divines, the Dark Ones did not wee supplicants. They helped those who helped themselves. To ask a favour of them required no small measure of courage and belief in the sacrifices one had made. The faces of those around her were set and determined, ready for what was toe.


    ¡°Wee for Knowledge,¡± an elderly man, approaching sixty judging by his iron grey hair and weathered features, spoke for the group. ¡°Our homes are lost, our kin are dead, yet we endure still. We ask He Who Knows where we should go that will be safe?¡±


    Despite her focus on the ritual, Elsbeth felt her heart break for these people. Their story was somon. The further she and her teacher had travelled east, the worse the damage caused by the break had be. The far western viges had been protected by the foothills and crags, but here on the ins, there had been no impediments to the ravenous rift-kin. Whole towns had been erased from the map with no survivors.


    <em>Please, Raven, </em>she begged internally, <em>these people have suffered greatly, yet still stand tall. Give them your blessing.</em>


    ¡°I have heard your plea. Look skyward, and I will seek the Raven. May you be spared his wrath.¡±


    The circle around her leaned back to raise their faces to the sky as Elsbeth began the Rite in earnest. In that same pose, her head bowed and hands sped before her, she began to pray out loud.


    The words that emanated from her mouth were in no mortalnguage, or even the words of power used by mages to cast spells. This was the tongue of the Old Gods, long forgotten by mortal kind. Only those devoted to their service were able to learn it now, via the Unseen.


    To those around her, Elsbeth¡¯s words were indecipherable, almost not sounding like words at all. One sound rolled into the next, seemingly without pause, each harsh utterance a stato point in a dirge that did not seem to end.


    When it seemed she must stop to draw breath, she did not, continuing to utter the Rite without pause.


    Having learned this Rite only recently, Elsbeth wasn¡¯t entirely clear on what she was saying. Thenguage was almost impossible to understand, the meaning of any one word shifting and sliding based on the context. It was harsh, and it tore at her throat to speak it for too long, which limited her opportunity to practise with Munhilde, yet she had persevered.


    In her heart, she continued to repeat her prayer even as the words rolled from her mouth.


    <em>Help these people, they deserve your care. Answer this call, they have suffered enough.</em>


    She believed that these people were worthy. Her mind drifted back to the children, and the haunted look that still hid in the back of their eyes. What more could be asked of them?


    As she continued to pray, she did not heed the changes that slowly began to ur around her. The supplicants, their faces still upturned, grew nervous as a chill swept through, followed by a darkening of the light as clouds began to gather overhead with unnatural speed.


    Secondster, thunder crashed directly overhead. Many flinched, but all remained in ce, never ncing away from the storm that had miraculously begun to form before them.


    From a great distance, Elsbeth felt a pressure begin to form. It grew and grew, until she felt as if she might be pressed to the forest floor by its mighty weight. Her ears became filled with a rushing sound, as if a hurricane whistled through the feathers of a giant bird.


    A voice sounded out from that vastly distant presence, yet as it reached her it thundered in her mind, driving all thought away.


    <strong>Your Call is grating, hatchling. You peck without fear. Shall I teach it to you?</strong>


    Unbeknownst to Elsbeth, blood had begun to flow freely from her ears as she continued the Rite. The weight of the Raven on her mind, for that was who this must be, was suffocating.


    <em>These people are strong, these people are worthy, </em>she prayed fervently, <em>grant them a sliver of your wisdom.</em>


    Like a mouse under the eye of an enormous hawk, she trembled in the centre of the circle as the Raven contemted her.


    <strong>I shall.</strong>


    All at once, the pressure abated and Elsbeth felt a tiny parcel of knowledge slip into her mind. In an instant, all of it was gone. The thunder, the clouds, the pain and pressure, all of it vanished as if it had never been.


    Elsbeth swooned on the spot, but caught herself at thest moment. If she failed to finish the Rite, she would invite the wrath of Raven.


    Overwhelmingly tired, she forced herself to remain steady and spoke thest words. With that done, she opened her hands and held them cupped before her.


    ¡°Raven has recognised your strength, forged through suffering,¡± she intoned and the people looked down at her, the tension easing from their faces. ¡°The Answer you seek is this. Head south and to the west. The vige of Cragwhistle has room and work. They will take you in. Should you encounter the Necromancer¡­¡± Elsbeth nched, but continued, ¡°... he will protect you from harm.¡±


    Every member of the circle gave thanks, relieved that their plea had been well received. Even more, they were grateful to have some direction in their lives. For weeks, they had drifted, seeking safety, but now, they had a clear path forward.


    Munhilde shed Elsbeth a look that told the young woman to keep her mouth shut and began to move amongst the people. She congratted them, offeredfort and encouragement, before sending them back to the clearing. When thest had gone, she approached her student and touched her on the shoulder.


    ¡°How bad was it?¡± she asked, gathering a cloth from her pouch and wiping the blood that continued to drip from Elsbeth¡¯s ears.


    ¡°Not great,¡± the young woman replied, trying to be stoic.


    It did no good; she slumped down to her knees, all the strength in her legs suddenly gone. Munhilde caught her before she fell, lowering her slowly, familiar scowl on her face.


    ¡°Raven very seldom answers directly like that. I¡¯ve only experienced it a few times myself. You must have pissed him off.¡±


    Elsbeth smiled wanly.


    ¡°He said I pecked at him.¡±


    ¡°Well, <em>don¡¯t</em>. You¡¯ll get your mind squashed like a bug and your soul ripped out of your body if you aren¡¯t careful. The Dark Ones don¡¯t like being annoyed.¡±


    She sighed.


    ¡°I know you want them to answer every prayer and help the people whoe before you, but that isn¡¯t how they operate. They¡¯re whimsical, sometimes in the mood to help, sometimes not. Sometimes, they will crush the next thing that reaches up and catches their eye, deserving or not. We are not safe from them, just as we are not safe from lightning or flood.¡±


    Elsbeth nodded, beginning to get back her bearings.


    ¡°W-what they said. About the Necromancer¡­.¡±


    ¡°Clearly, the Old Gods have their eyes on that boy. I find it interesting they would send people <em>toward</em> him rather than away. Fshaw!¡±


    She spat.


    ¡°Raven is always plotting something, the bird brain. Who knows what he could possibly want.¡±


    The young priestess couldn¡¯t begin to imagine plumbing the depth of the god who had deigned to nce at her, almost ending her life in the process. Such a being was too lofty, too grand, for her toprehend.


    ¡°Do you think he is safe?¡±


    Tyron was her friend, though, and a good person at heart. She wanted him to be okay.


    Munhilde looked down at her apprentice with sympathy.


    ¡°For the likes of him, safety is always an illusion. At least you know that, for now, he is still alive.¡±

 Chapter B2C37 - Smoke and Fire

    Chapter B2C37 - Smoke and Fire


    ¡°Is that smoke?¡± Tyron squinted into the distance.


    The early morning light seemed thin in the foothills, the fog that rolled off the mountainssted until the sun was high overhead on cold days. Even so, the dirty streak that stained the sky seemed to trace its origin down to a point on the ground.


    ¡°I don¡¯t fucking know, you fuck! Why do you insist on saying this shit out loud?¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove,¡± the Necromancer muttered absently as he continued to examine the sky.


    The more he looked, the more the sense of disquiet in his chest grew. It <em>was</em> smoke, he was sure of it now. Perhaps a remote vige was burning off rubbish? Or a hearthfire had gotten out of control?


    Both scenarios were unlikely.


    ¡°We¡¯ll go check it out,¡± he decided. ¡°Someone might need help.¡±


    Here on the edge of the empire, assistance was hard toe by, speaking mildly. Settlements were far apart, with almost nothing in between.


    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious,¡± the skull eximed. When Tyron didn¡¯t reply, preupied issuing mentalmands to his minions, Dove continued. ¡°You <em>are</em> serious. Fucking heroplex is going to get your balls lopped off, kid, and yours are <em>massive</em>, the blood loss will be insane. Probably make you more mobile, though. You could lose the wheelbarrow.¡±


    ¡°If a vige is under attack all the way out here, the yers and marshals aren¡¯t going to see it,¡± he defended his decision. ¡°We¡¯re probably the only ones who see the smoke, so we should go and help.¡±


    ¡°<em>You</em> see the smoke, <em>I</em> don¡¯t see shit,¡± the skull refuted from his position on a corner post. ¡°By the by, aren¡¯t you supposed to be fleeing south in order to avoid getting your face murdered off by angry yers? If one of them <em>does</em> turn up to this little emergency, you¡¯repletely fucked. You get that, right?¡±


    There was merit to what his friend and mentor had to say. Even so¡­.


    ¡°Everything I¡¯ve done has been to grow strong enough to help others. What will have been the point of any of it if I don¡¯t help defend these people? I haven¡¯t mutted and murdered my way through the Western Province for my own personal gratification!¡±


    By the end, Tyron¡¯s voice had grown quite heated, eyes filled with anger bore down on Dove, who held his ethereal tongue. He disagreed with the young Mage, but felt it would be wiser not to argue. A part of Tyron wanted to help others, to be sure. Dove knew he was a good kid at heart, but another part of him, arger part, refused to ept life as an ordinary person. He would ze a trail as his parents had, or die trying.


    Eyes focused on the smoke in the distance, Tyron wordlessly directed his skeletons, ghosts and revenants over the terrain. Even with eight of his minions now hooked to the cart, traversing the uneven ground was still painfully slow.


    The procession was a more impressive, or fearsome, sight than it had been before. A full forty skeletons were arrayed around it now, along with his four revenants, still burning with their inner fire. Less visible were the ghosts, who still drifted silently in a loose formation around the cart over a hundred metres out. They were a poor early warning system, but they were all he had.


    It took over an hour for them to cover the distance, the smoke growing thicker in the air as they drew closer. Tyron¡¯s heart clenched over the journey, worried that whatever had caused the ze would have been over and done with by the time he arrived.


    Shouts, screams and inhuman chittering of the rift-kin could be heard drifting through the air before heid eyes on the vige itself.


    ¡°They¡¯re under attack!¡± he yelled, throwing himself off the side of the cart and scrabbling for his sword.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that what you thought was happening?¡± Dove yawned.


    Ignoring his advisor, he urged his minions to drop the wagon, eliciting a squawk from the skull as he rattled on his perch.


    ¡°Careful, you bony fuckheads!¡±


    Ordering the eight cart pullers to protect the supplies, Tyron rushed forward with the others. He demanded more speed from his minions, and they responded, drawing deeper on his magick to fuel their unliving forms.


    Extra energy flowing from him to almost forty undead was an unpleasant sensation, to say the least. Fortunately, he¡¯d advanced to the point he could sustain it, though not for long.


    When the vige finally came into sight, Tyron sucked in a breath. Crude barricades caught his eye, ced between buildings to create a defensive wall. One of them was burning, the mes having spread to the adjacent home, causing a plume of greasy ck smoke to billow into the air.


    Rift-kin raged, kept at bay by the simple barrier and the spears of determined vigers. The insect-like kin shed and stabbed, trying to climb over again and again, only to be forced back, but they drew blood each time they charged.


    This fight had been going on for a long time already. Heavy wounds and casualties could be seen on both sides. One side would soon break, and it wouldn¡¯t be the kin. Monsters didn¡¯t break. They won, or they died.


    Tyron urged his minions to even greater speed, only remembering at thest minute that he was no longer without any ranged options. Btedly, he instructed his small contingent of archers to begin firing. He had the spine wielding skeletons move to the right nk, opening up a straight shot rather than have them shoot high arcing arrows over his head.


    The bone arrows weren¡¯t the finest make. They weren¡¯t perfectly straight, or bnced as well they should be. The hardened tips were no substitute for a proper steel arrowhead either, at least, not at his skill level, but still they did damage.


    As the arrows began to fall, his archers firing as quickly as they could, the kin noticed almost immediately. Some shots bounced off the carapace and hardened shells of the monsters, but others prated, finding the right angle to puncture, or slipping through gaps in the armour.


    There were almost a hundred of the creatures still alive, but most were smaller, more minor variants. What worried him were the handful of more threatening kin, the size of ponies, who stalked amongst their weaker brethren.


    The crazed monsters at the rear of the crowd turned and hissed as one, a rattling, alien sound that filled the ear and drilled deep into Tyron¡¯s ears. Then they charged.


    His skeletons formed up in neat ranks at a thought. Three deep and ten wide, his phnx of silent, eerie warriors stepped forward in unnatural unison. Tyron knew his ce and his role, as a Necromancer. He ced himself in the back, with his four revenants positioned nearby for protection. The ghosts he allowed to range forward. Whatever disruption they could cause with their freezing effect amongst the kin would be useful.


    Before battle was joined, his hands were already raised, words of power puncturing the air.


    <em>Death des.</em>


    The dark blessing ignited along the motley weapons his skeletons bore, covering the des in dark magick. The Mage grunted as he felt his reserves dip. More minions meant more expenditure if he wanted them all to benefit from the spell. His need for Arcane energy remained as bottomless as ever.


    Armed with their necrotic weapons, his skeletons were an intimidating sight. They stepped as a unit, fearless in the face of the monsters from beyond the rift.


    As the two sides met, fangs and des shed and nged as the kin drove themselves into his formation. The skeletons held as best they could, but they simplycked mass, and were forced to drain yet more energy to hold their ground.


    His minions were surprisingly fast when they wanted to be, and moved with a lightness that belied their dreadful appearance. Made from only bones and magick, they weighed little. Even the toughened and hardened bones of those with high constitution weighed significantly less than an average person.


    Despite the buckling of their line, the skeletal soldiers made not a sound, their weapons rising and falling methodically as they hacked, shed and stabbed at the creatures within their reach.


    The archers advanced, firing at any kin that tried to wrap around the right nk. His skeletal bows could pack quite a bit of power as it turned out, at least at these short distances. Smaller kin were skewered as they undted across the ground.


    ¡°Hold the line!¡± Tyron bellowed as he tried to track the battle in his mind. So many things were happening at once, it was difficult to see it all at any one moment.


    He had to be careful. Something might try and rush his archers, in which case he would need to pull them back. Or a kin could swing around and attack him, in which case he needed to activate his revenants.


    A stab of pain drove straight into his mind, causing him to flinch and p a hand to his head.


    <em>Where did thate from?! </em>He wondered.


    Was he under attack? For a terrifying moment, he spun on the spot, tyring to locate his attacker, only to find himself staring at the revenant to his left. Burning purple eyes stared back at him, wreathed from beneath by the me that burned within its rib cage.


    ¡°You,¡± Tyron growled.


    <em>Trying to kill me now we are engaged in a dangerous battle? Perhaps this yer is too dangerous to keep.</em>


    His fingers flexed as he prepared to bear down on the minion with his will, then he paused. Not ten metres away, the fighting raged as more kin turned from the barricade and attacked his undead. What he felt from the revenant hadn¡¯t been a desire to kill him. At least not entirely.


    <em>You want to fight¡­.</em>


    Whoever he had been, this yer had known his purpose. Even in death, it burned in his soul. His duty had been to kill rift-kin, and so it remained.


    ¡°Go,¡± Tyron flicked his jaw toward the monsters, along with a mentalmand.


    The pressure on his mind, which he hadn¡¯t been fully aware of, eased immediately. A skeleton couldn¡¯t disy emotion, but perhaps there was a tiny hint of gratitude in the posture of his minion?


    He likely imagined it.


    His best servant would do its job well. Tyron should make sure he performed his. He raised his hands once more and snapped through theplex incantations, bringing down the Shivering Curse.


    Unaffected, his skeletons continued their work, but the rift-kin struggled in the piercing cold. The diameter of the curse wasn¡¯t enormous, only ten metres across, but it was enough to impact the majority of the fighting.


    With those two spells cast, it was time for Tyron to turn to other, less impactful magicks.


    Briefly, the Mage considered his options. He could throw magick bolts, but he didn¡¯t have a good angle from his current position at the rear of the formation. The other option was to try to dominate the mind of a stronger rift-kin, but he wasn¡¯t keen to freeze himself during an ongoing melee. He would have to turn to his new spell.


    Once again, the words rolled from his tongue and his hands flicked through Arcane sigils, summoning and shaping the magick with proficient ease. This was far from an economical spell, its cost exceeded Dominate Mind by a factor of two, but the effect would hopefully be worth it.


    When the spellpleted, Tyron stretched out a hand toward thergest monster he could see. Despite knowing vaguely how it would function, he was still surprised by what he saw next.


    Flecks of ck magick swarmed like locusts through the air, taking on the shape of a grasping, wed hand. Ignored by his skeletons, the flecks buzzed through and around the undead, forming, scattering and reforming with dizzying speed until they were upon the intended target.


    Without thinking, he snapped his hand closed, and the w mirrored his action. Formed from thousands of small shards made of Death Magick, the hand snapped shut around the monster, who immediately froze, then began to writhe and bellow.


    The spell wouldn¡¯tst forever, and Tyron was keen to see how long it took the kin to break free, but he had to continue to assist his minions in the fight.


    Since he didn¡¯t need to maintain the spell, he began to cast it again, dipping further into his rapidly vanishing reserves to form it once more.


    Whenplete, he reached out and the same thing happened, the w formed of ck shards flew through the air and surrounded the kin, snapping shut around it when he clenched his fist.


    <em>That¡¯s about as much as I can do</em>.


    What energy he still possessed would be required to fuel his skeletons. With the revenant now active in the fight, he wouldn¡¯t be able to maintain even that minimal output for long. Pushing his skeletal form to its limits, the once-yer now undead was fast and deadly, his sword shing with far greater uracy and force than the other skeletons. Theparison wasn¡¯t correct in the first ce, the difference between the average minion and the former yer was like night and day.


    Of course, that performance came at a cost.


    Tyron stood impassively, directing his minions as best he could until the fighting was over. It ended suddenly, the final rift-kin screeching as it was impaled by a dispassionate skeleton, and then silence reigned on the field.


    Almost surprised, Tyron looked about, and only then did he notice that no vigers had emerged to assist him in disposing of the attackers. It shouldn¡¯t be surprising.


    <em>They probably think they jumped from the frying pan andnded in the fire.</em>


    Should he just walk away? Some supplies and a hot meal wouldn¡¯t go astray¡­.


    With a shrug, he advanced toward the barricade, bringing his undead with him.

 Chapter B2C38 - Cragwhistle

    Chapter B2C38 - Cragwhistle


    At a certain point, the rolling foothills, pierced in ces by ragged outcroppings of rock, or torn by ravines, gave way to the true mountains.


    The Barrier mountains were, like their name, a veritable wall, one that scraped the sky with jagged ws formed from the bones of this ne. If a way through existed, the people of the Western Province did not know it. To them, these mountains were impassable, anything thaty beyond may as well not have existed at all.


    At the boundary between these two, the vige of Cragwhistley. Stonecutters for the most part, the citizens of the humble settlement were hard people, used to istion, freezing winds and a dangerous life in the quarries.


    Tyron could sense a little of that, as he looked up at the faces beyond the barricade. Many were wounded, bleeding openly from cuts around their heads and shoulders. They stared at him with hard eyes. Despite their outer appearance, he knew they feared him. Without ill intention, he walked to within thirty paces of the barricade, but ensured he remained surrounded by his minions.


    If some archer wanted to try their hand, he wanted to have cover. There was also a slim chance the vigers could rush him, leaping over the wooden obstructions to end this new threat. He¡¯d learned not to take chances, even with people.


    ¡°Ho the vige!¡± he called.


    ¡°The fuck do you want?¡± a rough voice called back.


    <em>Great. Sounds like Dove¡¯s long lost brother.</em>


    ¡°To help you get back on your feet. Maybe some supplies and trade, if you have any to spare. I can¡¯t stay long, but I¡¯d like to assist if I can.¡±


    He gestured to the still smouldering building adjacent to the wall.


    ¡°My minions don¡¯t fear the heat. We can deal with that safely, as well as other odd jobs. All I ask in return is a chance to trade for supplies.¡±


    There was a chorus of muttering from beyond the wooden barrier, punctuated by some choice swearing.


    ¡°He¡¯ll just fucking KILL US, you idiotic pillock!¡± that same rough voice bellowed. ¡°That¡¯s a Necromancer! You¡¯re worth more to him dead than you are alive.¡±


    ¡°Not to put too fine a point on it,¡± Tyron called out, ¡°but I could kill all of you right now if I wanted to. I ughtered all those rift-kin you couldn¡¯t deal with¡­ and saved your lives in the process. Do we remember that?¡±


    ¡°You shut the fuck up!¡± the voice called back. ¡°We¡¯re having ourselves a conver-fucking-sation over here.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t any of you worried I¡¯ll get angry and kill you if he keeps jawing me?¡± Tyron wondered aloud.


    His words were followed by more urgent, angry mutters, followed by a ¡®Fuck off!¡¯ then the sound of blows being exchanged.


    For a moment, Tyron considered just turning around and leaving. These people were clearly far more trouble than they were worth. On the flip side, he <em>did </em>need supplies. He was running short on food, needed to refill his waterskin as well as other sundries for life on the road.


    The handle on his cookpot had broken two days ago. If he could get that fixed, he¡¯d be much happier. He could get the skeletons to lift it from the fire, since they didn¡¯t burn, something he¡¯d learned after making a stew, but it seemed strange to have his minions help him move cookery.


    Any information he could get on the surrounding area would also be helpful. He nned to move toward Skyice Keep, and the terrain grew more treacherous the further south he went. As annoying as it seemed, dealing with the people of Cragwhistle would be better than setting out blind.


    ¡°Ah, that man doesn¡¯t speak for us,¡± another voice called out, slightly panicked, ¡°we¡¯d prefer it if you didn¡¯t murder us.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes. Being treated like a storybook viin was going to get old very quickly.


    ¡°I just <em>saved</em> your entire vige,¡± he reminded them. ¡°I¡¯m not some evil Mageing to kill you all.¡±


    ¡°That would be more convincing if you weren¡¯t apanied by dozens of human skeletons¡­.¡±


    That¡­ was a good point.


    ¡°Look, I¡¯m going to get my cart, it has my supplies on it, thene back. If, by then, you¡¯ve decided you want to trade, make a little coin, then we can do business. Otherwise¡­.¡±


    He left them hanging. They hadn¡¯t responded well to him being nice, perhaps if he implied a vague threat, something more in line with what they were expecting, then he may get a more favourable response.


    Drained of magick, he was forced to pull an Arcane Crystal from his dwindling supply and pop it into his mouth. Cool, pure magick began to flow into him, recing what he¡¯d lost, albeit slowly. He¡¯d have enough to bring the cart up to the vige, at least.


    When he returned, he was pleasantly surprised to see a gap had been opened in the barricade. The way through was barred by several angry-looking men, including one sporting a very fresh ckeye, but at least they were willing to talk face to face.


    On his side, Tyron had his fullplement of undead, including his ghosts hovering out of sight. He could bury this vige in a tide of bone and blood in an instant if he so chose. Obviously he wouldn¡¯t, but <em>they </em>didn¡¯t know that.


    ¡°Nice to see some friendly faces,¡± he said as he walked alongside the cart pulled by eight skeletons.


    ¡°Who the fuck are these guys?¡± Dove chirped from his ce on the corner post.


    Tyron sighed. The skull had been asleep a moment ago, so he hadn¡¯t bothered to hide him. Now the once-Summoner red down at the vigers with the purple orbs that functioned as his eyes.


    ¡°Woof. I¡¯ve seen some ugly fucking vigers in my time, but by the Mothers teats, these guys take the cake.¡±


    ¡°Not looking so fresh yourself, fuck-face!¡± One of the men ground out, and Tyron recognised him as the rough voice who¡¯d yelled at him earlier.


    He looked younger than Tyron had expected, though older than he was. Mid-thirties perhaps? A scraggly beard clung to his chin, face ckened with soot, and no eyebrows. Must have been up close and personal with the fire. It certainly didn¡¯t do his appearance any good.


    The Necromancer raised his hands to try and make peace, only to have Dove cut him off.


    ¡°Oooh, we¡¯ve got a talker over here! What happened to your hair? You look like my balls if I dipped them in tar. Dickhead.¡±


    ¡°You cockless abomination,¡± the viger spat. ¡°Get the fuck out of our vige, you freak.¡±


    ¡°That actually hurt,¡± Dove sounded surprised. ¡°Not the abomination bit, the cockless bit. I really miss my cock.¡±


    ¡°How about the two of you shut up?¡± Tyron suggested coldly. He red at Dove, then at the viger, who held his tongue, after being jabbed in the ribs by his neighbour.


    When neither of them interrupted, he continued.


    ¡°What vige is this anyway?¡± he asked. ¡°I¡¯m totally lost.¡±


    ¡°Cragwhistle,¡± the enormous man in the centre of the line said softly, and Tyron recognised him as the second voice he¡¯d spoken to. ¡°We¡¯re just a humble vige, Mage. We don¡¯t have much.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need much, just some basics¡­ and a new pot handle.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± the man scratched his cheek awkwardly, ncing at the others around him. ¡°We¡¯d prefer not to let you in the vige proper¡­ if you don¡¯t mind. We can do your trade here at the front.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine,¡± Tyron shrugged.


    He approached, but still kept a distance of twenty paces between them, and kept his revenants close.


    They got down to haggling. The prices started at outrageous levels, requiring Tyron to remind them several times that they would all be dead, and therefore unable to enjoy the benefits of their goods, were it not for him. The massive man, named Ortan, appeared to be a figure of some authority in the vige, and did most of the talking. The loudmouth with no eyebrows stood to the side, fuming, and looked like he would burst out several times, only to catch a fist in the ribs from those around him.


    Eventually, they settled on a price for some goods, a local map, some smoked meat and a cloth-wrapped bundle of hard biscuits. He tried to barter for some fresh ink, but they were out.


    When a skeleton stepped forward to deposit the coin and collect the goods from the ground, there was a palpable sense of relief on the faces of the vigers. It was clear that they wanted him gone as soon as possible and expected him to buzz off now that the trade was done.


    ¡°Now we need to barter for something else,¡± Tyron smiled, watching as the others stiffened.


    The Necromancer gestured to his skeletons.


    ¡°I need bones,¡± he said, ¡°and while I¡¯m not going to take them from the living, I find that the dead don¡¯t have quite as much need for them.¡±


    ¡°Oh you FUCKING C-¡±


    ¡°Shut up, dickhead, or we¡¯ll take yours!¡± Dove cackled.


    As the loudmouth went to take another breath, Ortan surprised Tyron by turning around and punching him right in the face. He watched wide eyed as the smaller man went sprawling on the ground, spitting and cursing.


    ¡°Shut him up,¡± Ortan said tightly before turning back to the frightening Mage. ¡°Exin what you want, quickly.¡±


    The request for bones had gone down as well as a ton of bricks with the vigers before him, and he could hear the terrified whispers of others behind the wall as his words spread. He hurried to exin.


    ¡°As you can see, to create my minions, I need bones,¡± he gestured to the skeletons around him as he spoke, ¡°and some were damaged in the fight to save your vige. Even the arrows my archers fired were made using bones, and not many are in good enough condition to recover.¡±


    That had been obvious even during the fight. The arrows weren¡¯t well made enough to survive a hard impact in one piece. As he got more skilled, that would change, but for the moment¡­


    ¡°I know this is a difficult thing for you, but my aid does have a price.¡±


    Ortan looked at him with an unwavering gaze, showing more courage than he had before. There was anger in his eyes, along with a certain wariness. He knew that the Necromancer could take what he wanted if push came to shove.


    ¡°How would you do it?¡± he asked finally.


    ¡°There are two options. I''m pretty sure not all of you survived this attack, am I right?¡±


    Ortan nodded and Tyron held up his hands.


    ¡°You probably don¡¯t want to do this, and that¡¯s fine, but you can give me their bodies an-...¡±


    He didn¡¯t get to finish speaking before angry cries floated over the barricade and Ortan¡¯s face darkened.


    ¡°.... which is <em>fine</em>,¡± Tyron raised his voice. ¡°It¡¯s upsetting having friends and family desecrated for Necromancy materials, I get it.¡±


    He didn¡¯t really, but he was trying to put on a good face.


    ¡°The other option is to let me into your graveyard. Point out some remains you¡¯re rtively happy for me to take. There must be some people buried there that nobody even remembers.¡±


    Older bones would be less useful for him, but if they¡¯d had particrly tough bodies, the remains may still be in good enough condition to raise. Otherwise, he could use them for various other purposes. Bone armour, arrows, recing damaged bones, more bows. His need for raw materials would never be exhausted.


    ¡°We will need to discuss this,¡± Ortan said slowly, ¡°this is a difficult request. Our ancestors are buried here. Many of the families have lived here for generations.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not looking to clear out the ce,¡± Tyron defended himself. ¡°Just let me know what you can bear to part with.¡±


    He sighed internally.


    ¡°I know it¡¯s difficult to ede to this request, but it is necessary. I¡¯m trying to help people, just like I helped you today. I can¡¯t do that if I don¡¯t have materials to create my minions. The only way I can get what I need without murdering people is to steal it or ask for it. I¡¯m trying to do the right thing.¡±


    The vigers didn¡¯t appear happy to hear his words, but he felt at least Ortan understood where he wasing from.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have an answer for you soon,¡± he said.

 Chapter B2C39 - Arrows in the Night

    Chapter B2C39 - Arrows in the Night


    When night fell that evening, Tyron found himself in increasingly familiar surroundings.


    ¡°Is it really inevitable that Necromancers end up in graveyards all the time?¡± he sighed.


    Dove was not impressed with his mncholy.


    ¡°Are you damaged in the head? You fucking moron. <em>Of course</em> a Necromancer is going to be frequenting graveyards. That¡¯s where all the bones and dead bodies are!¡±


    ¡°I get that! It¡¯s just¡­ a little bleak.¡± He gestured to the cemetery, a worn and secluded area fenced off with a low stone wall. The gravestones were well made, created by experienced stone workers in the vige, but the frequent rain and damp conditions eroded everything in time.


    The people of Cragwhistle had put generations to rest here, making the cemetery significantlyrger than he¡¯d expected. It¡¯s possible the vige had beenrger in the past, to need so many graves, but Ortan, who had apanied him, wasn¡¯t too keen to engage in conversation.


    After marking the graves Tyron had been given permission to disturb, the viger had walked a hundred metres away, folded his arms and watched with a scarcely concealed look of disgust on his face. Which seemed a little harsh, there wasn¡¯t even any butchery going on!


    Tyron had his skeletons bring the cart around and then set his minions to work. With his reserve of trusty shovels, the skeletons were diligent workers, shovelling away withoutint. It was a finicky task to direct them when it came toying out the remains, but Tyron had been getting used to it and the task progressed at a good pace.


    <em>You really can get used to anything</em>, he mused, <em>even directing undead to dig up graves. Not exactly the morous life of Magick that I¡¯d envisioned.</em>


    In truth, he¡¯d mainly seen himself locked in a tower studying books, asionally emerging to hurl massive fireballs at things. He¡¯d have ess to powerful spells, his yer licence and resources to further his craft, which qualified as a morous life in his book.


    Instead, he flipped through the pages of his notes between taking stock of his inventory. He¡¯d improved rapidly in his control and understanding of the Necromancer¡¯s art since his Awakening, but there were many holes in his grasp of the theory. There just hadn¡¯t been enough time for him to test everything that needed to be tested. As a result, there were some things he grasped far better than others, which made his knowledge a bit lopsided.


    Another frustrating realisation, was that he had begun to run out of low hanging fruit. Quick and easy ways to better his minions, improve the Raise Dead ritual, or gain quick levels had basically run dry.


    If not for his breakthrough learning to create revenants, he would be in a far worse position.


    Still, it wasn¡¯t all doom and gloom. He ran through his notes once again, tallying the items he most needed to focus on.


    First, there was the matter of Death Magick and the saturation process. The Necromancer knew this was important, but couldn¡¯t quite figure out how. Further investigation was required.


    Second was optimising the bnce of his undead. How many ghosts did he need? How many revenants? How many archers? Equipping the skeletons had also begun to be an issue. He¡¯d stolen weapons whenever and wherever he could, but with almost fifty skeletons, he needed a small fortune''s worth of arms. His weakest and most damaged skeletons were swinging farming hoes at this point.


    Third, he needed to spend time bettering his understanding of ghosts. They were his second form of undead, after skeletons, and he knew basically nothing about them. There were a few lines of inquiry he¡¯d thought of, but as yet hadn¡¯t had an opportunity to investigate.


    Fourth¡­ fifth¡­ sixth¡­ the list went on and on, but at least he had something he could focus on.


    There was another task, one he¡¯d desperately been avoiding. An inventory of the cart was desperately needed at this point. His supply of hessian bags that he¡¯d secured from thedies at the farm he¡¯d saved was running thin and bones were starting to pile up all over the ce.


    With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet, carefully stepping through the mess until he reached the first bag.


    ¡°What are you so miserable about now?¡± Dove demanded, exasperated.


    ¡°Going to clean the cart and take an inventory. I honestly don¡¯t remember what we even have in here.¡±


    ¡°Oh shit. Fuck that, I¡¯m out.¡±


    The light glowing within the hollow eyes of the skull immediately faded as Dove retreated into ¡®sleep¡¯.


    ¡°Prick,¡± Tyron cursed, though there wasn¡¯t much energy behind it. He¡¯d avoid the job himself if he could.


    His experience as the bookkeeper at his uncle¡¯s tavern hadn¡¯t quite prepared him for the mind numbing process of counting bones. Did he have to know <em>exactly</em> how many finger bones he had? No. Would he count them anyway? Yes. Once he started, his brain wouldn¡¯t let him stop until he had a precise count.


    Hours of fun for the entire family.


    Against his will, thoughts of Magnin and Beory bubbled up in his mind and he pushed them away before they could sting him. His parents would be fine, they always were. Better to worry about himself.


    Loosening the knot on the bag, he reached inside, bending down to grab the contents at the bottom.


    <em>THUNK!</em>


    Before the sound properly registered, Tyron was already moving, throwing himself forward and burrowing into the bags. It wasn¡¯t lost on him that his first instinct was to seek the protection of human remains.


    As he rolled, he saw the arrow lodged deep into the wood of the cart bed. If he hadn¡¯t shifted his position, that might have been the end of him¡­.


    <em>yers.</em>


    Only someone with Archery skills and feats could be that urate from long range. His ghosts hadn¡¯t seen anything within a hundred metres of his current position. From that distance, in the dark?


    <em>Please let there be only one,</em> he prayed, though to whom he wasn¡¯t sure.


    <em>THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!</em>


    Three more arrows mmed into the cart, narrowly missing as Tyron scrambled to organise his forces.


    <em>Should have been wearing bone armour, you idiot,</em> he cursed himself.


    No time for regret. Huddled amongst the bones, he directed his minions to secure the perimeter and they acted swiftly to enact his will. Shovels were thrown down and the collection process abandoned as his skeletal warriors seized their weapons and began to hunt for his attackers. Undead carrying shields gathered around the cart, creating a wall that Tyron threw himself behind the moment it wasplete.


    His archers let fly into the darkness. Bone arrows whistled through the cool night air and shattered against stone outcroppings. He didn¡¯t expect them to hit, but hopefully, they would provide a distraction.


    Surrounded by his minions in a proper defensive formation, he began to feel a little more confident. His magick hadn¡¯t fully recharged yet, but he had enough in reserve to put up a fight, at least.


    His position secure, the skeletons began to fan out, three revenants in the lead. Ghosts drifted through the darkness, billowing cold and filled with hatred of the living, they hunted for any target through which they could vent their wrath.


    Tyron waited, unease warring with confidence as his undead continued to hunt for the attackers, but finding nothing.


    <em>They can¡¯t have just vanished. Either they can hide too well for my minions to find them, or they retreated when their sneak attack failed.</em>


    A very different threat than the Swordsman he¡¯d faced before, a Ranger was deadly in an entirely different way. Hidden in the shadows, with the ability to strike from range, a Ranger was, somewhat ironically, a much better matchup for him.


    Now that he knew they were out there, the element of surprise would be so much harder to grasp. Skeletons and ghosts may not have the best eyesight, but having to sneak past dozens of them would test anyone. As long as he kept his minions spread out around himself, he would be that much harder to approach.


    And since a Ranger was much weaker in direct hand to handbat, his skeletons would be a threat if they managed to gang up on the opponent. So long as this yer wasn¡¯t significantly stronger than thest, he was confident he would win.


    <em>As long as they¡¯re by themself. Otherwise, I may have a dozen yers after me very shortly.</em>


    In which case, he was already dead. A team of yers would rip through his minions and take his head in less than a minute.


    <em>Am I¡­ actually fucked right now?</em>


    No, there <em>had</em> to be something he could do. He suppressed the despair that threatened to overwhelm him and forced himself to think. Protected by his minions, he was safe for the time being. He took a deep breath and calmed himself.


    <em>There should only be one attacker. If there were more archers, I¡¯d have been buried in arrows before I could blink. If there were a full team here, they¡¯d have shown themselves already. </em>


    <em>That makes for two possibilities, a lone hunter who took a shot of opportunity and has retreated now that surprise has been lost, or a scout who took a chance to finish me off and is returning to bring the rest of the group.</em>


    If the first were true, then he would be fine if he proceeded carefully. If the second were true¡­.


    Overhead, the Barrier mountains loomed like an imprable wall. His only option to escape a group of yers would be to retreat to a ce they wouldn¡¯t want to go.


    ¡°You <em>could</em> try to rely on your allies a little more,¡± a voice spoke from behind him.


    Tyron turned to see Yor looking unusually pleased with herself, leaning against a dusty gravestone. That was different, she normally avoided touching anything even remotely dirty.


    ¡°You seem happy,¡± Tyron said, trying to match her casual tone and watch for iing arrows at the same time. ¡°Something to celebrate?¡±


    The Vampire smiled.


    ¡°I partook of a <em>delicious</em> meal.¡±


    She sighed, her eyes slightly unfocused, as if she were drunk.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t kill anyone did you?¡± Tyron spluttered.


    He¡¯d only just arrived at this vige and saved them from attack. If a random, innocent person had died because he¡¯d stuck around¡­.


    ¡°I don¡¯t <em>have</em> to kill,¡± Yor chided him, her eyes snapping back to their normal sharpness.


    ¡°That¡¯s not an answer to the question, Yor.¡±


    ¡°No, I did not kill anyone,¡± she enunciated clearly. ¡°Though¡­ I <em>could</em>, if you asked me too. You seem to have a yer problem that needs to be solved.¡±


    <em>Always when I¡¯m at my weakest.</em>


    ¡°And I suppose there would be a price for such aid?¡±


    Her eyes gleamed red.


    ¡°Of <em>course</em>. It would cost you <em>very</em> dearly.¡±


    He didn¡¯t even need to ask what it was.


    ¡°Then I must decline,¡± he said shortly, turning back to his minions.


    ¡°I can tell you a little something for free then,¡± she said, ¡°though perhaps you could consider it a little favour. That archer is working alone. You don¡¯t have to worry about more yersing for you. At least not yet.¡±


    ¡°Not yet?¡± Tyron asked, confused.


    Yor just smiled once more, a predatory cast to her features.


    ¡°I will say no more.¡±


    <em>Figures. She gave me valuable information anyway.</em>


    ¡°I¡¯ll repay this debt,¡± he said, forcing himself to speak evenly.


    ¡°Of course you will.¡±


    <em>I never had a choice. They¡¯ll get the price out of me one way or another</em>.


    Thoughts of Vampires and their machinations could wait untilter. Yor wouldn¡¯t lie to him, which meant he had a small window of opportunity.


    Beside him, his only yer revenant burned with magickal fire.


    ¡°Looks like you¡¯re about to make a friend.¡±


    <em>My archers needed a leader.</em>

 Chapter B2C40 - Fear of the Dark

    Chapter B2C40 - Fear of the Dark


    Katlyn pulled her cloak tight around her and drew deep, steadying breaths. One finger kept the tension on her bowstring taught as her eyes flicked from tree to tree, watching for any sign of pursuit.


    <em>Stay calm. Be steady. That¡¯s how you stay alive.</em>


    The words of her mentors from the academy rang in her mind and she heeded that advice. Analyse the situation, make a n, then execute on it. That¡¯s how a Ranger was meant to fight.


    She¡¯d lost her cool back at the graveyard, and it had cost her. The sight of so many undead swarming through the graves and patrolling the perimeter had shocked her. So many! She¡¯d counted close to forty of them, and doubtless there were more watching the other side of the cemetery.


    This Necromancer was supposed to have Awakened at the same time she had! How could he possibly be able to sustain so many undead? A chill had run up her spine as she¡¯d considered what level he must have been.


    <em>How many people did he murder to advance that quickly? Howrge a trail of destruction had this monster left in his wake?</em>


    She¡¯d hesitated in that moment, a shiver of fear running down her spine. She¡¯d wondered if she should back off, return to the others and negotiate to share the prize, but had decided not too. All she needed was one arrow to find the mark and the money would be hers alone.


    But she¡¯d rushed.


    A better opportunity would have presented itself if she¡¯d been patient! Pushed by her fear, she¡¯d attacked too soon and failed.


    <em>It¡¯s fine. He never saw you. Take some distance, gather information and then prepare for another strike.</em>


    Her heart had finally slowed to its resting rate and Kat breathed deep one more time, filling her lungs with chill night air. It was cold and damp this high up. She hated it. Born to the south in Endless Sand Keep, she¡¯d grown up a few hours'' ride from the desert.


    A sound tugged at her ear, something like a breath or sigh, and she snapped around, her bow rising to eye level in one, instantaneous motion.


    Nothing.


    It was difficult to see, even with her Heightened Senses Feat, but there was nothing there. She lowered her bow and continued to peer into the darkness. She was sure she¡¯d heard something, an odd sound, almost like wind.


    Had it always been this cold?


    A freezing cloud of ice gripped her arms and the Ranger threw herself backward, rolling smoothly to her feet and loosing an arrow where she had been standing. The shot whistled through the air, touching nothing.


    No, there <em>was </em>something!


    The night air twisted in her perception and she could finally make out the shape. Lines blurred, almost immaterial as they seemed to drift as though caught in a soft current. A baleful re met her eyes as what she now realised was a spectre reached for her again.


    ¡°Shit!¡± she cried, her voice gripped with fear.


    Without thinking, she pulled back on her bowstring again, her free hand shing an arrow to the nock with inhuman speed. She let fly, only to see the ghost distort slightly as the wood and metal sted harmlessly through it.


    She turned and ran.


    Heart hammering in her chest, Katlyn stumbled through the brush, her thoughts a tangled mess.


    <em>Fucking hell. A ghost. What am I supposed to do against a ghost?</em>


    In her panic, all the usual grace and dexterity she would exhibit moving through difficult terrain was gone, reced by blind fumbling as she tried to desperately get away. After wing her way over a mass of gnarled roots that clung to the rock beneath like the withered fingers of a witch, she dared to look back.


    Immediately, she wished she hadn¡¯t.


    Purple lights flickered in the dark, paired orbs that shifted and bobbed as the skeletons moved through the copse of trees. The sight of them filled her with dread. She wasn¡¯t even necessarily afraid of fighting them, skeletons weren¡¯t the deadliest of foes, but she was afraid of what they represented. Each had been a person, not that long ago. If they caught her, she would be one of them too¡­.


    ¡°Fuck off!¡± she screamed, drawing another arrow and firing it at the first set of purple eyes she could see.


    By some miracle, the arrow flew true, perhaps guided by the hand of the Unseen. There was a shattering sound in the distance and two of the lights winked out. Just like that, a skeleton had been destroyed.


    It was strange, but the Ranger felt some measure of her calm return. A single sess, miniscule it might be, but it gave her something to cling to. She may not be able to do anything to the ghosts, but they were slow, or they¡¯d have caught her already. As long as she got a hold of herself and moved properly, they¡¯d never catch up. The skeletons were easy fodder if she yed her cards right. All she had to do was take some distance and pick them off one by one.


    The Necromancer was practically feeding her free experience.


    <em>Get a grip. You¡¯re not dying here.</em>


    Katlyn admonished herself and forced deep, slow breaths into her lungs, slowing her pounding heart and steadying her shaking hands. She could do this. She <em>had</em> to do this.


    All at once, she was in control again, her movements became smooth and her feet found stable footholds once more. As a Ranger should, she began to move through the brush with grace and speed. Another arrow was plucked from her dull grey quiver and brought to the nock. She sighted and loosed in one smoother motion, not bothering to see if her shot found its mark.


    The crunching sound of the steel head punching through a skull was all the confirmation she needed.


    <em>As long as he doesn¡¯t get ahead of me, there¡¯s no way I can be caught. That bounty is as good as mine. </em>


    Cold. Piercing, deadening cold invaded her lungs, freezing the air in her body and the blood in her veins.


    <em>Shit!</em>


    She lunged forward, desperate to avoid the horrific sensation. In her haste, she smacked her elbow into a rock as she rolled, pain beginning to throb up her arm. It was a miracle she managed to hold onto her bow.


    Fighting back against an enemy with no physical form was pointless, all she could do was turn and run. Her only defence against the ghosts was to outrun them. She bounded away, legs pumping as she upped her speed. After fifty strides, she burst out of the trees and into the long grass that clung to the foothills with a deathgrip.


    Out here, she could see the skeletonsing from kilometres away, even in the dark.


    <em>Need to find a good vantage point, make sure I¡¯m not followed.</em>


    As long as those ghosts knew where she was, it would be impossible to sleep. The thought of being attacked with that freezing touch in her sleep was horrifying. She had to gain some distance.


    Around her, five skeletons rose up from the grass, the light of undeath burning in their eyes.


    <em>No, no, nononono.</em>


    A sh of memory sparked deep in her brain, her instructor smacking an open palm across the back of her head.


    <em>¡°Think fast, move faster. If you get caught in a melee, you need to get out of it. Fast. Use your speed.</em>¡±


    The training paid off. She dropped her bow and snatched the machete from her belt, running straight at the closest Undead with the hilt clenched in both hands.


    A wild yell burst from her lips as she shed with all the strength she could muster. So long as she didn¡¯t get surrounded, she would escape. Losing the bow hurt, and meant she had to give up on the bounty, at least until she got another one, but escaping alive came first.


    The skeleton moved fluidly, bringing its rusted de up in a neat block. With the full weight of her body behind it, the de of the machete crashed through despite the clean defence, sweeping the skeleton off its feet.


    Katlyn grit her teeth and rushed into the gap, not bothering to look behind her. The skeleton swung at her legs as she ran past, but didn¡¯t have the leverage to put real force behind it and the sh didn¡¯t prate her boots. She was through!


    Ice pierced her once more and she gasped. Almost invisible in the dim light, she could see the faint outline of a face locked in a malicious grin as it reached for her.


    <em>How many are there?</em> She despaired.


    Acting on instinct, she shed at the arm and watched as the machete cut through without resistance. The chill that threatened to lock her muscles in ce diminished slightly as the ghost fuzzed into mist where she had struck, only to start reforming a momentter. It was a window, and she chose to jump through it.


    She swung the machete high with one hand and then brought down in a savage sh, bisecting the ghost and cutting that rictus grin in half. Then she braced herself, and jumped straight through it. Her body was enveloped in ice, as if she had flung herself into fresh snowmelt. For an instant, her heart slowed and she idly wondered if it would ever beat again. Truly, this was the chill of the grave.


    Then she was through to the other side.


    Her legs were too cold to obey and she staggered as her feet hit the ground, trying to regain her bnce. That¡¯s when the arrows began to fall.


    She could see the archers in the distance, just clear of the trees. Their bows were formed from spines that bent hideously everytime they drew back on those ghostly strings. They didn¡¯t have much skill, but the three of them shot as fast as they could.


    Katlyn gave a frustrated hiss as she rolled to her right, trying to avoid projectiles she could barely see.


    <em>I¡¯m not running away from a yer. I¡¯m on the run from an army!</em>


    Throughout the pursuit, the Necromancer hadn¡¯t even shown his face, yet she¡¯d been pushed to this state. If she took an arrow to the leg, or knee, she was dead.


    <em>Need to get out of range¡­.</em>


    Even with her Ranger¡¯s Endurance, it was difficult to force energy into her legs, but she pushed and finally began to move. Just as she began to gain momentum, she heard a voice for the first time during this pursuit.


    Words of power mmed into the air, twisting the fabric of the world.


    At the sound, Katlyn turned her head to see the dark-clothed Necromancer had emerged from the treeline, his hand extended like a w towards her. Despite her being on the run, he was still well protected, with a number of skeletons bearing shields close by his side. Since she¡¯d seen him at the graveyard, he¡¯d found time to adorn himself in a bone-like armour. Maybe it <em>was</em> bones¡­. How nice for him.


    Her hands itched for her bow.


    ck Magick erupted from the Mage¡¯s hand and billowed toward her like a cloud of locusts. She tried to dodge, but the spell raced across the space between them, covering over a hundred metres in a matter of seconds. With a surge of energy borne from desperation, she lunged to the side at thest possible moment. It almost worked. The ck cloud of Magick stretched for her as a hand, wrapping itself around her leg and dragging her to the ground.


    With a cry of horror and rage, she hacked at the spell with her machete, but that did nothing to disperse the arcane energy. Terror threatening to engulf her, the young Ranger turned to face the skeletons who were now catching up to her, des held in trembling hands.


    Except they didn¡¯t move to fight her, they simply surrounded her, remaining out of her reach. A few seconds after, the spell dissipated, but it was already toote. Five skeletons surrounded her now, and more weren¡¯t far away. Probably, the ghosts were starting to catch up as well. She was caught.


    Katlyn sank to her knees as the horrible implications of that began to sink into her mind. Would she be killed? Would her remains be desecrated, used to create an Undead servant just like these? Mother and Father would never get to bury her.


    As she thought of her family, hot tears began to roll down her cheeks. When she heard booted footfalls approaching through the grass, she scrubbed them away, angrily. She wouldn¡¯t give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing her cry. If she was going to die, she¡¯d die like a yer.


    She kept her head down as the man approached, machete still gripped in her hand. If he drew close enough¡­.


    Of course, he didn¡¯t. The prick stopped ten paces away, and sighed.


    ¡°By the Abyss,¡± he groaned. ¡°I hate this.¡±


    That¡­ hadn¡¯t been what she expected to hear, but what did it matter? This sadistic arsehole would slit her throat and carve up her remains any second now.


    ¡­. Any¡­ second.


    Surprised to still be alive, she finally turned and looked up at the Mage. His expression was twisted into something between regret and irritation. Eventually, he reached up, pped a hand to his face and sighed.


    ¡°What am I going to do with you?¡±

 Chapter B2C41 - Broken

    Chapter B2C41 - Broken


    It was tempting to reach out and tap at the array with a finger, just to make sure it was working. Poranus red at it, unwilling to believe what he was seeing. The eyes could lie, he knew it well, especially when a person was tired.


    And he <em>was</em> tired. Exhausted. Day after day, he and the Magisters had poured their magick into the sigils, turning arcane energy into pain, until he had begun to believe it would never end.


    Yet, as he continued to look, the sigils continued to lie dim. No response from the brands meant that the yers in question were not acting against instructions. Despite the fact he¡¯d been pouring his life into the sigils for weeks, he double checked to make sure that the two he was looking at corresponded to Magnin and Beory, and they did.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s nice to finally close the book on this little task,¡± a cultured male voice said from beside him.


    Poranus ground his teeth, but tried to keep his dislike under wraps. No need to aggravate his fellow Magisters, particrly one on the fast track for promotion.


    ¡°You don¡¯t see this as a little suspicious, Herath?¡± he asked, gesturing to the unlit sigils. ¡°After more than a month of resisting the highest level of torture the Magistry has ever devised, they just¡­ give up?¡±


    Brushing back his long golden hair with one hand, Herath smiled and shrugged carelessly, irritating his contemporary even further.


    ¡°It¡¯s clear that the Sterms concocted some method to resist or limit the effects of the brand, but they were unable to suppress itpletely. Despite their best efforts, they were eventually broken down by our relentless pressure. A triumph for the Magistry and quite the feather in our cap, in my view. The strongest yers in the entire province couldn¡¯t resist our will. Doesn¡¯t that mean all is working as intended?¡±


    Poranus¡¯ eyes boggled.


    ¡°We needed a rotating team of Magisters working around the clock for a <em>month</em> to get any response at all! Does that sound like everything is <em>fine</em>? They must have discovered a w, or weakness.¡±


    As he muttered to himself, Herath just shook his head.


    ¡°I swear, you just refuse to take a win when it¡¯s handed to you. Look,¡± he pointed, ¡°the sigils are silent. The Sterms will obey, or they will die. That is the end of it.¡±


    Despite himself, Poranus tried to let his irritation and anxiety go. He was just being paranoid. An unfortunate result of the ordeal he¡¯d gone through over the previous weeks.


    Just by a hair, he allowed himself to rx, and only then did he realise how tightly wound he¡¯d be.


    ¡°I need to sleep for a week,¡± he muttered, and Herath grinned.


    ¡°I¡¯d invite you to the Jorlin estate, the grapes are being harvested at the vineyards, you can smell the wine in the air,¡± he closed his eyes and red his nostrils, as if imagining the rich scent, then shook his head, ¡°but only family are allowed. Apologies, brother.¡±


    ¡°Then why mention it?¡± Poranus growled.


    A robed servant nervously tapped at the door.


    ¡°What?¡± the disgruntled Magister snapped.


    <em>Always has to unt his family connections, as if his natural gift for magick wasn¡¯t enough. Arrogant prick.</em>


    ¡°The Lady would like to see you,¡± the servant bowed.


    Blood instantly froze in his veins.


    ¡°Do you mean myself, or Magister Jorlin?¡± Poranus forced out.


    ¡°The Lady requested you by name, Magister Taridus.¡±


    Herath ced aforting hand on his shoulder.


    ¡°Try not to piss her off and get yourself killed,¡± he said, smiling.


    <em>I will kill you one day. I will kill you, andugh.</em>


    ¡°Lead the way,¡± he ground out.


    Bowing low, the servant turned and began to lead the way, studiously ignoring everything he and his contemporary had to say. Poranus served a fresh re to his fellow Magister, leaving him in no uncertain terms as to his feelings. Herath simply smiled.


    <em>Stop letting him get to you,</em> he admonished himself as he left the chamber.


    Within that small room, the Marks of all the highest ranked yers in the province were kept, under lock and key in the heart of the Tower. It was that room, and the others like it, that maintained the Marks of all the lesser yers that put the Magisters firmly in control of the popce.


    The yers were the attack dogs of the empire, unleashed on the rifts and the monsters that came through them. The Magisters were the masters, one hand firmly on the leash at all times. Control led to order and order led to survival; that was the mandate handed down from the Divines to his order, and he tried to let some of that prestige and power flow into him now.


    Magisters did not bow and scrape. There was no need for him to be afraid. He and those like him were captains of the ship that was the Empire.


    But they didn¡¯t own it¡­.


    When they arrived outside arge, gleaming wooden door, he waved the servant away and wiped his sweaty palms on his robes. All he had to do was mind his tongue.


    He knocked.


    ¡°Enter,¡± came a clinical reply.


    The door swung open to reveal the Lady¡¯s quarters, asvish and elegant as ever, with the Lady herself in her customary position, seated behind her oversized, ornate desk.


    ¡°Magister,¡± she greeted him, her tone as neutral as always, ¡°pleasee and sit.¡±


    She gestured to the chair positioned to one side, and Poranus eyed it like a viper. Refusing to let his trepidation show, he took wide steps, grabbed the seat with more force than was perhaps strictly necessary and moved it opposite the noble before he reclined.


    Lady Erryn watched this take ce with the usual impassive expression on her face, as if everything he did, or <em>could</em> do, was boring to her on a fundamental level.


    When she spoke, it was almost as if being forced to do so was disappointing.


    ¡°I understand that congrattions are in order,¡± she said.


    Her icy-blue eyes were wintry cold as they pinned him to his seat. There was no celebration evident there.


    ¡°It would appear so, mydy,¡± he replied, meeting her gaze. ¡°The Marks have grown dim. We have no reason to believe that the Sterms resist their instructions any longer.¡±


    The Lady took a moment to note this on the clean paper thaty before her on the table.


    ¡°I see. The Marks are unresponsive?¡±


    ¡°That is the case. It was first reported by Magister Thurn, then myself and Magister Jorlin confirmed it.¡±


    ¡°Do any of you believe that the Marks have beenpromised?¡±


    The question was asked in the same, disinterested tone, but Poranus felt sweat break out on his back. One thing everyone knew about nobles, they always hunted for someone to me. Lady Erryn would never be held responsible for anything that happened here, she was above such things, but that didn¡¯t mean a scapegoat wouldn¡¯t be useful. If he said they weren¡¯tpromised, and it turned out Beory Sterm <em>had</em> managed to break them, his head would roll.


    <em>The Mark is a work of incredible sophistication that has been employed since the Ascension. I couldn¡¯t begin to think of tampering with it and surviving, what are the odds that a yer could do so?... Then again, Beory is no ordinary yer.</em>


    ¡°It is my understanding,¡± he said carefully, ¡°that the stated position of the Aristocracy, the Church of the Divines, and the Magistry, is that the Mark <em>cannot</em> bepromised.¡±


    It was a good answer. Neither yes, nor no, he simply spoke the truth. <em>Everyone</em> believed they were foolproof.


    ¡°Then the Sterms are moving to execute their criminal child?¡± she asked, as if discussing the weather.


    ¡°We have no reason to believe otherwise, mydy.¡±


    Her eyes flickered down to the page then back to meet his.


    ¡°And what is your <em>personal</em> belief, Magister?¡±


    A direct question. The worst kind.


    ¡°I believe¡­ that the Sterms developed a method that allowed them to blunt or resist at least part of the pain caused by the Mark,¡± he said slowly. ¡°Using this method, they were able to endure until this point, but now their will has broken and they obey. That is what I believe to be the most likely series of events.¡±


    It <em>was</em> the most likely. Herath had believed it also.


    ¡°I did not ask what you believed was most likely. What do <em>you </em>believe?¡±


    He swallowed.


    ¡°I¡­ find it¡­ <em>difficult</em>¡­ to believe that two individuals such as the Sterms would give up so easily. I do not believe they will willingly kill their own child.¡±


    Lady Erryn watched him for a moment, a glimmer of interest finally appearing in her eyes. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her own steepled fingers.


    ¡°Well, I should hope that they don¡¯t,¡± she said dryly.


    Poranus was taken aback. Isn¡¯t that what they¡¯d wanted all this time?


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± he said, ¡°you <em>don¡¯t</em> want them to kill him?¡±


    The noble shook her head slightly and tsked, her brown curls waving.


    ¡°What will happen if they refuse to obey their orders?¡± she asked him, as if lecturing a student.


    <em>As if I didn¡¯t know</em>.


    ¡°We will use their Marks to torture them to death,¡± he said.


    ¡°Obviously. Now that they no longer resist, they will not be granted a second chance. If they do not bring us the head of their boy, we will resume the torture in a week.¡±


    The Magister wanted to slump forward. So his ordeal was not over yet. How he yearned to be free of thisborious nonsense.


    ¡°So you would rather the boy was left alive, and the parents killed?¡± he asked.


    ¡°You are not thinking with enough rity,¡± she said. ¡°All three of them will die. That is our will.¡±


    <em>All three of them?</em>


    ¡°When you say ¡®our will¡¯...¡± he began.


    ¡°The Aristocracy speaks with the voice of the Divines,¡± she cut him off, blue eyes glinting like steel. ¡°They have ordered it, and so it shall be.¡±

 Chapter B2C42 - Strange Happenings

    Chapter B2C42 - Strange Happenings


    ¡°I really thought you were over this¡­.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, ¡®over this¡¯? Are you talking about my aversion to murder? That¡¯s a healthy thing to have!¡±


    ¡°For most people, sure. You aren¡¯t most people. You¡¯re a Necromancer on the run from thew who¡¯s actively being hunted by superhuman killing machines. The same attitudes don¡¯t really apply. When you wasted those two Marshals, I figured you understood that.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t have a choice,¡± Tyron growled. ¡°As you damn well know.¡±


    ¡°And you have a choice now? Look around you, moron! You''re halfway up a mountain in the ass end of nowhere with goddess knows how many of these pricks trying to stab you in the face! Why do I feel like I¡¯m the only one of us two who thinks that¡¯s a bad idea?¡±


    Tyron hunched his shoulders against the criticism and the creeping feeling that the skull was correct. He should have put this archer down the moment she was caught. Her remains were valuable to him, extremely so, now that he could create revenants. As a leader for his archers and as a deadly ranged option, she would give him tactical flexibility and another powerful minion.


    Instead¡­. He looked down.


    Tied hand and foot, carried between two skeletons, the archer looked back up at him. Or red up at him, more urately.


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you have any advice?¡± he asked her.


    She was gagged, obviously, but he could guess what she wanted to say. Most of it involved swearing, violence and his balls. She¡¯d get along with Dove, most likely.


    What <em>were</em> his options? There weren¡¯t many, and basically none of them were ptable. He sighed. This was getting tooplicated.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to kill yers that I don¡¯t have to,¡± he said firmly to the skull. ¡°My parents are yers, I¡¯ve wanted to be one my entire life, I can¡¯t just go around massacring them.¡±


    ¡°Nobody said anything about massacring. This is self defence, man! Look, I was a yer myself once upon a time, I don¡¯t really want you to murder them either. This is different. When theye at you, firing arrows at your noggin from the dark? Fuck the fucking fuckers! That aint a yer, that¡¯s prime skeleton material.¡±


    The graveyard didn¡¯t look much more appealing in the daytime than it had at night. It was gloomy and shaded, a fine mist rolling down from the mountains above. The skeletons hadrgelypleted their work now, providing a wealth of bones for the Necromancer to work with. They were in the process of cleaning the ce up, returning it to some semnce of the undisturbed, overgrown mess it had been before.


    <em>Well, not entirely</em>.


    In the daylight, it had been much easier to notice what had evaded him the previous night. He <em>really</em> needed to learn some sort of magick-enhanced vision. Most of the cemetery had indeed been overgrown, and it had been those old and forgotten graves the town had agreed he could unearth. There was, however, one area that was quite well maintained. A cursory examination had revealed that Cragwhistle had buried a few people recently. <em>Quite</em> a few. Considering they hadn¡¯t had time to inter the deceased from the siege the day before, something else had clearly caused those deaths. What had appeared to him as a surprisinglyrge vige for this far west, had in fact been significantly bigger not that long ago.


    <em>Must have been a rockfall or somesuch,</em> he shrugged. <em>It¡¯s dangerous work cleaving stone from the mountain. Stop distracting yourself.</em>


    There was so much to do. He hadn¡¯t conducted the status ritual since the siege, and he was sure to get <em>something</em> from killing such a number of rift-kin. Likely, that had to wait as well. Before anything else, he had to deal with this yer.


    ¡°I can imnt a suggestion in her mind, she¡¯ll leave and not remember seeing me.¡±


    ¡°You sure about that? Mental maniption is far from guaranteed to stick, even in the medium term. Even then, if you persuade her she didn¡¯t find you, guess what happens? She fucking starts looking for you again! A little more patience, and she would have put an arrow between your eyes the first time around!¡±


    Judging by the look on the archer¡¯s face, she was regretting that right now. A chill ran down his spine as he remembered that first shot rushing over his head.


    ¡°I could give her to Yor?¡± he suggested weakly and Dove just scoffed.


    ¡°So you don¡¯t want to kill her, but you¡¯ll feed her to a bloodthirsty, in a literal sense, vampire? Wow, what a kind soul. Hey, ranger, you want your corpse butchered into a skeleton, or your eternal soul ripped out of your body and digested by an undead?¡±


    The archer¡¯s eyes widened and she thrashed against her bonds, yelling and cursing at them as best she could through the gag.


    ¡°Probably, ¡®neither¡¯, if I had to take my guess.¡±


    The unfortunate captive looked a little wild around the eyes after hearing their discussion. Tyron wanted to p a hand to his face in frustration. Now they were just torturing her mentally. So much for his ¡®mercy¡¯.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to give her to Yor to kill her. I thought she might¡­ want recruits.¡±


    Judging the vigorous shaking of the captive, that wasn¡¯t much better in her eyes.


    ¡°She would demand a price for a favour like that,¡± Dove observed, ¡°and I think we all know what it would be.¡±


    ¡°Damn it, you¡¯re probably right.¡±


    It had been a vain hope. One with little chance of evering through.


    ¡°I guess I¡¯ll just have to try the mental suggestion and hope for the best,¡± he sighed.


    ¡°What?! Just kill her already, you¡¯re being daft.¡±


    Before Tyron could retort that bing a homicidal maniac was not what he intended when he began this journey, something caught his attention. A voice, distance at first, but drawing closer every moment.


    ¡°Oiiiiii!¡± Ortan called as he ran toward the cemetery. ¡°Necromancer, are you there?¡±


    The desperate note in his tone told Tyron this wasn¡¯t a social call. He rushed toward the vige and met therge man on the outside of the graveyard.


    Ortan was panting and dripping sweat when they met, he must have run from Cragwhistle to end up in that state.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Tyron asked, confused. ¡°Is there a problem?¡±


    <em>I thought they¡¯d avoid me as much as possible now our business has concluded. </em>


    The people certainly hadn¡¯t indicated they wanted him to stick around. They¡¯d been pissed off enough at his demand to ess the cemetery that he figured he¡¯d be lynched if he showed his face again. Skeletal army or no.


    ¡°At the vige,¡± the big man wheezed. ¡°Rift-kin¡­. Need help.¡±


    <em>Again?</em>


    ¡°I¡¯ll go as quickly as I can.¡±


    It took less than a second to marshal his troops with mentalmands, bringing the skeletons, ghosts and revenants to his side. As they gathered, he sprinted to his pack and pulled out one of his precious few remaining arcane crystals.


    To cover that amount of ground quickly, he would need to push his minions hard, which meant draining his magick at an elerated pace. If he wanted enough in the tank to fight with, he needed to supplement himself.


    After a moment of hesitation, he peeled off four skeletons and a revenant to keep his captive archer hidden and secure. Who knows how Ortan would react if he found the yer bound and secured in the graveyard? Better to be cautious.


    With everything assembled, including Dove clutched in one hand, he set off at as fast a pace as he could sustain, which amounted to a jog, rather than a run.


    ¡°Can¡¯t we¡­ go faster?¡± Ortan wheezed.


    The man looked like he would fall over if they moved any faster. Perhaps he thought Tyron was slowing down for his sake?


    ¡°Skeletons can move quickly over short bursts, but they drain my magick,¡± he exined. ¡°If we go any faster than this, I¡¯ll have nothing left when we get there.¡±


    The viger frowned but nodded after a moment. Just as well, Tyron really couldn¡¯t move faster than this. To go at even this pace caused his ghosts to suck power from him at an rming rate.


    When they arrived at Cragwhistle, Tyron already had the candy in his mouth, letting the magick contained within drain into him as he looked for the kin. When he didn¡¯t see any, he turned to Ortan in surprise. Was this some sort of trap? The barricade was still in ce, walling the vige off, with a small gap to allow traffic through, but there were no visible people or kin.


    <em>Do I hear fighting in the distance?</em>


    ¡°Not here,¡± Ortan gasped. ¡°Other side.¡±


    He pointed to the break in the barricade and Tyron hurried to order his minions to funnel through.


    <em>The other side? Did the monsters circle around through the mountain? That doesn¡¯t make any sense¡­.</em>


    Rift-kin were intelligent to a degree, but the magick that suffused them drove them to a berserk state. Most would rush straight toward the first living thing they found that wasn¡¯t kin, and tear it to pieces, not even waiting to eat it before they rushed off to find something else.


    Inside the boundary of Cragwhistle for the first time, Tyron didn¡¯t have time to take in the sights as he rushed through, heading toward the mountain side of the vige. The further he ran, the louder the sound of fighting got, until he saw the backs of the vigers ahead of him as they defended another barricade.


    With a mentalmand, he urged his minions forward.


    ¡°Get back from the wall!¡± he bellowed, but some didn¡¯t appear to hear him over the dim.


    They certainly noticed when over forty skeletons joined them at the barricade, several screaming in fear as the undead appeared right next to them.


    <em>I need those spears</em>.


    His skeletons were armed with one handed weapons and farming tools for the most part. They didn¡¯t have the reach to stab over the edge of the crude wooden barricade.


    He ran forward to a small cluster of vigers.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to help,¡± he assured them. ¡°I need your spears so the skeletons can fight over the wall. Please.¡±


    It took a little convincing, but they did hand them over and he had his revenants distribute them amongst his minions. He urged them to convince the others to hand over their arms before he ran to join his undead at the wall.


    The ghosts had only just caught up and he forced them through the barricade and out the other side, hoping they could cause some disruption with their freezing touch. The archers took position atop small tforms the vigers had been using to fire over the wall and began to shoot at whatever they could see.


    Although he didn¡¯t want to expose himself to danger, Tyron wanted to get a look at whatever was on the other side before he made any further decisions.


    <em>Take a peek, then get back</em>.


    He poked his head over the edge of the wall for a brief moment before he pulled it back down, cursing.


    <em>What in the name of the Divines?!</em>


    Rift-kin, of that there was no doubt. Except¡­ not from Nagrythyn. Instead of the insect-like monsters he¡¯d fought since his time in Woodsedge, these werepletely different.


    The bulk of the kin closely resembled boars, albeit ones covered in a spikyyer of icicles. Knee high, the monsters rushed forward in mobs to smash themselves against the wood, which buckled and splintered after every charge. Roaming amongst the smaller kin were ice-formed monstrosities with stick-thin limbs and demonic faces, all harsh angles and pointed teeth the size of a man.


    Where had theye from?!


    If they were frost monsters, then his chilling curse and ghosts may not have any effect, or perhaps even empower them in some way. He pulled his immaterial undead back beyond the wall, swearing under his breath.


    ¡°What? What is it?¡± Dove demanded.


    ¡°They aren¡¯t kin from Nagrythyn. Some kind of frost beasts and ice monsters.¡±


    ¡°Fucking <em>what</em>? Did these shitse all the way from Skyice keep?¡±


    If his memory served, the rift guarded by the yers at Skyice connected to Illica, a corrupted realm of ice giants.


    ¡°I don¡¯t fucking know, I¡¯ve never been there!¡±


    ¡°Fucking hell. Stick me up there, I¡¯ll take a look.¡±


    Tyron quickly hefted the skull up with one hand, held him there for a second, then pulled him down.


    ¡°Ohhhhh SHIT. I¡¯ve got bad news, kid.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    ¡°Those kin are not from Illica.¡±


    All along the wall, the skeletons were engaged in battle now. Those armed with longer weapons were thrusting at the boars every time they charged, and a few had engaged an ice-creature as it drew close enough to attack.


    ¡°Okay? What does that mean?¡±


    ¡°There might be a new rift forming in the mountains¡­.¡±

 Chapter B2C43 - Struggle and Strive

    Chapter B2C43 - Struggle and Strive


    A few things snapped into ce at once for Tyron. He was no rift expert, but he had obsessively studied everything rted to yers since he was able to read. A rift forming was a major, disastrous event, shifting the flow of magick in a wide area. Depending on the size of the rift, it could manifest in a cataclysmic detonation of power simr to what had happened at the Nagrathyn rift.


    Another realm connecting to this one could have created enough of a disruption to cause the break that had devastated the western province. He could learn more by talking to the vigerster. For now, he had a battle to win.


    At his direction, his skeletal archers began to focus on the ice-creatures, peppering them with bone-formed arrows. At the wall, the fight had degenerated into a battle of attrition. Skeletons stabbed at targets whenever they could, the archers fired rapidly, burning through the limited ammunition and his revenants stalked up and down the wall, waiting for something to break through.


    Except for the former swordsman, Tyron kept it by his side for safety.


    With limited options on what he could provide to the battle, he hurriedly got to work casting Death des. Anything he did to support his undead would help them end the threat more quickly and preserve themselves.


    Interestingly, it also worked on the arrows of his archers, the arrowheads burning with dark energy just as the swords and speartips did.


    <em>Need to get somewhere I can be useful</em>.


    Without line of sight to the battlefield, the rest of his magick, limited as it was, wouldn¡¯t be useful at all. He ran to the tform his archers had positioned themselves on and stood amongst them, looking out over the wall.


    The smaller rift-kin continued to fall each time they charged, which was beginning to cause a problem. As their bodies piled up at the edge of the wall, they formed a small mound that let the next charge hit a little higher up. Some of the boar creatures were even able to bite and lunge at his skeletons when they stood on enough of their fallen kin.


    The main threat continued to be the humanoid ice creatures. Already, a few skeletons had fallen to their frozen hands, which seemed to cut straight through a skull as it they were made of paper.


    He had his targets.


    With his growing strength, Tyron could form magick bolts with incredible speed, snapping them into existence with both hands in under a second. It was impressive progress, but it remained a weak, base level spell.


    Picking his moment, he flung both bolts at the next ice creature to approach the wall. As it reared up to its full height and challenged his skeletons, Tyron let his spells rip. More practice was needed to improve his aim¡­ only one spell hit, but it was enough to shatter a portion of the creature. Ice shards sprayed into the air, the kin clutching at its shoulder.


    <em>Shoot at my target</em>, hemanded the archers next to him and they silently obeyed.


    Empowered with Death Magick, the arrows were able to bite deeper into the ice, wounding the kin further. Tyron rapidly formed another pair of magick bolts and flung them at the monster, more urately this time. Two more detonations and the creature reeled back. Its mouth opened wide, unleashing an unearthly screech like crackling ice before it swept out with one long arm, shing through a skeleton¡¯s eyes, causing it to fall.


    <em>Dammit.</em>


    He was losing too many skeletons. He had to focus and bring down those ice creatures as quickly as he could. Targeting the next closest one, he prepared Death¡¯s Grasp. The kin turned its head towards him, as if sensing what he was doing, and began to stride forward, but there was no way it could reach him before the spell waspleted.


    Thrusting a hand forward, a wave of Death Magick sped over the intervening distance, wrapping around the target and immobilising it. Anothermand to his archers and they began to pepper the locked down monster with arrows. A momentter, he fired two magick bolts at it, both connecting before the Grasp had faded.


    Still alive, but badly wounded, the kin began to slink away and he let it, turning his attention to more dangerous targets.


    In this manner, the fight dragged on, the wall receiving a battering, but holding up against the onught as his skeletons pushed back against the tide. Whenever he saw an opportunity, he would try to snipe one of therger kin, either dominating its mind and having his archers fire at it, or locking it down with Death¡¯s Grasp. After another three had fallen in this manner, the rest were much more cautious in how they approached, which suited Tyron down to the ground. His casualties had slowed tremendously thanks to their reticence.


    Eventually, the citizens of Cragwhistle were able to regroup themselves and rejoin the fight. Even Ortan recovered enough to take a ce at the wall alongside the undead, swinging with a long-handled hammer over the barricade to swat away rift-kin that drew too close.


    Perhaps it was his example that persuaded the others. Once Ortan showed his willingness to fight, the others rushed to join, picking up their bows and whatever else they could find. It took time, but eventually, the kin were driven off or ughtered, piled high against the flimsy wooden barricade.


    Splintered in ces andpletely broken in others, the barricade was in desperate need of repair. The boars had broken clean through in several spots, and only the timely intervention of the revenants had prevented the line from crumbling.


    Tyron remained standing on the tform, breath burning in his lungs and body screaming for energy. A protracted battle was still devastating to his reserves, especially with this many minions. He had to make some choices to improve the efficiency of his force. A status ritual was also overdue. A few more levels would help alleviate his problems, though likely not solve them.


    All around, people stood, trying to catch their breath, nursing wounds, muttering quietly to each other. There was an uneasy feeling in the air, and the Necromancer knew he was the cause.


    He could feel irritated that these people still weren¡¯tfortable around him now that he¡¯d saved them twice, but he chose not to. It wasn¡¯t hard to understand their hesitation. Trust wasn¡¯t built overnight, even in desperate circumstances.


    Luckily enough, he¡¯d avoided any wounds, none of the kin had been able to threaten him at range, the perfect fight for his ss. He was ready to travel at any time.


    <em>May as well head back to the graveyard and regroup. Plenty of skeletons need repairs, I can make more ammunition and thene backter.</em>


    He needed to know what was going on here.


    Before he could leave, Ortan jogged up to him, hammer in hand. Tyron tensed, but he had his ghosts with him, along with his revenants. He should be safe enough. He jumped to meet with the man.


    ¡°I really can¡¯t thank you enough,¡± the big man said, extending a hand.


    Tyron eyed him askance for a moment before he reached out to take it. Up close, Ortan didn¡¯t look that old, despite his intimidating size. Probably in his early twenties, which meant he had Awakened some time in thest few years.


    ¡°I¡¯m happy to help,¡± Tyron said, then smiled, ¡°but I¡¯ll probably need more bones topensate.¡±


    ¡°I figured you say that.¡±


    Releasing his hand, the big man stepped forward and pped him on the shoulder before turning to the others.


    ¡°Come on then, you lot,¡± he called to the others, e and give your thanks to the Necromancer for pulling our hides out of the fire.¡±


    Tyron really wanted to tell him not to bother, he didn¡¯t like interacting with others that much at the best of times, but to his surprise, the vigers barely hesitated beforeing to thank him.


    True, very few of them met his eye, but he could tell they <em>were</em> grateful. It was almost enough to bring a tear to his eye. After being rejected by people for so long, it felt good to be thanked for doing the right thing. He¡¯d killed rift-kin and been apuded for it. He felt like a yer.


    Ortan and a few others gathered to divvy up jobs across the vigers with a kind of efficiency that indicated they had done this a few times before. By the time they were done, people were fetching wood, repairing the barricade, helping the wounded and sorting through the dead kin.


    <em>I should barter for a share of the cores.</em>


    Plenty of gold remained from his looting of Woodsedge, but a little extra currency in the form of cores wouldn¡¯t go astray. He could even get a little enchanting done if he could find someone willing to work with him. Vastly cheaper if he were able to provide his own cores.


    Ortan walked up to him, an exhausted expression on his face.


    ¡°Sorry to leave you standing around so long.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a problem. I should probably get going anyway.¡±


    The man looked surprised.


    ¡°What? Why?¡±


    ¡°To get my undead out of the way, if nothing else,¡± Tyron gestured to the tight huddle of skeletons he¡¯d created to try and prevent them blocking anyone.


    The big man nched a little to see the undead, clearly he had an aversion to them, but he waved Tyron¡¯s words away.


    ¡°Nonsense,¡± he dered. ¡°You can stay in the vige tonight, and for as long as you like. You saved us and we won¡¯t forget it.¡± He leaned closer before he continued. ¡°It takes us a little while to warm up to people. Trust is earned here in the mountains. I think you¡¯ve earned a fair bit here today.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ that¡¯s kind of you,¡± Tyron said.


    He certainly wasn¡¯t used to this sort of treatment from people who knew what he was. How long since he¡¯d been wee amongst other people? It seemed like years ago he¡¯d been sleeping in his Aunt and Uncle¡¯s attic, attending lessons in Foxbridge.


    ¡°Come on then,¡± Ortan gestured, ¡°I¡¯ll take you in at my ce, I have a spare bed. We can talk there in private, I can tell you have questions.¡±


    Minutester, Tyron sat down at Ortan¡¯s table, his skeletons lined up in neat ranks outside, though not where the viger could see them. A mug mmed down in front of him and Ortan began to fill it with a foamy, dark beer.


    ¡°Brewed local. We use it to strip paint as well.¡±


    Tyron took a drink and immediately fell into a coughing fit as the fiery brew burned down his throat.


    ¡°Sounds like good shit,¡± Dove sighed. ¡°Wish I could still drink.¡±


    Their host hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and poured a brew for the skull as well, though he avoided looking directly at him.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want to be used of poor hospitality.¡±


    Dove sounded genuinely touched as he thanked the man, getting Tyron to raise an eyebrow. All Ortan needed to do now was buy him a prostitute and he¡¯d be Dove¡¯s best friend forever.


    ¡°The rift,¡± he said as the big man sat down heavily in the chair opposite. ¡°What is going on out there? For how long?¡±


    Ortan groaned as he enjoyed a pull from his own mug.


    ¡°Give me a second,¡± he said, ¡°it¡¯s been a rough day.¡±


    He collected himself.


    ¡°Just after the break, immediately after, really. It was only a few at first, not a big deal, but we suspected something was wrong. Only problem was¡­¡±


    ¡°You were cut off.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. With kin running wild in the londs, it wasn¡¯t safe to travel. We could have sent ten people with no guarantee they wouldn¡¯t be dead in a ditch. The vige got together and decided we¡¯d hole up here as best we could and send for help when the monsters had been cleared out.¡±


    A dangerous strategy, but probably the right one. It would have worked, except¡­


    ¡°The attacks got toorge, too quickly.¡±


    Ortan nodded heavily.


    ¡°We were able to hold on for a while, when it was just the little ones, but when the ice creatures showed up¡­¡± he paused and took another long drink. ¡°We lost people,¡± he said shortly.


    All those fresh graves. They¡¯d lost a <em>lot</em> of people.


    ¡°You could have asked me for help when I saved you the first time; why didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°The vige wasn¡¯t ready to hand their safety over to an illegal. With the kin you helped kill, we figured the ins were clear and we could get a message out. Surely, the yers wouldn¡¯t be too far away. With their help, we could secure the passes and wait for reinforcements. If another rift opens, they¡¯ll build a Keep here, right? At least, that¡¯s what we thought. When I saw those kining down from the mountain, I knew we wouldn¡¯t be able to hold against that many, so I ran to get you.¡±


    This situation was perilous for the vigers. It was far too dangerous for them to remain.


    ¡°You should evacuate,¡± Tyron told him. ¡°The ins are clear of kin, you can head to a secure vige and base yourselves there. The kin won¡¯t stray too far from the rift, at least not for a while, so you¡¯ll be safe until the yerse.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t even finished before Ortan was shaking his head.


    ¡°I¡¯ve tried to convince people. They just won¡¯t leave. Some stubborn and downright stupid blood runs through these mountain viges.¡±


    The way he said it clued Tyron in.


    ¡°You weren¡¯t born local?¡± he said.


    ¡°No,¡± the big man replied. ¡°I moved here after my Ascension. Not many ces for a Mason to work where he can be his own master. I didn¡¯t feel like ving away in the city for ten years under apprentice contract, so I came out here.¡±


    He drank again.


    ¡°These people were born here and they¡¯ll die here, simple as that.¡±


    Madness, as far as Tyron was concerned.


    ¡°You need help, then. yer help.¡±


    He sighed.


    ¡°I think I might be able to get you some. Sooner rather thanter.¡±

 Chapter B2C44 - The Real Threat

    Chapter B2C44 - The Real Threat


    It was no exaggeration to say a new rift could do the same amount of damage as the break that urred at Woodsedge. Magick would flood through the rift, bringing with it a greater risk of instability to every other rift in the province.


    yers needed to be dispatched, and soon. They could manage the flow of monsters through the rift, culling their numbers, keeping the people safe. They could <em>also</em>, with enough mages, regte the flow of magick, reduce the likelihood of disruptions.


    Every break drew the entire realm closer to the brink of copse, widening the rifts, increasing the rate of magick incursion and bringing them ever closer to bing that which they fought.


    A fallen realm, punching rifts into those still stable worlds that were not touched by the Arcane and flooding them with maddened beasts.


    Tyron had wondered, in his more morose moments in his early teenage years, what the rift-kin would look like that came from the empire. Would they be humanoid at all? Or would his people bepletely wiped out in the cataclysm that woulde, reced by another dominant form that drew in the magick and formed the cores that denoted a rift-kin?


    <em> I can¡¯t allow this rift to go unnoticed. This is bigger than me.</em>


    He didn¡¯t want to die, and would avoid it if he could, but Tyron knew that he had to do what he could to help the people of Cragwhistle, and all the others who made their homes in the empire.


    The graveyard was still coated in a thinyer of mist that hugged the ground, curling around the stone graves both new and crumbling.


    ¡°Are you sure about this, kid?¡± Dove asked.


    Clutched in the Necromancer¡¯s hand, the skull peered out into the cemetery with his glowing, purple eyes disdainfully.


    ¡°The vige needs yers. I happen to have one tied up, and she can probably go and get more. I¡¯ll exin the situation and set her free. Any yer knows how serious this situation could be. They¡¯ll do the right thing.¡±


    Dove sighed.


    ¡°It also means she could go back to hunting your overly forgiving ass. Or stick other yers on you. Regardless, it means your shit will be twisting in the breeze again.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the right thing to do.¡±


    The skull sighed again.


    ¡°It hurts me, and I mean <em>really </em>hurts me, with a deep, spiritual pain, to agree with your goodie-two-shoes bullshit.¡±


    ¡°But you do.¡±


    ¡°Goddess help me, I do.¡±


    Friend in hand, Tyron continued to walk back to the ce he had left the archer bound and guarded.


    ¡°Hello there!¡± he called as he approached. ¡°I¡¯m back, got some good news and bad news for you¡­.¡±


    He trailed off as he drew close. The archer was gone. Rope, cleanly cut,y in a tangled mess on the ground, along with his skeletons.


    ¡°Look at these arseholes,¡± Dove scoffed. ¡°On the job, but they went and gotpletely legless.¡±


    He was right, though not in the sense his undead had gotten drunk. Somehow, the archer had managed to free herself, and destroy the skeletons¡¯ legs. In the chaos up at the vige, he hadn¡¯t noticed his minions here fighting.


    If they¡¯d been destroyed, he <em>definitely</em> would have realised something had happened, so the yer had cleverly disabled his servants rather than destroy them. Very smart.


    ¡°Well, fuck.¡±


    ¡°Kid?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Duck.¡±


    <em>Oh shit.</em>


    The Necromancer threw himself to the ground, summoning his minions to his side. He raised his arms to protect his head and tried to roll into some cover.


    ¡°Did you see her?¡± he breathed to Dove, peeking around him for any sign of the archer.


    ¡°What? No! I can¡¯t see shit! It¡¯smon sense to get your fucking head down if there might be a Ranger out there trying to put an arrow through it.¡±


    Tyron slumped on the ground, relief welling up inside him.


    ¡°By the Goddess and her plump posterior, if you¡¯re waiting for <em>me</em> to spot the dangering, you are truly in the shit.¡±


    Soon enough, Tyron was covered by his shield-bearing minions and feltfortable standing.


    ¡°What am I supposed to do now?¡± he cursed. ¡°I told the vigers I could get a yer to get help for them. Now she¡¯s pissed off to goodness knows where.¡±


    ¡°We know they aren¡¯t far away. Yor told us that much.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but where? They could be anywhere out there.¡±


    Tyron gestured helplessly in the direction of the ins. He didn¡¯t need to say more. Between the mountains and the insy an almost infinite number of crevasses, outcroppings and ravines. If the yers were hunkered down in a camp somewhere, he might never find them. There were plenty of ces they could fit where he and his band of merry¡­ skeletons¡­ could not.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s not all bad. You know they¡¯re out there hunting you, so as long as you stick around the vige, a yer will surely turn up and try to put a de through your guts.¡±


    The Necromancer grimaced. That might actually be his best course of action, but it left him with quite literally no way out. If he stayed in the vige, and ten yers turned up, even weak ones, what was he supposed to do?


    Die. He was supposed to die.


    ¡°To hell with it,¡± he growled.


    He turned back and started stomping his way toward Cragwhistle. They needed a yer to protect them, and he was going to have to step up to the te.


    Ortan was disappointed when he heard the news. He hadn¡¯t known exactly what Tyron had been nning to do, on ount of the young Mage being unwilling to share the exact status of the yer he could contact, but he¡¯d been hopeful there might be a light at the end of the tunnel atst.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± the big man shrugged half-heartedly. ¡°We¡¯re basically back to our original n, rustle up some volunteers and see if we can make contact with someone who can get us some help.¡±


    ¡°At least I can tell you there are definitely some yers out there, somewhere nearby.¡±


    ¡°Friends of yours?¡± Ortan asked, looking uncertain.


    ¡°Not exactly,¡± Tyron hedged.


    The stone mason looked him up and down before he nodded reluctantly.


    ¡°Fine, I get the picture. What are you going to do?¡±


    ¡°I want to help, but I also want to avoid getting my head cut off. I think I might head up into the mountains a bit. I can help thin out the kin, at least a little bit, and try and hide. Surely, I can find a cave or something up there.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the barrier mountains. You¡¯ll find a lot more than a cave. I¡¯m just hoping that nothing finds you.¡±


    ~~~~~~~~~~


    Marshal Langdon held up a hand to block the dying light from his eyes. Despite beingte in the day, piercing rays stillnced out whenever the sun poked out from behind the mountains. It could be quite painful when it caught him unawares.


    ¡°Marshal. A message has arrived by Ro¡¯w. High priority, for you.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Wallir,¡± Langdon said in his normal, dispassionate tone.


    He took the note, unfurled it and began to read. When he was finished, he re-rolled the paper before carefully stowing it in his pouch. Official correspondence always needed to be kept, unless specifically noted otherwise.


    ¡°And? Has there been any word?¡± Wallir asked.


    Normally, his friend and fellow Marshal would be more patient, but the times had scraped everyone''s nerves raw.


    ¡°There¡¯s been word of our prey. Someone spotted a Mage matching Tyron Sterm¡¯s description, apanied by a force of skeletons in Cragwhistle.¡±


    ¡°Cragwhistle?¡± Wallir frowned. ¡°Where the heck is that?¡±


    ¡°Apparently, it¡¯s a vige hard up against the edge of the barrier mountains.¡±


    ¡°Any idea who got word to us?¡±


    ¡°The note doesn¡¯t say who the informant was. Does it matter?¡±


    ¡°No¡­ I suppose not.¡±


    Langdon stood and brushed down his pants, adjusted his uniform before he turned and strode back to the camp. There were four of them altogether, each a Marshal who had worked in Woodsedge. Each of them was lucky to be alive.


    ¡°We have a lead,¡± he announced.


    Closest to him, seated on a log and warming her feet by the fire, Riza turned to face him.


    ¡°Better than thest one, I hope?¡±


    ¡°I would say so.¡±


    ¡°Fuck, I hope so.¡±


    ¡°Riza¡­.¡±


    ¡°Oh fuck off, Langdon you stiff. I¡¯ll watch mynguage in front of the public, don¡¯t worry your pretty little head.¡±


    Considering everything they¡¯d been through, he was willing to overlook thispse in professionalism.


    ¡°Where are we headed?¡± Brom said, his deep voice thrumming in his chest as he stretched out a thick hand to douse the mes.


    ¡°Cragwhistle. Right up against the barrier mountains.¡±


    ¡°Any chance the yers are already onto him? Or Magnin and Beory?¡±


    Langdon grit his teeth. He hoped not. None of them did. The Necromancer had made this their business when he decided to murder two of their own.


    ¡°Most of the yers have pulled out,¡± Wallir noted. ¡°I spoke to a few at that tavern in Waycross. Every silver is headed up to Woodsedge, settling thend and preparing the keep to be rebuilt. Most of the free bronze yers have been sent back out to bolster the numbers in the keeps around the province, just to keep things steady.¡±


    ¡°Which means there won¡¯t be many still here looking for the murderous little prick,¡± Riza said with satisfaction.


    ¡°Check yourself, Riza,¡± Langdon warned her. ¡°He¡¯s more dangerous than you give him credit for.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a pup,¡± she scoffed.


    ¡°He isn¡¯t a drunk farmer that you can knock down with a harsh re, Riza,¡± he snapped. ¡°This is an ouwed Mage ss for a reason and he¡¯s already put two of our people in the ground.¡±


    ¡°We hope so, anyway,¡± Brom rumbled as he continued to pack up the camp.


    That took the wind out of the gathered officers of the Empire¡¯sw. They hated to think of it, but it was true. Their fellow officers would be lucky if all they were was dead.


    Langdon drew a deep breath to steady his anger.


    ¡°We can¡¯t underestimate him,¡± he said. ¡°We aren¡¯t properbat personnel. Keep that in mind. Our only chance of sess is if we work together to bring him down.¡±


    ¡°I know that much,¡± Riza scowled down at her hands.


    ¡°You going to help me pack?¡± Brom said and the group stirred to motion at his words.


    Tents were taken down, bedrolls packed away and the coals doused. In short order, the group was ready to move. Despite the fading light, the quartet of officers set out at a brisk pace, trusting their abilities to see them traverse safely over the terrain.


    As they walked, Langdon tried not to dwell on the events of recent history, but it was difficult. He couldn¡¯t have imagined that a simple case of a runaway child would turn out like this. Strange rituals in Woodsedge, disturbing the dimensional weave. A seemingly stable rift going haywire so shortly afterwards, leading to a break and unspeakable devastation.


    The terror he¡¯d felt the moment the rift had cracked would never leave him. Even now, he could hear it ringing in his ears. That shattering sound, as if the world itself had broken, haunted his sleep.


    In the face of such a cmity, what was the advent of one, solitary Necromancer? It was nothing. A blip. A speck of dust. Tyron Sterm would have to work very hard, for a very long time, toe even close to causing the amount of death that break had caused.


    But he was a problem that Langdon could do something about. In the face of forces he couldn¡¯t hope to influence, all that remained was to focus on what was within his reach.


    The Necromancer was an illegal ss. A rogue, unbranded, defying the Magisters, the Aristocracy and thew of thend. Worse than that, he was a murderer. A Marshal killer.


    As a rule, the officers of thew didn¡¯t take too kindly to those who killed theirrades. Tyron had to be put down before he became something worse, and before others began to think the Western Province had be sowless that Marshals could be murdered without reprisal.


    ¡°How far until we reach this vige?¡± Wallir asked after they¡¯d been on the road for ten minutes.


    ¡°At this pace, we should get there in two days,¡± Langdon replied.


    <em>And then we can put this criminal in the ground where he belongs.</em>

 Chapter B2C45 - Step Forward

    Chapter B2C45 - Step Forward


    ¡°I fucking knew it!¡± Tyron crowed.


    ¡°Wai - wha?¡± Dove spluttered awake, the light blooming in his hollow sockets. He saw Tyon examining five skeletons in front of him, face alight with glee.


    ¡°Weren¡¯t you going to do the status ritual? And wake me up when you were ready to do it?¡±


    ¡°What? Oh, you¡¯re awake. Dove, I finally figured it out!¡±


    ¡°Figured what out?¡±


    The once-Summoner was a little confused. He didn¡¯t exactly feel groggy or dazed after he awoke in his current form, but sometimes, it took him a little while to get his bearings again. Sometimes, he forgot what he had be entirely, trying to reach up to rub his eyes with hands he no longer had, or stretch out the kinks in a spine he hadn¡¯t possessed for over a month.


    Every time. Every single time, the realisation of what he had be struck him numb.


    Oblivious to his friend¡¯s shifting emotions, Tyron turned to beam at him.


    ¡°The energy transfer between the undead! I found it!¡±


    ¡°Wait¡­ what do you mean? Are you talking about the way Death Magick is propagated between sets of remains?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Exactly that! Except I find that it happens in undead minions as well!¡±


    The young Necromancer gestured to the skeletons in front of him, lined up inside Ortan¡¯s house which they had borrowed for the purposes of enacting the status ritual.


    Clearly, Tyron had gotten distracted.


    ¡°These five were all raised at the same time, right? That means I used the current process, which includes setting the bones apart as a set and allowing the energy to spread between them, bringing them up to the saturation point. Remember?¡±


    ¡°Of course I remember,¡± Dove said irritably. He got like this when something magick and awesome was happening that he didn¡¯t understand. Something Tyron did to him more and more often.


    ¡°It turns out, that process creates a sort of¡­ sympathetic binding between the skeletons! Undead on which we used this method, continue to move energy between themselves even after I raise them, but only between themselves.¡±


    The young mage got up and started pacing around the small, sparsely furnished room, his eyes alive with possibilities.


    ¡°I knew I was feeling something off about the minions after we used this method, but I was never sure what. It turns out that these groups use slightly less energy, or, more urately, they drain less energy from me, because they share some between each other!¡±


    Now Dove was finally starting to catch on. This was actually <em>really</em> interesting.


    ¡°So, if you were to raise arger group at once. Say¡­ a hundred.¡±


    ¡°Theoretically, they would generate arger amount of Death Magick and then share it amongst themselves, defraying the cost of maintaining them,¡± Tyron grinned. ¡°If I were to find a way to <em>enhance </em>this method, then I could makerger groups of minions even <em>more</em> efficient. This could exin how Arhinan the ck was able to create and maintain whole armies of undead!¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not get ahead of ourselves, kid. That prick was like¡­ level a hundred or something ridiculous.¡±


    Tyron stopped in his stride and turned to face the skull sitting on the table.


    ¡°He was? How do you know what level he reached?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a little more detail in the history avable to silver ranked yers, kid,¡± Dove drawled. ¡°Once you crack level forty as a yer, you count as someone who matters. A few doors open up to you, societal-wise, including ess to some more detailed history.¡±


    Tyron nodded. That made sense.


    ¡°I suppose I¡¯m not so much surprised that such a practice exists, but rather that you would take advantage of it. Since when did you care about historical Necromancers?¡±


    ¡°Since I met one in Woodsedge and decided I should read into it,¡± The skull huffed. ¡°There wasn¡¯t much to go on, but there was a little about your man Mr ck. If there were anything useful to know, I would have told you about it already, so forget that. On the other hand, I think you might be onto something with this discovery.¡±


    The young man grinned, always pleased when Dove praised him. Tyron was so desperate for approval that it would have caused the skull physical pain, had he the capacity to feel it. Certainly, it had while he¡¯d still been alive. Raised in a remote backwater, he had nobody to share his passion for magick with either.


    <em>Why the fuck did Magnin and Beory abandoned him there? Just because his aunt and uncle were there? That¡¯s such bullshit.</em>


    If he could, the Summoner would shake his head. Who was he to judge such high and mighty people? Still, the Sterms truly were shit parents.


    ¡°This is great and all -¡±


    ¡°I know! There could be other applications for this as well¡­. If a conduit exists between the minions, and it <em>must</em> for this phenomenon to take ce, then what other ways can it be taken advantage of? First, I have to find a way to identify it¡­ locate it. Once I¡¯ve done that, I need to see if I can utilise it¡­. And I need to see if there¡¯s a way to increase the amount of magick each minion is generating. The more they make, the less I need to provide¡­. This could change everything!¡±


    ¡°Tyron! You¡¯re supposed to be performing your status ritual, remember?¡± Dove cut in, having to shout to cut off the kid before he gathered too much steam.


    He¡¯d seen this before. Another few minutes and Tyron would be frothing at the mouth, his eyes rolled back in his head as he went about trying to create new techniques and methods for the next forty-eight hours.


    ¡°Oh,¡± the Necromancer blinked. ¡°Right.¡±


    ¡°Tch,¡± a voice came from the corner.


    ¡°Yor?!¡± Tyron jumped.


    Dove <em>would</em> have jumped.


    ¡°Sweet mammaries, woman!¡± he burst out. ¡°Let a skull know when you¡¯re in the room. Tyron, turn me around.¡±


    A momentter, he was facing the right way and could look the Vampire in the eye. He chose to focus on other areas, but he <em>could</em> look her in the eye. She red at him.


    Cragwhistle appeared to have been good for the Vampire. She¡¯d found some new clothing and a decent set of boots atst. The dark purple dress wasn¡¯t particrly form fitting, but she made it work somehow. The footwear didn¡¯t quite match, but she appeared to think it worth the sacrifice to get something better made on her feet. It was doubtful she needed well made shoes to help her walk, but appearances did seem to matter to her quite a bit.


    ¡°Sorry, Yor,¡± Tyron apologised awkwardly. ¡°I didn¡¯t see you there.¡±


    The wless woman chuckled, dark red eyes gleaming in the dim light.


    ¡°If I had wanted you to see me, then you would have seen me. I only make myself known because it seems the possibility of further <em>developments </em>has been put on hold.¡±


    She flicked an irritated nce down at the skull on the table and Dove bristled, spiritually.


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t have time to lose his fucking mind and work on magick right now. He needs to perform the status ritual, and get the fuck out of here. Otherwise, he¡¯s going to get his shit kicked in by yers, or rift-kin, or goodness knows what else is going to leap out the shadows to punch him in the head.¡±


    ¡°There would have been time enough. Growth is the priority,¡± Yor rebuffed.


    Caught in the middle of the argument, Tyron couldn¡¯t help but feel a little put out that both of them assumed he would lose control of himself and get lost in his work.


    <em>I¡¯m not that bad. Sometimes I get a bit carried is all¡­.</em>


    ¡°Stop your bickering,¡± he told them. ¡°I¡¯ll do the status ritual, alright? Then we get out of here and up into the mountains. Maybe I''ll have some time to do a bit of study for a change.¡±


    He continued to grumble as he rummaged in his pack, withdrawing his notebook and tearing free another precious page. He possibly could have performed the ritual on the table, but he didn¡¯t know if such a thing could be traced. Better to do it the cleaner way, use a sheet of paper and then burn the hell out of it, scattering the ashes for good measure.


    The <emst</em> thing he wanted was for someone to see his full and unabridged status, with Dark Gods and Anathema references in to see.


    ¡°Right, then, here we go.¡±


    Quick and simple, he performed the ritual, the now familiar, slightly nauseating feeling of blood running out of his veins and onto the page, forming the words and numbers that described his totality in the eyes of the Unseen.


    There had been a number of events since hisst ritual. A considerable amount of fighting, as well as new discoveries in the application of his abilities.


    Notable improvements were his Death Magick Skill reaching level 10. To make any further gains, he would need to improve the maximum level he could achieve in it. Advanced Death Magick became even more important.


    Most of his Necromancer Skills had seen some progress, though not as much as he might have liked. Corpse Appraisal and Preparation weren¡¯t moving, but then again, he hadn¡¯t had the opportunity to test and refine new methods.


    Likewise, his spells had seen incremental gains.


    <em>You have raised minions and they have fought on your behalf. </em><strong><em>Undead Weaver has reached level 30. You have received +2 Strength, +4 Constitution, +6 Intelligence, +2 Wisdom, +2 Willpower, +2 Maniption and +4 Poise.</em></strong><em></em>


    Another feat and ability choice. That was excellent, and could prove crucial. His levelling speed was sure to slow from this point onward, so he had to make them count.


    <em>Your patrons continue to enjoy the chaos that ripples out from your actions, much further than you can know. Crossroads approach, and any choice will prove entertaining. </em><strong><em>Anathema has reached level 19. You have received +4 Constitution, +4 Intelligence, +4 Willpower.</em></strong>


    Mention of crossroads was more than a little ominous, as was the sub-ss reaching level 19. One more and it would advance. Although advancing a sub-ss was not normally anything near as impactful as advancing a main ss, Anathema was not like normal sub-sses. Who knows what choices he would get, or what they would ask him tomit to?


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 18


    Race: Human (Level 14)


    <strong>ss:</strong>


    Undead Weaver (Level 30)


    <strong>Sub-sses:</strong><ul><li>Anathema (Level 19) </li><li>None</li><li>None (Locked)</li></ul>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    32


    Dexterity:


    21


    Constitution:


    100


    Intelligence:


    150


    Wisdom:


    91


    Willpower:


    74


    Charisma:


    43


    Maniption:


    49


    Poise:


    43


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 3)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Skill Selections Avable: 3


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 11)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 11)


    Death Magick (Level 10)(Max)


    Bone Mending (Level 7)


    Minion Commander (Level 4)


    Undead Control (Level 3)


    Minion Modification (Level 4)


    Bone-Soul Melding (Level 3)


    Bone Weapon Sculpting (Bow) (Level 3)


    <strong>Anathema Skills:</strong>


    Abyss Tongue (Level 1)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 12)


    Bone Animus (Level 12)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 5)


    Shivering Curse (Level 6)


    Death des (Level 7)


    Bone Armour (Level 4)


    Minion Sight (Level 6)


    Spirit Binding (Level 3)


    Death¡¯s Grasp (Level 4)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 5)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 2)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    Suppress Mind (Level 5)


    Repository (Level 2)


    Fear (Level 3)


    mour (Level 2)


    Invasive Persuasion (Level 2)


    <strong>Necromancer Feats:</strong>


    Skeleton Focus II


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery


    <strong>Anathema Feats:</strong>


    Repository


    Wall of Thought I


    Drain Life


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Advanced): WIS +20 CHA +20


    <em>Undead Weaver has reached level 30. Choose an Additional Feat:</em>


    <em>Zombie Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Zombies.</em>


    <em>Skeleton Focus III - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.</em>


    <em>Spirit Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Spirits.</em>


    <em>Flesh Mastery - Increased skill with flesh based undead and abilities.</em>


    <em>Spirit Mastery - Increased skill with spirit based undead and abilities.</em>


    <em>Minion Controller - Improve the capacity to direct undead.</em>


    <em>Undead Specialist - Increase the maximum level of Raise Dead by ten.</em>


    <em>Intelligent Dead - Improve the minds of undead minions.</em>


    <em>Boon Giver - Spells and abilities that empower the dead are strengthened.</em>


    <em>Undead Weaver Level 30. Choose an additional Skill or Spell:</em>


    <em>Skills:</em>


    <em>Ghoul Flesh - Instil Death Magick into the flesh of the deceased</em>


    <em>Advanced Death Magick - Reces Death Magick and raises the Level limit to 20.</em>


    <em>Spells:</em>


    <em>Empowered Bone Armour - Reces Bone Armour and increases the maximum level to 20. A modified spell to enable greater protection.</em>


    <em>Crepify - An infusion of power to Undead Flesh, rapidly healing damage and strengthening it for a duration.</em>


    <em>Undead Leader - Bind undead to one of their own to empower it and increase its intelligence.</em>


    <em>Command Spirit - Reces Commune with Spirits and Raises the maximum level to 20.</em>


    <em>Anathema has reached level 19. Choose one of the following:</em>


    <em>Air of Menace - Surround oneself in a dread aura.</em>


    <em>Pain - Inflict the target with severe pain.</em>


    <em>Fear Imnt - Leave an impression of fear within a suppressed mind.</em>


    <em>Blood Healing - Convert the blood of others to a healing serum.</em>


    <em>Eyes of Blood - See sources of blood nearby.</em>


    <em>Rot¡¯s Favour - Encourage Infection</em>


    <em>Soul Transfusion - Consume a Soul to heal the body.</em>


    <em>Mind Siphon - Examine thoughts and memories of a Suppressed Target.</em>


    <em>Storm Cloud - Summon a magickally charged fog around yourself.</em>


    <em>Crone¡¯s Shade - A shield that protects from magickal scrying.</em>


    <em>Shadow Meld - Be partially immaterial and meld into the Shadows.</em>


    Tyron¡¯s status page was beginning to be something fearsome. The unusually high number of stats granted from Anathema were adding up now that he had reached level 19 in the sub-ss, and ten levels in Undead Weaver weren¡¯t hurting either.


    The cherry on top was the free bonuses he received from his Mysteries providing an insane +80 overall.


    As he looked at his progress, Tyron couldn¡¯t help but marvel at what he¡¯d achieved. Not so long ago, he hadn¡¯t had a ss at all. This was an insane level of development, no matter how he looked at it. Under any other circumstances, he¡¯d be ecstatic. As it was, he worried that it wasn¡¯t enough for him to survive.


    He brushed off the morbid thought before it could fully manifest. There were choices to make.


    A new ss Feat was exceptionally wee and Tyron had already earmarked one for selection. There were several that tempted him, and he fully intended to take Undead Specialist with his final choice, which left him with two selections. Minion Controller, Intelligent Dead and Boon Giver were all worthy options, with pros and cons. But now that he had ess to Revenants, there was no reason not to double down on his greatest strength.


    Spirit MasterySkeleton Focus III.


    For his ss ability, he was at least pleased to see that one of the new options was something he didn¡¯t care about. Finally! However, the other intrigued him to no end. Undead Leader would enable him to create¡­ a captain, he supposed, a skeletal squad leader, stronger and smarter than the minions it led.


    As his numbers increased, such an ability could prove crucial to ensuring his undead horde was able to function.


    No, it <em>would</em> prove crucial, he could already tell.


    Yet¡­ he suspected he was already touching on the edges of this with the revtion he had uncovered today. Was it possible he would be able to recreate this spell on his own?


    Advanced Death Magick beckoned to him.


    Reluctantly, he ced his mark next to it. He would have time toe back to the Leadership question, hopefully.


    As to the new options for his Anathema sub-ss, one of them spoke very clearly to him. Crone¡¯s Shade was exactly what he needed to help him hide from prying eyes. It was possible that one of the yers hunting him right now was a Mage capable of Scrying, or perhaps the Marshalls could do it.


    He knew for a fact that certain artefacts would perform the same function, but he had no hope of getting his hands on one any time soon. Even then, having the spell would be a benefit, since multipleyers of protection were always better than one.


    He ced his mark next to Crone¡¯s Shade and ended the ritual.


    The rush of power made him gasp and slump to the table, unable to breath for a moment. Once he recovered, he stood, gathered the paper and packed his things.


    ¡°Time to go,¡± he said to the skull.


    ¡°About fucking time.¡±


    ¡°I am <em>not</em> going to enjoy this,¡± Yor sighed.

 Chapter B2C46 - Lost in the Mountains

    Chapter B2C46 - Lost in the Mountains


    ¡°Damn it,¡± Tyron cursed.


    ¡°I think a more potent choice ofnguage is appropriate in these circumstances. Elevating to ¡®fuck¡¯ is a basic step, but more colourful words can be employed to magnify the effect. Fucking-puke-filled-shitbags is a personal favourite.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t I expect this? It¡¯s so obvious that this would happen¡­.¡±


    ¡°I think you didn¡¯t want to consider it, worried about what a pain in your soft, fleshy backside it would be. And now <em>is</em>.¡±


    ¡°You wish you had a soft fleshy backside,¡± Tyron grumbled as he jumped down from the cart.


    The very same cart they would need to abandon.


    The narrow trail that led up into the barrier mountains had been wide enough for the cart to travel on, if only just. Naturally, as the incline steepened and the terrain grew more rough, the trail became even more narrow. Soon, it grew so narrow that the cart would no longer fit, which meant they would need to abandon it if they wanted to go any further.


    ¡°It makes a lot of sense when you think about it. Why would they cut the road any deeper into the impassible mountains of death after they¡¯d reached the quarry? There¡¯s literally no reason to do it, and from what I understand, cutting roads into mountains is hard fucking work.¡±


    Tyron pulled his new, thicker cloak tighter around his shoulders as he inspected the trail. As his skeletal friend had suggested, it was clear that they had reached the end of what the vigers had bothered to carve when working on this path. They¡¯d passed the quarry over a kilometre back, and this extension likely only existed because they¡¯d been looking for more useable stone.


    Icy cold wind whistled down from the mountains that rose like a wall before him and he pulled his cloak even tighter.


    ¡°Blood and bone, that¡¯s cold!¡± he shivered.


    ¡°What did you think it would be like up here? Just as an aside, I don¡¯t feel the cold.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Dove.¡±


    ¡°I also don¡¯t feel anything else, though. So, there¡¯s that.¡±


    ¡°Do we need to have this conversation now?¡± Tyron said, as he tried to peer ahead and find a way to get closer to the burgeoning rift. ¡°We¡¯ve got a situation to deal with.¡±


    ¡°Something I¡¯ve noticed in the time I¡¯ve been around you, Tyron, is that there is always a fucking situation to deal with. If there isn¡¯t a situation that needs dealing with, you will promptly stick your good samaritan neck out and create one. The result is that my otherworldly patience has vanished deep into the recesses of the Astral Sea, and so I¡¯d like to have this conversation now.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Tyron growled, ¡°but I¡¯m going to take a look up ahead. I¡¯ll just bring you with me.¡±


    He marched over and plucked Dove from his traditional position on the cart¡¯s corner post and tied him to his belt.


    ¡°Ugh, the belt? Can¡¯t you just carry me?¡±


    ¡°The ground is uneven, I might need my hands.¡±


    ¡°... Fine. Make sure you bring some bony boys.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    They¡¯d encountered a few kin here on the slope, but thankfully not many. Even so, it would be foolish to run around without protection.


    They marched forward up the incline, the skeletons dealing with it better than Tyron. He was a child of the ins, not used to this sort of terrain, and he hated every minute of it.


    ¡°So,¡± Dove chirped, ¡°when are you finally going to allow me the sweet release of death?¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Soon,¡± he said.


    ¡°Now, see here. That¡¯s bullshit. You know it¡¯s bullshit. I know it¡¯s bullshit. That fucking bird over there know¡¯s that its bullshit. Kill. Me. Already.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not that easy, Dove,¡± Tyron protested. ¡°One, I don¡¯t want to kill anyone, let alone my friend, and two, if you¡¯re gone, then I¡¯ll be all alone out here.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d have Yor.¡±


    ¡°Yor is not human.¡±


    ¡°Look, that¡¯s just straight up racist. What if the Dusters heard you talk like that? Or the Stone bloods? You should be ashamed of yourself.¡±


    ¡°You know what I mean, Dove¡­.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I do, and I think it¡¯s stupid. Not to put too fine a point on it, but most humans have a face. Do I have a face, Tyron? No I do not. They also have genitals. Fun, wonderful genitals. I do not have those, Tyron. I may have ghost balls, though, and I want to find out what I can do with them.¡±


    The Necromancer hung his head. He was ashamed that he had dragged out Dove¡¯s unlife far beyond what he had initially promised. The Summoner had never wanted to live like this, had protested vigorously against it, to be honest. Nevertheless, he had apanied Tyron for more than a month as an undead skull, faithfully offering his advice wherever he could. Or acting as a soundboard for ideas as they discussed magick together.


    There was no real way he could justify keeping his friend around any longer that wasn¡¯t purely selfish. He wanted Dove to stay, desperately, but Dove didn¡¯t want to remain. It was as simple as that.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he said finally.


    ¡°... What, really?¡±


    The young Mage red down at the skull tied to his waist.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t this what you wanted?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes, it is. I just figured you were going to be a right prick about it. Right. This is great! Well, kid, it''s been a pleasure to meet you and behold your giant ball sack in action. Truly. Now smash me on a rock or something.¡±


    ¡°Not this second,¡± Tyron groaned. ¡°Let me get a camp set up, and I want you to take a look at the rift for me. You know a hell of a lot more about rifts than I do, I¡¯ll be totally useless even after I find the damn thing.¡±


    ¡°I also promised to teach you my favourite eye-technique, didn¡¯t I?¡± Dove mused, his enthusiasm damping down. ¡°Alright, fine then. That should only take a couple of days. I can wait that long¡­. Is that a cave?¡±


    It goes to show how distracted he was that Tyron didn¡¯t even notice it, yet Dove, with his cripplingly poor Undead eyesight had been able to find it. The mouth of the cave had been hidden behind a few branches, and scrub, but not much. Rtively close to the direct line that ran from the rift to the vige, and with a small mountain tributary running nearby, the cave was all he could have hoped for, if a little cramped.


    It took hours to unload the cart and transport the contents, prioritising the supplies the people of Cragwhistle had given him. They hadn¡¯t been able to spare much, but had given what they could to help him survive the cold. He pegged down a canvas to cover the opening as best he could and once againmented his entirely too poor survival skills. Would it have killed him to travel with his parents, at least a couple of times?


    <em>No point crying about it now</em>, he admonished himself.


    The cave wasn¡¯trge enough to fit his minions inside, so he tried to find a few ces they could gather outside of the wind but remain nearby, while he kept his ghosts out on watch and the revenants by his side.


    ¡°I think that ought to do it,¡± Tyron said, wiping the sweat from his brow and sitting on his bedroll.


    A small fire crackled near the mouth of the cave, sheltered from the wind, and the warmth was just enough to take the edge off the cold.


    ¡°We can¡¯t be too far from the rift,¡± Dove mused, ¡°I can sense strange movements in the magick around here, and it¡¯s unusually thick. This cold isn¡¯t totally natural either.¡±


    Tyron nodded grimly. It wasn¡¯t unusual for rifts to have some sort of effect on the surrounding area, but wasn¡¯t a certainty either. If this rift dropped temperatures even further, then the people of Cragwhistle may eventually need to relocate further down the mountain. The winters would be brutal.


    ¡°Right, then, time to learn some magick, kid,¡± Dove announced. ¡°I¡¯ve got a few items I need to cross off the bucket list, and then I can kick the bucket. Let¡¯s get to it.¡±


    The Necromancer sighed and tried to ignore the twinge of pain in his chest. He didn¡¯t have the right to ask Dove to continue his existence, so he didn¡¯t. Instead, he brought out his notebook and began to scribble in it as the skull lectured him on the particrs of ocr magick.


    ~~~~~~~~~


    ¡°How many skeletons?¡± Brun asked, making note on a filthy page ripped from his satchel.


    ¡°Over forty,¡± Katlyn replied, her expression grim.


    The old yer whistled through a gap in his teeth as he scribbled something down.


    ¡°That¡¯s more than I would have expected,¡± he said, ¡°a lot more. Now the bounty is starting to make a <em>little</em> more sense. Not all the way sense, but we¡¯re getting there.¡±


    Katlyn stared at the dishevelled man with consternation.


    ¡°That¡¯s it? You aren¡¯t a little more worried? He practically has an <em>army</em> of Undead following him around! I¡¯d be dead right now if it weren¡¯t for something distracting him.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you were caught,¡± Laurel said, ncing sideways at her fellow Ranger. ¡°How did a magick wielder manage to keep up with you?¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t have to,¡± Katlyn ground out, ¡°he has ghosts and skeletons and spells to do that for him.¡±


    ¡°So what?¡± Rufus harrumphed, expression filled with contempt. ¡°His skeletons are weak. So long as enough of us go at once, then there¡¯s no way we can lose.¡±


    Brun shrugged.


    ¡°That¡¯s up to you lot,¡± he said. ¡°If you wanna split the bounty further, then you make an agreement and write it down all gentlemanly like. I¡¯ll hold onto it for you so there won¡¯t be any funny business.¡±


    Laurel scanned the group quickly, her eyes flicking over the ten faces of the iron ranked yers. Some looked nonplussed to hear just how many undead they were up against, whereas others didn¡¯t appear to care.


    Only Katlyn appeared to be afraid.


    ¡°You¡¯re making a mistake,¡± she warned Brun, ¡°he¡¯s a lot stronger than you¡¯re giving him credit for.¡±


    ¡°Lass, I¡¯d have run up that mountain and killed him myself days ago, but the academies want you shits to do it, so I¡¯m sitting on my hands. Two hundred sovereigns is enough to have you living like a noble for a good few years. That kind of coin doesn¡¯tnd in yourp without a little risk. Now, where is this stupid vige?¡±


    The Ranger stared at him for a moment before she slumped, giving in.


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll show you the way. I just hope we can work together and not all end up dead.¡±


    She turned on her heel and began to walk, the others hefted their packs and fell in behind. Rufus jogged to the front to stand with her, Laurel following after a few seconds.


    ¡°Hey, how are you?¡± Rufus shed Katlyn a smile and the girl scowled back at him.


    ¡°If you want to make a deal, then spit it out,¡± she said.


    Rufus¡¯ smile faltered, but he recovered soon after. Laurel chuckled.


    ¡°Straight out with it, that¡¯s good. This is a dangerous mission and we need to be clear about things. This is my partner,¡± he gestured to Laurel, who nodded politely, ¡°she¡¯s a Ranger, like you. We¡¯ve agreed on a fifty-fifty split, but we might consider expanding that and widening the group, considering what we¡¯re up against.¡±


    ¡°Is that right?¡± Katlyn said, looking straight ahead as she continued to march at the front of the group.


    ¡°I¡¯m also open to paying for information,¡± Rufus said. ¡°So far, you¡¯re the only one of us toy eyes on the bounty. I¡¯m sure you managed to learn a lot.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± she grunted.


    ¡°Did you even manage to take a shot?¡± Laurel asked, a hint of mocking in her voice.


    ¡°Of course I did,¡± Katlyn snapped before she regained herposure. ¡°Of course I did. Which was the first mistake I made.¡±


    She fell silent, and Rufus raised his brows, his expression open and eager for her to continue. She scowled at him.


    ¡°No information for free,¡± she spat. ¡°Ten percent cut, just for the information. Agree right now, and I won''t sell it to anyone else.¡±


    Rufus looked like he wanted to argue but Laurel cut him off smoothly.


    ¡°That¡¯s fine,¡± she said, ¡°though for twenty gold sovereigns, this would need to be good information.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to judge that for yourselves. Now you¡¯ve already paid for it.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t get paid unless we im the bounty,¡± Laurel reminded her. ¡°So I presume you¡¯ll be doing your best to make that oue a reality.¡±


    ¡°If you want me to help fight, I want arger share.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s hear the story first,¡± Rufus broke in, frowning, ¡°we can sort the rest out after that.¡±


    ¡°.... Fine.¡±

 Chapter B2C47 - Cave of Bones

    Chapter B2C47 - Cave of Bones


    Tyron huddled in his cave and tried not to feel too miserable. He was helping people, he reminded himself. Good people, who had fought and bled for their homes. People who had shown him a little kindness and appreciation, something that he¡¯d sorely needed.


    ¡°You feel like shit, don¡¯t you?¡± Dove asked him.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine, ¡° the Necromancer replied shortly.


    ¡°Not all sunshine and roses, is it?¡± Dove mocked him. ¡°When I was a yer, I got paid handsomely for my efforts, was lionised by the people and thedies fell over themselves tond in myp.¡±


    The skull fell silent as he reminisced on those wonderful days and nights. Especially the nights. The drinks had flown freely and his bed had seldom been cold. Back when he¡¯d had a mouth for drinking and a cock for screwing. The good times.


    ¡°But you get none of that,¡± he continued, ¡°sitting in a cave, chewing on mouldy bread and hoping the people you rescue aren¡¯t going to kill you for it.¡±


    Tyron shoved a hard piece of crust in his mouth. He really had to work his jaw to get through it.


    ¡°Isth not mouldy,¡± he said, mouth still full of food.


    ¡°Not yet, anyway.¡±


    The Mage finished his chewing and swallowed, the loaf settling as a solid lump in his stomach. Would he even be able to digest it?


    ¡°What¡¯s your point?¡± he sighed. ¡°You want me to pack up and leave? Abandon these people?¡±


    ¡°Yes. That is what I want. After you release my soul, anyway. To be clear, I want two things. First, release my soul, then, get the fuck out of here. In that order.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t want to ogle Yor, naked?¡± Tyron asked, brow raised.


    A moment of silence.


    ¡°I want three things,¡± Dove rified.


    The young man chuckled and poked the fire once more. It was cold up here. <em>Bitterly </em>cold. The influence of the rift was growing stronger by the day, and after three nights up in the mountain, he was starting to yearn for the lower ground.


    Twice, he had mounted a charge further up the mountain to find the rift, and twice been rebuffed. The first attempt had been thwarted by a sudden storm, the second by a surge of rift-kin. There had been a steady trickle of monsters making their way down the mountain, but this had been arger pack of almost a hundred. On the difficult terrain, his skeletons had struggled to battle uphill, but eventually, they had fought off the kin. Drained of magick and with many minions in need of repair, Tyron had reluctantly retreated on Dove¡¯s advice.


    ¡°I want to die, kid, but I don¡¯t want to get you killed to achieve it,¡± the former Summoner had admonished him and he had agreed, after considering his options.


    Here they were on the third night, no closer to the rift itself, exhausted, cold and weary beyond words. In some ways, it had been nice to sit and stay in one ce for a few days, but this was hardly the ideal location for it, in a small cave as the wind whistled down from the mountains, bringing an unnatural chill along with it.


    <em>May as well keep at it,</em> he told himself as he ordered the next of his undead inside. <em>They aren¡¯t going to fix themselves.</em>


    Near constant fighting had left many of his skeletons with cracked or missing bones, each of which required his attention.


    <em>What I really need is a Skeleton Doctor minion. An undead that can mend the others so I don¡¯t have to spend all this time doing it.</em>


    In a perfect world, Tyron would have minions able to perform most of the menial chores required to create and upkeep his undead. The amount ofbour required to create a functioning skeleton was only increasing as time passed, and the same went for maintenance. After every battle, he had tomit to long hours of work, recing any undead that were lost and fixing any damage.


    <em>Perhaps Necromancers would utilise the same Master Apprentice system that many Mages did. A Master would be able to palm off many menial tasks to the apprentice, who would be able to gain experience and practise their Skills in return.</em>


    It would be a better system, but Tyron had an irritating itch if he knew one of his minions wasn¡¯t functioning as well as he could make it. How could he trust someone else to do the work? Even now, he hadn¡¯t finished recing the weave in just under half of his skeletons. Taking them apart and stitching them back together took over an hour <em>each</em>.


    Massaging the fingers of his right hand, he sighed and got to work. Two minionster, he groaned and flopped onto his back. It wouldn¡¯t be so much of a pain if he didn¡¯t have to disassemble and then reassemble them every time.


    Unstitching the muscture and then putting it back together doubled the work. It was honestly impressive he was able to do it as fast as he could.


    <em>I¡¯d love to have a break right about now. Which means¡­.</em>


    As if summoned by his moment of idleness, he sensed his undead had begun to fight nearby.


    ¡°Fucking bones!¡± he swore as he picked himself up from the floor.


    ¡°Another group of happy friends from beyond the rifting for a visit?¡±


    ¡°Seems that way.¡±


    Skeletons were directed toward the fighting, along with the ghosts as Tyron readied himself. His cloak was pulled from the rock he¡¯d hung it from and thrown around his shoulders before he collected his sword and buckled it to his belt.


    It wasn¡¯t always easy to tell if the surge of kin rushing down the mountain pass was small orrge. Sometimes ,a couple of the swine monsters ran ahead of the pack, leading him to leave it to his minions, only to lose multiple skeletons when the reinforcements showed up. Now, he made a point of showing up personally. If he continued to allow his minions to be whittled down, then he¡¯d never make it to the rift.


    ¡°You want to tag along?¡± he asked the skull resting atop a small rock.


    ¡°Sure, why not? Might see something new.¡±


    Tyron snatched him up, shouldered his way through the heavy cloth nket he¡¯d hung across the cave entrance and stepped out into the bitter cold.


    It was like being pped in the face. The wind cut through his cloak and vegetation crunched underfoot as he walked, lined with a frost which hadn¡¯t been present only a few days before. He wasn¡¯t high up enough for snow to fall, but thanks to the rift, that would likely change before long.


    Each breath steamed in the air and he snatched his fingers up into his sleeves in an attempt to keep them warm.


    ¡°Looks cold,¡± Dove observed, ¡°not that it bothers me none.¡±


    ¡°One of the benefits of being dead.¡±


    Yor¡¯s offer of vampirism was looking more pleasant by the day. She didn¡¯t seem to feel the chill at all.


    Outside the cave entrance, five skeletons armed with a variety of one-handed weapons and shields were gathered. His elite guard, as he mockingly thought of them. After his run in with the archer, he didn¡¯t want to be caught without protection again, so he made sure to keep these five close by.


    With a reasonable circle of protection, he advanced toward the site of the fighting. Ten of his skeletons had engaged now, though against what, he couldn¡¯t be sure. He instructed them to form a line and support each other as he walked, reaching out to see if any of his ghosts had arrived.


    One was close enough and he quickly snapped out the spell to see through its eyes. Hazy, ghost-vision filled his mind¡¯s eye, the environment and details blurred when they weren¡¯t obscured by the strange, billowing fog only the dead could see. Forcing the ghost to focus on what he wanted it to look at, he saw his skeletons battling against a handful of the weaker rift-kin. When he made the spirit turn, he could see more, including several of therger ice monsters, striding down the mountain.


    ¡°Ah, SHIT!¡±


    ¡°Watch your tongue, boy! That¡¯s an unusually strong curse for a delicate flower such as yourself. Bad situation?¡±


    He didn¡¯t reply, instead focusing on striding forward with greater speed as he mentally gathered his fullplement of undead for the fight.


    <em>I haven¡¯t managed to recover from thest fight, and already more areing. I need to get to the rift!</em>


    Did he really need to get to the rift? Not really. So long as he drew the attention of the yers to it, they would be able to take care of the problem. However, the moment he gave up on it and retreated, he would have to honour his agreement with Dove and release his spirit. Despite everything, Tyron still wasn¡¯t ready for that.


    He didn¡¯t want to be alone.


    The sounds of the sh could be heard before he saw it. The snarls of the kin and ringing of steel as the skeletons hacked, shed and stabbed at their foes.


    Shortly after, he was amongst them, taking position behind the first row of undead and coordinating the others as they arrived. A momentter, the yer-revenant joined him, the purple fire flickering within its ribcage illuminating it from within. He kept it close, choosing tomit the other three to the melee. Archer skeletons took up position and began to fire, their poor skillpensated by the unthinking fury of the rift-kin. You didn¡¯t need to aim much when the enemy only charged, or stood in ce to fight.


    Wanting to finish the fight as fast as he could, Tyron rattled off his support magick in quick session. Death des to enhance his minions¡¯ weapons first, then he sought to relieve the pressure by firing bolt spells into the thick of the fighting.


    All this activity drained his magick rapidly, but he couldn¡¯t afford to hold back. If he did, his skeletons would eventually win, but they¡¯d drain just as much of his power and sustain significant damage in the process. An overwhelming victory in which he pushed out as much magick as possible, as fast as possible was the best result.


    To that end, he reached out with Death¡¯s Grasp the moment a humanoid ice creature came close to his line. Seized in the grip of the ck magick, there was nothing the monster could do as his skeletons leapt forward and battered it to death.


    Things would go better if hemitted his best revenant to the battle, but he held it back for a variety of reasons. He never had issues with the others, but this one¡­. It felt wrong, in some ways. Plus, it didn¡¯t hurt to have his strongest undead in reserve.


    The fight dragged on as Tyron flung spell after spell into the rift-kin while they rushed down the mountainside and into the waiting arms of his skeleton force. He lost a few minions, which grated on him, but eventually, he won out, thest of the monsters falling to the frosted ground with a rage-filled squeal.


    Raising his aching hands to rub at his eyes, Tyron took in the scene. More skeletons had been battered and needed repair. Dead and dying kin littered the ground, their blood already freezing and making the footing unsteady.


    He gathered the most damaged skeletons to him and sent them back to the cave after a brief examination. The rest, he set to clearing the field and hunting for cores. The skeletons weren¡¯t very good at extracting the small gems, hacking the monsters apart more often than not, but he didn¡¯t have time or energy to do it himself.


    Undead crawled over the slope following his direction and Tyron gazed up, toward where the rift must be.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make my push tomorrow,¡± he said, ¡°I can¡¯t afford to wait any longer than that.¡±


    ¡°Good idea,¡± Dove concurred. ¡°The rift is more active than I expected. Your strength is growing, but one bronze ranked yer isn¡¯t going to be able to hold back an entire rift worth of kin by himself.¡±


    A skeleton stepped up to Tyron¡¯s back, shield snapping into ce right before an arrow thunked into the hardened wood. Tired as he was, Tyron almost wanted to throw back his head and howl in frustration.


    <em>You just saw me fighting off a horde of monsters and you want to take a shot at me NOW?</em>


    He whirled around, fire in his eyes.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be fucking stupid,¡± he roared at the unmoving rocks and scrub, ¡°there¡¯s a rift here, a new one! This is what caused the break at Woodsedge! The yers need to be informed and a new keep built. Why the fuck are you shooting at me?!¡±


    Righteous anger filled him, burning hot in his chest, but it was doused when a nd-faced marshal stepped from behind a tree over a hundred metres away and spoke.


    ¡°Because you are a murderer.¡±


    The words themselves may not have shaken him as much, were it not for the cold and factual way they were delivered. It wasn¡¯t hyperbolic, it was a simple fact. Tyron hadmitted murder, and to have it stated so baldly shook him.


    He pushed that feeling aside.


    ¡°That¡¯s true,¡± he admitted, ¡°but there are bigger things at stake here. How many lives will be endangered if this isn¡¯t dealt with? How many have I saved by keeping the kin at bay?¡±


    ¡°We will deal with that, once you are dead,¡± the man said, as another marshal stepped out from behind a stone.


    ¡°Idiots,¡± Tyron grated, ire igniting in his chest once more.

 Chapter B2C48 - Natural Born Killer

    Chapter B2C48 - Natural Born Killer


    Skeletal archers pulled back on their ghostly strings and loosed, sending arrows forged of bone whistling through the air to shatter against the trees.


    As low on resources as he was, he couldn¡¯t afford a dragged out fight¡­ unless.


    He had one, maybe two Arcane Crystals left in his pack. If he could get to the cave, he would be able to replenish at least a little of his magick. As it stood, he was in a precarious position. Marshals weren¡¯t just a job title, they were a ss, or a set of sses, that imbued the individual with unusual abilities.


    Since he was a criminal, those skills would be highly effective against him. He had to fight assuming a single touch would be enough to seal his magick and bind him.


    Skeletons rearranged themselves into loose ranks, forming a wide box around him. Shielded, he began to march forward, angling his way down the slope toward his cave.


    ¡°This seems very inspiring,¡± Tyron called down to the Marshals. ¡°You waited until I was exhausted defending the vige, and only then did you emerge to dere me a murderer. Very fair.¡±


    Not a flicker of emotion troubled the nd-faced Marshal¡¯s expression, nor on those of the officers behind him. They didn¡¯t even bother to reply, spreading out to approach him from different angles.


    What would be their approach? Attempt to whittle down his minions? Ore for him directly? If they had the ability, they probably would have attempted to charge straight at him. That was the best way to fight a Necromancer, if you could pull it off. Although, as weakened as he was, it may be better to drag it out. The longer it went on, the worse his disadvantage would be.


    ¡°Wait¡­ is that fucking Langdon? Hey, Langdon, you shitbreather! Remember me? You better, after all the shit you put me through! Still got a stick rammed all the way up your arsehole, I can still see it poking out your mouth!¡±


    Despite trying to keep himselfposed, Tyron stumbled at Dove¡¯s outburst.


    ¡°You <em>know</em> him?¡± he said, pointing to the Marshal who¡¯d spoken to him.


    ¡°Know him? I fucking hate him! He recruited me to try and track you down after that bullshit you pulled in Woodsedge.¡±


    He was from Woodsedge? That helped exin how pissed he was.


    ¡°Another one of your victims?¡± Langdon said, eyes flicking to the skull tied to Tyron¡¯s waist. ¡°How many of these skeletons represent a life you stole?¡±


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m not a victim! Not in the normal sense, I suppose. I mean, I <em>am</em> being kept here against my will¡­.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t helping, Dove,¡± Tryon murmured through grit teeth.


    ¡°Oh, right. This puking kid who can barely wipe his own backside certainly <em>isn¡¯t</em> responsible for my death! Having that on my obituary would be way too embarrassing! I died during the break after murdering an entire farm filled with civilians. Get it right!¡±


    Anger flickered in Langdon¡¯s eyes as he drew back on his bow once again.


    ¡°Then are you responsible for this boy¡¯s rapid growth?¡± he said, speaking to the skull directly. ¡°Is this about revenge?¡±


    ¡°Of course it¡¯s about revenge! What self respecting yer doesn¡¯t want to go out giving a strong middle-finger to the fuckers who brand us like cattle? To fight back against self-righteous pieces of shit like you, who wouldn¡¯t be alive if it weren¡¯t for fucking heroes like me?¡±


    Dove cackled, light zing from his hollow sockets.


    ¡°I keep trying to get this kid to burn it all down, but he¡¯s too fucking <em>nice</em>! It wasn¡¯t my idea toe up here and corner himself to protect a stupid vige, I can guarantee you that!¡±


    ¡°That changes nothing,¡± Langdon said, eyes focused on Tyron once more as he aimed down the length of his arrow. ¡°He murdered two Marshals. He¡¯s an illegal. This is justice.¡±


    ¡°Fuck your justice,¡± Dove barked. ¡°Fuck it right in its stupid blind eyes. Kill this prick, Tyron, then stuff <em>his</em> soul into his own skull. Use him as a codpiece!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t <em>wear</em> a codpiece¡­.¡±


    ¡°Make an exception!¡±


    ¡°<em>Nobody</em> wears a codpiece¡­.¡±


    ¡°I did!¡±


    <em>I can believe that.</em>


    <em>¡°</em>Don¡¯t judge me,¡± the skull muttered. ¡°Now get moving. I know you¡¯re on yourst legs.¡±


    The skull-bound Summoner had been trying to buy time for Tyron, who had continued to shuffle his way toward the cave, surrounded by his shield-bearing bodyguards.


    Despite his best efforts, it wasn¡¯t possible for Tyron to keep track of the three Marshals as they separated. Only the first, Langdon, was still visible to him now. He was careful to position his ghosts to cover his sides and back. If he were jumped from a blind spot, that would be the worst case scenario.


    The Marshal showed nothing on his face, to the point that Tyron had begun to wonder if he was even capable of it. When thewman loosed his arrow, the Necromancer was taken byplete surprise, as the man had given no sign he¡¯d been prepared to fire.


    The arrow streaked through the air, only to thud into a shield as a skeleton stepped up to block. With one skeletal hand, the undead snapped the shaft, leaving the head buried in the wood of its shield.


    More arrows were fired from the left and right, flying from behind cover in angles that Tyron couldn¡¯t see.


    The skeletons were there, shields up, absorbing the shots for him. Worried, he tried to reposition his ghosts to cover himself better, but before they were in position, two more arrows whistled out from the trees.


    Thunk! Thunk!


    His shield-bearing minions were forced to move to different positions to cover him and he adjusted the formation around him reflexively. The Marshals were moving and firing, not wanting to get pinned down.


    If he had enough magick, he could encircle them with the dead, or reach out with Death¡¯s Grasp to hold them down, but that wasn¡¯t an option. Even manoeuvring his troops was costing precious energy.


    <em>Are they just hoping to get lucky and slip a shot through the shields? That doesn¡¯t make sense¡­. I understand they don¡¯t want to engage directly, but this isn¡¯t likely to seed.</em>


    Perhaps they <em>were</em> just trying to wear him down over time, hoping to weaken him to the point he couldn''t fight back at all. It wouldn¡¯t work.


    Arrows continued to streak from the shadows, all three Marshals hiding in the darkness and attacking from beyond the reach of his undead. His archers returned fire as best they could, but after a few volleys, he made them stop. A waste of ammunition and magick, his archers were a long shot to hit a moving target in these conditions.


    The creeping advance to the cave continued under fire as the Marshals remained elusive. Somehow, they managed to slip away from even his ghosts, though he couldn¡¯t afford to see through the spirits'' eyes to help guide them. Conserving energy as best he could, Tyron continued to move down the slope.


    He lost the first skeleton to an excellent shot from behind a tree. The arrow whistled into view before burying itself directly into the skull of the undead, carrying the head clean off. Irritated, Tyron drew his minions closer, hoping the greater distance would make them harder to hit. It worked somewhat, but he still lost two more, and several others suffered damage before he finally arrived at the camp.


    The nket covering the opening remained, dim light from the fire emanating from behind. Tyron felt a little of the tension drain from his shoulders. At least now he¡¯d have some energy to fight back.


    The three Marshals leapt from cover, arrows nocked and ready to loose, aimed directly for his head.


    ¡°Now!¡± Langdon roared as he released the string.


    The revenant yer snapped forward, drawing on Tyron¡¯s power as it shed through the air, cutting an arrow from the air and taking another on the hilt of its de. Had it not acted, he would have been wounded for sure, his shield-skeletons were far too slow to react. The final arrow was caught, but only just, on the steel rim of a shield.


    The Necromancer crouched down behind the wall of his minions as they gathered in front of him, wondering what was going on.


    Then the roar sounded <em>behind</em> him.


    Wordless and filled with rage, the bellow echoed out from within the cave, followed an instantter by pounding footsteps as arge figure hurled itself forward. The firelight was blocked as the fourth assant moved past the fire, sting the cloth cover aside.


    <em>Fuck! They¡¯d already found the cave!</em>


    This had been a trap from the beginning. Tyron¡¯s hands moved on pure instinct, his mouth spitting out the words as magick formed in his hands, but he knew it was toote.


    Arge man leapt from the cave mouth toward him, de in one hand, the other outstretched to mp itself around his neck.


    <em>It¡¯s over</em>.


    Tyron¡¯s mind rang with despair in that instant. All his ambitions and hopes crashing down around him, bitterness welled up in his chest till he felt he might choke on it. It wasn¡¯t <em>fair</em>.


    ¡°I¡¯d say you owe me for this, but the price has already been paid. <em>Lucky boy.</em>¡±


    Yor¡¯s voice positively purred as it drifted from within the cave and Tyron blinked as the Marshal sprinted past him toward the others, still bellowing with rage. Only then did it register what he¡¯d heard. What he¡¯d seen. That man¡¯s eyes. They hadn¡¯t been normal.


    The vampire emerged, blood dripping from her lips, feral light burning in her eyes.


    ¡°Brom? What the fuck?!¡± The female Marshal shouted as their former ally rushed toward them, de swinging.


    ¡°Was that his name?¡± Yor said. ¡°Not that it matters now. I think I¡¯ll call him¡­ Rabbit. Because he¡¯s <em>my</em> pet now.¡±


    ¡°Curse you, Necromancer,¡± Langdon swore, ¡°what have you done?¡±


    Brom¡­ or Rabbit, screamed as he brought his sword down in a wild overhead swing, crashing into a two handed block from Langdon.


    ¡°Oh, the boy didn¡¯t do this,¡± Dove chortled from Tyron¡¯s waist. ¡°You guys are so <em>fucked</em>.¡±


    ¡°It was a good n,¡± Yor observed, ¡°but it was <em>foolish</em> in one particr respect.¡±


    Her eyes gleamed with dark purpose.


    ¡°You attacked at night. We, the dead, rule at night.¡±


    Another Marshal crashed into Brom¡¯s side, knocking him down. The man¡­ or what was left of him, bellowed in rage as he struggled back to his feet. It was clear watching him that his coordination wasn¡¯t what it should be.


    <em>What has Yor done to him? Is he still alive, or is he dead?</em>


    The vampire sighed in satisfaction as she wiped the scarlet drops from her lips, then turned to Tyron.


    ¡°Weren¡¯t you going to do something?¡± she said, brow arched.


    He scrambled into the cave and dove for his pack, fumbling for a mage candy which he rammed between his teeth the moment he found it.


    ¡°It pays to be prepared,¡± she said, ¡°but I will take care of this¡­ <em>soiree</em>, for you. Not to worry. Others have paid in advance.¡±


    He barely had a moment to register what she¡¯d said before ck smoke billowed from the Vampire¡¯s body, blinding him. A secondter, the smoke <em>flew</em>, boiling through the air toward the Marshals who still worried over their formerrade.


    Langdon saw iting, eyes widening and for the first time, Tyron saw fear in the man¡¯s eyes. It was far, far toote for that.


    The Marshal pulled at the others, trying to turn them around, to get them running, but Yor arrived a momentter, congealing from the smoke just as quickly as she¡¯d vanished. One long, elegant finger extended outward, impossibly fast, and buried itself through Langdon¡¯s eye and into his brain.


    The two surviving Marshals looked in shock as Yor effortlessly lifted the dead man with one finger before tossing him away with a gesture. She turned to them, her smile twisted and feral.


    ¡°<em>Run</em>,¡± she said.

 Chapter B2C49 - The Rift

    Chapter B2C49 - The Rift


    Tyron grit his teeth as he fought off another wave of exhaustion. His eyes felt raw, as if scrubbed with sand, and every part of him ached. In particr, his fingers had suffered the most. Every joint pained him as he flexed his hands, a stabbing sensation that emanated outward from within. Rubbing at the digits almost made it worse, as there was no way for him to reach inside his flesh to fix what was wrong.


    It had taken him ten hours of constant work, but his skeletal force was as ready as it could be. Cracked bones had been repaired, bone threads rewoven and quivers of moulded bone arrows restocked. He¡¯d even gone to the trouble of selecting and moulding bones to create a custom set of bone armour.


    As prepared as he could make himself, he was ready to tackle the rift.


    Yor had vanished after pulling his backside out of the fire the previous night. With the early morning sun creeping over the horizon, he wouldn¡¯t see her again until the day was done.


    What she¡¯d done with the Marshals, he didn¡¯t know and couldn¡¯t bring himself to care. Trying to minimise the harm he caused only seemed to invite more down on his head, and at this point, he didn¡¯t have the energy to spare worrying about others. Approach the rift, examine it, then give his friend the final rest. That was what he needed to get done.


    ¡°Looks like you¡¯ve finally got your shit together,¡± Dove remarked.


    Tyron looked at the scattered supplies across the floor of the cave. Discarded bones that had been too damaged for him to repair, half-moulded efforts he¡¯d tossed aside as failures and a few pages torn from his notebook and crumpled in disgust.


    ¡°If anything, it looks like I¡¯m in the middle of a breakdown,¡± he croaked.


    <em>Holy shit, I need a drink.</em>


    A swig of water from his waterskin burned down his cracked throat. Too much spellwork, not enough rest for his voice. An amateur mistake his mother would frown on.


    <em>A Mage''s most important tool is their voice, Tyron. Not the staff, not even the hands, not even the mind. If you cannot give voice to the words of power, the sharpest brain in the realm ispletely worthless. Train it, take care of it, preserve it. If a Mage cannot speak, they are as helpless as a babe.</em>


    Beory had undertaken a great deal of work to improve her vocal endurance and lung capacity. She¡¯d even taken up singing at one point, though she¡¯d been absolutely terrible. Neither Tyron nor his father, Magnin, had the courage to point that out. The strongest battle mage in the province could certainly hold a note, just never the right one.


    ¡°That¡¯s not what I mean, kid. You look like you¡¯ve got a little steel in your eye. Seems like getting your arse saved has caused you to take a good drink of Harden the Fuck Up.¡±


    ¡°Is that a real drink?¡±


    ¡°My most famous cocktail.¡±


    Tyron considered the skull for a moment, thoughts and emotions whirling in his head. Finally, he shrugged and gave a wry smile.


    ¡°I think I¡¯m just way too tired to care anymore.¡±


    ¡°Great. Good spot to be in. It¡¯s not the journey that matters after all, but the destination! Now let¡¯s saddle up and take a peek at this rift. Should be an interesting sight. Then I can finally die, and you can get on with not being harassed by a spirit in a skull.¡±


    Despite the joking tone, Dove¡¯s words almost caused the young Mage to tear up. His friend deserved to rest, that was certainly true. In doing what he¡¯d done, Tyron had inflicted a cruel injustice on his friend, and it was well past time to right the wrong.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ve ever thanked you properly. You¡¯ve done so much for me, even before you died, and I¡¯ve been selfish to force you to stick around for this long afterwards. Thank you, Dove. Thanks for everything.¡±


    The purple light that glowed within the sockets of the skull flickered.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get sappy on me now, Tyron. I was never good with that stuff. I was happy to help you out. What happened to you, with your Awakening and all, that was unfair bullshit and you deserved a hell of a lot better. Keeping me trapped inside <em>my own skull</em>, for months, is a little less forgivable, but I understand why you did it. I even forgive you. A bit. Now no more of this bullshit, we¡¯re yers, damnit, only happy when killing shit from another realm. Let¡¯s get cracking.¡±


    Tyron nodded and rubbed at his throat before taking another sip of water. A few hours and he¡¯d be able to get his voice back to normal, but they could start out before then.


    If nothing else, he could fling out magick bolts without speaking.


    Dove was collected from his rock and tied onto Tyron¡¯s belt, followed by the sword his father had given him. Not quite in the same mint condition it had been in before. The weapon had actually seen use over thest few months.


    Lastly, he fastened his pack to his back. All his most critical supplies were kept inside and he wouldn¡¯t allow himself to be separated from them again. The Mage candy he¡¯d taken the previous night had in fact been hisst, but his food, notes and water were all things he simply couldn¡¯t afford to lose.


    When he stepped from the cave, he was immediately surrounded by his skeletons. From within that protective shell of bones and shields, he scanned the surroundings.


    The temperature continued to drop and frost now tipped the rock and scraps of grass that dotted the slope. The trees that still clung to the stone, roots stabbing deep into the mountain, might not survive this new cold, which would make the slope even more bare.


    The peak was still far, far overhead, a ce ruled by ice and snow, overlooked by impossibly high stone cliffs that seemed to scrape at the sky itself.


    Thankfully, the rift wasn¡¯t up there. If his estimate was correct, the rift itself had formed roughly three kilometres from where he had made camp. It was a hard trek, with no path cut into the slope, but it wouldn¡¯t be overly difficult were it not for the steady flow of rift-kin.


    As he¡¯d recovered his energy and repaired his minions, all of his undead had been withdrawn to the mouth of the cave. Doubtless this meant a number of monsters had made their way down the slope to the vige, but it had been a necessary step. After defeating one strong wave, another shouldn¡¯t havee during the night. If it did, he wouldn¡¯t have been in good enough condition to fight it anyway.


    He stamped his feet in his boots to settle them, checked his buckles and straps one more time, then inspected his bone armour.


    Too many times, he¡¯d been caught without it. In truth, he didn¡¯t much like the spell. Covering himself with the bones of deceased humans wasn¡¯t pleasant, and projected an image that he had desperately wanted to avoid, one of a heartless killer, but he needed the protection, now more than ever.


    The modifications he¡¯d made helped a little. The bones didn¡¯t jut quite so far out, the moulding he¡¯d done allowed them to curve around his frame. It wasn¡¯t quite as easy to tell what the armour was made from, the more obvious bone shapes ttened and widened to create more coverage.


    Fully equipped, he began his trek up the mountain.


    He encountered the first rift-kin almost immediately. Swiftly dispatched by a volley of arrows, the boar-like kin slumped to the ground and Tyron didn¡¯t bother to collect the core. His pack contained a cloth bag that bulged with the things already. Any more would just be adding to the weight of his pack for no real gain.


    Up the slope he went, the bitter cold wind sweeping down from the peak and into his eyes. The only sound he could hear was the wind, along with the crunch of the ground beneath his feet.


    Formations in the stone caused the wind to whistle, a high pitched whine that only grew louder the higher he went. An hour after they¡¯d started, flecks of ice began to drift on the wind, stinging his face. He raised a hand to protect his eyes and kept moving forward.


    The surge of kin came suddenly, monsters ran down the hill in a pack, burning with rage. As soon as they saw him, they charged, eager to devour and destroy.


    Tyron flung magick bolts forward as his skeletons moved into position. If he let his minions receive this assault head on, his undead would need to draw deep on his magick to stand their ground, so he shifted tactics.


    The shield line angled itself to deflect the monsters rather than fight them head on as his archers picked off the front runners. The boars were powerful bundles of muscle, though still small by kin standards, and just as stupid as all the weaker rift-kin. Those struck by arrows stumbled on the slope, crashing snout first to the ground before tumbling end over end. Monsters immediately behind the leaders tripped over them, adding to the mess. When they finally crashed into his shield wall, the beasts had lost most of their momentum and were easily pushed to the side.


    To end the battle as quickly as possible, he allowed his revenants to wade into the fight.


    Illuminated from within by the ghastly purple light, the four undead stepped forward with purpose. Although three had been little better than bandits in their previous life, they were still stronger than his regr skeletons.


    The former yer was the real prize. Powerful shes cut through the weak kin as if they weren¡¯t even there. He paid dearly in magick, but that was fine, the rest of his small horde was preserved, and he could recover the energy before the next fight.


    Monsters dispatched, they moved forward again.


    When he crossed the threshold, he almost forgot what had happened. An immediate shift in perception, the real bing blurred, reality twisting at the edges. It was the coiling sensation in his gut that twigged his memory, as if a snake were uncoiling in his belly.


    ¡°This is¡­¡±


    ¡°Abso-fucking-lutely. The brokennds. We got a right and proper rift forming nearby, no question about it. Keep your wits about you, don¡¯t forget how badly your perception can turn to shit.¡±


    This close to a rift, time and space would stretch andpress. The sensation was unsettling, to say the least. Before him, the slope became even more barren than before. Precious few trees and little scrub remained, and the wind bit even deeper than before.


    <em>Crack.</em>


    A distinctive sound, like ice crackling underfoot, drifted from behind and Tyron whirled to see one of the humanoid kin stalk out from behind a rock.


    His hands snapped into motion, words flowing in an instant as he formed the sigils necessary to shape his magick. Arrows flew through the air and mmed into the monster, followed by a wave of death magick as Tyron unleashed Death¡¯s Grasp.


    The kin was set upon a momentter, skeletons driving home their weapons to finish it off, only for another to show its face a momentter.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to get wild up here, kid. The flow of monsters through the rift never ends, don¡¯t forget that. We smash and grab. Power your way forward, we take a gander, then we get the fuck out. Got it?¡±


    ¡°Got it.¡±


    That ice monster was dispatched with brutal force as Tyron no longer sought to conserve his energy, as was the next. Somehow, he still felt as if the number of kin should slow as he fought them, but he knew it wasn¡¯t the case. After each victory, he pushed forward as quickly as he could, trying to gain ground.


    So focused on the fight, on managing his minions and being restrained with his magick, Tyron didn¡¯t notice what he could see at first, not until Dove yelled at him.


    ¡°Look up, dickhead!¡±


    Tyron flung his eyes up the slope, and there it was¡­ the rift.


    Along with a frost covered mammoth, tusks formed of pure ice jutting from its face.

 Chapter B2C50 - Eyes of Magick

    Chapter B2C50 - Eyes of Magick


    ¡°Uhhh, Dove?¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°There is a giant monster that looks like it wants to trample my guts into the ground standing in front of the rift.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, they do that. Both of those. They stand around the rift, and trample your guts into the ground.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve seen this thing before?¡± Tyron hissed.


    ¡°What? No, of course not. I¡¯ve never seen any monsters from this particr rift before. But there¡¯s almost always some big ass thing trampling around right next to the rift.¡±


    The beast turned its head to Tyron and suddenly, his army of skeletons had never felt quite so small. Covered in dense, white fur, the monster''s skull jutted forward just above its small, burning red eyes. Air steamed from its fang-lined maw, nked on either side by huge curved tusks formed of pure rime.


    ¡°Yeah¡­ you¡¯ll probably need to kill that. Or distract it.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t think you should <em>tell</em> me about this?¡±


    ¡°Honestly? I didn''t think the rift would berge enough to let a prick like this get through. I fucked up. Sorry about that.¡±


    Tyron growled under his breath, but restrained his anger. There wasn¡¯t any point getting angry at Dove, especially since he was only hours away from a proper death.


    <em>How in the name of the Abyss am I supposed to deal with something this big?</em>


    Only skeletons with spears and swords would be able to damage it by thrusting through that thick fur, but if they got close, they¡¯d be reduced to powder in a blink. His archers probably couldn¡¯t scratch it. An arrow through the eye may be effective, but it would be almost impossible to make the hit. Of his revenants, only the yer would be of any use, though the others could distract it if they were fast enough to avoid it. Ghosts may be effective, he would have to try.


    As for his magick¡­. Death¡¯s Grasp wasn¡¯t going to hold something this size, and magick bolts would be little more than irritating to it. It was possible he could restrain it with Suppress Mind, but a kin this strong¡­ that would be a risk.


    <em>Distract it and look for an opportunity. Preserve as much of my force as I can.</em>


    There was no other viable n. With a mentalmand, he sent his revenants forward, along with the spirits. The rest of the undead pulled back to protect the archers, who shifted to a better angle for targeting the monster¡¯s face.


    Tyron ced himself between the two groups. He didn¡¯t want to draw the monster to his vulnerable skeletons, but it was a risk to expose himself.


    The frozen-mammoth reacted as the burning skeletons drew closer. It appeared reluctant to separate from the rift, but with opponents drawing near, rage overtook it. The kin trumpeted in fury and smashed the ground beneath its massive feet before it rumbled forward, swinging its massive head, sweeping the ground with tusks of ice.


    Arrows shot through the air to shatter against the monster¡¯s face. No damage appeared to be done, but the beast was even further enraged. With every bellow, hot mist filled the air around the mammoth¡¯s face.


    Even being twenty metres away, the presence of the kin was overwhelming.


    <em>If I could turn that into an undead¡­.</em>


    The thought was tempting, but so far, he¡¯d not been offered the ability to make anything non-human into a minion. It was definitely possible, Arihnan the ck had at the very least undead horses within his horde, with garbled descriptions of other undead constructs. Something like this would be a spectacr servant. Likely it would suck his magick dry in half a second, but still¡­.


    Magick bolts crackled in his hands and he flung them at the monster as itpleted its charge. His yer revenant had neatly rolled to the side. Quick and deadly, his servant had shed out as it rose, cutting a shallow wound on one of the beast¡¯s legs.


    The spells did little, thudding into the creature''s hide and barely staggering it, but at least the mammoth became distracted from his other revenants.


    Not blessed with thebat skills of theirpatriot, the other three had been far more clumsy in their dodge. Two were able to get out of the way, but the third had been smacked by a tusk and sent tumbling, bones rattling against the stone.


    Two burning red eyes turned on Tyron and he swallowed heavily. Before the monster could charge again, his ghosts finally crossed the distance and dove inside the massive beast.


    No doubt the rift-kin was exceptionally resistant to cold and frost, the thick white fur attested to that, but what about cold that came from <em>within</em> its flesh? Unlike the ice kin, this beast was a creature of flesh and blood on the inside.


    As they whispered with ghastly delight, the ghosts fluttered within the mammoth, who immediately trumpeted in rm and pain, rearing back and thrashing wildly.


    Two more magick bolts and a scattering of arrows ttered into its head as it came back down, but the monster barely noticed. Desperate to escape the bitter cold of the spirits, the mammoth charged blindly, rolling its head and iling with its tusks as it went.


    Tyron did his best to get out of the way, but wasn¡¯t quick enough to avoid a tusk sweeping into his side. Air left his lungs in a whoosh as his chest waspressed by the force. The next thing he knew, he was airborne, then crashing down onto a blessedly t section of rock.


    ¡°Oww <em>shit</em>,¡± he wheezed.


    ¡°What the fuck was that?¡± Dove hollered from his waist. ¡°Was I upside down?¡±


    ¡°Shut up,¡± Tyron ground out as he forced his wobbly legs under him. His side ached fiercely as he pulled in a shaky breath.


    His bone armour had saved him there, absorbing some of the force from the hit as well as thending. If not, he might have shattered his ribcage, constitution be damned.


    <em>Blood and Bone, that thing is strong! I can¡¯t afford to let this drag out. If I can hold it still for ten seconds, I can kill it.</em>


    The mammoth''s rage-filled charge had done what it wanted, getting it clear of his ghosts who now drifted along behind it, trying to catch up. The beast clearly hadn¡¯t enjoyed having the ghosts inside it; with a little more time, they might be able to inflict real damage.


    With the beginnings of a n forming, he ordered his revenants forward. The four undead charged from separate angles, but held back whenever the mammoth faced them directly. They only needed to dy.


    Tyron raised his hands and began to cast Death des. The now familiar spell had be almost second nature since he had first learned it, and he made no errors despite working at such speed.


    With the force of his mysteries behind them, his words and magick resonated in the air like the ring of a bell. When the final syble was spoken, the weapons of his undead became tainted with ck power.


    It was difficult to manoeuvre his undead into position around the constantly shifting mammoth. Every time a revenant ran forward, it would swing around and try to destroy it with the force of its tusks, and the constant shifting meant he needed to adjust his skeletons. With their painfully slow drifting speed, the ghosts were even worse. If they made contact with the beast, they might spook it into another wild charge.


    Ten seconds. He gave himself a window of ten seconds only. It might not be possible to hold for that long, but he would do his best.


    For the following minute, he engaged in this strange dance, trying to keep his revenants alive and put the rest of his undead in position to strike as the rift-kin raged. In the end, he lost a revenant when it drew too close. The trunk snaked out and caught it around the ankle as the undead tried to retreat. After it fell to the ground, the mammoth leapt forward and stomped it t in an instant.


    <em>Dammit! I¡¯ll do it now!</em>


    The loss of one of his best minions turned into a fortuitous opportunity as the massive creature took precious seconds to right itself after its lunge, giving him time to position his skeletons and ghosts as he prepared his spell.


    <em>Suppress Mind!</em>


    Tyron¡¯s mind had grown strong as he had travelled, very strong, but he had never tested himself against a rift-kin this powerful. The weaker kin he had used this spell against had squirmed in his grip; mindless and filled with rage, they had been unable to escape his vice grip on their minds.


    As his spell took hold, Tyron felt as if he had been mmed in the head with a sledgehammer. Immense and boiling with elemental fury,paring the mammoth to those smaller insectile creatures of Nagrathyr was likeparing a candle to a hearthfire. Desperate to maintain control, he rallied and brought his will to bear against the beast, wrapping his thoughts around it and forcing it to stand still.


    At least, trying to.


    Despite his best efforts, the monster fought back, resisting his control, but it had slowed considerably. Skeletons charged forward, weapons flickering with ck light, alongside the ghosts who drifted through the air, whispering their cruel intentions.


    Although he felt as if his head would split open, Tyron pushed harder, imposed himself against that thoughtless, fiery rage. As if he were containing a st within his hands, he felt scorched as the mammoth bucked and crashed against him, but he held it, just barely.


    Swords and spears sank deep into the creature''s side a second before the ghosts arrived and pushed themselves within the beast.


    The pain sparked the monster to even greater heights of fury and Tyron grit his teeth until blood ran down his chin, trying to hold it in ce. After eight seconds, his hold broke and the huge monster reared back, before it crashed to its side, dead.


    ¡°Hole-eeeee-<em>fuck,</em> kid. Nice work!¡±


    Tyron spat the blood in his mouth onto the ground and coughed.


    ¡°No problem.¡±


    ¡°Stop jerking yourself off and let''s get a good look at that rift. No time to waste. Another one of those fuckers coulde through any second.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    Tyron shook off the mise that gripped him and arranged his minions between himself and the rift before he gazed at it properly for the first time.


    At first, all that happened was that his eyes hurt. The warping effect that urred around the rift was at its strongest here, and looking directly at the source was difficult to say the least. Eventually, his mind pieced together what he was seeing and he gasped in shock.


    It wasn¡¯t thatrge, perhaps only ten metres across, a whirling vortex of magick and light that seemed to tear reality at its edge. He could almost <em>feel</em> his realm being broken as the rift swirled, chewing away at his world one tiny piece at a time.


    He was reluctant to do this part. Once he¡¯d examined the rift, he would have checked off the final item on his list with Dove. Once they returned, he would have to honour his promise and free his friend.


    Tyron stilled his thoughts and focused on the magick that Dove had taught him. As promised, the ocr enhancement spell had beenplicated and carried tremendous risk. Failure during the cast could lead to permanently damaged vision, or blindness, or worse.


    As his skeletons protected him, Tryon quickly constructed the spell, making sure he made no mistakes along the way. Dove grumbled quietly about ¡®gifted shitheads¡¯ and ¡®genius scumbags,¡¯ but the young Mage ignored him. Instead, he chose to stare at the rift.


    Dove¡¯s eye enhancement spell allowed him to ¡®see¡¯, in a limited sense, magick and its movement. This allowed him to examine the remnants of rituals after they¡¯d been cast, or view the magickal properties of objects by looking at them, or track down sources of Arcane energy.


    In this case, Tyron used the spell to stare at one of the sources of magick in the realm directly.


    Viewed through the green lenses produced by the spell, the rift <em>zed </em>in his eyes, bright as a sun. Energy poured from it constantly and into this world, even before the rift had fully formed. What¡¯s more, he could see <em>beyond</em> it, into the realm on the other side. Unsurprisingly, it appeared like an icy, deste wastnd, teeming with kin desperate to find a way out.


    Taking it all in strained him. Sparks of pain lit within his eyes and he was forced to squint.


    ¡°Dove? What am I looking for?¡±


    ¡°You should see the magick flowing out of it.¡±


    ¡°I can see it alright.¡±


    ¡°Basically, you¡¯re seeing if that¡¯s a steady flow or erratic. When the amount of Arcane energying through the rift is increasing or decreasing in an unsustainable way, it¡¯ll cause eddies and disruptions, like someone tossing a brick in a stream. This rift should be expanding, which means more magick over time, but as long as it¡¯s gradual and controlled, we don¡¯t have to worry about another break.¡±


    Tyron examined it as best he could. He wasn¡¯t an expert, but it <em>seemed</em> to be fine. There wasn¡¯t anything like what Dove described, the magick flow was steady as a drum beat.


    ¡°Looks fine to me,¡± he said finally, letting the spellpse as he sighed with exhaustion. ¡°I can¡¯t believe how much energy ising through it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s nothing. You should see just how saturated it is on the other side. It¡¯s like crack for Mages. If you can tap it, you can cast some seriously funky shit. I contracted both my most powerful Astrals beyond the rift, since I could supercharge the ritual on that side.¡±


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t you do the same over here with enough materials?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but I wasn¡¯t fucking rich, was I? Over there, the magick is free. Now stop yammering. You need a sleep and I need to die. Let¡¯s get down the mountain and get this show on the road.¡±

 Chapter B2C51 - Farewell, Friend

    Chapter B2C51 - Farewell, Friend


    Exhausted in mind, spirit and body, Tyron made sure he didn¡¯t block the direct route from the rift to the vige on the way down the mountain. He¡¯d done enough for them, pushing to the rift itself on his own had been an insane risk to take. In no condition to fight, he took his time on the descent, replenishing his reserve of magick and giving his aching muscles a chance to recover.


    As a consequence, the descent was far more rxing than the ascent had been, though it was difficult for him to enjoy it. Every step brought him closer to the cave, which meant closer to the moment he would part with Dove forever.


    The Summoner¡¯s time locked inside his skull had never been intended to be permanent, but after all this time, Tyron hoped he would be able to persuade his mentor and friend to stick around. Obviously that had failed.


    It didn¡¯t help that Dove was humming gleefully to himself, even mumbling the lyrics to a particrly bawdy song as he dangled from Tyron¡¯s belt. A little miffed, Tyron thought it wouldn¡¯t hurt the prick to act at least a little sad to be parting from him, but then again, from Dove¡¯s perspective, he was being released from servitude beyond death.


    Slow and careful, he picked his way down the slope, heavy feelings weighing on his chest. Rift-kin trickled down the mountain to his right, but he let them be.


    The descent was slow, even slower than the ascent had been, and Tyron hated every minute of it.


    When the more familiarndmarks around his cave came into sight, he sighed in resignation. He didn¡¯t know what he¡¯d been hoping for, but the proximity of the camp meant his time had run out, much to Dove¡¯s delight.


    With nothing else to do, he set his minions to guard the cave, setting a perimeter and distributing his ghosts. After a moment¡¯s thought, he sent one of the spirits into the cave to ensure it was empty.


    When it was confirmed uninhabited, he sighed and began to descend the final few steps, not really wanting to think about what came next.


    ¡°Any idea where a spirit goes after it¡¯s set free?¡± Dove asked. ¡°I¡¯m sort of keen to find out. Hopefully somewhere with tits.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think spirits are conscious of their existence after death. I think they just hover about in limbo before dissipating.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s boring as fuck. I was a devout servant of the goddess my entire life. I <em>earned </em>a spot on those melons!¡±


    ¡°Did you actually think you¡¯d be able to grope Selene in the afterlife?¡±


    ¡°A priest assured me that was the case!¡±


    ¡°Was this a <em>reputable</em> priest?¡±


    ¡°I mean¡­ no? Come to think of it, he may not have been a priest. But it still counts!¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you¡¯re joking about dying.¡±


    The thought of death terrified Tyron, he had so many things left undone, yet he supposed Dove had lived to middle age, not a bad run for a yer.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been dead for months, Tyron,¡± Dove reminded him wryly. ¡°You just didn¡¯t let me settle into it. Time to rectify that mistake.¡±


    The young Mage was silent for a moment, then nodded. In his heart, he didn¡¯t believe he had been in error. Certainly, from Dove¡¯s point of view, he¡¯d done wrong, but without thepanionship and help from the skull-bound spirit, where would he be now? Whatever the case, it was over. Time to let go.


    ¡°Alright then. Let¡¯s get this done.¡±


    He reached down to untie the skull from his belt as he stepped down toward the entrance of the cave.


    Then he paused.


    With nonchnt ease, he continued to untie Dove from his waist with one hand, as his other flicked several sigils behind the cover of his body. As his sight became oveid with the vision of a spirit, he shouldered aside the nket and stepped into the cave.


    As always, it wasn¡¯t easy to see clearly when looking through a ghost, but it was good enough. A figure stood, leaning behind a tree, bow in hand, arrow drawn. Beside them, there was another, naked steel glittering off the bared sword they held loose and ready.


    ¡°Fuck,¡± Tyron cursed under his breath as he ended the spell.


    He snapped into action, gathering his pack and throwing it over his shoulder before he buckled it in ce and re-tied Dove to his belt.


    ¡°Hey, hey! What the fuck? What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°yers,¡± Tyron replied tersely and he finished the knot and his hands flickered into motion once more.


    ¡°Well shit. Quick, kill me first.¡±


    ¡°No time,¡± Tyron snapped before he began casting a spell.


    ¡°Don¡¯t give me that bullshit!¡± the skull raged, but the Necromancer was no longer listening.


    In his mind, he organised his troops, having them draw further up the mountain and a little closer to the cave without looking like he knew there were enemies about. In rapid session, he snapped out the spell and felt that strange sensation as a mask of magick settled over his face.


    It may do him no good at all, but if any of these hunters knew what he looked like then it may buy him a little time. Seeing that archer and swordsman huddled so close together brought Rufus and Laurel to mind. It could have been any two yers, but every time he¡¯d run into one of those individuals who made their living fighting the rifts, it had been a newly awakened who hadn¡¯t reached level twenty.


    What were the chances those two had hunted him down all the way out here?


    Preparationsplete, he pulled his cloak tight around his body to hide the bone armour and pulled the hood low over his disguised face.


    ¡°Shut up for a minute,¡± he growled at the skull on his belt and a miracle urred as Dove subsided, grumbling to himself.


    As his heart pounded in his chest, Tyron took a deep, steadying breath before he pushed aside the nket and stepped out, half expecting a flurry of arrows to bury themselves in his chest. When they didn¡¯t manifest, he turned swiftly, putting his pack between his hunters and his flesh before he began a rapid ascent.


    Ghosts drifted amongst the trees to his left and right. He was desperate to switch his vision with theirs once more, but he couldn¡¯t afford to stand still, and navigating the slope while oveying his eyes with theirs would be impossible.


    How many were there? Where were they hiding?


    If there was even one experienced, high rank yer here, he was a dead man. Even a decentlyrge number of untrained, newly awakened would be enough to take him down. He wasn¡¯t enough of a mountaineer to slip past them and flee down the path to the vige and beyond. With at least one Ranger out there, hiding from them at all was next to impossible.


    That left him with two possible ways off the mountain.


    The first: fight and kill all of his attackers.


    The second: flee into the rift.


    Both were likely a death sentence to attempt. Some rifts had multiple openings within the realm, and it was possible he could find his way to another exit. Or he could wind up on another world entirely, or he could be lost, stumbling between fallen realms, beset by kin on all sides, never knowing a moment of peace until he was overwhelmed.


    That was the more likely ending.


    Against an unknown quantity and quality of yers, he couldn¡¯t be sure what his odds would be in a direct confrontation, but they had to be better than chancing the rift.


    And Tyron was tired of running.


    Cragwhistle had needed help and he had provided it at great risk to himself. What was his reward? To be hunted down like a dog. For the crime of Awakening, he had been sentenced to a life of mediocrity.


    He wouldn¡¯t stand for it. There had never been a chance that he would.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to fight,¡± he ground out to Dove. ¡°I¡¯m going to fight and kill these arseholes, as many as I can.¡±


    The skull was silent on his waist. This was a new side to Tyron, a new resolve that he¡¯d never shown before. It sparked hope that the kid might just survive long enough to realise his insane potential. He was already the strongest non-branded yer in the province, and if he were to survive this, he would ascend to even greater heights.


    It was tempting. Very tempting. He wanted to see that happen, wanted to see if Tyron had what it took to really shake things up, give the Magisters a ck eye and go down swinging in a ze of glory. But it wasn¡¯t enough. He was too tired.


    ¡°If it looks like you¡¯ll lose, you know what you have to do. I don¡¯t want to be taken by them, kid. I¡¯ll be a disy piece in the bottom of a Magister¡¯s library for a thousand years. Don¡¯t let them do that to me.¡±


    There was a real note of fear in Dove¡¯s voice, and Tyron agreed without hesitation. No way he would let his friende to that. For now, though, he needed to focus.


    Unable to resist anymore, he spied arge, frost covered rock and stepped behind it to give himself cover before he employed minion sight once more.


    A little manoeuvring was necessary before the ghost spotted his attackers again. They¡¯d left the cave behind and were tracking him up the mountain, but it didn¡¯t seem as though they¡¯d realised he¡¯d seen them. He kept the undead spread apart rather than gathering them all together at his side as he wanted to. The moment they all appeared by his side, it would be obvious he expected to be attacked.


    There were other dangers, though. He pulled his sight back and nced nervously up the mountain. There weren¡¯t any kining down right now, but another pack couldn¡¯t be far away. They never were at this point.


    ¡°Freeze!¡± a voice rang out.


    Tyron nced up, careful to keep his face hidden under his hood, to see a young man rising from the slope, bow drawn and pointed at his chest.


    He slowly raised his hands into the air.


    <em>Ranger. Must have been lying in wait on the slope. Some sort of camouge skill. Might have been here for a while and I dodged theming down north of here.</em>


    Despite the fact they were almost undoubtedly the same age, Tyron couldn¡¯t help but think this yer looked so young. Behind the confident facade, he could see the fear and uncertainty bubbling away.


    ¡°Ever killed anyone?¡± he asked softly.


    The Ranger gripped his bow tighter.


    ¡°You have, you murd-¡±


    Arrows of bone sprouted from the archer¡¯s back, four of them. Eyes wide, the young yer stumbled forward, only to be sted backwards as two magick bolts struck him in the chest.


    Tyron lunged forward and after three strides he was on top of the Ranger, pinning his arms down as he coughed and sputtered, ribs partially caved in.


    <em>It¡¯ll take a bit of work to fix that up, but those bones heal easily</em>.


    Idle thoughts drifted through Tyron¡¯s mind as he executed his nextmand. He couldn¡¯t afford to have mercy. Not anymore.


    A momentter, his revenant was there, sword drawn. With no hesitation, the undead servant drove it down through the heart. The yer jerked for a moment, then grew still.


    Tyron pushed off the body and kept moving, not allowing himself to think.


    <em>Keep going,</em> he told himself. <em>Don¡¯t worry about it, just keep moving</em>.


    Desperate to put more distance between himself and the yers behind him, he pushed himself up the slope, urging greater effort from his worn and weary muscles. After days of little to no sleep, he was on the edge of what he could tolerate, but there was no letup in sight, not unless he was victorious here.


    Skeletons began to emerge from the scrub and trees, drawing closer and forming a protective ring around him. Immediately, he felt safer and less exposed. He heard movement behind him, but didn¡¯t turn to look, not even when the trilling sound of an arrow whistling through the air rang out, followed by the dull THUNK of the missile impacting a wooden shield.


    They were on him now, emerging from cover to approach and take shots. A dangerous moment, but for once, luck was on his side. Further up the mountain, glistening faintly in the dim light, he could see figures made entirely of ice stalking their way down the slope, a host of frost coated boar trotting at their feet.


    Perfect timing.


    Breaking from the pack, a single skeleton rushed forward as Tyron and the rest of his undead suddenly cut to his left. The moment the rift-kinid eyes on his servant they became enraged, rushing forward with death burning in their eyes.


    Light and swift, the skeleton turned on its bony heel and sprinted back down the mountain, leading the pack around Tyron and his group. Another missile mmed into a skeleton¡¯s shield and Tyron risked a nce downhill as he continued to hurry into cover.


    Further down the slope, a pack of three figures found the deceased yer where Tyron had left him, one kneeling to check the vitals.


    ¡°Tyron, you murderous piece of shit!¡± A familiar voice roared. ¡°Get out here so I can gut you!¡±


    Hearing that voice, here in this ce, was so jarring Tyron almost felt as if he had been knocked outside of his own body. Without being aware of it, his face twisted into a crooked grin.


    <em>You¡¯re next, friend.</em>


    Rufus had found him.

 Chapter B2C52 - Desperate Fight

    Chapter B2C52 - Desperate Fight


    As many as thirty rift-kin rampaged down the mountain, right on the heel-bones of Tyron¡¯s skeleton, directly into the faces of the yers. Tyron had just enough time to see the expressions on their faces before he slipped away behind the trees.


    Laurel, Rufus, and the archer he¡¯d let go. So she¡¯de back for his head after all. Once again, Tyron could onlyment what his mercy had bought him. He hadn¡¯t been wrong, yet time and time again, doing the right thing didn¡¯t yield any reward.


    A momentter, he lost contact with the skeleton as it was presumably cut in half by an irate Rufus. A worthy sacrifice. The rift-kin descended on the yers a momentter, buying him precious time.


    ¡°What now, kid?¡± Dove asked from his belt.


    ¡°I need to find out how many there are, look for opportunities, and move closer to the rift.¡±


    ¡°Good thinking.¡±


    If he was smart, the kin would add just enough chaos to keep him alive. If he was stupid, then he¡¯d die caught between raging monsters and yers.


    Once again, he turned up the slope and began to ascend. It was tempting to leave behind a few archers to take pot-shots at his once-friends, but he wanted to keep his forces together as much as possible. If another yer emerged, a small group of skeletons would be annihted in seconds.


    The sound of battle rang out behind him and Tyron grinned. That should pin them down and tire them out some. Perhaps it would even drag a few more out into the light¡­.


    Once he¡¯d gained another fifty metres, he pressed himself against a tree and checked on the fight through a ghost.


    A whirling melee was revealed, the details hazy, but the fric energy clear to see. Crucially, he could see that his gambit had indeed pulled at least another two yers out of cover to fight against the kin. He was up against at least five, but he couldn¡¯t think that was all of them.


    Coming back to himself, he pushed off the trunk and continued to move upward as he brought the rest of his ghosts towards him. Once they¡¯d gotten close enough, he spread them out in his wake. With a little luck, they¡¯d be able to spot anyoneing up the mountain behind him.


    Wary of being caught out again, he tried to keep a number of his skeletons in front, hoping they¡¯d spot another ambusher. To be fair, if another of his attackers decided to reveal themselves and not attack him, they¡¯d be doing him a favour.


    Despite his overwhelming fatigue, he made good time. His body must have be adjusted to being flooded with adrenaline. Any more excitement and it might be his natural state. Perhaps only his extreme constitution allowed him to endure it as well as he did.


    Mouth set in determination, he kept his legs moving, forced the strength through his knees and climbed. Not for the first time, he thanked himself for the wisdom of taking his best set of boots with him when setting out from home.


    ¡°Keep your eyes open, kid. They coulde at you from anywhere. Even up in the trees. And don¡¯t think they¡¯ll all be archers or swordsmen. Those aremon sses, but aren¡¯t all of them.¡±


    Dove murmured his advice, trying to keep any noise down, and Tyron did the same as he replied.


    ¡°Luckily, they¡¯ve all been low levelled, so far. The three we saw before were all newly awakened.¡±


    ¡°I have no fucking idea why they sent a bunch of children to hunt you down, but let¡¯s just be grateful for it.¡±


    ¡°Well, they also sent Magnin and Beory¡­.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true. I¡¯m guessing they don¡¯t give a shit how many of these kids you kill, seeing as you¡¯ll end up dead by your parents¡¯ hands no matter what.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a little grim to think about.¡±


    ¡°It is what it is. Look on the bright side, they¡¯re feeding you prime materials. If you can win this fight, you¡¯ll have some amazing revenants to work with.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s <em>also</em> grim to think about. You don¡¯t care that I¡¯m killing yers?¡±


    ¡°These aren¡¯t yers,¡± and for the first time, disgust could be heard in the skeleton¡¯s tone. ¡°These are bounty hunters, kid. After the kin were cleared up, they should have fucked off back to the academies and gotten back to training, drinking and screwing. They came out here to do the Magisters¡¯ bidding for a paycheck. Fuck ¡®em.¡±


    ¡°I think at least one of them came just because he hates my guts.¡±


    ¡°Why, what the fuck did you do?¡±


    Tyron thought for a moment.


    ¡°I was born a Sterm and he wasn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°... I suppose that¡¯s enough for some people. Stupid people.¡±


    Townsfolk in Foxbridge had been far too scared of his parents to ever be negative towards him, and that was something he¡¯d known well. Isting himself in his uncle¡¯s attic hadn¡¯t been his first choice, but it turned out to be the one which gave him the most peace. How many others had harboured anger and hate inside, like Rufus had?


    A pulse within his mind alerted Tyron that one of his ghosts had seen something. He crouched down and looked through its eyes for a moment. Three more, creeping up the slope behind him. It wasn¡¯t possible to make out much detail, but all three were armed in some fashion.


    ¡°Three more areing.¡±


    ¡°Fucking hell. What¡¯s the n?¡±


    ¡°Fight.¡±


    ¡°Alright then. Fuck ¡®em up.¡±


    There wasn¡¯t much time before they would catch up with him, so he couldn¡¯t n anything borate. His undead responded to his thoughts, shifting positions to hide themselves or create better angles. If all three of these were newly awakened, he¡¯d probably be alright. Probably.


    Time pressed down on him. These three would need to be dealt with quickly, before Rufus and the others were finished with the rift-kin. Anotheryer of difficulty for him to press through.


    Concealed behind an outcropping of stone, Tyron tried to steady his breath as he listened and waited. His breath steamed in the unnaturally chill air and his blood pounded in his ears. Around him, the undead stood silently at attention, awaiting hismands. His hands twitched, and he forced them to remain still, rather than start to cast anything.


    <em>Patience. Don¡¯t give yourself away.</em>


    Conversations with Magnin and Beory almost always wound their way back to fighting, regardless of where they started. The two yers were, unsurprisingly, full of incredible advice borne from their rather lofty level of expertise. His father in particr was keen to talk about mentality during a battle.


    <em>¡°Remember to take your time,¡± he¡¯d told Tyron sagely. The young boy had asked his father about a book he¡¯d wanted, and quickly found them discussing swordsmanship andbat. He didn¡¯t really mind, the stories he heard from his parents had been his favourite thing in the world as a child.</em>


    <em>¡°People always think the more skilled and higher levelled you get, the faster you move. That¡¯s </em>kind<em> of true, but it¡¯s also not. The real difference is that we take as much time as we¡¯re allowed. When we have a lot of time to make a decision, we take it. If we don¡¯t, we strike decisively. It¡¯s not about rushing, or going slowly, it¡¯s about taking the time that you have. Get it?¡±</em>


    Slow breath. In and out. Focus.


    He heard the yersing, though they tried to move quietly. Not every ss was suited to stealth, and at least two of these didn¡¯t seem to be rangers, judging by the noise they made. Tyron focused, moved his hands and conjured two magick bolts that he held ready in his hands. After counting to three, he leapt from cover and held both hands forward at the same time his skeletons revealed themselves, archers letting fly with a volley directly into the faces of the three yers.


    Tyron barely had time to register the three faces before he released his spells, preparing his next cast the moment they were free. Empowered by his Mysteries, every word he spoke crackled with power, hanging in the air like static after lightning. His fingers nimbly flickered from one sigil to the next in perfect harmony with his voice as he gave shape to the magick inside him. He couldn¡¯t afford to hold back, so he spent his energy freely, pouring it into the spell.


    The three yers responded to the sudden assault as if they¡¯d been expecting it. One rolled to the side with unnatural speed, de in hand, before she turned and rushed up the mountain toward him. Another held up a shield, letting the magick bolt and several arrows m into it as he braced himself against the barrage. The third shocked Tyron by conjuring an arcane barrier that absorbed his spell, and for a moment, he feared a fully-fledged mage was present. Then he saw their face and realised this was another student, no older than he was.


    A momentary sh of irrational anger almost caused Tyron to stumble in his spellwork, but he righted himself in time. For some reason, seeing a Mage student, here, hunting the bounty on his head in the middle of nowhere, when they could be advancing their craft in an academy, just as he had longed to do, left a bitter taste in his mouth.


    Letting the shield fall, the mage brought his hands up and began to cast. Even in the midst of his own spell, Tyron found time to examine the sloppy finger control and too wide hand motions. There was no effort at all to conceal the sigils! Tyron knew what spell wasing long before the trainee opened his mouth, actually <em>opened his mouth</em>, and said the name of the spell aloud.


    ¡°Magick bolt!¡±


    <em>No shit.</em>


    The spell mmed into an upraised shield a moment before Tyronpleted his own cast.


    <em>Shivering Curse</em>.


    Compared to when he had first learned it, the curse covered a muchrger area, and filled it with a more gripping cold than before. Combined with the already biting conditions, the zone within the curse was torturously cold. Even the swordsman, who had been nimbly sprinting up the slope a moment before, stumbled as her muscles were frozen stiff.


    Without hesitation, Tyron sent his revenants forward, backed by half of his remaining skeletons as he transitioned seamlessly into his next cast.


    Before she could recover, the sword wielding yer was beset by assants and shing rapidly to keep the undead at bay. More arrows were fired by the skeletal archers, forcing the shield-bearer, possibly some form of Defender ss, to cover the mage as he had already begun to summon another magick bolt.


    Tyron manipted his minions like a puppeteer, utilising the strengths of his Necromancer abilities to swarm his opponents. Skeletons feinted forward and sideways, baiting reactions from all sides as others stabbed forward, seeking to cut flesh. A separate detachment approached the mage and defender, leaving the angle open for the archers to support, they sought to harry the pair and prevent the mage from casting anything to swing the battle.


    <em>Not that they could. A Mage of that level should be mostly working on control, not broadening their spell base.</em>


    Beory oftenmented that her peerscked a proper grasp of fundamentals, despite spending years on them in training. Most magick based yers wouldn¡¯t start to learn proper offensive spells until after level twenty, choosing to shore up their control and reserves of energy through prudent Skill and Feat choices that would pay dividends down the line.


    His second spell nearedpletion and Tyron considered which target was a priority before he unleashed it. Decision made, he thrust a wed hand forward, sending a wave of death magick slithering through the air toward the defender.


    The defender tried to dodge, but wasn¡¯t quick enough as the curse and treacherous footing proved too much. With the target held within the grip of the spell and unable to move for precious few seconds, Tyron unleashed his next surprise.


    Slow moving, the ghosts shimmered through the cold air before they plunged into the struggling frame of the yer with savage glee. The man stiffened, gasping for air, before even breathing became impossible. By the time Death¡¯s Grasp dissipated, he was gone, and two opponents remained.

 Chapter B2C53 - How Many?

    Chapter B2C53 - How Many?


    He¡¯d miscalcted, he realised almost immediately. He shouldn¡¯t have looked down on the Mage so much. He should have feared the swordswoman, his natural enemy, so much more.


    As the defender breathed hisst, the mage, shaken and white-faced, unleashed a st of magick, not to save himself from the surrounding skeletons, but at those attacking his ally. A raw magick spell, unrefined and inefficient, it didn¡¯t damage the undead who had cornered the swordswoman, but it did knock them back.


    By the time he saw what had happened, the yer was already moving. Forcing the muscles in her legs to move, she threw herself up the slope in a mad scramble, catching herself on her free hand every time she stumbled. Even hampered as she was, her ascent was rapid.


    <em>Not this again¡­</em> Tyron thought, the memory of pain ring in his side.


    Precious few skeletons remained by his side at this moment, and he desperately summoned his best revenant back to defend him. The undead shed up the mountain, its bony legs unburdened by great weight, guided by the Skills of the yer it had been in life.


    Not fast enough.


    Tyron was dimly aware of the mage sumbing to the skeletons that surrounded him, stabbed a dozen times over, but all his focus was on the sword in the hand of the yer rushing toward him.


    Should he draw his own weapon? In the current conditions, crossing des with an actual Awakened weapon handler seemed foolish at best, so he thrust the idea away and tried to conjure two magick bolts. The Shivering Curse bought him just enough time toplete the cast, but at that moment, the swordswoman shed out, forcing his hands up.


    Before he could mentally adjust and release the spells, the sword snapped back before it snaked toward his heart.


    In a split second that froze him with terror, Tyron believed he was dead, before he jerked roughly to the side. Even that wouldn¡¯t have been enough if not for the bone armour that covered his chest. ttened out, the gaps between the ribs had been narrowed, and by some miracle, the sword failed to find the narrow opening. Instead, the ice cold steel deflected before it crunched through the bone and into his flesh.


    Searing pain shed through Tyron and he hissed through clenched teeth. His left arm hung loose but his right responded and he brought it around to unleash a st of magick directly in the yer¡¯s face.


    Three things happened at once. The bolt took the yer in the side of the head as she pulled away, twisting the sword in his shoulder as she did so. As the weapon pulled free, Tyron felt a maddening itch around the wound as <em>something</em> infused the area.


    Whatever it was, it wasn¡¯t enough to prevent him roaring in pain as he fell to his knees, good arm clutching at the bleeding hole in him.


    ¡°Ahhhh, fuck,¡± he panted.


    Drain Life had healed him, he realised. Not much, but a little of the damage he¡¯d caused hade back to him as healing.


    ¡°You alright, kid? I can¡¯t see from down here.¡±


    ¡°Not really, I got stabbed.¡±


    ¡°<em>Again</em>? You¡¯re starting to make a habit of it. If you begin feeling like you enjoy it, then you have a problem. Don¡¯t let this awaken something in you.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove,¡± Tyron ground out. ¡°I¡¯m in serious pain here.¡±


    ¡°Some people love that shit, that¡¯s all I¡¯m saying.¡±


    The yer stilly where she had fallen, with half a dozen sword tips pressed against her. The bolt to the head had stunned her, and she groaned woozily as Tyron forced himself to his feet, hand pressed into his wound to slow the bleeding.


    <em>Don¡¯t think about it. Just do it and move on. Don¡¯t you dare think, not for a second. I¡¯m </em>not<em> going to die here.</em>


    With a grimace, he pulled his hand away and began to form a new bolt. Despite his fingers being dyed red with his own blood, he performed the motions wlessly, firing the bolt into the listless yer on the ground. The magick impacted with a solid <em>crack</em>, loud enough to make him wince, and another trickle of healing seeped into his injury.


    Another bolt, another small burst of healing. The fourth yielded him nothing. She was dead.


    <em>Don¡¯t think about it.</em>


    He repeated the words like a mantra in his head as he turned and began to walk up the slope once more. If he could find some rift kin, it may be actually worth fighting them to help close his wound.


    Hand shaking, he raised it to the puncture and checked. Blood still flowed from it, but not nearly as aggressively. He could take his pack off and pull out a cloth to bind it, but once he¡¯d taken it off, would he be able to get it back on again? Hepromised by clumsily slicing a corner off his cloak and jamming it through the gaps in his bone armour to help stem the flow.


    Once again, he was forced to rely on his unnatural toughness to survive. Wounds that would have crippled an unawakened could be shrugged off, but that didn¡¯t mean it was pleasant. Was it possible for him to shrug off a gaping hole in his shoulder? Unlikely. He¡¯d need more healing if he could get it.


    Almost longingly, he nced up the mountain to see if any rift-kin were stumbling downhill in his direction, but there were none. If he could st a few with spells, he felt sure they¡¯d provide that little jolt of energy he needed. Although, that called another thing into question. How much magick did he have left?


    ¡°Damnit,¡± he groaned involuntarily.


    ¡°What now?¡±


    ¡°Running low on magick. Moving my minions around this much is sapping me constantly.¡±


    ¡°You could stand your ground and fight. How many more are there?¡±


    ¡°At least five.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ shit.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t let them take me, kid.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t.¡±


    If they continued toe for him in small groups, he could pick them off, but if he stayed put, there was a chance they¡¯d surround him and fight together.


    In one scenario, he was disadvantaged, in the other, he was certainly dead. He continued to climb.


    After another hundred metres of arduous steps, each sending pain shooting through his torso, he did run into a small pack of kin. For once, he was d to see the tough little boar monsters and flung a few bolts at them, feeling that slight trickle of healing each time. Of course, the beasts rushed at his skeletons the moment he hit the first one, so there weren¡¯t many opportunities tond clean spells. Three was all he could manage before the undead finished them off. When he pulled the cloth from behind his bone ting, it was soaked in red and dripping, but it did feel as though the bleeding may have stopped.


    He let the cloth fall to the frost covered ground and tried to flex his left hand. Thankfully, some feeling was returning and his fingers responded, curling into a fist, though he was careful not to force too hard.


    <em>It¡¯s fine</em>, he told himself, <em>you¡¯re fine. Keep going.</em>


    In reality, his legs felt as heavy as lead, and the warm blood that had leaked from his wound and soaked into his shirt was rapidly freezing, chilling him to the bone. He pushed it from his mind. He would endure worse before the day was done.


    One leg in front of the other, he pushed himself forward, surrounded by the remaining undead hemanded. Silent and uining, they responded to his will and remained in lockstep by his side. Despite their mindless obedience, he found their presence afort. A thought crossed his mind and he gave a pained chuckle.


    ¡°Something funny? I could use augh,¡± Dove said.


    ¡°Just thought of what I was told when I Awakened.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°The voice said I had a desire to control everyone around me. I was just thinking how nice it is to have these undead with me, and it reminded me of that moment. I didn¡¯t think it really applied to me at the time, but perhaps I was wrong.¡±


    Dove contemted his words before replying.


    ¡°Kid, the voice is full of shit. Don¡¯t pay any attention to it.¡±


    ¡°You know who it is?¡± Tyron panted as he pushed hard to step up arge stone.


    ¡°No, of course not, but I know it¡¯s full of bollocks. yers love to talk about what they heard in the Awakening, and most of it is just bullshit. I¡¯ve heard all sorts of rubbish about virtuous sons and daughters, or wise sages or gant bulwarks, and all of them were thugs, morons and cowards. The voice is just spitting nonsense. I don¡¯t think it knows anything about us.¡±


    ¡°What did it say to you?¡±


    Tyron winced as he continued to climb in silence, waiting for his friend to reply.


    ¡°It told me I was a good teacher.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ I can -¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    This ascent was so much worse than thest, but at least he hadn¡¯t had to deal with as many kin on the way up. Leading thest surge into Rufus and Laurel had bought him a huge amount of time, and he used it to get as close to the rift as he could.


    Of course, moving at the slow pace he was, it was inevitable that someone would catch up.


    ¡°This is the prick? Thought he¡¯d be bigger¡­.¡±


    The voice was older, rough, and the moment he heard it, Tyron feared a real yer hade for him. He turned slowly to see a short, squat man with a stained cloak looking up at him.


    ¡°Two hundred sovereigns for your head, Tyron Sterm. Good price for a mewling twat fresh off the apron strings, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    Tyron raised his right hand, ready to cast, but to his surprise, the man took a step back and raised his own palms out.


    ¡°Whoa there. I¡¯m just the nanny, here to supervise. The academies want the students to put you down before mommy and daddy find you, since you went and killed one of their own. You¡¯ve no need to fear old Brun.¡±


    The Necromancer rxed a touch before Dove spoke up.


    ¡°Don¡¯t fall for this rubbish, kid. He¡¯ll take his shot after all the students are dead. Right? You walking talking pile of pig shit?¡±


    ¡°That skull talks too much. In any case, I¡¯ve got a few students to point in your direction. Don¡¯t mind me.¡±


    The man chuckled before he slid behind a tree and vanished from Tyron¡¯s sight. Some Skill or ability, not one that he recognised.


    ¡°Well that¡¯s perfect,¡± he groaned.


    ¡°Forget that fat fuck. Keep moving, the others will be on us soon.¡±


    Much too soon, as it turned out. An arrow streaked through the air, almost soundless, passed not two feet in front of Tyron''s face before it mmed into a tree trunk. Buried two inches deep, the arrow vibrated with a deep hum that ached the mages teeth.


    ¡°Shit!¡±


    He dove to the ground and his skeletons stepped up, shields at the ready a moment before another two projectiles streaked through the air where he¡¯d been standing. Shoulder throbbing, Tyron forced himself up off the ground. If he didn¡¯t break their line of sight, his undead would be shot to bits until they ran out of arrows or he ran out of minions.


    Though he tried to spy the archers through the trees, he saw nothing. An ambush, then.


    Though, if he had to guess, this was likely Laurel and the other archer at work, the one he¡¯d captured in the past. Which meant Rufus would be with them. If he knew that idiot at all, he¡¯d show himself before long. That would be the moment to strike.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Tyron urged himself. ¡°Just a little further. Then we can finish it.¡±


    At least his ghosts weren¡¯tgging behind, a minor benefit to his slow pace. With a thought, he spread them throughout the trees, hunting for the archers who continued to let fly with their bows, trying to snipe him or pick off his minions.


    Soon, they¡¯d have to confront him. He was getting too close to the rift. If he slipped through, there was no way a group of trainees would follow. He¡¯d force them out into the open, then he would kill them.

 Chapter B2C54 - Death Surrounds

    Chapter B2C54 - Death Surrounds


    Cold air rasped in Tyron¡¯s lungs as he forced himself further up the mountain. Covered by his shield-bearing skeletons, each step was a danger as arrows continued to shoot through the air,ing close to piercing him on several asions.


    If Laurel was one of those shooters, then she¡¯d clearly improved a lot since he¡¯dst seen her. It was only natural, that¡¯s what Awakening did for you. One day a normal person, a potential superhuman the next. His ability and capacity to wield magick had grown by leaps and bounds, it stood to reason that her archery and tracking skills would make a simr leap.


    Whatever the reason, it didn¡¯t bother him that Laurel had turned up for the price on his head. Knowing her as he did, he understood there was no malice in the decision. Likely she needed money and this was an opportunity to get it. Get a <em>lot</em> of it, if that man was to be believed. Two hundred sovereigns? An absolute fortune, enough for an entire yer team to live like merchant princes for a year or more.


    That didn¡¯t mean he would spare her. The more arrows rained down on him, the more he wished he had a revenant who could do the same.


    <em>You wouldn¡¯t hold a grudge, would you, Laurel? It¡¯s just the most practical thing for me to do¡­.</em>


    A grim thought, but not an inurate one. She probably <em>would</em> hold a grudge, but since she was actively trying to kill him, Tyron could get over that.


    ¡°Hah!¡±


    Tyron turned as he heard someone shout and charge from the trees to his left. A staff wielder, judging by the long weapon he held in his hands, possibly some sort of Striker ss? Hemanded a group of skeletons to approach, backed by one of his weaker revenants. Surely this guy hadn¡¯t just charged out on his own. Tyron wouldn¡¯tmit too much until the others revealed themselves.


    <em>Thunk! Thunk!</em>


    Arrows continued to thud into the shields covering the right side of his body. Was this a coordinated attack between Rufus¡¯ group and another? Or had the hunters descended into chaos and engaged in a free for all?


    The Necromancer grit his teeth as he tried to decide how to deploy his minions, but his hand was quickly forced. It turned out that the staff wielder was <em>incredibly</em> effective against his skeletons, keeping them back with long and wide sweeps of his weapon. That was bad enough, but he interwove sharp whipping motions that shattered bones entirely when they connected, cripping several of the undead.


    Tyron would have to step in to protect his minions, which meant investing further magick and attention when others could be trying to strike at his back.


    ¡°How many of you <em>are</em> there?¡± Tyron grated as he prepared his next spell. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be training to kill rift-kin?¡±


    The staff-wielder took a graceful step back and smirked.


    ¡°Only an idiot talks in a fight,¡± he said.


    Tyron stared at him.


    <em>You¡¯re talking right now¡­.</em>


    <em>Suppress Mind.</em>


    Cheaper and faster than Death¡¯s Grasp, the Necromancer battered into the yer''s mind like a cudgel through a ss window. Fueled by his pain and desperation, he crushed the man¡¯s will in a grip of iron, freezing him on the spot before his skeletons stepped forward to finish the job. des stabbed forward, biting into the yer¡¯s flesh, but Tyron was flung from his trance before they couldplete their strikes.


    A powerful impact mmed into his back and he lurched forward, the concentration required to maintain the spell snapping in an instant. A new pain blossomed as he fell forward onto his hands, groaning. A momentter, his skeletons huddled tighter around him, covering his prone form.


    Saved at thest moment, the staff yer twisted away from the skeletons and rolled backwards, putting some space between himself and the undead. Blood poured from several wounds on his arms and chest, which he quickly assessed with his free hand.


    ¡°He has some kind of mental attack!¡± the yer called, before he retreated out of Tyron¡¯s reach, staggering clear of the fighting.


    <em>No you don¡¯t.</em>


    A ghost drifted after him, sliding through the trees and brush, waiting for him to rest. The moment he fell still, the ghost would pounce. That was the best the young mage could do in the moment; he had bigger trouble to deal with.


    Reaching back with one hand, he felt the shaft of an arrow jutting from between the tes covering his ribs, close to his spine. Once again, the bone armour had saved the day, preventing the arrow from prating too deep and puncturing a lung.


    <em>I am definitely investing in advanced bone armour after this,</em> Tyron promised himself, <em>I don¡¯t care what people think, I¡¯ll cover myself head to toe in bones if it keeps me alive.</em>


    He couldn¡¯t reach it properly, so he ordered a skeleton to grasp the shaft and rip it from his body, groaning in pain as it did. Fresh, hot blood leaked from the open wound, seeping into his clothes and cooling rapidly.


    <em>Just perfect</em>.


    The angle of the arrow, though¡­.


    As he pushed himself up from the ground, he paused in the act of rising to his feet and looked behind him, not down the slope, but up in the trees.


    His gaze met Laurel¡¯s as she peered at him down the length of a fresh arrow, drawn and ready to loose from her position on a sturdy branch.


    <em>Thought so</em>.


    His hand flicked and the magick bolt he¡¯d prepared shot forward, causing Laurel to jump up to avoid the strike. Except he hadn¡¯t been aiming for her, but the branch beneath her feet.


    The spell mmed into the wood with an audible <em>crack</em>, and when the Ranger¡¯s weightnded back on the branch, it broke, sending her tumbling to the ground. It was a five metre drop, enough to kill if shended poorly, and for an instant, something gripped Tyron¡¯s heart, but he released it just as quickly. This wasn¡¯t in his control anymore. It hadn¡¯t been for a long time.


    In the end, it didn¡¯t matter. Laurel adjusted gracefully as she fell,nding on both feet and executing a roll to absorb the force. She came up, bow in hand, ready to fire, but he was ready for her.


    <em>Suppress Mind.</em>


    Low levelled and without the mental fortitude he had been forced to train, there was no chance a Ranger could possibly resist his mental assault. He sted through her defences and held her still.


    True to her nature, she railed against his control, squirming, kicking and writhing furiously within his grasp, but it wasn¡¯t nearly enough.


    A nearby ghost drifted close, a malicious grin on its ethereal features and it plunged into her, freezing her from within.


    ¡°No you don¡¯t!¡± Rufus roared as he sprinted into view, scooping Laurel up and running clear.


    Tyron broke off the spell with a curse before he staggered.


    <em>Can¡¯t afford to keep letting them get away. They¡¯re draining me slowly</em>.


    Although he possessed unnatural endurance, there was only so much blood he could lose. Fatigued before the fight had started, now he was almost utterly spent. A headache pounded in his temples and his breath wheezed in his lungs. The longer this went on, the worse his position would be.


    Hanging over his head was the awareness that Laurel, Rufus and the rest weren¡¯t even the strongest opponent. Waiting for them to fail was that man, Brun, who was at least a Bronze ranked yer, someone with actual levels and trained Skills.


    ¡°How could you, Tyron?¡± Rufus bellowed from behind cover as Laurel shivered in his arms. ¡°You heartless fuck!¡±


    ¡°You <em>cannot</em> be serious,¡± Tyron groaned. ¡°She put an arrow in my fucking back. Are you a child?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s not a murderous <em>cunt</em> on the run from thew.¡±


    ¡°So, what? You want me to just stand here and die? Maybe just lie down while you run me through and get rich? I can¡¯t believe you¡¯re still this stupid, Rufus.¡±


    ¡°He really is,¡± Dove agreed, piping up from Tyron¡¯s belt. ¡°I¡¯ve seen some fucking morons in my life, <em>believe</em> me, but this guy is a whole new level. News sh, idiot. When you try to kill someone, they fight back!¡±


    The young swordsman stuck his head out from behind the rock he¡¯d been crouched behind, murder written all over his face.


    ¡°You¡¯re fucking dead today, Tyron. I¡¯m going to gut you like a FISH!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure mommy¡¯s proud of you, Rufus. Her jaw is probably busted, so she can¡¯t say it, but she¡¯s proud.¡±


    ¡°YOU FUCK!¡±


    Rufus roared in mad rage and lunged out to charge straight at the Necromancer and Tyron had to fight to keep the smug grin off his face as he formed two magick bolts in his hands.


    He let them fly, expecting them to take Rufus straight in the chest, but Laurel leapt out to tackle the Swordsman before he could really get going, forcing him to tumble to the ground as the spells whizzed over his head.


    <em>Shit. More magick wasted.</em>


    He couldn¡¯t hear what Laurel said as she growled at her lover and hauled him back behind the rock, but it was probably simr to what Tyron himself had mentioned.


    ¡°You could always just run, Laurel,¡± Tyron called as he redistributed his remaining skeletons, ensuring he was covered from archer fire and resumed his slow march up the mountain. ¡°Hard to spend money when you¡¯re dead!¡±


    There was zero chance he could persuade Rufus to back down. That prick had hated him since they were children. Combined with an overblown sense of his own ability, the idiot probably thought he could beat Tyron if he was the only yer here. If Tyron killed him and spoke to his ghost, Rufus would still call him names and use him of cheating, he was a lost cause.


    Laurel, though, she was only here for easy money. If he convinced her there was no money, or that he was a genuine risk to her life, she would bail.


    ¡°You guys know there¡¯s a new rift forming here, right? You fought the kin. Go and report it to the yers. There may even be a reward in that! Isn¡¯t it your damn job to protect the civilians and all that?¡±


    ¡°Someone already went back,¡± Laurel called up at him. He could hear the wry amusement in her voice, despite the fact he¡¯d almost killed her only moments ago.


    She knew what he was trying to do.


    ¡°That means one of you was smart.¡±


    He could¡¯ve rushed down to fight, try and finish them off, but Tyron was still wary. At least one more yer was out there, the archer, along with the staff wielder, who hadn¡¯t been caught yet. He couldn¡¯t be too cautious, one mistake would mean his death. Especially since he was wounded already.


    Not for the first time, he wished he had more mage candy on hand. It would be dangerous, and he¡¯d risk poisoning himself were he to take it, but he¡¯d rather do that than run dry of magick. That would be an instant death sentence.


    Briefly, he considered taunting his old friends a little more, but gave it up as a waste of time. Even breathing was bing difficult and he didn¡¯t have the energy to spare. Maybe Rufus would be dumb enough to fall for it twice, but Laurel surely wouldn¡¯t.


    ¡°Hold it together, kid. You¡¯ve almost won,¡± Dove whispered from his waist.


    Tyron nodded and forced himself to keep pushing. If he could get a bit closer to the rift, then he could set up a defensive position, tend to his wounds and try to recover some energy. As long as he avoided having to fight anyrge pack of kin who came through, he¡¯d be in a good spot. That close to escape, the yers would have to attack or risk letting him slip through their fingers. If they weren¡¯t prepared to fight him when so many kin were around, then he could recuperate and go on the offensive.


    He was close now. Very close.


    The air felt charged, and he knew he would cross into the brokennds any second. Another advantage. He¡¯d experienced the disorienting effect of being close to a rift, but he doubted any of these yers-in-training had.


    ¡°Now!¡± someone called, and Tyron turned to his right to see one of his skeletons sent flying. The undead arced gracefully through the air andnded in a shattered heap five metres from where it had started, revealing a leather armoured yer with a sturdy shield in one hand and a solid mace in the other charging toward him.


    <em>Blood and bone, you have to be kidding me!</em>


    The sight of the bull-charging yer wasn¡¯t what shocked him, but the pearly shimmer of magick around him was. Tyron wasn¡¯t an expert, but he suspected he knew what that kind of spell was. Dove confirmed it a momentter.


    ¡°A <em>force </em>mage? Why in the flying <em>fuck</em> would a <em>force</em> mage be out here?¡±


    Enhanced by the spell covering him, the armoured yer rushed forward, battering his skeletons out of the way in a violent charge. Clearly, he intended to remove the problem at the source.


    Tyron was frozen. He could deal with the attacker, but where was the mage? Where was the archer?


    His moment of indecision almost cost him his life, but he threw himself aside at thest second, recovering just in time to whip out his sword and clumsily parry the mace before it could crunch his skull in.

 Chapter B2C55 - The Edge

    Chapter B2C55 - The Edge


    The heavy mace knocked Tyron aside as his arm bent into his body and absorbed the force of the blow. Once he had his bnce back, he tried to execute a counter-sh as hemanded his minions to support him.


    The armoured yer had the time to look offended by Tyron¡¯s sloppy technique before he batted the sword aside with his shield and bulled forward, shoulder lowered. He crashed into the Necromancer''s chest as two bone arrows shattered against the protective magick that covered him and Tyron fell down the slope, the air rushing out of his lungs.


    <em>Fuck, that hurt</em>!


    Luckily, his bone-armour protected him from the worst of the fall, but the impact still jolted him. A spike of pain from his chest caused him to wince and Tyron wondered if he¡¯d broken a rib. No time to worry about it, he levered himself back to his feet and adjusted his grip on the sword. Thankfully, his minions had managed to cover him, preventing the yer from taking advantage while he was on the ground. His archers continued to pelt him with arrows, but thebination of full-body leather armour and the force magick covering him meant the projectiles were barely noticeable.


    Thankfully, the spears and swords of his skeletons were more threatening, but not so much that they could hurt him seriously.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got to find the mage and kill the fucker!¡± Dove shouted from his belt. ¡°He¡¯s maintaining that force-armour from somewhere nearby. Get him!¡±


    <em>Like it¡¯s that easy.</em>


    Of course, the mage would be easier to kill than this yer, but Tyron had to defend himself against this human wrecking ball while searching. With a flick of his Will, he sent his ghosts drifting through the trees, looking for the target as he focused his attention on the armoured yer. With his sword gripped in his right hand, Tyron pulled a magick bolt together in his left. With a blunt, cracking sound, a skull exploded as the mace connected, barely slowing down as it passed through the bone.


    Tyron sted the bolt forward with his left as he circled around the fight. His opponent saw the spelling and caught it on his shield, but it was enough of a distraction that several blows fell on him from the surrounding skeletons. He could¡¯ve pushed forward, trying to take advantage of the moment, but he was wary. There were archers out there, and Rufus. If he showed his back, he was likely to start sprouting arrows, or get run through. Instead, he took a few precious seconds to nce around the trees and rocks that surrounded him on the slope. That prick of a mage had to be somewhere around here¡­.


    To his surprise, one of the ghosts reported that it¡¯d seen something. Although it was a risk, Tyron snapped his vision to that of the spectre for just a second, and despaired at what he saw.


    He¡¯d found the force mage, it was Brun. The dishevelled, unkempt yer stood beside a curled tree trunk, hands aglow with power, a sly grin on his face.


    <em>This prick¡­. He must be double dipping. If this kid kills me, then he splits the bounty, if he fails, he can have another shot after I¡¯m worn out.</em>


    That ruled out being able to kill him. At the very least, Brun was a bronze yer, the same rank as Tyron himself. Force Mage may not even be his main ss, but a supplementary one he picked to support from the backline. It was too much of a risk to rush over and engage him inbat; for now, he had to deal with the weaker targets.


    Not that the armoured-yer appeared that much weaker. He¡¯d smashed another skeleton apart as Tyron had manoeuvred and used Minion Sight, his mace proving to be extremely effective against the undead fighters. With the force magick protecting him, he could leave himself open to strikes without worry,shing out with ferocious force.


    Whatever his ss was, it clearly focused on strength.


    With a flex of his Will, Tyron deliberately opened a gap between himself and the yer, which his opponent took at the first opportunity, rushing forward with preternatural speed, shield forward and mace raised to strike.


    Working his magick as fast as he ever had, Tyron formed a magick bolt in his left hand, and loosened his grip slightly around the hilt of his de to form another in his right palm. As the yer charged, he sted him with the spell from his left. Reacting immediately, the yer shifted his shield and blocked with ease, which was the cue for Tyron to drop his sword and thrust his other hand forward.


    Taken by surprise, his foe reacted well, but at such short range, he had almost no time, his weapon was already raised to strike. The bolt collected him right in the centre of his chest, halting his momentum and driving his armour back into his flesh.


    <em>How do you like it, bastard?</em>


    Before he could recover, Tyron snapped his hands and brought two more bolts into existence, thrusting his hands forward and releasing them at once. Despite being stunned, the yer still managed to take one on his shield, but the other mmed into his shoulder, causing the force magick to re as he spun and rolled down the hill.


    At the same moment, exquisite pain red in Tyron¡¯s leg and he copsed into the slope, grasping at his left calf. His questing fingers found themselves curled around the shaft of an arrow buried an inch into the meat of the muscle.


    ¡°Argh, <em>fuck</em>!¡± he cursed, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.


    ¡°Come on Tyron, you have to get up.¡±


    ¡°I <em>know</em> that.¡±


    The words were forced between clenched teeth, but in truth, he felt like sobbing. He was in more agony now than he¡¯d ever endured in his life, and the fight was far from done.


    He had tomit, there wasn¡¯t time to hold back. As he rolled in the dirt, fumbling for his sword, he sent all of his revenants down the slope to deal with the armoured-yer. He couldn¡¯t fight him, and avoid the archers at the same time, the man had to die.


    The three skeletons, magick zing in the circle of their rib-cages, rushed down the mountain and pounced on the recovering yer, hammering him with their weapons. Tyron¡¯s hand closed around the hilt of his de and hauled it over before he seized the shaft of the arrow with his free hand.


    With one sharp, chopping motion, he severed the wooden shaft, sending a fresh wave of pain racing up his leg. He stifled a groan, hoping his shield skeletons were covering him well enough to prevent another arrow.


    He reached out a hand to take hold of an undead and used it to pull himself to his feet, leaning on his own minion to keep his bnce. Down the slope, he could see Rufus and Laurel beginning to make their way forward, but he ignored them for the moment, focusing his attention on the armoured yer.


    His archers continued to fire upon the man, the impacts causing the magick to re and spark around him, dimmer and dimmer each time. If he could keep up the assault for a little longer¡­. He looked inward at his magick reserves and nched. He was running so low.


    Instead of unleashing Death¡¯s Grasp, as he¡¯d intended, he prepared another two magick bolts, letting his skeletons prop him up to free his hands.


    He waited for a moment to strike as his three revenants continued to harry the yer,shing out, faster and stronger than his normal skeletons. They were also more expensive to maintain, those quick movementsing at the cost of greater magick demand. It wouldn¡¯t be long until he ran outpletely.


    <em>There!</em>


    An opportunity came. The yer, tired of being beaten on, rushed to his right, knocking away the strike of a revenant with his shield and allowing his force magick to take the strikes of the others. With a wild bellow, heshed out with his mace, crushing the revenant¡¯s skull with one mighty blow.


    At the same moment, the glow of magick around him flickered out, and Tyron thrust both his hands forward. Nearby, Brun cursed as a sensation of unfathomable cold attacked him from the inside, shocking him out of maintaining his spell. He could <em>feel</em> a malicious will coiling inside him as it sought to ravage his flesh, and he recognised it for what it was. He rolled to his right and leapt, putting some distance between himself and the spirit before he turned and sted it with a spell. The ghost shrieked in pain before it slid into the tree, where he couldn¡¯t harm it.


    Two magick bolts mmed into the armoured yer''s chest, sending him reeling backwards. Tyron¡¯s best revenant, the former swordsman, was too quick to miss an opportunity like that. The skeleton lunged forward, de whispering through the air like the promise of death before it slid between ribs and cored the yer''s heart like an apple.


    Another arrow snapped towards Tyron from the shadows and was caught on a shield, his minion shifting to block it at thest moment. That opened a path for the second, which shed through the air and buried itself in his shoulder.


    Tyron¡¯s vision went ck for a moment as the excruciating pain overwhelmed his consciousness for a brief moment. He forced himself to focus, driving the darkness away with his will.


    He would <em>not</em> fall here.


    ¡°Fucking shit, kid. Stop getting shot!¡±


    ¡°I <em>know</em>.¡±


    The bolts he¡¯d hit the yer with had helped heal him, but it was only a fraction of what he needed. Now he had a fresh injury on top of that, and he was struggling even to breathe.


    <em>Pull it out</em>.


    His silentmand to a skeleton caused it to reach out and wrench the arrow from his shoulder. Tyron bit back a scream of pain as the arrowhead pulled free, tearing muscle as it went. This area was too open, and his skeletons were getting picked off. If he wasn¡¯t careful, he wouldn¡¯t have enough to cover him from archer fire at all, at which point, they could pick him off at their leisure. He needed to get higher up the mountain, therger rock formations closer to the rift would cover him.


    At least there weren¡¯t many opponents left. There shouldn¡¯t be. As far as he knew, there were only four. Laurel, the other archer, Rufus and Brun.


    It was getting difficult to think through the agony and fatigue, but Tyron managed to regather his undead and begin to climb, or hop, up the mountain once more. His archer skeletons fired down on Laurel and Rufus whenever they could see them, trying to hamper their progress. The two approached cautiously, conscious that Tyron was injured, and worn out.


    In truth, they were confused he hadn¡¯t fallen over already. After the prolonged fighting, he should have lost all his magick long ago, and after being injured as much as he had, he should have copsed, or died. Tyron¡¯s unnaturally strong constitution was allowing him to endure far more punishment than a person should be able to, and he leaned on that to push himself forward.


    In the distance, he could see the boundary of the brokennds approaching as the temperature continued to drop. The rift was close now, and the likelihood of him running into kin was getting higher. He had to be careful, but he was so damn tired. Every step he took was agony, and focusing through the pain sapped his willpower.


    Part of him wanted to quit, to just fall over and let it all go, but the greater part refused to let that prick Rufus win. Even if Tyron died on this mountain, he was determined to take Rufus down with him.


    The yers were cautious, and kept their distance as Tyron continued his slow climb. At any moment, they expected him to fall, but to their shock, the huddled skeletons and the hunched figure in their midst continued to ascend, one step at a time.


    ¡°What do you think we do?¡± Rufus asked Laurel in a hushed tone. ¡°Should we rush him? He¡¯s getting close to that rift.¡±


    Laurel bit her lip as she considered, her dark eyes watching Tyron with unblinking focus.


    ¡°He can¡¯t have much left in him,¡± she said. ¡°I say we wait until he gets up there and then we hit him from the nk. The only way things go wrong is if we get caught out by the rift-kin.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s probably his n, the slippery prick,¡± Rufus eye¡¯s glinted in anger, and Laurel resisted the urge to roll hers.


    No matter what Tyron did, Rufus would use him of acting poorly, or unsportsmanlike, as if that mattered in a fight to the death. His anger at Tyron was so ingrained and warped, he was incapable of thinking straight where his old rival came into the picture.


    ¡°Focus,¡± she warned him. ¡°He¡¯s fighting for his life, so he¡¯s capable of anything. If we¡¯re cautious, we get the bounty without much risk. If we stuff around, he¡¯ll kill us just like he did the others.¡±


    Rufus red at her for a moment before he nodded and Laurel let out a slow breath. She¡¯d be damned if she was going to get caught like the others.


    Further up the mountain, Tyron felt his leg give out and he slumped to the ground, panting.


    ¡°Whoa, what the fuck? What happened?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t¡­ can¡¯t walk,¡± Tyron gasped.


    The young mage¡¯s breath rasped in his throat as he sucked in the air, trying to get some energy into his body. Desperate, he nced around and saw a rocky outcrop to his left, slightly up the slope. With a groan, he ordered his skeletons to pick him up, gasping as they drained his magick precipitously low in the process, and they carried him the final ten metres. He had his minions ce him down behind cover and hey there, still gasping for breath.


    Between the blood loss and the icy wind, he could barely feel his fingers anymore and he rubbed them together to try and get the sensation back. Without his hands, he was as good as dead. What use was a mage if they couldn¡¯t cast magick?


    ¡°Kid¡­¡± Dove said.


    With trembling hands, Tyron released the buckles that secured his pack and almost sagged with relief as he felt the weight go. He should have done that ages ago.


    ¡°Kid¡­¡± Dove repeated.


    Tyron closed his eyes and nodded slowly.


    ¡°I know,¡± he said, as he fumbled behind him.


    His shoulder ached something fierce as he took hold of the pack and pulled, dragging it around until he could reach in. He grabbed hold of his waterskin and took a long drink, the water shockingly refreshing as it soothed his raw throat.


    ¡°We had a hell of a run,¡± he chuckled as he wiped the water from his chin. He reached out and poured a trickle over the skull, letting it run down and drip over Dove¡¯s features. ¡°Sorry it¡¯s not alcoholic.¡±


    ¡°You should be, teatotalling prick. I would have appreciated a final drink.¡±


    Tyron leaned his head back on the rock. He didn¡¯t have long. The moment he¡¯d fallen, he knew they¡¯d see that as a sign to attack. They¡¯d only been waiting for him to falter.


    ¡°Thanks for everything, Dove,¡± he whispered. ¡°You¡¯ve been a true friend to me, even when I didn¡¯t deserve it.¡±


    He reached out and grasped the top of the skull with one hand, lifting him up to look Tyron eye to eye.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get sappy on me, kid. You fucked me over with the resurrection thing, but I¡¯ve had a front row seat to watch the greatest young magick wielder ply his trade. If I¡¯d had your talent¡­.¡±


    Tyron forced augh.


    ¡°I know.¡±


    He could hear theming. Still cautious, their feet scraped against the icy stone as they approached. Couldn¡¯t be more than twenty metres away now.


    ¡°Something I never said to you,¡± Tyron spoke softly, ¡°you¡¯ve got big balls, Dove. Biggest fucking balls I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±


    ¡°Aww, Tyron. You¡¯re going to make me blush.¡±


    For a silent moment, Tyron stared into the glowing eyes of the Skull. It was time.


    ¡°See you on the other side,¡± Dove said.


    Tyron nodded, pulled back his arm, and smashed the skull against the stone beside him. A sharp cracking noise rang out. He drew his arm back and smashed it again, and again, until the skull smashed to pieces and the magick within it faded to nothing.

 Chapter B2C56 - Homecoming

    Chapter B2C56 - Homing


    Tyron gave himself no time to mourn. He grunted as he forced himself back up, wing at the rock to pull himself upward. His injured leg still couldn¡¯t take his weight, and he was forced to lean on a skeleton again in order to move.


    Thest of the yers wasing to pay a visit, it¡¯d be rude to greet them sitting down.


    With a thought, he gathered his skeletons and ghosts, cing them in a defensive formation that he hoped would protect him from being stuck with more arrows. He¡¯d had enough of that for one day. The rift was close now, close enough that he could probably make it through in just a few minutes, even as injured as he was.


    Would he survive for long on the other side, though? Not likely.


    ¡°It¡¯s not looking good,¡± he muttered.


    He paused a momentter when he realised he was only talking to himself.


    He felt a pang in his chest, an entirely different sort of pain, but he couldn¡¯t afford to focus on that now. He could mourn for Dove after he survived, or when he was dead.


    With his remaining revenants, skeletons and ghosts, Tyron prepared to face his final opponents. If Brun was prepared to honour his word, then that meant he had Rufus, Laurel and the archer to deal with first. He almost looked forward to it.


    They were creeping closer now, he could hear them. They had to have heard him moving around, but probably didn¡¯t expect him to be in any condition to fight back. That would be his opportunity.


    Tyron stirred the dregs of his magick and formed two bolts in his palms. If he couldnd two clean shots, the healing he¡¯d receive might be just enough to stop the bleeding, which he desperately needed.


    He crouched, listening intently as the seconds ticked by. As drained of resources as he was, even trying to utilise his ghost sight would have stretched him too thin. He had to rely on his own senses.


    The rock he crouched behind was almost two metres tall, enough to cover him easily, but not wide enough to conceal all his skeletons. They knew exactly where he was, but from which angle would theye?


    The steps drew closer and he readied himself, spells maintained in either hand. His eyes flicked from side to side. Would theye around the left, or the right?


    A trickle of dust ran down the face of the stone in front of him. Tyron noticed it, then threw himself backwards with a pained shout. An arrow mmed into the ground between his feet as skeletons rushed forward to cover him. With a curse, he looked up and fired both bolts at the archer who¡¯d escaped him before. She¡¯d climbed up the rock as Laurel and Rufus had approached, masking any sound to take him by surprise.


    As off bnce as he was, one of his bolts went wide, but another connected on her right hip, spinning her around with a shout. She dropped out of sight as he felt a pathetic trickle of healing creep into him. The connection hadn¡¯t been clean, he mustn¡¯t have done much damage.


    To his right, Rufus charged forward, attacking his skeletons with wide swings of his de. He was in amongst them so quickly that two had fallen before Tyron could react. Chest burning, his remaining revenants rushed at him, but Rufus was wary of them, trying to keep the weaker minions between himself and the more powerful undead. Arrows flew from the side, trying to pick off more skeletons as the swordsman kept them upied.


    Tyron raised his hands and prepared to cast the Shivering Curse, then hesitated. With a sour grimace, he abandoned that n and staggered forward instead, summoning another pair of magick bolts in his hands.


    He couldn¡¯t afford to stand still for that long, not with the escapee only metres away. If she climbed up the rock again¡­ he¡¯d be dead on the spot. If only he¡¯d injured her enough he could be confident her mobility was gone.


    Rufus moved with the smooth grace of a martial ss, his bnce and speed all greater than the human norm. He must¡¯ve reached level ten at least, perhaps taken a feat to enhance his body control, judging by the way he could move with impossible precision.


    Magnin hadn¡¯t taken that feat. He hadn¡¯t needed it.


    Tyron swept three of his spirits after Rufus and poked his head around the corner of the stone, trying to get a look at Laurel. The moment he saw her, he jerked his head back just in time to avoid an arrow in the face. She¡¯d been waiting for him.


    Off bnce, Tyron fell to the ground with a pained cry. The injury to his leg was making it difficult to stay on his feet and he had to pull himself up again, sweat breaking out on his brow.


    Rufusughed.


    ¡°You may as well give up,¡± he gloated as he parried a skeleton''s attack and returned a savage cut, slicing the arm off at the shoulder joint. ¡°You were never good enough to beat me.¡±


    As injured as he was, Tyron couldn¡¯t help butugh.


    ¡°Fight me by yourself then,¡± he rasped incredulously. The young mage shook his head. ¡°You might have got some levels, but nothing to improve Intelligence, I see.¡±


    Rufus flushed hotly and opened his mouth but Laurel cut him off.


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± she warned him, and the swordsman¡¯s mouth snapped shut.


    Tyron leaned against the rock, trying to keep an eye behind him for the other archer.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not surprising. We always knew who wore the pants in your rtionship, Rufus.¡±


    He heard Laurel ¡®tsk¡¯ as Rufus roared and charged forward. Tyron rekindled the bolts in his hands and prepared himself. The second archer appeared behind him, arrow ready to loose, but he¡¯d predicted that, his back was already covered by three skeletons with shields.


    Rufus battered several skeletons aside, but ran headfirst into his two revenants, who weren¡¯t so easily ignored. A savage cut from the undead swordsman nearly sliced his throat before Rufus pulled back at thest second. Tyron stepped out from behind cover again, spotted Laureling forward to shield Rufus, and unleashed his spells.


    Her eyes widened when she saw him and her hands flickered as she drew and loosed an arrow with breathtaking speed, but it wasn¡¯t fast enough. The projectile flicked off the bone armour covering Tyron¡¯s ribs, but she was hit with one bolt on her shin as she jumped to the side. He heard a satisfying crack as Laurel spun in the air, crying out with the pain.


    ¡°Fair''s fair,¡± Tyron said as he retreated behind cover again.


    ¡°You bastard,¡± Rufus grit his teeth as he warded off the three revenants, sword shing in the light.


    ¡°Not my fault you¡¯re stupid, Rufus.¡±


    Tyron turned to face the other archer. Her angle blocked by the skeletons, she¡¯d tried toe further around the rock to get a shot on him, but hadn¡¯t managed it. As he faced her, she nched at the look on his face, but exhaled a slow breath and released her shot.


    One of his shield-skeletons went down with an arrow straight through the skull before she ran up the slope. They were whittling down his forces, he couldn¡¯t afford to lose too many more.


    Rufus had fallen back to defend Laurel, so Tyron took the chance to pursue the other archer. She¡¯d run closer to the rift so she could shoot downhill at him, a smart decision, since it gave him less ces to hide. His own archers fired at her, trying to pin the ranger down, but they were running low on ammunition.


    <em>Sure would be handy to have had an archer revenant through this fight, </em>he scolded himself.


    With a sour feeling in his gut, he realised he wasn¡¯t in a position to chase her. With his injuries, he¡¯d be too slow moving uphill, and leaving the cover of the rocks would open him up to Laurel. His options were running thin, and that Force Mage, Brun, was still out there somewhere.


    As much as he hated to admit it, the real threat was Rufus. Even together, the two rangers wouldn¡¯t be able to fight through his minions to get to him. If he removed Rufus from the picture, then he could possibly sit back and recover a little. With enough magick and some time to clean and bandage his wounds, his position would be vastly improved.


    As long as Brun kept his word and didn¡¯t attack while Laurel and her partner lived, he¡¯d be safe. It was a risk to believe the yer would do as he¡¯d said, the man had already bent his rules once, but what choice did Tyron have? He was down to desperate gambles at this point.


    He slumped against the rock and drew in several deep breaths, making sure he was covered from the archer above him. At his direction, several of his spirits drifted into position. He¡¯d only get one shot at this.


    As exhausted as he was, Tyron didn¡¯t trust himself to win a mind war, not even against Rufus. That left him one option.


    The Necromancer closed his eyes, raised his hands, and began to incant his spell. Fingers flickered from one arcane sigil to the next, and in less than ten seconds, he was prepared. Tyron pushed himself around the corner, saw Rufus and Laurel together, and extended his hand.


    <em>Death¡¯s Grasp</em>.


    The ck magick raced through the air, twisting and coiling around itself as it flew in a dark wave. If he¡¯d been by himself, Rufus would likely have been able to avoid it, but in ast second miscalction, he thought the spell was targeting Laurel.


    He pushed her aside with a shout and became entangled by the magick a momentter. Crushed in its grip, he could barely move at all and Tyron ordered his ghosts forward, a crooked smile on his face. The spectres closed in on the bound swordsman, wearing their own expressions of malicious glee. They stretched out their arms, ready to plunge them into his flesh and suffocate him with their ethereal cold.


    But they didn¡¯t.


    ¡°Wha-?¡± Tyron muttered, as he staggered and fell to one side.


    The ghosts hissed malevolently, inches away from Rufus, but they still didn¡¯t move forward. They <em>couldn¡¯t</em>.


    He was out of magick.


    Nearby, all of his skeletons became still, frozen in ce as the arcane energy they depended on to move ran dry. Tyron himself felt hollowed out, as if the force animating his body was gone. He was a magepletely drained of magick. There was no longer anything he could do.


    Despair welled inside him as he looked up at the clouds roiling above. He¡¯d been <em>so close</em>. A few seconds longer and that prick would have been dead and he could take some time to recover his energy.


    A few secondster, the Death¡¯s Grasp dissipated, releasing a shaken Rufus who quickly separated from the biting cold he felt surrounding him. After a few long seconds where he brandished his sword uphill at the unmoving skeletons, he realised what had happened.


    His uproariousughter pierced Tyron right in the heart.


    <em>Damn it. I didn¡¯te this far, I didn¡¯t sacrifice so much, only to fail here!</em>


    Desperately, he reached deep inside himself, searching for any wisp of power, any hint of arcane energy. Something¡­ <em>anything</em>, he could use to fight back. When he didn¡¯t find anything, he rolled his head and stared at his pack.


    There might be another piece of Mage Candy in there, one that he¡¯d missed before. Not even a whole piece would be needed, a shard, a sliver, <em>dust</em>, it would be better than what he had now.


    Barely able to move, Tyron began to drag himself across the stony ground, ignoring the ring pain of his wounds. He could vaguely hear the others moving around, but he ignored them, focused totally on his goal. If he could only reach his pack, he could turn this around. He¡­ just¡­ had¡­ to reach!


    ¡°You may as well stop there, Tyron,¡± Laurel said.


    The Necromancer paused, hand outstretched to his pack, and rolled over to look up. The ranger sat above him, rubbing at her wounded leg, a frown on her tanned face.


    He turned to look behind him and saw Rufus grinning widely, sword swinging back and forth as he rolled his wrist, not three metres away.


    ¡°Shit,¡± he groaned.


    ¡°Yes, yes you are,¡± Rufus¡¯ grin broadened as stepped a little closer. There was an ugly light in his eyes as he approached, almost feverish in its intensity.


    ¡°Just do it cleanly,¡± Laurel said to him, her eyes hard. ¡°Don¡¯t fuck around.¡±


    Rufus¡¯ smile slipped a little as he red up at Laurel.


    ¡°Why do you always take his side?¡± he growled, pointing at Tyron with his sword. ¡°After what he said about my mother, I¡¯m going to carve him like a roast. If you don¡¯t want to watch, you can turn the fuck around.¡±


    Laurel rolled her eyes and nced down at Tyron.


    ¡°See you, Ty,¡± she said. ¡°Shame about how this worked out for you.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he rasped, ¡°real shame.¡±


    She turned and slid down the rock,nding heavily on the other side. Tyron looked up at Rufus, who red at him.


    ¡°You never deserved a single thing you got,¡± the swordsman growled at him. ¡°I hated that about you.¡±


    ¡°You never stop whining. I hated that about you.¡±


    Tyron forced a grin up at the swordsman and Rufus spat at him.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been looking forward to this,¡± he said.


    Tyron curled his fingers beneath them, cupping the magick bolt he¡¯d scraped together a second before.


    ¡°Me too.¡±


    Bright light shed, blinding Tyron for a moment. Something hot sprayed on his face and he spat reflexively.


    <em>Blood</em>?


    His eyes shot open and he looked at himself. No, he was fine¡­.


    He looked up at Rufus.


    The swordsman had a strange look on his face, his eyes seemed to be looking in different directions. Then a line of blood appeared, running straight down the middle of his forehead. It trickled down to his nose, fell onto his chin, then dropped, sshing against the rocky ground.


    Then Rufus fell into two pieces, his left half falling backward, the right slumping forward. Tyron didn¡¯t look. He was staring at the figure who¡¯d been standing behind him.


    ¡°He always was a shitty kid,¡± Magnin observed, looking down on Tyron with a broad grin. He winked. ¡°Great to see you, son.¡±

 Chapter B2C57 - Birth of Darkness

    Chapter B2C57 - Birth of Darkness


    Tyron stared up at his father in shock. For his part, Magnin continued to smile down on his child, eyes sparkling with mischief. It was such a familiar expression, it took Tyron a moment to notice that not all was well with his overpowered parent.


    Magnin looked pale, his cheeks were sunken in and there were dark bags under his eyes, as if the man hadn¡¯t slept in a month. Tyron had never seen him like this. What had happened?


    ¡°F-father -¡± he began, but the greatest swordsman of the western province held up a hand to cut him off.


    ¡°Don¡¯t strain yourself,d, wait for your mother. She¡¯s a bit slow.¡±


    ¡°I heard that,¡± Beory stated as she walked around the corner of the rock cover.


    In one hand, she held Brun¡¯s head, which she tossed contemptuously to the ground. With the other, she manipted a coffin of ice through the air. Inside, he could see Laurel, frozen, an expression of slight confusion on her face, as if she hadn¡¯t even had time to realise what was happening before she¡¯d be encased.


    Tyron sighed.


    Even now, what had proved impossible for him to achieve was so trivially simple for his famous parents. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his shoulder red and he copsed back down with an agonised groan.


    Beory was by his side in a second.


    ¡°Oh, my poor boy. Hold on a second, I have something for you.¡± She rummaged in her cloak for a moment before she pulled out a small package wrapped in a wax. She quickly opened it and pressed it into his palm. ¡°ce this under your tongue. Quickly now.¡±


    ¡°Yes, mother,¡± his reply was so automatic it came without him thinking about it. She met his eyes and they both smiled before he did as she said.


    As expected, the medicine tasted like fried garbage, but he didn¡¯t doubt it would be effective. There was little reason for the Sterms to carry anything but the best. He tried not to think about what it meant for his parents to be here. That he may have been saved from one terrible end, but the end had arrived just the same.


    He felt tears sting the corners of his eyes.


    ¡°None of that now,d,¡± Magnin said as he squatted down next to his son. ¡°Just rx, let that foul tasting mixture your mother made do its work.¡±


    Beory pped him on the shoulder.


    ¡°The taste isn¡¯t important, only the efficacy,¡± she sniffed.


    ¡°Same approach to medicine making as to cooking, I see,¡± he joked.


    She pped him again, harder this time.


    The familiar back and forth warmed Tyron¡¯s heart as the foul mixture in his mouth began to dissolve and slide down his throat. As it did so, he felt it begin to take effect, a faint itching sensation igniting around his wounds, growing stronger each passing second.


    His parents continued their good natured bickering for a minute as he let the salve do its work. Though it was still painful, he managed to sit up and lean back against the rock.


    His father scratched his cheek awkwardly.


    ¡°Uh, this is a littlete, and I¡¯m sorry about that, really. But, happy Awakening day!¡± he dered, pulling a sheathed sword from his belt and offering it to Tyron.


    The Necromancer stared at his father. Beory sighed and slipped a staff from where she had it strapped to her back before she offered that to him as well.


    ¡°It took longer than expected to get these made,¡± she exined, ¡°we wanted you to have the best.¡±


    As he looked at the two gifts, Tyron couldn¡¯t hold the tears back any longer. He reached up to wipe them away and awkwardly reached out to take the two weapons.


    ¡°I¡¯d rather you¡¯d just been there,¡± he mumbled.


    He could feel the power thrumming from the gifts. They¡¯d brought him something only a gold-ranked yer could use properly. And they¡¯d given him two. It was so typical of them.


    ¡°We know,¡± Magnin admitted. ¡°We nned to be there, but, as usual, our timing didn¡¯t work out. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    An apology he¡¯d heard a hundred times before. Tyron just nodded. He looked to his mother and noticed that she too appeared more haggard than he¡¯d ever seen her before. As if she¡¯d fought a week-long battle through a rift, she looked exhausted.


    ¡°I-is everything alright?¡± he asked.


    Sheughed, and leaned forward to embrace him.


    ¡°I¡¯m not so weak I need my son to worry about me,¡± she said.


    ¡°Hey, let me get in on that action,¡± Magnin eagerly hopped forward and enfolded the both of them in his arms.


    They remained like that for a long moment, enjoying the feeling of being together again, until Tyron shrugged ufortably.


    ¡°I think I can stand up now,¡± he said.


    His parents released him and gave a little space.


    ¡°Don¡¯t push yourself,¡± she warned him, concern in her eyes. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you were still fighting, given how injured you were.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s tough, like his old man,¡± Magnin boasted, pping himself on the chest. ¡°We Sterms are too stupid to know when to quit.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true for you, at least. My Tyron isn¡¯t as thick as you and Worthy.¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s the constitution I get from being a Necromancer,¡± Tyron admitted. ¡°I can push through a lot.¡±


    ¡°That might help your body hold up, son, but not your mind. You¡¯re hard as nails, I guarantee it.¡±


    Magnin beamed down at him with obvious pride and Tyron ducked his head as he pulled himself to his feet. They were always like this, full of praise and positivity, he¡¯d never beenfortable dealing with it. From ordinary parents, perhaps it would have been easier to ept, but they doted on him as if they didn¡¯t recall who they were. He could remember how his father had acted the day he¡¯d unlocked the swordsmanship skill, you¡¯d have thought he¡¯d won the Swordsaint contest and been crowned the best in the empire. Watching someone who¡¯d actually <em>won</em> that tournament act in that manner had just made Tyron embarrassed.


    He took hold of the sword that still pulsed with power, gripping it tightly in his left hand.


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you got me a sword¡­¡± he shook his head.


    Magnin shrugged, a little embarrassed.


    ¡°I had to cover the bases, didn¡¯t I?¡± he defended himself. ¡°What if you¡¯d actually Awakened as a Swordsman and we came home with a staff but no sword? I¡¯d¡¯ve turned around and gone back out tomission one immediately.¡±


    ¡°As if there was ever any chance. This boy is a genius Mage, make no mistake. He had a Mystery before he even had a ss.¡±


    Tyron tried not to smile.


    ¡°I have two now.¡±


    Beory gave a little shriek and squeezed him from the side as Magnin threw back his head andughed.


    ¡°I still have a long way to catch up to you two. How many do you have now, Dad?¡±


    Magnin¡¯sugh cut off and his eyes flicked to his wife.


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to dwell on the numbers. More isn¡¯t necessarily better, it¡¯s all about how far you advance them.¡± He nodded seriously. ¡°Take that lesson to heart.¡±


    Beory huffed.


    ¡°He has nine,¡± she murmured, pretending to re at her husband. ¡°I¡¯ve never been able to catch up to him.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not dwell on that, how far did you manage to advance yours Tyron?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re Advanced, both of them.¡±


    Both Sterms boggled and he felt a flush of pride at being able to shock them for once.


    ¡°How?¡± Beory gasped. ¡°What level are you? You can¡¯t be over forty already?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± he shook his head, ¡°I reached Level thirty in Necromancer. They were progressed by the Unseen as a reward.¡±


    ¡°Well, well, well,¡± Magnin grinned. ¡°I can see you have a lot to tell us.¡±


    He nced up at the sun overhead.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got a little time, why don¡¯t we set up a little camp here and you can tell us about your journey.¡±


    They waited for him to nod and thenunched into a flurry of activity. In no time at all, they¡¯d arranged a humble campsite, replete with crackling fire as they utilised their superhuman abilities to perform routine chores in mere seconds. From their packs, they pulled tea and bread, along with cured meat, and soon they were chatting around the fire, listening with rapt attention as Tyron detailed his trials since the Awakening.


    As always, his parents made an excellent audience, hanging on his every word and interjecting with appropriate excitement or sympathy at the right moments. When he fought off his friends and escaped the tomb in Foxbridge, his mother sniffed and red at the nearby corpse of Rufus, now freezing in the icy temperatures.


    ¡°I never liked that boy,¡± she dered. ¡°His poor mother deserved better.¡±


    ¡°Poor Elsbeth,¡± Magnin shook his head, ¡°a shame she got caught up in all this.¡±


    ¡°All what?¡± Tyron asked.


    His father waved him off. ¡°Later,d. Finish your tale first.¡±


    He told them of his trip to Woodsedge, getting robbed on the way, and eventually making it to the town. He spoke of his apprenticeship to Hakoth, learning the basics of the butcher''s trade, his forced ritual casting of Beyond the Veil and the chaos that ensued. They listened quietly as he spoke of his first journey to the Broken Lands, of his search for bones and his first meeting with Dove.


    When he told them of his attempt to rush to the rift, hoping to do something to support the yers, they both winced, and he nodded sheepishly.


    ¡°Not my best decision,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°Your heart was in the right ce,¡± Beory reached out and patted him on the knee. ¡°And one day, I believe you¡¯ll be so mighty you can hold a rift single handed, but that wasn¡¯t the time to try.¡±


    He went on to detail how Dove had saved his life, how they had bunkered down during the break and how he had partially resurrected his friend and mentor.


    ¡°He sounds like my kind of guy,¡± Magninughed and Beory shot him some side-eye. ¡°Ohe on. Would I have given him my wallet? No. But he does sound like a fun person to know.¡±


    Tyron opened his mouth to defend Dove, but shut it again after a pause. The Summoner hadn¡¯t been altogether wise with his finances. If he¡¯d gotten his hands on Magnin¡¯s fortune, it likely would have vanished overnight.


    ¡°He wasn¡¯t the kind of person you would approve of, mother,¡± he said, ¡°but he was a great yer, a brilliant Mage, and a good friend to me.¡±


    ¡°I can hardly disapprove of him after everything he did for you,¡± Beory said. ¡°I would love to have met him.¡±


    The Necromancer nodded sadly.


    ¡°He¡¯s free now. That¡¯s what he wanted.¡±


    ¡°More importantly, that was some incredible magick,¡± Beory enthused.


    ¡°I earned my second Mystery for it.¡±


    Then he detailed his contact with the Scarlet Court and the summoning of Yor. His mother huffed disapprovingly.


    ¡°Vampires,¡± she said with disapproval. ¡°I¡¯ve never liked them.¡±


    ¡°You know about them?¡± Tyron turned his eyes to her and the Battle Mage smiled.


    ¡°Of course, but we can deal with thatter, go on.¡±


    He went on to detail his escape from Woodsedge, his journey through the western province, and the encounter with the farm and bandits.


    Beory¡¯s face twisted in disgust at the description, and even Magnin leaned and spat to one side.


    ¡°Filth,¡± the swordsman stated simply, as if it was all that needed to be said.


    After the battle and his sessful defence against the counter attack, he described his meeting with Elsbeth and her teacher, which raised the eyebrows of both his parents.


    ¡°Priestess to the Old Gods? Well¡­ I did not see thating,¡± Magnin said.


    Beory hesitated before speaking.


    ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t really see Elsbeth as beingpatible with¡­ them.¡±


    ¡°You know about them as well?¡± Tyron demanded.


    Magninughed.


    ¡°You don¡¯t get to as high a level as us without learning a few things,¡± he chuckled, ¡°even though people try desperately to hide it. In fact, the more they try to hide it, the more I want to find out what they''re hiding.¡±


    From there, he told them of his journey through the foothills, of his contact within the Abyss and of hunting down the bandits.


    ¡°Going through the veil,¡± Magnin whistled, sharing a look with Beory.


    ¡°He¡¯s not going slow, is he?¡± Beory said with pride.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t have done it without the help of Yor,¡± Tyron exined, but his mother wouldn¡¯t have it.


    ¡°It takes a certain fortitude to encounter the beings beyond the Veil and return with your sanity. You should be very pleased with yourself. There¡¯s a reason Abyssals are usually hunted by Gold yers.¡±


    Tyron hadn¡¯t known that¡­.


    By the time he got to exining his encounter with Cragwhistle, his capture of the archer and his discovery of the nascent rift, almost an hour had passed. Only then did he realise something he should¡¯ve thought of earlier.


    ¡°The archer! She¡¯s still out there!¡±


    Magnin looked at him with an eyebrow raised.


    ¡°You think we didn¡¯t notice her?¡± he asked incredulously.


    ¡°Is she¡­.¡± Tyron faltered, ncing at Rufus¡¯ bisected body and Laurel¡¯s frozen tomb.


    ¡°She¡¯s alive,¡± Beory said, ncing up the slope, ¡°but she won¡¯t bother us for a while. She still has a purpose to serve.¡±


    From there, he told them of his fight to examine the rift, and his defence against the yers. Almost as an afterthought, he mentioned the marshals and the ambush which Yor had foiled.


    ¡°Marshals,¡± Magnin shook his head. ¡°They might be able to keep the regr popce in line, but they¡¯re terrible at fighting high level yers. At least, the regr ones are. They don¡¯t have to do it very often, they can rely on the brands most of the time.¡±


    ¡°At least I don¡¯t have one of those,¡± Tyron grimaced.


    ¡°And you never will, if you y your cards right,¡± Magnin winked.


    Tyron shrugged ufortably. Now it came down to it, he felt a queasy twisting in his guts. As wonderful as it was to spend time with his family again, as warm and safe as the presence of his parents made him feel, he knew deep down that it was an illusion.


    ¡°I¡­ I did my best,¡± he choked out, emotion welling in his throat. He vigorously rubbed away the tears that threatened to spill once more. ¡°I tried¡­ I tried to make you proud.¡±


    Beory was by his side in an instant, her arm wrapped around his shoulders.


    ¡°And we <em>are</em> proud of you, Tyron. You¡¯ve done so well, better than even we could have hoped.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s right, son,¡± Magnin confirmed, his eyes soft. ¡°You were dealt a terrible hand, and you made a winner out of it anyway. I couldn¡¯t have done better myself at your age. Well done,d.¡±


    Tyron slumped forward, his head between his knees, and nodded.


    ¡°But it¡¯s over now,¡± he stammered, trying to firm his resolve. ¡°I know they sent you to bring me back.¡±


    He drew in a shaky breath and raised his head.


    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m ready. I¡¯ve probably damaged the Sterm reputation beyond repair¡­ but at least if you turn me in, people will see we solved it in the family. And I want you to apologise to Worthy and Aunt Meg for me. I feel terrible for leaving them the way I did.¡±


    He couldn¡¯t look at his parents as he spoke, only ncing at them when they didn¡¯t reply to his words. They were both looking at him as if he were insane.


    ¡°You think we¡¯re going to take you in?¡± Magninughed. ¡°Don¡¯t be daft, boy!¡±


    Beory looked hurt.


    ¡°You really thought we would do that? To our own son?¡±


    Tyron stared at them.


    ¡°But¡­ you have to!¡± he stammered. ¡°You¡¯ll be ouwed if you don¡¯t!¡±


    The two yers continued to look at him with those puzzled expressions on their faces.


    ¡°So?¡± Magnin said.


    The Necromancer grew increasingly frantic as his parents failed to grasp the gravity of the situation.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be killed! They¡¯ll hunt you down. I won¡¯t let that happen!¡±


    Magnin shared an awkward nce with Beory before he reached out and grasped his son by the shoulder.


    ¡°Tyron. You need to listen to me. None of this is your fault, do you understand?¡± He nced up at the sun overhead. ¡°And I wish we could take more time to exin it all, but we seem to be running a little short.¡±


    ¡°W-what are you talking about?¡±


    Beory sighed before she started to exin.


    ¡°This is all our fault,¡± she said, a sad smile on her lips, ¡°just like everything else that¡¯s gone wrong in your life, and I can¡¯t apologise enough. I¡¯ll try to exin as briefly as I can.¡±


    She looked up as she tried to think of what to say.


    ¡°It really boils down to the Magisters, the Nobility who control them, and the four arseholes who control <em>them</em>.¡±


    Tyron boggled.


    ¡°You mean¡­ the divines?¡±


    She sneered.


    ¡°Of course the divines. The entire branding system is their invention, desperate to prevent anyone from fighting their way up to the same level. When your father and I reached a certain point¡­¡±


    Magnin picked up as she trailed off.


    ¡°They told us we couldn¡¯t progress any further,¡± he soundedpletely affronted and Tyron could understand why. You might as well have told the pair to stop breathing. ¡°Imagine that! Stop fighting, leave the rifts alone, retire to some mansion in the central province and live out our days in peace.¡±


    He looked as if he might throw up just thinking about it and Tyron couldn¡¯t help butugh. Knowing his family as he did, it was a ridiculous request.


    ¡°We could still tidy up little jobs around the edges, but nothing serious, nothing like what we would need to do to progress. If we didn¡¯tply, they threatened to use the brands and murder us.¡±


    ¡°So naturally, we immediately tried to find a way around it. Sneaky stuff, dark powers, Vampiric nasties, long forgotten gods, all the ssics.¡±


    ¡°Take this seriously, Magnin,¡± Beory frowned. ¡°But¡­ he¡¯s basically right. We sought for a way to nullify the effects of the brand and break the control they had over us. We were¡­ partially sessful. We were able to weaken the brand, but couldn¡¯t break it.¡±


    ¡°And to make a long story short,¡± Magnin broke in, ¡°they found out what we were up to and decided to punish us.¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°You, love,¡± Beory said gently. ¡°The divines interfered with your Awakening. They have some influence over the Unseen, not much, but the Awakening crystal is designed to increase this control. They used it to give you the Necromancer ss, and the Dark Ones noticed their meddling, giving you Anathema to help you survive and¡­ disrupt things for their enemies.¡±


    It was a shocking revtion and Tyron¡¯s brain froze as he tried to process it. The <em>gods</em> had given him this ss? In order to punish his parents? It was absurd. Or was it?


    Magnin grimaced.


    ¡°From there, it was rtively easy for them to engineer a situation that was no-win for us. We¡¯d either have to kill you, our only child, or die ourselves, which is what they really want.¡±


    The words registered with Tyron slowly.


    ¡°No,¡± he said.


    His father gave him a twisted smile.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid so, son. There¡¯s only one way out, and I¡¯m afraid that this is it. We created this mess ourselves, prodding at things we shouldn¡¯t have. There¡¯s no way we would ever make you pay the price for that.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s for the best this way, Tyron,¡± his mother told him. ¡°You will survive. You can send the archer girl back to the Magisters after Yor modifies her memory. She¡¯ll tell them we all died, and that¡¯ll be the end of it. They don¡¯t really care about you that much, it¡¯s your father and I that they want. You can escape through the rift. We¡¯ve arranged things for you. A new identity, a chance to hide and start your life again.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± he shouted.


    It wasn¡¯t possible. This couldn¡¯t be happening. He refused to ept it. He refused!


    Magnin sighed.


    ¡°We¡¯re about out of time, Beory,¡± he said, peering up at the sky.


    Irritation shed across her tired face.


    ¡°Always interfering, even at the worst possible moments,¡± she snapped. ¡°Useless pricks could never leave us alone.¡±


    ¡°Language, dear.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Magnin.¡± She turned back to Tyron. ¡°There¡¯s a letter for you in my pack that exins what to do from here. We¡¯ve arranged things with some friends of ours, they¡¯ll help you.¡±


    The two of them rose and stood arm in arm, looking down on their son with proud smiles on their faces. Tyron looked a mess, tears running down his face as he stared imploringly up at them.


    ¡°Live your life, son. We¡¯re so, so lucky to have had you in our lives, and I¡¯m sorry we messed things up so badly for you,¡± Beory said, her lip quivering.


    Magnin leaned his head down against that of his wife.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be free after this,¡± he said. ¡°We¡¯ve been able to do that much for you, in the end. Love you, kid.¡±


    He turned his head and kissed his wife¡¯s hair.


    ¡°Are you ready, darling?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    The greatest swordsman of the western province flipped a dagger from his belt and caught it nimbly by the hilt.


    ¡°You may want to look away for this,¡± he said to Tyron, before he turned, lifted Beory¡¯s chin and kissed her full on the mouth.


    Then he rammed the dagger straight into her heart. Beory stiffened, then went limp in her husband''s arms. Magnin lowered her lovingly to the ground, then knelt by her side.


    ¡°Sorry we couldn¡¯t leave you our souls,¡± he said quietly, ¡°we didn¡¯t want to risk the divines getting hold of us.¡± He tapped himself on the chest. ¡°But this is the finest damn set of materials you¡¯ll ever get your hands on. Make sure you use it well.¡±


    Without taking his eyes from Beory, hey down by her side, before he slid the de into his own chest, sighing as he did.


    Then he was gone.


    Tyron sat staring at them for a long, long time.

 Chapter B2 - Epilogue

    Chapter B2 - Epilogue


    Hours passed and still, the young Necromancer sat, unbelieving, as he stared at the rapidly cooling corpses of his parents. It didn¡¯t seem real. It <em>couldn¡¯t</em> be real.


    Magnin and Beory Sterm were invincible, immovable presences in his life. The thought that they might die had never even entered his head. To his mind, they were functionally immortal, regrly entering the most dangerous ces imaginable and leaving with hardly a scratch.


    The sight of their still and lifeless bodies refused to register and his brain froze. He was dimly aware of his skeletonsing to life around him as his magick slowly replenished. They may have even fought off some rift-kin as he sat unmoving, he couldn¡¯t be sure.


    Hourster, he gathered enough of himself to turn, muscles aching fromck of activity, and he grasped his mother''s pack, fumbling it open with shaking hands to find the note she had left him.


    He read it through five times.


    Despite the evidence before his eyes, he still couldn¡¯t make himself acknowledge what had happened. Despite the note, which he read over and over, it couldn¡¯t force the knowledge that his parents had died to sink into his head.


    He was still struggling with it when night fell.


    ¡°They knew from the beginning it was going to end like this,¡± Yor said from behind him.


    Tyron turned his hollow stare onto the vampire, and she met his eyes evenly.


    ¡°You were working for them,¡± he rasped, his voice hoarse, as if he¡¯d been screaming in his own throat for hours.


    Her dark eyes softened imperceptibly.


    ¡°<em>We</em> were working <em>with</em> them. It was Magnin and Beory who arranged for me to apany you, and they who paid the price for my assistance. My mistress had her own reasons for sending me, of course.¡±


    Tyron nodded.


    He still couldn¡¯t <em>feel</em> anything, as if the emotions had been sted out of him. Almost against his will, his eyes moved to flick back to the corpses on the ground. He stilled them. Looking at those lifeless bodies wouldn¡¯t help. Nothing would help.


    Yor gestured to the letter.


    ¡°Your mother has written of the arrangements, yes? The archer is already stumbling her way back down the mountain. She will testify to your death at the hands of your parents.¡±


    So Magnin and Beory would go down in history as murdering their own son. Apparently, he was a wanted criminal and a threat to the empire, so they¡¯d continue to be heroes in the eyes of the people.


    Which¡­ for some reason¡­ ignited a slow-burning fury in Tyron¡¯s gut.


    The silence dragged out, and for a moment, even Yor looked difited. Tyron¡¯s eyes were dead, his posture slumped, yet he radiated a cold anger that manifested as his fingers curled and uncurled into fists, the knuckles whitening as he clenched.


    The arrangements.


    They had nned everything out for him so well¡­ given him as much time as they could manage, letting him gain power, so that he could stand on his own when they were gone. It was all there on the page. If he followed their instructions, he would live a quiet and anonymous life, free of the brand, free of control.


    The freedom they had always been denied in their own life, they had bought for him.


    He¡¯d have to hide, of course, but they¡¯d arranged that for him as well. Experts who could produce fake status documents, corrupt officials that would look the other way and let him settle.


    <em>You choose</em>, they¡¯d written, <em>you get to choose.</em>


    When he thought of how much they had wanted that choice, he almost broke. It was the most precious thing in the world to Magnin and Beory, the greatest gift they could bestow.


    He didn¡¯t want it. He wanted his family back.


    ¡°You took their souls, didn¡¯t you?¡± he rasped as he stared up at the vampire.


    ¡°Your mother forbade us from telling you what happened to their souls, except to say that the Court does not possess them,¡± she shook her head.


    Tyron grunted. He should have known they wouldn¡¯t let him track them down. Once again, they had gone somewhere he couldn¡¯t follow. He stared at his hands, trying to reconcile the emptiness inside him and the glowing embers of his anger.


    ¡°What are you nning to do?¡± Yor asked, a slight smile quirking at the corner of her lips. ¡°Will you do as your parents suggest? Settle down somewhere out of the way? Practise your magick in secret and live a quiet, fulfilling life?¡±


    He looked at her, his thoughts slowly turning over in his head.


    ¡°I¡­ have a lot of work¡­ to do,¡± he said, forcing himself to his feet.


    Yor watched him go, stumbling around the impromptu camp site.


    Magnin and Beory had left their gear behind, which was worth thousands of gold, that couldn¡¯t be left to rust away on the mountainside. He couldn¡¯t bring himself to touch his parents, however. He gathered their packs, sorted the many, many valuable items they had tucked away, transferring the most immediately useful ones to his own pack.


    Two strange jewels were amongst the things he found. His mother¡¯s letter had detailed what they were, and what they were for. He ced each one on either of his parents'' bodies, ensuring they wouldn¡¯t roll off. Magnin had ensured they were lying rtively t, just another courtesy from his father before he¡¯d taken his own life.


    With that task done, he sent his skeletons to gather the remains scattered across the mountainside. So many yer bodies, many of them still in excellent condition. An abundance of wealth the likes of which he¡¯d never seen in his short necromantic career.


    With a little help from his remaining revenant, he pitched his father¡¯s tent on the other side of the rock, slightly sheltered from the breeze and where he couldn¡¯t see them.


    After he ate and drank, he gathered his tools and began to organise his work area. As the saying went, many hands made light work, and despite his extensive losses, Tyron was not short on hands.


    For once, he also wasn¡¯t short on time.


    He rebuffed the asional rift-kin surge, but his work progressed smoothly, all things considered. Perhaps Yor was helping in that regard, when she wasn¡¯t watching him through her gleaming red eyes, that smile still on her lips.


    When he was ready, Tyron began to systematically prepare the remains, extracting the bones, separating the flesh, burying the refuse he didn¡¯t want and couldn¡¯t use.


    He paused for a second when he came to Laurel¡¯s body, freshly recovered from her icy coffin, but his eyes hardened and he smashed down with his cleaver. She deserved nothing less.


    When the task was done, he had his minions organise the bones, arranging them so that they might saturate with Death magick in peace.


    After he washed his hands with some water from his father¡¯s canteen, he gathered a dozen small stones, each justrge enough to fit in the palm of his hand. New homes for the lost souls.


    By the time he had finished locking them away, he was swaying on his feet from exhaustion. Even Tyron had limits, and he had found them. He crawled into the tent and let sweet oblivion take him, sleeping through the day and letting his minions defend the camp. When the sun fell over the horizon, he emerged.


    Whatever medicine his mother had fed him was miraculous, to say the least. The arrow wounds were almost healed, only circles of puckered, new flesh remained of the holes he¡¯d sported the day before. This morning, he felt he could check on his parents, and he found that the crystals hadpleted their work during the day, doing just what Beory had wrote they would.


    The two figures were now coated in a thinyer of glittering, diamond-like substance. It would preserve them perfectly, the letter had said, until he was ready to put the bodies to good use.


    He wasn¡¯t sure he would ever be ready to dismember his own parents, but he didn¡¯t want them rotting away here on the mountainside either. He would need to put them somewhere safe, where they wouldn¡¯t be disturbed, but that would have to wait, he simply didn¡¯t have the means right now.


    Yor stood over the remains, her perfect face a nk mask.


    ¡°Have you decided what you¡¯re going to do yet?¡±


    Tyron ignored her. There was still so much to do.


    In fact, he remained on the mountain for a week. He took his time, prepared his spells meticulously, took notes, raised his new minions with care.


    On the third day, he went down to the vige and spoke to Ortan, informed the man of what had happened and traded for supplies. The viger was shaken as Tyron told him of the yers dead on the mountain, and the mammoth rift-kin he had in.


    He begged Tyron to remain and protect them, refugees from the ins had arrived, and they needed help more than ever. The Necromancer refused, told him when he would leave and turned away.


    yers woulde to protect them eventually, he no longer feltpelled to be a shield for these people. He benefited from the experience the rift-kin fed him, but that was all.


    For the remainder of the week, he worked, studied and rested.


    In many ways, it was the idyllic existence he had always craved. Time to examine his ss, time to think on his spells and experiment. He learned a great deal in that time, putting the opportunity to good use, but he found no satisfaction in it.


    The more time that passed, the more the cold anger in his belly burned brighter. The anger burned any pleasure he might have felt to ash, incinerated the joy he might have felt.


    Magnin and Beory were dead. It was the divines that had killed them.


    Oh, they had acted through their puppets, the nobility, and they through theirs, the Magisters, but it was clear where the fault trulyy. Tyron didn¡¯t know how he could possibly seek revenge against the gods, he didn¡¯t know how to reach them, or how to hurt them if he did. Even the nobles were beyond his reach, protected byyer afteryer ofw, privilege, soldiers and yers. The Magisters too were difficult to reach, able to control every person who fought against the kin using the brand.


    But he would reach them. It would take time, a great deal of time, but he would reach them. What had happened on this mountain, what had happened to his family, wouldn¡¯t be allowed to stand.


    Tyron didn¡¯t know how, but he was going to throw down everyone who had done this and grind them beneath a skeletal heel.


    When the week was done, he met with Yor under the full moon.


    ¡°I¡¯ve decided,¡± he said.


    A smile split her face in half, revealing her fangs.


    ¡°And I take it you haven¡¯t chosen to live a quiet and reserved life?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he said shortly.


    Her grin widened, which he hadn¡¯t thought was possible.


    ¡°I¡¯d hoped you¡¯d say that. So, you want passage through the rift?¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°Well then.¡± She reached out a hand for him to take. ¡°Shall we?¡±


    That night, he performed the status ritual once more, confirmed his choices, and stepped into the rift, the vampire by his side.


    In his hand, he held his bedraggled book of notes, a tome that woulde to be known and feared across the realm as the Book of the Dead.

 Chapter B3 Prelude

    Chapter B3 Prelude


    Willhem stuttered awake, his dream ovepping reality for a dizzying moment until the pounding anvil resolved itself into a knocking on his door. A quick nce at his shutters revealed a distinctck of light flowing through the cracks.


    What time was it?


    Muttering to himself, he threw back the sheets and forced his feet into his slippers before he stood, fetching his robe from the stand beside the bed and tying it around his waist.


    ¡°This had better be good,¡± he warned in his thin, crotchety voice as he shuffled to the door, drawing it open to reveal a nervous, sweating servant.


    ¡°I¡¯m very sorry to disturb your rest, Master Willhem, and, of course, I wouldn¡¯t unless the matter needed your direct attention -¡±


    ¡°Spit it out, man,¡± the Arcanist demanded and the servant cringed back from him.


    ¡°Th-there was a light spotted in the upstairs work area. A man was apprehended, but¡­¡±


    ¡°But what? p him in chains, knock his teeth out and throw him to the Marshals. I¡¯ll take an inventory in the morning.¡±


    He moved to close the door, but the servant interrupted before he moved it more than a few inches.


    ¡°It¡¯s one of the apprentices, sir! One of the new ones¡­ I thought you would want to see them for yourself before they were¡­ taken away.¡±


    ¡°An apprentice?¡± Willhem muttered.


    He <em>had </em>taken on two new students not three days prior. They¡¯d moved into the dorm two days ago and started lessons and bitwork just that morning. And one of them had the gall to try and steal from him already? Appalling! Not to mention the scandal it would cause, and the damage to his reputation¡­. It may be better if this wayward ¡®prentice vanished quietly rather than call the authorities.


    ¡°Step back, you brat,¡± Willhem snapped and the servant took a hasty step back from the door, allowing the old master to swing it shut.


    A few minutester, he emerged once more, looking regal(ish) in his somewhat rumpled Arcanist¡¯s robes and a little dishevelled, his hair not properlybed nor his beard fully groomed. Nevertheless, thunder sparked in his eyes, and as the servant fell in on the master''s heels, he thanked the heavens some other poor bastard in Kenmor would receive the old man''s wrath.


    When he arrived at the workshop, Willhem¡¯s temper had only worsened. The cold night air had chilled him to the bone, even through his robes, and his damned knees ached something fierce. When he saw this thief, he may just bash his head in with his Arcanist pliance and be done with it!


    He stomped through the ground floor, where his senior apprentices worked, and made his way upstairs to find a small crowd gathered around one of the cramped and basic stations the juniors used. He recognised two of the men, guards he¡¯d hired to protect his property, and who were about to be fired.


    Another face he knew far better.


    ¡°Mrs Crottan,¡± he snapped, ¡°what in the name of the divines is going on here?¡±


    In the centre of the three figures sat a slight, sandy-blond haired young man hunched over the table scraping at a core using his pliance.


    ¡°Master Willhem,¡± the stout old woman gasped when she saw him walk in, as if he were a ghost. ¡°What are you doing here sote at night?¡±


    He boggled at her.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to discipline this thieving apprentice and have him fed to the crabs!¡± he barked, jabbing a gnarled usatory finger at the young man, who continued his work, not bothering to look up.


    The dorm mistress stared back.


    ¡°What thief? Lukas here? He isn¡¯t stealing, he¡¯s trying to work! I told him to wait until morning, but he refused to listen. Spooked the guards something fierce. They spotted the light in the upstairs window and jumped to conclusions, came to get me when they realised it wasn¡¯t no thief. When he wouldn¡¯t go back to bed, I told young Jeremy to get your word, since Lukas said he¡¯d stop working if you said so. Didn¡¯t expect you to show up looking like my grandfather''s ghost! Near scared me half to death.¡±


    Willhem blinked through the nattering. Jeremy had been the young servant? And he <em>hadn¡¯t </em>needed to trek here in the cold?


    <em>That boy is fired! </em>the Arcanist thought viciously.


    ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing, boy, causing all this fuss?¡± he finally snapped at Lukas.


    Beneath his fierce, bushy eyebrows, the old master could muster quite the re when he wanted to, and he unleashed the full fury of those brows now.


    Cool as a winter cabbage, young Lukas turned to his master and held out the core he¡¯d been working on.


    ¡°You wanted it like this, didn¡¯t you, Master Willhem?¡±


    After nearly four decades in the enchanting trade, Willhem found his eyes irresistibly drawn to the core, taking in every detail of thed''s work at a nce.


    ¡°Your <em>Fah</em> rune is misshapen,¡± he snapped.


    Lukas took the core back and ced it under the ss once more, magnifying it in his eyes.


    ¡°Fuck,¡± the young man cursed, causing Mrs Crottan to gasp.


    A few scrapes and the apprentice turned and handed it back to Willhem, who again assessed it almost against his will.


    ¡°Better,¡± he begrudgingly admitted.


    Lukas nodded, then ced the core to one side in a waiting receptacle, before he opened a drawer to his left and withdrew a new, unmarked one. Without hesitating, he held it beneath the ss and began to scrape away with his pliance.


    ¡°What are you <em>doing</em>, boy?¡± Willhem screeched,ing back to his senses.


    ¡°Working.¡±


    <em>Scrape, scrape, scrape.</em>


    <em>Thisd has a steady pair of hands,</em> Willhem noticed, then shook himself.


    ¡°Why in the zes are you working <em>now</em>?¡±


    ¡°Nobody told me I wasn¡¯t allowed to,¡± Lukas replied matter-of-factly. ¡°I work better at night and I don¡¯t tend to sleep much. Being apprenticed to a renowned and sessful Arcanist such as you, Master Willhem, I thought it would be foolish to waste any time. You asked Hunt and I to finish a hundred of these light enchantments before we reported back to you. I¡¯d hoped to finish them tomorrow.¡±


    <em>Scrape, scrape, scrape.</em>


    ¡°Tomorrow?¡± Willhem stared. He looked down at the workstation and saw there were already four cores sitting in the receptacle, carefully nestled in their cups, protected from chipping or scratching. ¡°Let me see those.¡±


    Lukas immediately put down what he was working on before he passed the three uninspected cores to his master.


    ¡°I suspect the <em>Fah</em> rune will be off on each of them,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯d intended to fix them after having another clean attempt.¡±


    The boy was right, each of themcked the proper curl at the end of the rune. They¡¯d work, but the error would reduce the efficacy of the enchantment by five to ten percent.


    Willhem blinked.


    He¡¯d taught this apprentice how to do this enchantment <em>that afternoon</em>. A basic bit of busywork for new students to chew on, get used to the equipment, the routine of the ce, and generally settle in. Something else the young man had said finally registered with him.


    ¡°I¡­ also used to prefer working at night.¡±


    Such a long time ago, but he could remember those days. As an apprentice, and then after he¡¯d been promoted and started his own shop, he would work through the night multiple times a week, scraping away at cores, honing his craft and preparing items for sale. When everything was quiet and still, it had been so much easier to focus.


    ¡°Night Owl,¡± Lukas said, a slight smile on his face, and Willhem nodded.


    ¡°Night Owl,¡± he echoed.


    A <em>very</em> underrated feat.


    He turned to the guards.


    ¡°In the future, apprentice Lukas will inform you before he begins work. Is that clear?¡± He raised his voice at the end, to get the boy¡¯s attention.


    ¡°It is, sir. I apologise for the trouble, Master Willhem. I didn¡¯t realise I¡¯d broken any rules.¡±


    The Arcanist nodded before he spoke to the dorm mistress. ¡°Mrs Crottan, please inform Jeremy he is fired the next time you see him. Insist that young Lukas gets at least three full nights'' sleep each week, or he will answer to me, otherwise, let him work.¡±


    ¡°I will, sir, not to worry.¡±


    With that, he left the workshop, thed still scraping away, head down, face to the ss as he went.


    For whatever reason, Master Willhem didn¡¯t mind so much as he braced himself against the cold for the return journey, and he didn¡¯t notice the slight bounce in his step as he alighted the stairs and returned to his room.


    ¡°Night Owl,¡± he chuckled to himself as he wormed his thin frame back under the nkets.


    <em>That boy is going ces.</em>


    ~~~~


    ¡°Are you <em>sure</em> you aren¡¯t an Arcanist by ss?¡±


    ¡°Vic, how many times do I have to say it? I¡¯m not an Arcanist. If you bribe the staff, you can probably get a look at my status when I signed up. Curse Mage is my main ss and I picked Enchanter as a secondary.¡±


    The young man who leaned over Lukas¡¯ table shook his head, his eyes pinched shut in mock pain.


    ¡°Then how are you so <em>good</em>? Every time Master Willhem walks past your bench, he leaves with a turgid pliance. I swear by the goddess!¡±


    Lukas had raised his brows slightly at his fellow apprentice¡¯s words, but he didn¡¯t take his eyes away from the ss and the core he was working on beneath it.


    ¡°I¡¯m just d I don¡¯t have to work on lights and pocket warmers anymore, and we get a little time for our own projects,¡± Lukas muttered as he continued to scrape runes into the small gem.


    Vic squinted as he leaned closer, inspecting the work.


    ¡°What in the realm are you working on here? I don¡¯t even recognise some of these runes.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± Lukas said.


    The other apprentice drew himself up.


    ¡°I¡¯m your senior apprentice by six months, remember,¡± he puffed himself up, a self mocking smile on his face, ¡°so be a dear and exin to your senior what you¡¯re doing so when the Master walks by in a few minutes, I don¡¯t make a fool of myself.¡±


    Lukas rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    He leaned back and brought the core closer to the ss, erging the image so they could examine the runes more easily.


    ¡°I suppose you can think of this as a¡­ Repository. It will draw in magick, hold it, then make it avable to another spell or enchantment. It¡¯s intended to act as a¡­ power reservoir of sorts.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that just a Power core? We have those already.¡±


    The younger apprentice shrugged his shoulders.


    ¡°We do, and I¡¯m not likely to improve on a thousands of years old design. This is something different. I don¡¯t intend this to be a reserve source of magick for mages to draw on, but to provide energy to already active spells.¡±


    ¡°Like a summon or golem?¡±


    ¡°Exactly like that,¡± Lukas smiled. ¡°I want them to be modr as well, so I canwork them together if needed.¡±


    Victor rubbed his chin as he examined the runic script carved ever so finely into the surface of the core.


    ¡°I may not know exactly what¡¯s going on here,¡± he pointed, ¡°but isn¡¯t this going to be pretty ineffective? You¡¯ll get a tiny trickle of power out of the thing, at best.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the challenge. I don¡¯t want this design to requirerge and expensive cores. Instead, I want to maximise the effect I can get from smaller ones. Efficiency is the key.¡±


    ¡°Well said,d,¡± Master Willhem harrumphed as he wandered down the line of worktables.


    After being promoted from the upstairs area the previous week, Lukas had been making himself at home amongst the more experienced apprentices working under the Master. It had taken him six months of diligent effort, but that was half the time it normally took to earn promotion from the demanding owner of Willhem¡¯s Arcanist Emporium.


    ¡°There¡¯s no appreciation for good, <em>tight</em> script these days. Need more power? Get a bigger core! Pshah!¡±


    The old man nearly spat on his own workshop floor in disgust.


    ¡°In my day, we¡¯d be beaten with a stick if we couldn¡¯t squeeze every ounce of power from a core. And conduit magick as well! Linking weaker cores is a much cheaper solution than purchasingrger ones, but it¡¯s <em>harder</em>. Half of the workers on this floor still have conduits leakier than a drunk roofer¡¯s shingles!¡±


    A few of the others rolled their shoulders ufortably as they continued to work at their benches.


    ¡°Lukas is working on a runic repository,¡± Victor said sagely, ¡°trying to power active spellforms. We were just discussing the efficiency issue, Master Willhem.¡±


    ¡°A repository?¡± muttered the old man as he shuffled closer and peered into the ss. A frown creased his features almost immediately as he muttered to himself.


    ¡°These are some odd choices, young man. Where did you find these runes?¡±


    ¡°In the apprentice library, Master Willhem,¡± Lukas replied promptly. ¡°I spent many hours examining the texts and found thisbination in ¡®Magick storage and transference¡¯ by Baksin.¡±


    ¡°Baksin? That lunatic? Still, it <em>will </em>work. It¡¯s just¡­.¡±


    The old man waggled his thick brows.


    ¡°I try not to give too much advice to my apprentices when ites to their own projects. <em>Especially </em>the good ones. You¡¯ll have to puzzle through on your own.¡±


    He nodded sagely before he leaned down and patted Lukas on the shoulder.


    ¡°Consider the configuration of runes,¡± he whispered, before he nced around the room to see if anyone caught the move and then shuffled off, snapping at another apprentice.


    Victor shook his head.


    ¡°Look at how much he favours you,¡± he sighed, ¡°and turn, look at him walk. See that hunched posture? He¡¯s stiff as a board.¡±


    ¡°I think he¡¯s just old,¡± Lukas remarked, ¡°and doesn¡¯t giving the advice just mean he thinks I¡¯m bad?¡±


    Regardless, it had been a hint, and the young Enchanter considered the arrangement of runes on the core for a moment before he sighed.


    He¡¯d have to experiment through trial and error to find the correct configuration, which would take time, and more importantly, use up the few cores he was given to work on his own projects¡­.


    ¡°There¡¯s no money in it, you know,¡± Vic remarked looking down on the core once more.


    Lukas frowned.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°What Willhem was talking about. There¡¯s a reason all of us are poor at working with small cores and efficient conduits, and it¡¯s because that sort of work doesn¡¯t make much money. There are many two-bit Arcanists out there who fumble about with the little stuff. You think Willhem got rich selling trinkets like that? No. It¡¯s the showstoppers, the high-end work that <em>really </em>pays. Everyone in here is aiming for that market.¡±


    The more junior ¡®prentice just shrugged his shoulders, an indifferent look on his face.


    ¡°Not me,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve got something else entirely in mind.¡±

 Chapter B3 Prelude (cont)

    Chapter B3 Prelude (cont)


    ¡°Are you sure about this, Lukas? Don¡¯t you think Willhem¡¯s favoured apprentice should be looking somewhere a little more¡­ upmarket?¡±


    Victor¡¯s voice dripped with derision and he looked at the people who crammed the busy streets around them with open contempt. Lukas rolled his eyes. In some ways, he understood the attitude; Victor had been born rich and had barely set a foot outside the walls of Kenmor his entire life.


    That wall loomed behind them now, a massive, towering edifice that blocked out the morning sun, an effect which gave themunity that had built itself up outside the western wall its name.


    Shadetown.


    Fifty metres high and twenty metres thick, the wall of Kenmor was designed to resist assault by the most powerful rift-kin out there. The sheer mass of it weighed down on Lukas whenever he stood nearby, a crushing presence that divided those able to afford a ce within its boundary from those who could not.


    Of Kenmor¡¯s six million citizens, almost half of them lived outside the city itself.


    ¡°I¡¯ve told you a thousand times what I¡¯m looking for and you <em>still</em> won¡¯t listen,¡± Lukas sighed. ¡°I can¡¯t tell if you¡¯re deaf or thick at this point.¡±


    ¡°Hey. A lesser man would be offended by ament like that.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps you should be.¡±


    The two men stuck close to each other as they made their way through the crowds. Unnned and haphazard in its design, Shadetown was a nightmare to navigate if you didn¡¯t know where you were going.


    ¡°Stick close to me and keep a hand on your purse at all times,¡± Lukas warned his friend again. Victor nodded irritably.


    ¡°Surrounded by thieves and ne''er do wells,¡± he scowled. ¡°In the name of the Five, I can¡¯t understand why you like it out here so much.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a little more¡­fortable for me, I guess you could say. I understand these people. When survival isn¡¯t guaranteed, when you have to fight for it, desperation will make people do questionable things. Look at you, for example. Have you ever been desperate in your entire life, Victor?¡±


    The older apprentice stroked his chin for a moment.


    ¡°There was a time Lady Shan was throwing a garden party. I was besotted at the time, I would have done <em>anything</em> to get an invite.¡±


    Lukas snorted.


    ¡°Your example goes quite a ways to making my point for me. At any rate, as long as you know where to go, there are areas of Shadetown that are as safe as can be. You just have to know where.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how you learned any of this. All I¡¯ve ever seen you do is work and sleep. In three years, I don¡¯t think I managed to get you out for drinks once.¡±


    ¡°If you went out for drinks less and worked a little more, then perhaps you might be close to finishing your apprenticeship too.¡±


    ¡°<em>I¡¯m</em> on schedule, thank you very much. It¡¯s meant to be a six year apprenticeship, remember?¡±


    ¡°I took that as more of a suggestion¡­.¡±


    Victor shook his head, then bumped into a passerby and his hands immediately flew to his purse. He sighed with relief when he found it still in ce.


    ¡°I keep telling you, this is a mistake. Willhem favours you, if you stuck around, you¡¯d have a chance to inherit his entire business! How many years does the old goat have left? Four? Five? Why strike out on your own?¡±


    ¡°You keep repeating the same shit. This is what I¡¯m doing, Victor. If you want to tag along, then stop trying to argue for something I¡¯ve <em>explicitly</em> told you I won¡¯t do.¡±


    Victor felt a chill as Lukas turned a cold re on him. There were times the mild mannered, work obsessed apprentice acted like an entirely different person. One learned that there were red lines with Lukas if you were around him long enough.


    He raised his hands.


    ¡°Okay, okay. I¡¯ll keep my mouth shut. I just didn¡¯t want you to regret your decision.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± came the short reply and the two men moved through the crowd in silence.


    Eventually, they came to a small market square, teeming with stalls and sellers hawking their goods, along with a flurry of foot traffic.


    ¡°This looks like a good spot,¡± Victor observed, ¡°cleaner than what I¡¯ve seen so far.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve just got to know the right ces,¡± Lukas nodded, ¡°but this is a little too noisy. The ce I want to look at is back there.¡±


    He pointed to a sidestreet and the two made their way over. Lukas walked with confidence as he approached a sweaty, nervous-looking man in fine robes.


    ¡°Mr Finley, nice to see you again,¡± he said, extending a hand.


    ¡°Ah, Mr Almsfield. How are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m well. This is the building?¡±


    ¡°It is. Might need a little work, but its frame is sturdy and the location is among the finest in Shadetown.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious¡­¡± Victor muttered.


    The building in question couldn¡¯t <em>quite</em> be described as dpidated, but it came close. Rotted panels of wood, broken windows, cracked timbers, crumbled masonry. Clearly, it had seen better days.


    For all that, there was a certain majesty to it. Two storeys high, a wide frontage and the remnants of an ornate, arched doorway gave the structure an element of gravitas.


    ¡°It¡¯s as I told you at the office,¡± Finley said, ¡°the building was once a fine edifice, and the bones of the ce are sound. We can step inside if you like.¡±


    ¡°I would love to,¡± Lukas said, his eyes gleaming.


    Victor looked as if he would very much like to object, but he sighed and fetched a scented cloth from his pocket. Covering his face, he braced himself and followed the others through the door.


    Dark and musty, the interior didn¡¯t do much to dissuade Victor of the poor nature of the building, but Lukas flicked his wrist, sending several glowing globes of light around the space to illuminate it. He then held out a palm and conjured arger ball to take along with him.


    The light revealed what had once been an office space, with several desks, a reception area and attached offices.


    ¡°This used to be an administration building for the area,¡± he told Victor conversationally. ¡°Since this was a bit of a prosperous neighbourhood, they put together their own town hall of sorts and ran their own council out of here. Quite a bit of history in this building.¡±


    His fellow apprentice looked a little green, but nodded politely, as if he was listening.


    ¡°Yes, quite. The people are quite proud of this ce. The Market Council House, it was called,¡± Finley enthused, one hand brushing at his robespulsively.


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure,¡± Lukas remarked, ¡°which is why it''s been in disrepair for almost two decades. All that <em>pride</em>.¡±


    He leaned closer to Victor, but didn¡¯t lower his voice at all.


    ¡°The council was raided by the city guard for tax evasion. Half of them were thrown in prison, the other half executed. Nobody wanted to touch the ce for a long time, and after that, nobody wanted to invest the kind of capital required to fix the ce up. Too expensive for a building in Shadetown.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ yes¡­ quite,¡± Finley stuttered, a thin smile stered to his face.


    ¡°I want to see the upstairs,¡± Lukas said and quickly jogged up the creaking staircase.


    Victor and Mr Finley remained where they were. Lukas rejoined them a momentter.


    ¡°Looks good. I¡¯ll need to renovate it, but it would make a spacious living quarters and workshop up there.¡±


    He looked around.


    ¡°There¡¯s supposed to be a basement level as well, isn¡¯t there? I don¡¯t see the entrance.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Finley started. ¡°Yes, there is, actually. The entrance is a little out of the way. I¡¯m surprised you knew about it¡­.¡±


    Lukas gave him a broad smile.


    ¡°I read extensively about this property in preparation for today. As I understand it, Market Square was the first ce in Shadetown to have a sewer system constructed. Records indicated that the workers operated out of this very building, so I assumed¡­.¡±


    ¡°Well, you assumed correctly,¡± Finley said. ¡°It¡¯s this way.¡±


    He led them into one of the back rooms before indicating a heavy wooden panel built into the floor.


    ¡°You gentlemen are a little younger than I am. If I could trouble you?¡±


    ¡°Come on, Vic.¡±


    ¡°I am <em>not</em> going down there,¡± Victor warned.


    ¡°You toddler.¡±


    The two enchanters managed to lift the panel, revealing the stairs that descended down into darkness.


    ¡°Mr Finley?¡± Lukas invited.


    ¡°Oh, I, ah¡­ will decline.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself.¡±


    In a sh, the young man vanished down the stairs, leaving the other two awkwardly avoiding ncing at each other for ten minutes. Just when Victor thought the silence couldn¡¯t be any more unbearable, his friend emerged once more, covered in dust and what looked like webs.


    ¡°It¡¯s a mess down there,¡± Lukas coughed, brushing at himself. ¡°I¡¯m surprised how much space there is, though.¡±


    ¡°Enough room for a wine cer?¡± Victor asked.


    ¡°You could fit four wine cers down there, easily.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure if I believe you. How much do you know about wine?¡±


    ¡°Not much. Regardless, I¡¯ll most likely use it for storage. Perhaps as a cold room.¡±


    Mr Finley fought to keep a smile from his face at his client¡¯s words. He¡¯d been trying to sell this ce for almost eight years after picking it up for a pittance.


    ¡°I hope the building is to your satisfaction?¡± he said in his best ingratiating tone. ¡°With so much space, three floors, effectively, and in such a prime location, this is a wonderful opportunity to purchase a true hidden gem.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll spend just as much on repairs as I will to purchase the building¡­ probably more,¡± Lukas stated, his eyes growing cold. Then he smiled. ¡°But I am interested. I¡¯ll have my agent get in touch with you to negotiate a price, Mr Finley. I must ask you to amodate her unusual habits, though. She is seldom awake during the day.¡±


    <em>To sell this damn ce, I¡¯ll walk through hot coals at midnight</em>, the merchant thought fervently.


    He smiled politely.


    ¡°I look forward to the pleasure.¡±


    That got a slow grin out of Lukas.


    ¡°So does she,¡± he assured the man.


    ~~~


    Filetta stalked down the passageway, keeping her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. She understood it was sometimes necessary, in her line of work, to frequent the sewer, but that didn¡¯t mean she liked it.


    The dank tunnels offered many advantages, of course. There were no pesky patrols to worry about, no marshals, no yers, no magisters, no nobles with their private armies. Other than the maintenance teams, who were <em>pathetically</em> easy to bribe and intimidate, almost nobody came down here at all.


    Perfect for those who wanted to keep their business private. And Filetta very much wanted to keep her business private. <em>Especially </em>tonight.


    Someone grunted behind her and she turned, a brow arched.


    ¡°Are you trying to be heard, you fucking cretins?¡± she drawled in a low tone.


    ¡°One of these things is hard to carry, let alone two,¡± someoneined, ". Probably Gavil.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care if you¡¯re bleeding your motherless guts out onto the ground, you don¡¯t make a sound. All of you got it?¡±


    Despite the darkness, her Feat enhanced vision allowed her to see each of the ten men nod, and she turned back to lead the way.


    <em>Fucking morons. Why are ny-nine percent of all criminals so stupid?</em> Shemented.


    It was true that almost half a metre of stone separated the sewer tunnel they were in from the road above, but at regr intervals, one could find gutter drains and street entrances that carried sound <em>remarkably </em>well. She absolutely didn¡¯t trust theseckeys to recognise when they were likely to be heard and when they weren¡¯t.


    Just to emphasise her point, she slipped a de from her belt and began to twirl it through her fingers, allowing the slivers of light from above to y across the metal.


    Even the thugs weren¡¯t so stupid they didn¡¯t understand her message.


    <em>If only it didn¡¯t smell so badly</em>¡­.


    The ce was well constructed, with a narrow path along one wall to allow passage without having to step in the shit, but the stink was something else.


    <em>Thank heavens for nose plugs.</em>


    A requirement to operate in the business, in her opinion. Eventually, the group came to a junction that featured a wide, t grating over the canals that ran beneath. Filetta gestured to her men to remain behind as she stepped forward.


    A hooded figure emerged from across the junction.


    ¡°You¡¯rete,¡± they said.


    Filetta raised a finger and waggled it back and forth.


    ¡°Tsk, tsk, tsk. No hoods, not in this game.¡±


    After a moment of hesitation, the person opposite lifted their hands and pushed back the heavy cloth covering their head. A youngish man, with narrow features and sharp eyes was revealed, his raven ck hair hanging shoulder length.


    ¡°What¡¯s the point of revealing my features? There are a thousand ways to fake one¡¯s face.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Do you think this is what I really look like?¡± Filetta smirked. ¡°But it¡¯s courtesy that we conduct our business eye to eye, so to speak.¡±


    She gestured for the man to approach and they moved a few steps closer, until only two metres separated them. She looked him up and down, not bothering to conceal her interest.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t exactly hard on the eyes, are you? There¡¯s a certain air of danger about you. I can practically smell it.¡±


    The man shuffled his feet a little ufortably and her grin widened.


    ¡°You¡¯re Elten?¡± she said.


    He nodded.


    ¡°Filetta?¡±


    ¡°The very same.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nice to make your acquaintance.¡±


    Sheughed a full throatedugh.


    ¡°Manners? In my line of work, I don¡¯t often get such a polite address. Fuck, I¡¯d kill for a ¡®hello¡¯ most days.¡±


    Elten shrugged.


    ¡°It never hurts to be polite. Though, now I fear I must be a little rude and ask that our transaction bepleted quickly. Do you have what I asked for?¡±


    Filetta snapped her fingers and her ten men came forward, each carrying a cumbersome burden wrapped in tight linen cloth. Elten eyed them warily, but didn¡¯t appear afraid in the slightest, which she found interesting.


    Her menid the ¡®goods¡¯ down on the grating before they stepped back into the shadows.


    ¡°It¡¯s surprisingly difficult to get these,¡± Filetta nudged the closest with one booted foot. ¡°Far more so than I expected. Making sure nobody notices them missing is the trick.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a service you¡¯re being well paid for.¡±


    ¡°Very true. Speaking of which¡­¡±


    Elten removed a heavy pouch from one sleeve and lofted it toward her.


    Filetta snagged it from the air with casual ease.


    ¡°I hope you don¡¯t mind,¡± she said, before she unwound the knot and inspected the contents.


    Gleaming gold caught her eye.


    ¡°Fan-fucking-tastic,¡± she breathed.


    With practised motions, she tied a quick knot and, in a blink, the purse was gone. She nced down.


    ¡°How are you¡­?¡± she trailed off.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take care of them after you leave.¡±


    For the first time during their interaction, Filetta hesitated.


    ¡°Obviously, you aren¡¯t likely to answer, but I have to ask. What do you want with all these corpses?¡±


    Elten shot her a look as if she were stupid.


    ¡°I figured,¡± she sighed.


    ¡°Next time, I hope you¡¯ll be a little more prompt. I don¡¯t much appreciate being made to wait down here.¡±


    ¡°Next time?¡±


    The robed man folded his arms impatiently.


    ¡°Yes, that was the terms I negotiated. I need this many,¡± he pointed down, ¡°every month.¡±


    She stared at him.


    ¡°You are one sick puppy.¡±


    ¡°Okay?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong, I think I like it.¡±


    ¡°<em>Okay</em>?¡±


    After a moment, Elten shook himself and folded his arms.


    ¡°Well, I hope we can enjoy friendly rtions from this point on.¡±


    Filetta tapped her chin with one finger as she eyed him frankly.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I want to be friends,¡± she grinned.


    Elten blinked. Then he went to speak, but closed his mouth. He blinked again.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you next month,¡± he said finally.


    ~~~~


    Tyron let out a breath and felt as if years¡¯ worth of stress melted off him at once. He¡¯d had to wait <em>so long</em>.


    On stone bs around the basement, twenty corpsesy in various states of decay, awaiting his ministrations.


    <em>Time to get back to work.</em>

 Chapter B3C1 - Careful Faces

    Chapter B3C1 - Careful Faces


    Against the jostling crowd, Tyron stood firm as he gazed upward, a pocket of stillness amidst the flowing current of people. He ignored them, and they ignored him, which was often the way of it in Kenmor, he¡¯de to learn.


    Towering thirty metres tall in front of him, the faces of his mother and father looked down, stern yet kind. He had to give it to the sculptors the Baron hadmissioned from the central province, they¡¯d done well to capture the likeness of the famous pair.


    Even going so far as to rename Kenmor square, the beating heart of the city, in tribute to the fallen, beloved heroes.


    Such a tragic story. Taking their own lives after ending the shame of their murderous son, sacrificing themselves to remove the stain on their good name.


    The sheer arrogance of it twisted in his guts like poison. He wanted to scream in rage, tosh out at the misty eyed passers by, gazing up at the mighty statues with wistful expressions. He wanted to kick and punch and stab until the city itself was reduced to a crumbling ruin.


    But he did none of those things.


    A slight smile curled the corner of his lips as he turned away. Letting out his anger wouldn¡¯t bring this city down, so he sealed it away.


    <em>Just wait, Kenmor. I have so many things in mind for you.</em>


    _____


    The bell rang overhead as Tyron stepped through the door and into his shop.


    ¡°Master Almsfield, wee,¡± beamed Cerry from behind the counter.


    He gave her a short nod. ¡°Ms Tiln, how is the store this morning?¡±


    The brown haired girl gave him a vigorous thumbs up.


    ¡°Everything¡¯s wless. Business is booming, as always! Rather, I¡¯m shocked at how many people have beening throughtely.¡±


    Tyron grunted.


    <em>A rmendation from the most well known Enchanter in the city will do that. Master Willhem was quite glowing in his praise.</em>


    ¡°How¡¯s our stock?¡±


    ¡°We are starting to run a little low on a few items. The water purification wheel has been a hit.¡±


    ¡°I want to see a full inventory at the end of the day. I¡¯ll see if I can replenish our wares overnight. Where¡¯s Flynn?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s upstairs, Master Almsfield.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. I¡¯ll leave you to it then.¡±


    With a nod to the girl, he stepped behind the counter, ignored the questioning looks from the dozen or so customers browsing the ss disy cases throughout the shop floor, and entered the back rooms.


    Once he was upstairs, he knocked twice on the workshop door before he pushed the door open and found his apprentice face down on the table, snoring loudly.


    ¡°This idiot,¡± he frowned.


    Judging by the cores scattered across his table, and the pliance he still gripped in his hand, the man had fallen asleep working at his station again. He stepped up behind the dozing apprentice and shook his shoulder.


    ¡°Hah! I¡¯m awake!¡± Flynn gasped, iling his arms.


    ¡°Blood and bone, settle down!¡± Tyron scowled. ¡°You fell asleep at your station again. Were you working all night?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ Master Almsfield, good to see you. Why, yes, I was. I hope I didn¡¯t disturb you¡­.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t, since Tyron hadn¡¯t been resting in his bedroom in the room next to this one, but down in the basement performing work of a different kind.


    ¡°If you¡¯re having trouble meeting your quotas, then tell me. You won¡¯t be fired for failing to meet deliveries I¡¯ve set too high, but you <em>will</em> be fired if you waste materials and send faulty enchantments downstairs to be sold.¡±


    The young man cringed away from his master and Tyron struggled to remind himself that he¡¯d hired the apprentice himself after an extended screening process. Flynn Rivner <em>was</em> a skilled Arcanist, with quick hands, a knack for the art, and insufficient backing to get himself into a better apprenticeship.


    Tyron himself had only gotten into Wilhem¡¯s by expending a sizable chunk of the wealth his parents had left for him.


    Seeing Flynn¡¯s dazed and slightly fearful expression, the Necromancer forced down a sh of anger.


    <em>We¡¯re almost the same age, Flynn¡­. Have a little pride, man.</em>


    ¡°Go home, get some rest,¡± he said finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. ¡°I don¡¯t want to see you in the store until tomorrow morning. There is to be no more working overnight. We will work out the pace at which you produce your best work and we will stick to that. Have I made myself clear?¡±


    ¡°You have¡­ Master Almsfield¡­.¡±


    With the hangdog expression of a beaten puppy, Flynn staggered from his workstation and downstairs. Not a moment too soon, as Tyron had almost sumbed to the irrational urge to put his foot up the young man¡¯s backside.


    ¡°What is wrong with that boy?¡± he wondered out loud, then snorted when he realised how he sounded.


    After running through his apprenticeship in record time and setting up his own business, Tyron had leaped past many of his contemporaries in the industry. In fact, many who were significantly older than he was were still toiling away doing bit-work in other people¡¯s shops.


    It was hard to remember, sometimes, that <em>he </em>was only twenty two.


    With a critical eye, he looked over his workshop, making sure hisponents, tools and materials were in their proper ces. His hands twitched, wanting to be busy, but he took a moment to calm himself.


    The visit to the square had unsettled him, rattled his mentality and upset his emotions. Thest thing Tyron could afford was to throw away everything he¡¯d built over thest four years just as it wasing to fruition. The foundations of his vengeance had finally beenid, impatience and ack of control would destroy everything in an instant.


    After several long, steadying breaths, the young Mage took hold of himself, stepping out of the workshop and locking it behind him. He descended the steps, but rather than turning left and entering the shop floor, he turned right, into a storeroom.


    With solid strides, he navigated his way past the various crates, sealed pots, and other containers of supplies needed for his trade, until he stopped, facing a shelfden with jars and texts.


    Carefully, he removed a vessel filled with a syrupy green mixture, then reached out with his Arcane senses, searching for his own handiwork. When he found it, he gestured once, twice, thrice in the air before snapping his hands back to his side.


    An almost inaudible <em>click</em> reached his ear and he grasped the side of the shelf and pulled.


    Despite its size and weight, it swung easily, revealing a staircase leading down into the dark. Tyron stepped through, carefully swung the shelf closed behind him, before he conjured a ball of light and made his way into the basement.


    Even then, he had to open two more doors, simrly locked with enchanted sigils, and only when that was done did he finally step inside his private study.


    Tyron insisted on thinking of it as a study, rather than a <emir</em>, or <emboratory</em>, or anything with such childishly sinister overtones. In his mind, this was a ce of learning, a ce for him to experiment and develop his skills. Therefore, a study.


    Twenty corpses in various states of dismemberment stilly on the stone bs ced evenly along one wall. With a practised eye, the Necromancer checked the various enchanted arrays he had ced around the room, to ensure they were functional.


    Sound dampeners, for obvious reasons, heat exchangers to keep the temperature down, again for obvious reasons, along with a few magick-gathering arrays on his desk for powering or charging anything he was working on.


    Despite doing most of the work himself, Tyron was pleased with the results. When he thought back to the times he¡¯d been scribbling in his notebook in caves or on the back of a moving cart, his current arrangements seemed sinfully luxurious.


    It hadn¡¯t been easy to get to this point. He¡¯d had to cash in several of the favours his mother and father had earned for him, as well as dip extremely deep into the finances he¡¯d inherited.


    But now everything was in ce. He could finally return to improving his abilities as a Necromancer, and there was <em>so much </em>work to do.


    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s get organised,¡± he said aloud as he sat at his desk and pulled his tattered old notebook open.


    As an apprentice Arcanist, Tyron hadn¡¯t allowed himself to even <em>think</em> of necromancy, let alonemit notes to paper. Living and working around so many people, with essentially no privacy, it would have been insane to take the risk.


    Thus, his notes remained preserved from thest time he¡¯d worked on them, on the Barrier Mountains near the rift.


    Of course, Tyron had performed the status ritual dozens of times since then as he¡¯d steadily improved his new sub-ss, but Undead Weaver remained at thirty six, where he had left it.


    <em>And I have to leave it there for a while longer yet. Before I can upgrade my ss at level forty, I need to reach my Skill goals. Death Magick, Raise Dead, Corpse Appraisal, Corpse Preparation, Bone Threading, at the bare minimum, each of these needs to reach their maximum level before I can even consider reaching level forty.</em>


    Which meant he needed to conduct experiments and go through a huge amount of repetition without actually raising any Undead, or fighting with them.


    Once he¡¯d seeded and upgraded his ss, though¡­ then he would be fully off the leash.


    Tyron wasn¡¯t so naive as to think a level forty Necromancer could be strong enough to bring down the Magisters, the Nobles, or especially the Gods. He needed time and resources toy the perfect foundation for his advancement, and then he would sprint toward level sixty, or eighty, or however high he needed to go until he felt confident enough to achieve his aims.


    There was a huge amount of testing and experimentation to do with his newfound enchanting skills also. He¡¯d chosen this profession carefully, as he saw possibilities to solve many of his problems as a Necromancer with it.


    He already knew it was possible for undead to share magick with each other, and the more that were ¡®bound¡¯ before being risen, the greater this amount was. This could help with the drain a high number of minions ced on his magick, but not solve the issue.


    After years of finicky, mind-numbing work, he had finally perfected the array he¡¯d been working on as Master Willhem¡¯s apprentice. He was confident it could gather magick and then channel it into an undead as needed, without his active involvement at all. Again, it wouldn¡¯t solve the issue, but if he could cut the cost of each minion down by even ten percent, that would mean for every ten minions he raised, he could have another ¡®for free¡¯.


    And perhaps, with a little luck, persistence and finger-breaking work, he might achieve an even better result. A twenty percent reduction in magick cost would be¡­ <em>very</em> beneficial.


    As his thoughts drifted to the possibilities, Tyron shook himself back to focus. There was no point chasing every rabbit down into the warren, he had to tackle one problem at a time.


    First, Corpse Appraisal and Preparation, the foundational Skills of his profession. He needed to develop and master new ways to examine the raw materials used to create undead, and then ready them to be raised.


    He stood up, and pulled down his butcher¡¯s tools from where they hung on the wall.

 Chapter B3C2 - Old Friends, New Allies

    Chapter B3C2 - Old Friends, New Allies


    Tyron pulled his cloak a little tighter around himself. A chill wind blew down the cobbled roads of Kenmor, the tall buildings providing less shelter than one thought they would. Perhaps theserge stone edifices were responsible for conjuring the city''s infamous breezes? He didn¡¯t know, but travelling inside the walls at night was always particrly cold, even in the summer months.


    The Western Road was filled with traffic, even at thiste hour. Thirty metres wide, the thoroughfare cut through the city like a knife, dividing the northern and southern sides. The one and only safe passage into the central province, it was the main artery of the city, and one could argue, all of the east.


    Crossing it was always a chore, but at the newly renamed Sterm Square, it wasn¡¯t quite as difficult. The wide open square provided enough room for the carts and wagons to spread out, allowing foot-traffic to pass through a little more easily. Since he¡¯d entered the walls from the dock-gate after negotiating deliveries at the Silvership warehouse, this was the obvious choice to cross.


    ¡°Hey! Watch it, idiot!¡±


    ¡°Sorry.¡±


    Tyron raised a hand in apology to a wagon driver as he stepped around a temperamental horse that red its nostrils when he stepped too close. The Mage slowed his step and moved more cautiously until he was through the worst of it. He¡¯d been rushing, as he tended to do when heading to this part of the city. The sooner this trip was over, the better.


    It wasn¡¯t as if he didn¡¯t have better things to do. A backlog of orders at the shop needed to be seen to, before it began to cause problems. After spending his nights in the basement experimenting on corpses, his enchanting work had naturally suffered. Progress in Necromancy was important, but he couldn¡¯t afford to let his cover slip. Two more sleepless nights should allow him to catch up, so long as the cores were delivered on time tomorrow, which would push him to almost a week without sleep.


    As much as he hated to lose the time, he¡¯d need a good night of rest before resuming his nocturnal studies. With his superhuman constitution and mental fortitude, he could go a long time without sleep, but pushing too far would begin to affect his spellwork.


    Once he reached the northern side of Kenmor, his mouth twisted into a half-snarl without him realising it. The houses wererger, four or five storeys, and expensively apportioned. Despite the poption still being dense, the opulence only grew more decadent the further north he went.


    To his right, the Magister¡¯s Tower loomed, and his fists clenched everytime he glimpsed it from the corner of his eye. Beyond that, the Noble Quarter and the Dawn Fortress, home of the baron, could still be seen outlined against the night sky. Separated from the masses by a tall dividing wall, of course.


    Further north, the Gold District, another walled area of the city, but for a rather different reason. Home to the powerful yers who had crossed the level sixty threshold before retiring, the Gold District was a gilded cage for the strongest warriors and most powerful mages in the province.


    He wasn¡¯t headed there, though, he was headed to Veil Street, immediately adjacent to the yers'' retirement home.


    ¡°Paper¡¯,¡± a bored guard drawled as Tyron approached.


    ¡°Lukas Almsfield, here on business,¡± Tyron smiled easily as he handed his papers over.


    ¡°Uh huh, that¡¯s what they all say,¡± the man snorted as he leaned casually against his post, eyes flicking over the page. ¡°Only Bronze? Can you afford it in there?¡±


    Tyron¡¯s smile tightened.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a yer, I¡¯m an Arcanist.¡±


    ¡°Oh shit. Forget I said anything, you definitely can. It¡¯s criminal how much you lot charge for the most basic shit. How hard can it be to heat a fuckin¡¯ toilet seat?¡±


    <em>Why don¡¯t you try it then, idiot.</em>


    He continued to smile.


    After a final nce, the guard handed back the papers, which Tyron stowed carefully away, before he turned and opened the gate.


    ¡°Wee to Veil Street. Don¡¯t mess with the golds. If they rip your face off, we won¡¯t be doing much about it.¡±


    ¡°I appreciate the warning.¡±


    After he stepped through the gate, Tyron repeated the process at the second checkpoint, ten metres down the road, before he was <em>actually</em> able to step foot on Veil Street. The moment he did so, he was enveloped by soft red light that emanated from the enchanted globes that hung from poles and storefronts down the length of the street.


    At thiste hour, the street thronged with people,ughing raucously, drinking and generally staggering about enjoying all the delights of this hedonistic paradise.


    Tyron hated it.


    Much as he had when crossing the Western Road, he moved cautiously through the crowd, being careful not to bump anyone or get in the way. You never knew if the man or woman you identally tripped was actually over level sixty and might cave your chest in with one drunken punch.


    Scantily d men and women moved through the people with the grace of dancers, mysterious smiles on their faces andughter in their eyes as they serviced the crowds. Several spoke to him as he moved past, inviting him inside for a drink, or something more, but he politely declined each time.


    Eventually, he reached his destination, a massive, five storey edifice, painted entirely red. Somehow, the building managed to pull off the colour without looking gaudy. The contours of the walls, the tiered roof and tastefully suggestive carvings, transformed the structure into a beguiling temple with just a whiff of danger about it.


    Unlike most ces of business on the street, there were no tables or service in front of the building, only six heavily armed guards in full armour nking a massive double door. Held open, a steady stream of people moved in and out, along with a dark smoke that trickled through the top of the opening.


    With a mixture of irritation and reluctance, Tyron squared his shoulders and moved to the door, sliding through the opening when an opportunity arrived.


    The second he was inside, the scent of cloying smoke filled his nose and clung to his throat. The corridor was dark, lit from below with dim red lights projected from cores set at the joint of the wall and floor. From rooms branching to either side, he glimpsed people luxuriating in lush furniture, draped over each other as they sipped from delicate sses or gleaming metallic goblets. As elsewhere on the street, there wasughter and boisterous enjoyment, but it was different in this building. Theughter was muted, but the indulgence more intense. A feverish <em>need</em> gripped these people so palpably Tyron could almost feel it on his skin.


    He avoided being entangled by beguiling servers dressed in form-hugging ck clothing and made his way to the staircase.


    On the second floor, the smoke was even thicker, the lighting even darker, the people even more frantic. Without pausing, he pushed through into avish room, the walls covered in padded red leather, and cast his eyes across the dozens of impossibly handsome men and women waiting on the edge of the room.


    When he found the one he wanted, his eyes narrowed and he approached with heavy steps. A young man eyed his approach, eyes widening with recognition and a sly smile on his face. Dressed in a vest and pants that left nothing to the imagination, with an ornate, carved ck skull positioned over his crotch, he leaned back, putting his well formed physique on disy as Tyron drew closer.


    ¡°You. In the back. Now,¡± Tyron growled.


    ¡°Why Mister Almsfield,¡± the young man smiled coyly, ¡°aren¡¯t you forceful today? Allow me to lead the way.¡±


    He reached out to take Tyron by the hand, but the Mage pped him away with a re. With a hurt expression on his face and an excited gleam to his eyes, he sashayed through an open doorway and Tyron followed. Rooms on the left and right were barred with heavy, wooden doors, soft, muted sounds of passion drifting through. The pair walked past them both until they came to an unadorned door that the young man opened before bowing, gesturing for Tyron to enter.


    Within the room was a in wooden table with four chairs, modestly lit from an ordinary globe that hung from the middle of the roof.


    With a sigh, Tyron reached into his mouth and removed the filtration device he¡¯d put in before entering. It was ufortable, but better than inhaling that damned smoke. He ced it on the table before he sat, adjusting his cloak and resting his hands on hisp.


    ¡°Put him on the table and fuck off,¡± he said tersely.


    The young man pouted.


    ¡°Mr Almsfield,¡± he said, his voice coy, ¡°the mistress has given her instructions and you know that I must obey her wishes.¡±


    Tyron red at him.


    ¡°I warned youst time. If your mistress has something to say, she can say it to me directly.¡±


    ¡°Why, Mr Almsfield, you put me in a <em>very</em> ufortable position.¡±


    Yet he sounded as if he quite enjoyed it.


    The Mage¡¯s hands rose and before the teasing expression on the escort¡¯s face could change, they flickered rapidly through a sequence of sigils.


    The Necromancer¡¯s mind crashed into the other like a smith''s hammer on a pinecone. He tightened his grip cruelly.


    ¡°Put him on the table.¡±


    As if in a dream, the young man detached the carved skull from his belt and ced it on the table, his eyes zed over.


    ¡°Now cut yourself,¡± Tyron whispered, drawing a jagged line down his own face, ¡°right here. Deep. Do it now.¡±


    The young man nodded, drool beginning to leak from the corner of his mouth, before he turned and left the room.


    ¡°Shit, forgot to tell him to close the door,¡± Tyron cursed as he rose and did it himself.


    He sat back down and looked at the carved onyx skull with a mix of pity and exasperation. After all the pain and sacrifice, that <em>this</em> was the oue, still angered him to his core. Though if there were one individual to me¡­.


    ¡°I told you not to piss her off.¡±


    ¡°Really? <em>Really?</em> Are you going to open with that every time, you fucking prick? How about, ¡®Hello, Dove, how¡¯ve you been?¡¯, huh? Would that break your balls? A little bit of polite chatter to open the conversation. That¡¯s how normal people do it.¡±


    ¡°Normal people aren¡¯t talking to the enved soul of their friend who wouldn¡¯t stop pissing off a vampire.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think she was <em>this</em> mad about it! Do you have any idea how much cock I¡¯ve seen in thest year? A lot! It¡¯s fine if that¡¯s your scene, obviously, but I¡¯ve never swung this way, Tyron. Now they''re swinging all over me! Day and night, it never fucking stops!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a brothel. Of course it never stops.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for the words of wisdom. Are you any closer to getting me out of here or what? I do <em>not</em> want to be used to cup any more balls.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m working on it.¡±


    ¡°Work <em>faster</em>.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m doing what I can, it isn¡¯t easy. I¡¯m not exactly her boss. In Necromantic terms, she captured your soul fair and square.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have even been there if you hadn¡¯t locked me in my own skull to start with!¡±


    ¡°I know! Alright? I¡¯m trying to get you free, it¡¯s just taking time.¡±


    The two fell into ufortable silence for a long moment.


    ¡°... Is she evening?¡±


    ¡°Give her a second,¡± Tyron sighed.


    Sure enough, several secondster, they heard someone stomping down the corridor toward the room.


    ¡°How does she do that in heels?¡± Dove wondered.


    ¡°How do you know she¡¯s in heels?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s <em>always</em> in heels.¡±


    ¡°Please tell me you aren¡¯t still staring at her feet all the time¡­.¡±


    ¡°A man needs a hobby.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m never freeing you, am I?¡±


    The door crashed open to reveal Yor in her icy majesty. Her ck satin dress managed to cover everything, yet still reveal it all at the same time. Snow-white skin, raven ck hair and burning red eyes, she hadn¡¯t aged a day in thest four years, appearing exactly as she had the day Tyron had met her. Albeit, much better dressed.


    Civilisation agreed with the Vampire. She¡¯d been significantly happier in the capital than in the woods. Right now, she looked anything but happy.


    ¡°Again, Tyron?¡± she red daggers at him.


    ¡°Who¡¯s Tyron? I¡¯m respected businessman, Lukas Almsfield.¡±


    ¡°Oh shut up,¡± she snapped before she stormed into the room, mming the door shut behind her. ¡°You dare to mark another of my toys?¡±


    The Necromancer red back.


    ¡°I warned you. Treat Dove with some respect or I¡¯ll do worse to your ve next time. I know you can fix the cut with no scarring. If he gelds himself, I wonder how well that can be repaired with your blood magick.¡±


    ¡°I will do what I want with that <em>pervert</em> until he has paid for his actions.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t push it, Yor, or I¡¯ll pick him up and walk out with him tonight. Do you want to test your Mistress'' patience that far?¡±


    ¡°<strong>Be silent</strong>,¡± Yor growled, animalistic fury igniting in her eyes.


    Tyron felt her influence try to seize hold of his thoughts. He stiffened in his chair and grit his teeth as he fought her off.


    ¡°You <em>didn¡¯t</em>,¡± he roared as he stood, mming his hands down.


    The two red at each other across the table.


    ¡°Mummy, daddy, stop fighting,¡± Dove said intively. ¡°Or do with less clothes on. Angry sex is fucking <em>hot</em>.¡±


    Silence hung in the room for a moment before Tyron pped a hand to his face.


    ¡°You idiot,¡± he muttered before heughed. ¡°Why do I even bother?¡±


    He sat down and gestured for Yor to do the same. The vampireplied, her anger dissipating a little, though she red daggers at the skull on the table.


    ¡°I still don¡¯t understand the whole brothel thing. I thought vampires couldn¡¯t even <em>have</em> sex,¡± Tyron shook his head.


    A slight smile curved Yor¡¯s ruby red lips.


    ¡°Sex is a weapon. Even better, it¡¯s a weapon that can¡¯t be used against us. Besides, in ces like this, where memories are blurred and inhibitions are low, people are easily parted from their blood. My Coven is <em>drowning</em> in it this past year.¡±


    She practically shivered as she said it and Tyron twisted in his seat ufortably.


    ¡°Just don¡¯t go overboard. It hasn¡¯t been easy getting you established.¡±


    She arched a brow at him.


    ¡°Are you saying your investment has gone poorly?¡±


    Anything but. He made almost as much money from the <em>Red Pavilion </em>as he did his own store. Tyron was quickly running out of things to spend his wealth on.


    ¡°I mean, you have greater ambitions than a brothel in a well-heeled part of town. If people start turning up dead, or <em>undead</em>, then your project is going to be burned out before it really gets off the ground.¡±


    The vampire leaned back and pursed her lips. A distracting sight.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t wrong and we <em>are</em> being careful. I¡¯m maintaining a tight grip on my people. <em>Very</em> tight. That isn¡¯t what you should be worried about.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes.


    ¡°What is it <em>this</em> time? More nning permits? Identities need to be mocked up? I¡¯ve been jumping through so many administrative hoops I feel like an acrobat.¡±


    For once, Yor hesitated.


    ¡°Not¡­ so much. This time, it¡¯s <em>politics</em>,¡± she said the word with genteel distaste. ¡°You have agreed to help the Court, and we appreciate your ongoing assistance, but you must recall our previous discussion about <em>factions</em>.¡±


    He did. Vampires, as it turned out, bickered and squabbled between each other even more than non-immortals. To be fair, they had a <em>lot</em> of time on their hands and cared a great deal about hierarchy. In fact, they cared about nothing quite so much as hierarchy, if his understanding was correct.


    ¡°That¡¯s all your side,¡± Tyron waved a hand to dismiss the issue, ¡°I don¡¯t want to get involved. You and your Mistress have my help establishing a presence in this Realm, that was the agreement. If other vampires have an issue, then you need to deal with it.¡±


    Yor¡¯s smile revealed a little more fang than usual.


    ¡°Oh, we have been <em>dealing</em> with issues. The problem will be when our rivals reach out to you directly. This realm, this empire, is <em>ripe</em> for our influence, like a fresh, unplucked fruit. So many potential servants, so much <em>blood</em>. The more others sniff around, the more they will want a slice.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re blocking them, which means they¡¯ll try to go around you ande straight to me.¡±


    She nodded.


    ¡°Not all of us are quite as¡­ socially minded as my Mistress. Others prefer a more <em>direct </em>approach. You will find their entreaties to be <em>difficult</em> to resist.¡±


    ¡°So the answer is?¡±


    ¡°Stay hidden. If they don¡¯t find you, they will need to work with other, inferior intermediaries, people we can safely cut off.¡±


    Thanks to agreements secured by his parents, Tyron was a little more protected and not so easily disposed of. Without that, Yor and her Mistress might have erased him already. Now that they were established, the Coven was growing in wealth and cultivating influence at an obscene rate.


    Tyron leaned forward and rubbed at his temples.


    ¡°Sometimes, I think this alliance is more trouble than it¡¯s worth,¡± he groaned.


    ¡°You¡¯ve only begun to scratch the surface of what the Court can do for you,¡± Yor purred. ¡°We are moving forward with procuring certain <em>knowledge</em> for your use, as an example.¡±


    The Necromancer perked up immediately.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ great news,¡± he said eagerly, eyes gleaming.


    ¡°Are you guys going to fuck or what?¡± Dove demanded.

 Chapter B3C3 - Progress

    Chapter B3C3 - Progress


    Cerry Tiln said goodbye to her mother as she stepped out the door into the bustle of Shadetown, the door closing with the ringing of a bell behind her.


    It was dark this early, as it always was in the shadow of the wall, they wouldn¡¯t get direct sunlight for another hour, but even so, she felt invigorated by the dawn¡­ shade.


    She giggled at the thought as she stepped off the doorstep and onto the narrow road, already filled with people going about their day. Farmers were bringing crops and produce in from the fields, stocking their stalls of supplying businesses preparing for a day¡¯s trading. Market square was the centre of trade outside the wall and she¡¯d been lucky to be born in the prosperous area.


    ¡°Mornin¡¯, Cerry,¡± her neighbour, L, called as she stepped from her house. ¡°Off to the store?¡±


    The younger girl nodded happily.


    ¡°That¡¯s right. It¡¯s been so busy over there, L, you have no idea.¡±


    The florist chuckled as she pulled her shawl around her shoulders, falling into step behind her young friend.


    ¡°I¡¯m not surprised. I can¡¯t ever remember an Arcanist opening a business outside the wall. Normally, you find them closer to the castle, not out here with the rest of us.¡±


    Cerry sniffed.


    ¡°That¡¯s because they charge way too much. Master Almsfield is different, <em>his</em> prices are much more reasonable.¡±


    ¡°Well, whatever the reason, I¡¯m grateful for it. I got a heating pan for my bedst week, and my old bones have never felt so spry in the morning. My hip barely aches anymore.¡±


    It was pleasing to hear the wonderful things her employer had been able to do for the people of Shadetown. From Glow-lights, to heating pans, to filters and dozens of other knick-knacks the more well-to-do citizens of Kenmor took for granted, the products had been flying off the shelves. Cerry grinned.


    ¡°I hear so many stories just like that,¡± she said, ¡°peoplee in all the time to tell me how wonderful it¡¯s been. Most of them have never owned anything enchanted in their lives.¡±


    She leaned forward conspiratorially.


    ¡°My father came to the shop and bought a temperature controlling array and installed it in the kitchen for mother. She¡¯s been singing his praises for thest week, since it always gets so stuffy in there.¡±


    She knew he¡¯d done it because he was too cheap to pay for the renovations necessary to achieve proper venttion, but her mother had been happy either way. She baked for a living, and with so many ovens going at once, it was like a furnace in there most days. Now, at least the corner she did most of her preparations and decorating in was pleasantly cool the whole day around.


    ¡°I told him to fork over and purchase heating tes for the ovens, but he¡¯s still leery.¡±


    She snorted, affronted that Master Almsfield¡¯s work could be doubted, and Lughed.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m sure he¡¯lle around. I¡¯m not likely to get time toe into the store, but do pass on my thanks to Mr Almsfield for me, would you?¡±


    ¡°I will when I see him,¡± Cerry shrugged.


    The owner kept strange hours, sometimes working upstairs all day, sometimes sleeping all day and working all night, and sometimes just straight up vanishing for days at a time. On the one hand, it was odd; on the other, it was pleasing to know how much she was trusted.


    ¡°This is me, Cerry. You have a good day now,¡± L patted her on the shoulder before turning down a narrow road.


    ¡°You too!¡±


    Another two streets down and she arrived at the market proper, crowded already, hawkers calling to the crowd, advertising their wares. It was a familiar sound that felt like nothing so much as home. Around the corner, onto Office Street and she was standing in front of the shop.


    She rummaged through her bag for a moment before she found the tightly bound ¡®key¡¯ Master Almsfield had made for her. She waved it in front of the handle, and after a moment, there was a slight ¡®click¡¯ as the door unlocked.


    It was difficult to restrain a smallugh, as it was every morning. Something so ordinary, like unlocking a door, had be ever so slightly magickal, and she loved it. Stepping inside, the store was immacte as always, gleaming disy cases, polished hardwood floors with curved trimmings and finishes. However much it had cost to set up the store, it must have been a small fortune. Half the time, she was afraid of slipping and damaging something she couldn¡¯t afford to rece!


    She closed the door gently behind her and began her normal morning routine. Cleaning the floor came first, then the benches and tables, before she moved on to the ss.


    It was hard to avoid the sad reality staring back at her from those tassled cushions, however: they were running dangerously low on stock. Many of the disys were empty, almost half of them in fact. The store had been extremely sessful since it opened, but perhaps Master Almsfield needed to hire more workers?


    Apprentice Rivner worked hard, his handsome face pinched with worry and concentration whenever he was in the store, but perhaps just one apprentice wasn¡¯t enough?


    She wondered about that as she cleaned the windows in the front of the store. Did they need to expand already? There was probably room upstairs for more apprentices to work¡­.


    Lost in thought, she ran through her chores until the doorbell rang and she turned with a squeak, caught by surprise. Flynn Rivner stopped and stared at her, a slight blush on his face.


    ¡°O-oh, sorry, Cerry. I didn¡¯t mean to scare you.¡±


    She felt furious at herself for looking so foolish in front of him.


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing, Apprentice Rivner,¡± she smiled, trying to regain her poise. ¡°How are you this mornin''? I mean, morning?¡±


    <em>Control your tongue, Cerry! You want him to think you¡¯re some country bumpkin!?</em>


    ¡°Ah, I¡¯m fine,¡± he said, shuffling his feet a little before he realised he was still in the doorway. ¡°I-I should head upstairs¡­ then. Nice to see you¡­ uh¡­ Ms Tiln.¡±


    ¡°Nice to see you as well, Apprentice Rivner.¡±


    Her eyes trailed after him as he strode across the shop floor and towards the steps, without trying to make it obvious. He was just so <em>tall</em>, and dignified!


    She sighed.


    He must have all sorts of fancy women inside the wall chasing after him. A promising Arcanist apprentice with his whole life ahead of him had a lot of prospects.


    She returned to work, only to turn back when she heard Flynning back down the stairs, a rueful expression on his face. She nced down and saw the borate case used to hold the finished cores in his hands.


    ¡°Oh! Has Master Almsfield been workingst night?¡±


    ¡°It appears so,¡± Apprentice Rivner sighed before he ced the case carefully down on the counter and shook his head.


    There was something about the look in his eye that prompted her to ask.


    ¡°Is something wrong? We certainly needed the work done, half the store is sold out.¡± She gestured toward the cases.


    ¡°Sorry? Oh, it¡¯s nothing. I¡¯m just¡­ shocked is all.¡±


    Cerry was confused.


    ¡°About what?¡±


    Apprentice Rivner went to speak a few times before he finally settled on what to say.


    ¡°He¡¯s just <em>too fast</em>,¡± he said finally with a sigh, gesturing at the case. ¡°I had a look, there¡¯s a hundred cores in here, easily. And I¡¯ve studied the Master¡¯s work carefully, it¡¯s wless.¡±


    He looked a little despondent as he spoke, which only confused the girl further. Wasn¡¯t that a good thing?


    ¡°Is that¡­ a problem?¡± she asked.


    The Arcanist in training chuckled a little and blessed her with his shy smile, causing her heart to skip a beat.


    ¡°No. I-it¡¯s not a problem, I just don¡¯t know how he does it. I¡¯ve tried to keep up to his pace, but I fail two out of three times if I work that quick.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a wonderful apprentice,¡± Cerry said firmly, ¡°Master Almsfield said so himself on several asions. Don¡¯t worry, soon you¡¯ll be able to catch up. You¡¯re still an apprentice, after all.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m only two years younger than he is¡­.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t matter at all! Not everyonepleted their apprenticeship as quickly.¡±


    ¡°Nobodypletes their apprenticeship <em>that </em>quickly. It caused quite a stir. That¡¯s why I applied to work here, you know. I wanted to learn from someone that extraordinary.¡±


    ¡°Well, now you have your chance,¡± she encouraged him. ¡°Don¡¯t be downhearted because it¡¯s hard. It was always going to be hard!¡±


    He nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°You¡¯re right. If I¡¯d wanted an easy apprenticeship, I would have stayed where I was. Thank you, Cerry.¡±


    ¡°Not a problem, Apprentice Rivner.¡±


    ¡°Please. Call me Flynn.¡±


    She blushed.


    ¡°Of course¡­ Flynn.¡±


    They gazed at each other for a moment until a loud thump apanied by muffled cursing rang out from upstairs.


    ¡°I should go and get these set,¡± Flynn said quickly, grabbing the tray and heading to the backroom.


    ¡°I should finish cleaning!¡± Cerry darted back to her chores. The store would be open shortly, and she had a lot to do!


    ¡ª


    There was something soothing, something meditative, about the work of an Arcanist. Taking the cores, the condensed power of magick itself, and rewriting it, one line at a time, was a mysterious and powerful art. The process itself, however, was tedious, <em>finicky</em>, and required an inordinate amount of fine-motor-control, along with a level of focus that bordered on impossible.


    In other words, it suited Tyron down to the ground.


    Crafting sses required an absurd amount of <em>grind</em> in order to level, day after day of relentless, gruelling repetition. Couple that with the necessity of experimentation to break through any bottlenecks that arose, and it was well known how notoriously difficult it was to be a master craftsman.


    This went doubly so for those with a crafting sub-ss. As an Arcanist, Tyron was limited to only forty levels, and one ss advancement. That meant eight Feats in total and a limit to the number of Skills and abilities he could purchase.


    This meant he could never truly equal a master of the craft. Someone like Master Willhem was in a stratosphere he could never reach, able to take the most powerful cores and transform them into enchantments only gold ranked yers, or the nobility, could afford.


    That level of control and finesse, he could never possess it, but he didn¡¯t need to. Instead, he had aimed every new ability, every new Feat in an entirely different direction. He wanted to squeeze every drop of power from the simplest and smallest of cores. Efficiency, efficacy, with not even a wisp of lost magick.


    Tyron leaned back from the ss with a tired sigh before he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. No matter how he tried to sit straight, he always ended up with a slight hunch as he worked, leaning over to bring his face to the ss and see even a little better.


    <em>Another one done, only a hundred or so to go.</em>


    It sounded like a lot, but his pace was good,pleting each core in roughly two minutes. An absurd pace for the work, and the key reason behind the sess of <em>Almsfield Enchantments.</em>


    Arcanists¡¯ work was useful for a lot of things, heating, cooling, cleansing, healing, lighting, basically every aspect of daily living. Of course, most in the trade focused their attention on where the big moneyy, weapons and armour for yers. Fighting was a constant part of life in the provinces, even if it happened out of sight for most people, at the rifts. The yers made the bulk of their money from selling rift-kinponents and cores, and they turned around and spent that money on improving their gear, or on alchemical potions or other supplies. Some held exclusive contracts where they traded the best and rarest cores directly to famous Arcanists in exchange for preferential treatment or discounts.


    The constant demand for new and better enchanted weapons and armour, as well as the churn caused by lost gear within the rifts, meant that the majority of cores harvested went to this cause. That meant enchantments for daily life were expensive and rare.


    Rare, unless you could produce the same effect using smaller, more easily obtainable cores.


    Tyron could make a heating te almost seventy percent as effective as what the best Arcanists in Kenmor could make. Except his were a tenth of the price, formed from a hyper-efficientwork of the lowest grade cores.


    Naturally, this meant he was essentially alone in targeting this particr market, poorer folks outside the walls who never dreamed of owning such luxuries.


    In the end, this was an unintended benefit to his true aim. All along, Tyron had focused on maximising the power he could gain from weaker cores because that was all he could afford to use in his undead. No matter how wealthy he became, it would be too ridiculous to engrave and set a high-grade core within a simple skeleton. His current business model came to be after he¡¯d thought long and hard on how he could maximise the benefits of enchanting for his minions, and be sessful enough to provide cover for his other endeavours.


    Diligently, and with absolute focus, he continued to etch the runes with his pliance, cing eachpleted core into the case with the others, before he checked the order sheet, picked up another core and began the process again.


    Three and a half hourster, he was done.


    He stood with a groan and stretched, feeling his back pop. Muttering about old age, he shook out his hands, grabbed the case of finished cores and walked downstairs.


    It wasn¡¯t too busy in the store, given it was roughly lunchtime, only five people wandering amongst the disy cases and reading the engraved descriptions of the wares.


    As always, Cerry was a bright and cheery presence, moving from cleaning the shop, to answering questions, to ringing up sales with ease and grace. He shook his head. The girl hadn¡¯t even had her Awakening yet. If she gained some sort of service ss, he¡¯d triple her sry to keep her on.


    A warm smile greeted him as she saw him wander onto the shop floor.


    ¡°Master Almsfield! Nice to see your face today.¡±


    At the mention of his name, several customers turned to catch a glimpse of him, but he ignored them. Cerry nattered on.


    ¡°I have to tell you, my friend L¡­.¡±


    He nodded along as he walked, entering the back room where he found his apprentice hard at work setting the cores into the various wares that they sold. It was a delicate process, but by far the straight forward part of the job. A core inscribed to create me down the length of a de was particrly useless until it was set into a de, after all.


    The back room was filled with the various tes, wheels, dials and other pieces they sold. All of it was ordered from local craftsmen in Shadetown.


    Tyron set the case down on a bench to the side.


    ¡°Here¡¯s another lot. I need these set today, if possible, Flynn.¡±


    He hesitated before he turned away.


    ¡°But don¡¯t push yourself too much. Whatever you can get done by closing is fine. Finish up the rest tomorrow.¡±


    The younger man looked at the case with an odd, queasy expression, which Tyron ignored.


    ¡°Are you two alright closing up? I¡¯m going to sleep.¡±


    Now he turned and stomped back upstairs, throwing off his clothes and copsing into bed. When he woke, he could check on his experiments. He greatly anticipated the results.

 Chapter B3C4 - Mastery

    Chapter B3C4 - Mastery


    Rage gripped him.


    Tyron¡¯s fingers curled into fists as the breath whistled between his clenched teeth. Clear as the day it happened, he could see Magnin and Beory on the ground before him, eyes closed, faces at peace, the knife still stuck in his father¡¯s chest.


    Muscles knotted in his forearms and shoulders as he struggled to release the tension. The more he fought against it, the more it gripped him. He felt possessed, trapped inside his own body as grief and anger took control. Conscious thought was relegated to a dim and forgotten corner of his mind.


    Somewhere in this city, the Magisters who had tortured his parents lived, secure in their authority, safe within their tower. Behind them, the nobles, touched by the gods themselves, with the divine right to rule, locked behind a literal wall he could not cross.


    He hated them.


    He hated all of them.


    They <em>had</em> to die. The ck rage that possessed him would allow nothing less.


    But it couldn¡¯t be now. He wasn¡¯t ready. He needed time.


    Gradually, millimetre by millimetre, he unclenched his jaw.


    One by one, he eased the tension in his fingers.


    The Necromancer sucked in a deep breath, held it, held it, then released it slowly, before he repeated the process. For ten minutes, he calmed himself, unwinding the knots in his body and heart until he was calm and in control again.


    <em>In time,</em> he promised himself, <em>walk the narrow path, take your time, and you will seed in the end.</em>


    Only when he was certain he was in control of himself did Tyron swing his feet off the bed and begin to prepare himself for the day. The sun had not yet begun to rise, so the world remained dark as he changed, moving through his austere and organised chamber.


    <em>These episodes areing more frequently. I may need to do something before it bes a problem.</em>


    For those long years as an apprentice, living in a dorm alongside his fellow struggling students, Tyron had wedged his feelings so deep inside that there had been no hope of them emerging. To all intents and purposes, he had <em>be</em> Lukas Almsfield, never allowing himself even a second of respite from the relentless act.


    It may well have driven him mad if he hadn¡¯t spent his every waking moment on the study and practice of enchanting.


    Now though? Now that he had his own space, now that he had begun to work as a Necromancer again, his anger had begun to break free from the prison he had used to contain it. The grief he had felt that day burned in him still, raw and abraded, like an open wound.


    Sometimes, he awoke at night, a roar of pure hatred struggling to burst out of his throat.


    As he walked in the city, he felt an irrational urge to strike at those around him, to take out his pain on them, the innocent citizens of Kenmor.


    It was a problem that needed a solution. He needed an outlet, lest these fits jeopardise his task.


    <em>Perhaps when I return to hunting rift-kin, that will suffice. </em>


    It would be some time before he was able to enact <em>that</em> particr n, however.


    After he washed his face in the basin and slicked back his hair, Tyron carefully applied the mour, crafting it with a skill and dexterity he could only have dreamed of when roaming the ins in the back of that stupid cart.


    Even though it was night and nobody would enter the store for hours, there was never any need to take a risk. As long as he was outside of his chamber, he would appear as Lukas Almsfield.


    Preparationsplete, he trod quietly down the stairs and made his way through the secret entrance to the basement.


    Time to check on his experiments.


    The twenty bodies he had received in his first shipment had been stripped of their flesh long ago. After considering what to do with the remains, he¡¯d ended up dumping them in the sewer, far from the store.


    Hopefully, the rats and other nasties that flourished down there had finished the grisly work for him.


    Afterwards, he¡¯d finally been able to begin to develop and test new methods.


    The first thing he¡¯d done had been to try and create an enchanted lens he could use to scry magick, and specifically, death magick. The lens sat on his bench now, a¡­ moderate sess. It had enabled him to see death magick when looking through it, sure enough, but hadn¡¯t been able to detect the minute amounts contained within the bones.


    A fully working model would let him examine the formation and movement of energy within the remains at the finest level of detail. Many nights ofplex worky ahead of him before he could achieve that, so he¡¯d begun sketching out his next version before moving on to other projects.


    The first thing he needed to do was develop his Corpse Appraisal Skill, which meant developing and adapting new methods to learn about the bones he was working with.


    So he¡¯d focused on listing the information that was important for him to have, and then worked backwards, trying to determine the best way to achieve it.


    Stuck to the wall over his desk, a sheet of paper outlined his current paths of inquiry.


    <em>Magick formation and movement: Develop Lens</em>


    <em>Density: Construct methodology.</em>


    <em>Unseen Influence: ?</em>


    <em>Link Potential: Compatibility test? Rted to magick formation?</em>


    Tyron stepped from one set of bones to the next. Each was still aplete skeleton,id out in ce on its own b around the outside of the basement.


    At four different locations on each skeleton sat a small tool, powered by only a single, low-grade core, one each on the left tibia, the fifth rib, the skull and the scap.


    The bones in question had been chosen almost at random, but the device was a simple thing, basically two prongs with a gap of ten centimetres between them. On the tip of one prong was a short script that sent a pulse of magick at regr intervals, which was received by a detection script on the other.


    It was his own version of a simr technique used by engineers and builders to determine the grade and quality of stone. The longer the dy between the pulse being sent and received, the more dense the material between them.


    Diligently, he removed and checked each device before recording the results and storing them away.


    As he¡¯d suspected, the density of the skeletons varied quite a bit. Some were significantly stronger than others. Whether more dense bones made better minions was something he wasn¡¯t sure of, but he suspected it would be the case.


    <em>Perhaps the density is rted to the amount of magick that can be stored in the bones?</em>


    An unexpected thought. If so, then his density test could be used to determine the ideal concentration of death energy in the skeleton. Of course, it would take a huge amount of tests and quite a bit of maths to work it out, but he was up for the challenge.


    Naturally, the causes behind the differences between each skeleton were a mystery to him. Was it due to diet? The ss of the person who had ¡®donated¡¯ the remains, and therefore, the influence of the Unseen? Or some other reason entirely?


    Right now, he wasn¡¯t sure what might be important in the Corpse Appraisal process, so it was better for him to cast a wide and grasp as much information as possible, thenter refine his methods to what was relevant.


    Which brought him to his next point.


    The Unseen was able to change people''s bodies, making them tougher, stronger, faster, through the levels they gained throughout their lives. Someone like Magnin had barely been human, capable of feats of strength ten regr people couldn¡¯t duplicate.


    So was there a way for Tyron to determine how much of the Unseen¡¯s¡­ energy? Will? Potential? Had been invested in a particr set of remains? More importantly, was it possible for him to replicate the effect?


    If he could toughen up the bones himself using the same method the Unseen used to modify living human skeletons, then he could turn any skeleton into a peak product, as if it had been taken from a gold ranked yer.


    <em>No point getting ahead of yourself, if you can¡¯t even detect it, then there¡¯s no chance you can replicate it.</em>


    And that was the issue, he had no idea how he might go about measuring the <em>Unseen</em>. As far as he was aware, nobody had any idea what it was, how it worked, or even why it did what it did.


    The only clue he had to go on was that the Unseen had arrived in this realm along with the magick that originated from the first rifts.


    If it used magick, then he could work with it, of that, he was supremely confident.


    Now he moved back along the rows of skeletons, his eyes focused on his next experiment. Around each set of remains sat a rectangr metal band, covered in engraved script. A small array of cores sat at the feet of each set, powering the strip of silver.


    One of the things he¡¯de to learn, quite by ident, was that silver reacted to death magick, but only under certain conditions. As he moved from one skeleton to the next, he focused on the band. Here and there, he could see a faint ckening of the metal, as if it had begun to rot.


    It was difficult to quantify precisely, but he could roughly work out which skeletons had damaged the metal more than others. This was his attempt to determine if some skeletons were able to transmit more death energy than others.


    As it was, it was clear that two of his skeletons had projected more death magick, as their own strips of metal were quite tarnished, as were those of the skeletons beside them, but only on the side closest to his two suspects.


    <em>Interesting</em>.


    He hadn¡¯t thought this particr experiment would bear fruit so quickly¡­. This could be an enormous discovery.


    It wasn¡¯t clear what made these two skeletons the most¡­ prodigious movers of death energy. They weren¡¯t the most dense skeletons, nor did he believe they¡¯d been the highest level. There must be some other quality of the remains that led to this result, he simply had no idea what it was.


    Excited, he rushed back to his desk and began furiously taking notes, rushing to put all of his thoughts on paper.


    Eventually, he put down his pen, sped his hands and thought. Ultimately, it all came back to death magick, and how little he understood it.


    That particr vour of the energy which suffused the realm was the cornerstone of the Necromantic arts, and it would be the deciding factor in his sess or failure. Whether or not he could maximise his abilities as a Necromancer boiled down to how well he understood, and could manipte, that energy.


    He leaned back in his chair.


    He sighed.


    ¡°I really need to work on that lens,¡± he muttered to himself, dragging the prototype closer.


    Developing a spell to enhance his eyes to see death magick had been his first idea, but Dove¡¯s warnings still rang in his head. Magick that influenced the eyes was dangerous. So his next idea had been to use a lens, much like the ss Arcanists used when enchanting.


    Somehow, he¡¯d actually seeded, but not well enough for it to matter.


    With a frustrated expression on his face, he began to take his model apart.


    Mastering his art would be a long road, but if he was sessful, his power would grow by leaps and bounds once he crossed the level forty threshold.

 Chapter B3C5 - Rumblings

    Chapter B3C5 - Rumblings


    Magister Poranus wasn¡¯t happy.


    ¡°Hurry up,¡± he snapped to his manservant, and the man immediately began to bow and scrape.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Magister. Please forgive this humble servant.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t stop working, you blithering idiot!¡±


    ¡°Apologies, Magister!¡±


    The young man immediately straightened and got back to adjusting Poranus¡¯ robes. He hated the formal robes. Multiyered, tassled, with gold chains running down the sleeves, they were cumbersome to the point of absurdity.


    Nervous of being scolded, or worse, disciplined, the servant¡¯s hands were now shaking, causing him to tangle two of the chains together.


    ¡°You -¡± Poranus blew out a breath. ¡°Go away,¡± he said coldly. ¡°You¡¯re worse than useless. The next time your work is this poor, I¡¯ll have you flogged.¡±


    ¡°I-I¡­ thank you¡­ M-Magister,¡± the servant stuttered as he backed away.


    Poranus snorted and began fussing with the fine chains himself, finally untangling them after several curse-filled minutes.


    Irritated and red-faced, the Magister took a moment topose himself before he pulled open the door and exited his chambers, only to have his mood immediately sour again.


    ¡°Hello there, brother,¡± Herath greeted him, smiling broadly. ¡°Sent your manservant packing again, I see.¡±


    Poranus eyed the blond Magister through narrow slits, not bothering to hide his dislike.


    ¡°Herath¡­. Why are you loitering outside my chambers?¡±


    ¡°Why, brother! What a thing to say. I merely thought to enjoy yourpany as we make our way to the Council together.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ that¡¯s¡­ grand¡­.¡±


    The two fell into stride beside each other, one sunny, the other thundering.


    ¡°The support of the Jorlins counts for a lot,¡± Poranus remarked sourly. ¡°I¡¯m surprised you¡¯re still on the Council after yourst scandal.¡±


    ¡°My family dotes on me, it¡¯s true,¡± Herath said modestly, ¡°they have been kind enough to forgive my momentarypses in judgement.¡±


    Poranus snorted. Misappropriation of funds, outright corruption. Of course it was all swept under the rug, since the ones to lose out were yers andmoners. Herath wasn¡¯t stupid enough to steal from the Nobles, he¡¯d have vanished the next day and lived in agony for the rest of his days.


    ¡°Are you starting to sympathise with the cattle?¡± Herath asked with a raised brow. ¡°We are the jailers. It isn¡¯t good to have tender feelings toward the jailed.¡±


    From one of therger noble families, these were the kinds of abuses Herath could get away with.


    ¡°You¡¯re using <em>me</em> of being soft on the yers?¡± Poranus said incredulously. ¡°Because I can¡¯t steal from them and avoid repercussions?¡±


    ¡°Of course not. Just a word of friendly advice from your fellow Council member. We are tasked with keeping the peace. We need to work together to hold back the tide.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    Herath continued to try and engage his contemporary in conversation as they walked, nattering on as Poranus grunted back at him. Together, they walked into the Council chamber to find Grand Magister Tommat already in ce at the head of the table.


    ¡°Take a seat,¡± the old man rumbled, knuckling his thick, grey moustache.


    <em>Don¡¯t look at his head. Don¡¯t look at his head</em>.


    Poranus averted his eyes from the gleaming reflection of the firelight from Tommat¡¯s shiny, bald head. The flickering light had caught his attention at thest meeting and he was paranoid the Grand Magister had noticed.


    Soon, the other members filed in and the Council began.


    As it progressed, Poranus became increasingly unable toprehend what he was hearing. Bickering over who was sent to the Keeps, politicking to secure more plum roles for this or that family, crackdowns on yers within the city. Generic, se issues that they dealt with every week. After the first hour, he couldn¡¯t stand it anymore and interjected, cutting Magister Anlyn mid sentence.


    ¡°I beg the Council¡¯s pardon,¡± he began, incredulous, ¡°but are we not going to address what we¡¯ve heard from Reynold Keep?¡±


    Grand Magister Tommat knuckled his moustache and stared at him disapprovingly.


    ¡°Where is your decorum, brother?¡± he rumbled. ¡°You have no call to disrupt the important business of the Council with these baseless rumours.¡±


    Herath tugged at his sleeve surreptitiously, but Poranus brushed him off.


    ¡°Anlyn wants to make sure none of the Chirn are sent to supervise the yers at the new rift in Cragwhistle, and we all know the Council will agree since they¡¯ve been generous with donationstely.¡±


    He red across the table at Anlyn who just smiled and shrugged.


    ¡°Meanwhile, we¡¯ve had reports of yer unrest on the rise for the past four years. Brand activations are at an eighty year high. <em>Eighty years</em>! I only know that because I went into the record books to check! Ever since the Sterms died, there¡¯s been a steady increase in acts of defiance and it has yet to be mentioned here in Council, <em>once</em>.¡±


    Tommat mmed his fist down on the trouble as he red at the younger Magister.


    ¡°Do you really think you can sit here and tell this body how to conduct its business? Is it you who chairs this discussion, Magister Poranus? Or do I?¡±


    ¡°You, of course,¡± Poranus said, with no remorse on his face. ¡°I simply submit to the Council that this is an issue worth discussing.¡±


    A ripple of scoffs and dismissive gestures ran around the table.


    ¡°The history of the Brand as a method for controlling dangerous individuals in the Empire goes back thousands of years,¡± Tommat stated. ¡°How are your concerns relevant to that sort of timeframe? The yers are riled up after two of their most beloved and sessful members were forced to sacrifice themselves in such an unfortunate manner. In a few years, they¡¯ll have settled back down again. It isn¡¯t the first or thest time this happened.¡±


    Poranus couldn¡¯t believe his ears.


    ¡°Grand Magister Tommat, thistest incident urred at Reynold Keep, just south of Kenmor itself! If things are getting that bad so close to the capital, what are they like at Skyice? Or Dustwatch? Or ckrift?¡±


    Magister Anwyn raised his hand and Tommat nodded his permission to speak.


    ¡°Perhaps we may be able to strike two birds with one stone. Magister Poranus wishes for us to ascertain the extent of yer¡­ disruption far from the Capital, and we are in need of a Magister to be posted in Cragwhistle.¡±


    <em>You piece of shit,</em> Poranus raged.


    Grand Magister Tommat nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°This suggestion makes sense. What say you, Magister Poranus? Anything to contribute before I put it to a vote?¡±


    Poranus pushed back his chair as he stood.


    ¡°Don¡¯t bother to vote, I¡¯ll pack immediately.¡±


    He red across the table at Anwyn.


    ¡°<em>As usual</em>, the actual work of the Magisters will fall to those from the minor families.¡±


    Beside him, Herath sighed and shook his head. Once again, his colleague would suffer for his poor temper.


    Without another word, Poranus turned and stormed out of the chamber, mming the door behind him.


    <em>That stupid servant better pack his bags. By the gods, I refuse to suffer the freezing cold in the arse end of the Empire while he slobs about in the city.</em>


    ~~~


    Thunder boomed down the side of the Barrier Mountains as dark grey clouds rolled over the cliffs and poured down over the foothills. Cold and sharp, the wind cut like a de as it whistled through the jagged rocks that thrust upward through the waving grass.


    Elsbeth drew her cloak tight around her shoulders as she nced worriedly back toward the weary folk who trudged along in her wake.


    ¡°Not far now,¡± she urged them with a wan smile and the closest, Dram, nodded.


    ¡°Thank ye,ss,¡± he muttered, ¡°we¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°Can you follow this path without me leading, Dram? I want to check on the others.¡±


    ¡°O¡¯ course,¡± he said, a little fire sparking in his eyes. ¡°I didn¡¯te all this way ta fall on me arse now.¡±


    She gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder before she turned and began to walk back down the line. They were a sorry-looking lot, suffering after several long weeks of travel.


    She came upon a mother travelling with her two children, all three looking haggard and worn. As the priestess walked past, the mother reached out to grasp her sleeve.


    ¡°Please priestess, give us a blessing.¡±


    Elsbeth stopped.


    ¡°Are you sure? The children also?¡±


    The woman¡¯s mouth set in a hard line.


    ¡°Yes, if it pleases you.¡±


    Over the years, Elsbeth had learned not to doubt the courage of these folk, even if she questioned their wisdom. It would do no good to argue, and this was what she was here for, was it not?


    Reaching out to the Old Gods wasn¡¯t like casting a spell, she knew that now. Magick was involved¡­ somehow, but what she did still held an element of the time before, when there were no rifts, or kin. She reached deeply inward and found that which connected her to something far greater than she was.


    ¡°The blessing of the Old Gods be upon you. They see you, may you not be found wanting.¡±


    Immediately, the woman stumbled, as if a great weight had settled on her shoulders, simrly the children buckled. Two boys, the oldest no more than twelve, forced themselves back up, their faces determined, though she could easily read the pain in their expression.


    A blessing from the Three¡­. Many wouldn¡¯t even call it a blessing, more like a curse. Attracting the attention of Crone, Raven and Rot meant they would test you, push you. The Old Gods were hard and cold, they helped those who helped themselves. Should this mother and her children push through the oppression that had been ced on them, there was a chance they could gain favour from one or more of the Three.


    <em>They are strong. Watch as they struggle through,</em> she prayed silently in her heart.


    Part of her still yearned to help them, to relieve their burdens, but she hade to terms with her Gods and what they wanted. If she interfered, if she helped them in any way, then the blessing became meaningless. Worse than meaningless, since her help would offend the Three and tempt them to bring cmity on the family, and on herself.


    Many invited the eyes of the Old Gods, and they could never be sure what might happen. There were no rules that they followed, no consistent or safe way to approach them. They mayy a light burden on someone who took their blessing, or they might shatter their heart on the spot.


    Further down the line, a man struggled to keep up, leaning heavily on another next to him.


    ¡°Are you alright?¡± she asked, as she rushed forward.


    Clearly injured, the man grimaced.


    ¡°Not sure I¡¯ll be able to make it, at this rate, Priestess. Would you intercede with the Rotten One for me?¡±


    Another difficult request. Unlike the Goddess, whose houses of healing provided divinefort to those who arrived as supplicants, Rot was not so giving.


    ¡°There will be a price for any aid given. Are you still willing?¡±


    Grim-faced, he nodded.


    ¡°I am,¡± he said. ¡°Whatever Rot demands, I will pay.¡±


    Again, she reached out through that connection which bound her and the Gods together. Except this time, she reached for one specifically, the Rotten one, and felt the deity assent.


    ¡°Rot infuses you with a portion of his strength. Do not waste it, for the price will be imed at ater time.¡±


    Almost immediately, the man sucked in a deep breath and clenched his teeth as vitality flooded him. His friend steadied him as he spasmed, the flesh of his leg mending in mere seconds. When it was done, he was dripping sweat and shaking, testing his leg with small, tentative steps.


    ¡°I thank you, priestess,¡± he nodded. ¡°Now I will not be a burden.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re wee,¡± she said, and smiled.


    Who knew what Rot would im as his price? Perhaps the man would suffer a light fever, and recover after a few days. Or perhaps the leg would be taken with gangrene, and need to be removed entirely.


    Thankfully, there were no others who asked for her care, responding to her soft-spoken inquiries with wan smiles or weary shakes of the head.


    Several hourster, they arrived at their destination. Ortan greeted them at the gate.


    ¡°More?¡± he asked dourly, his face twisted into a frown. ¡°I¡¯m not sure we can take any more, Elsbeth.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what you saidst time, and the time before that, and yet still you survive. Even thrive. It¡¯s curious, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Elsbeth put down her pack with a sigh and rubbed her shoulders. Her feet ached something fierce and she desperately needed a bath after two weeks of hard travel.


    Ortan¡¯s frown only deepened.


    ¡°Are you talking about your gods?¡± he grunted. ¡°I¡¯ve not seen any evidence they¡¯re helping us, just flooding us with mouths that we can¡¯t afford to feed.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure they aren¡¯t your gods yet?¡± she asked, half teasing. ¡°Most of the people out here worship the Three, not the Five. It¡¯s not like you can doubt their existence, you¡¯ve seen my work.¡±


    ¡°How can I forget?¡±


    He sighed heavily.


    ¡°Why are they sending all these people here, Elsbeth? I¡¯m more than willing to help people in need, but this is getting out of hand.¡±


    A question he had asked several times before. She didn¡¯t have any new answers for him.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know for sure. They believe this ce will be safe, protected by the Necromancer. Some of the other Priests and Priestesses I¡¯ve met think they¡¯re gathering followers for the first time in thousands of years, bringing their people together.¡±


    At her mention of the Necromancer, Ortan¡¯s expression darkened.


    ¡°Nobody believes he¡¯s even alive anymore.¡±


    ¡°Do I take that to mean you¡¯ve finally stopped dropping hints?¡±


    ¡°He <em>is</em> alive.¡±


    ¡°I believe so,¡± Elsbeth said simply, and forcibly changed the subject. ¡°Nowe on. Help me get these people something to eat and a ce to rest. Unless you intend to leave them outside the gate?¡±


    The big man sighed.


    ¡°No. Bring them in. I think I have a spot I can put them up.¡±

 Chapter B3C6 - Fumbling

    Chapter B3C6 - Fumbling


    Tyron stepped out of the backroom and came face to face with Cerry.


    ¡°Oh, hel -,¡± he began.


    ¡°Oh good goddess!¡± she gasped, a hand flying to her chest. ¡°Master Almsfield? You look like death!¡±


    The Necromancer blinked and noted that his eyelids felt as though they scraped over sand as he did so. He blinked rapidly a few more times, trying to moisten his eyeballs.


    ¡°Do I really look that bad?¡± he croaked.


    ¡°Oh, I wouldn¡¯t say¡­ you look¡­ yes. I¡¯m sorry!¡±


    He waved her apology away.


    ¡°No need to say sorry. I got caught up with a few things. I haven¡¯t slept in¡­. I think¡­ what day is it?¡±


    Cerry stared at him for a long moment.


    ¡°It¡¯s Selene¡¯s day,¡± she said slowly. ¡°I think you might need to have a rest, Master Almsfield. Respectfully.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Tyron said, then paused and really assessed himself. If he were honest, he felt like shit scraped on mouldy bread. Five days without sleep¡­ and he¡¯d been working essentially non-stop. That wasn¡¯t a good habit to fall into.


    ¡°You¡¯re right, I think I will get some sleep. Can you do me a favour and pass these onto Flynn?¡±


    He handed over a case of cores and Cerry took hold of it with wide eyes.


    ¡°Alright, I will!¡±


    She toddled off, the padded box clutched tightly in her hands. Tyron watched her go before he stepped into the backroom once again.


    He <em>should</em> go straight to bed. That¡¯s what he should do¡­. Working any further in his condition invited disaster. He had no <em>reason</em> to be pushing himself this hard. He¡¯d spent years constructing his position so that there was no need for him to furtively experiment in the middle of the night. He had the luxury of being able to take his time, consider his steps, make careful and thoughtful strides in advancing his craft.


    Instead, he¡¯d thrown himself into it like a drunk finding a new bottle, to the point he was barely keeping up with the demands of his shop. If people noticed he was short on goods for sale, they could reasonably be expected to start thinking about what he was doing with his time. Necromancy wouldn¡¯t be their first or even fiftieth guess, but any undue attention at all was to be avoided, no matter the cause.


    ¡°I¡¯ll just take a quick look,¡± he muttered to himself.


    After another five days, the saturation of death magick within the skeletons had be too strong for him to suppress. To even get them tost this long, he¡¯d had to devise a method to draw out and disperse the energy to prevent the bones from assembling themselves into wild undead.


    Between that and working on his lens, there hadn¡¯t been much time for further experimentation.


    As he stepped into the basement, he quickly walked to his bench and picked up the lens. The craftsmanship wasn¡¯t anything special. In truth, the frame he¡¯d installed the ss into was ¡®workmanlike¡¯ and ¡®functional¡¯ if he was being polite, and straight up crude if he wasn¡¯t.


    But the real prize was the ss itself, the enchantments scraped into the cores embedded in each corner. The <emwork</em> of cores embedded into each corner.


    Getting the lens to filter Death Magick so he could see it had been hard enough. Having it focus in and make it easier to see the minute levels of energy he was searching for had been a level beyond. It''d taken him three whole days to crack it, but he was exceptionally pleased with the results.


    Of course, by that time, the level of energy in the bones was quite high and it¡¯d been no trouble at all to see it, but even that inspection had proven fruitful.


    Mapping the movement through the various bones had been an interesting exercise. There was sure to be a reason behind the particr, almost consistent paths the magick took, but he hadn¡¯t been able to divine that. Even more important had been the moment he¡¯d witnessed the transfer of energy with his own eyes, seeing the Death Magick vanish from one skeleton and reappear in another.


    Naturally, he¡¯d known it was happening already, but being able to see it as well as sense it gave him another avenue, another sense he could use to discover <em>how</em> and <em>why</em> it happened. He¡¯d been buzzing ever since and probably spent too long poring over the bones with the lens, examining each and every little detail, even if he was confident they weren¡¯t important or relevant.


    ¡°May as well do another pass,¡± he muttered, as he picked up the lens and began to peer through it.


    He moved slowly about the room, checking each of the bs carefully, scanning every stone, every cubic metre of space, until he was satisfied no Death aligned Magick remained in his workspace.


    The bones themselves had been too dangerous to keep, so he¡¯d disposed of them the night before. Of course, even dumping them in the sewer wasn¡¯t safe, as the possibility existed they would find a way to pull themselves together, so he¡¯d gone a step further and ground them to powder before tossing them into the sewage.


    With a little luck, those bones were many kilometres away. The sewer connected to the river, after all, and the river went straight to the ocean. His only remaining concern was that no trace of arcane energy remained for a passing Mage to sniff out.


    Measures had been taken to suppress and dampen the emanations of the Magick he performed down here, but nothing was foolproof.


    When he was satisfied nothing remained, he reluctantly put the lens down on his bench and picked up his book of notes, idly flicking through the early pages.


    The feverish scrawl that greeted him brought a smile to his face. When he had just been starting out, every idea he¡¯d had seemed as good as the next. Frequently, he¡¯d found himself chasing multiple hares down multiple burrows, and the scrawl he¡¯d packed onto these pages reflected that. Half-formed ideas, partially baked sigil sequences, one after the next.


    He flipped forward and, gradually, some sort of order began to exert itself. Long hours on the back of that cart, scribbling away in this book, trying to find a way forward, had forced him to be more rigorous and focused. The influence of Dove also helped in that regard. As a person, the Summoner had been careless, frivolous and unreliable, but as a Mage, he had always taken his craft very seriously.


    With a sigh, Tyron put the book down and made his way upstairs, being careful to ensure he wasn¡¯t seen as he emerged from the basement and then went up to his room.


    For now, his experiments would be on hold until he was delivered his next set of remains. It was frustrating, but he needed to be patient. If he dedicated himself to his enchanting work, then he should be able to build up a supply of goods he could draw on when he inevitably lost himself in his research again.


    When he finally copsed into bed, he was almost instantly asleep, and only awoke twelve hourster, in the dead of the night. He rose, scrubbed and dressed himself before he went hunting for something to eat. He was ravenous, and suddenly couldn¡¯t remember thest time he¡¯d eaten.


    He raided his pantry and found it limited, but devoured whatever he could find. Fed and rested for the first time in almost a week, he decided it was time to sit down and perform the status ritual.


    Since he¡¯d resumed his Necromantic activities, he hadn¡¯t checked his progress, so he hoped to see some gains in the key areas he was trying to develop.


    Despite it being the depths of the night and the shop being locked up, he wasn¡¯tfortable performing the ritual outside of the basement. He walked through the empty store, taking note of the immacte conditions his employees had left it in.


    <em>I really need to be a little more careful¡­.</em>


    Less reputable people could have robbed the ce blind, given his erratic schedule and infrequent appearances. Leaving Cerry to lock up the store every night, a young girl who hadn¡¯t even Awakened, seemed like putting a little too much on her shoulders.


    Once in the basement, he grabbed a fresh piece of paper, nicked a small cut in his thumb and pressed it to the page.


    Soon enough, the familiar text began to appear as his blood crept over the page. He leaned forward eagerly to see what progress he¡¯d made.


    His eyes ran down the page until he found what he¡¯d been hoping to see.


    <em>Your use of and experimentation with Corpse Appraisal has raised proficiency. </em><strong><em>Corpse Appraisal has reached level 14.</em></strong>


    He¡¯d hoped for two levels, but he would settle for one. That meant the things he¡¯d learned likely had practical applications. He simply had to discover what they were.


    Interestingly, there was another payoff as well.


    <em>Your use and exploration of Death Magick has raised proficiency. </em><strong><em>Advanced</em></strong><em></em><strong><em>Death Magick has reached level 13.</em></strong>


    More good news. His experimentation with the lens and observation of death aligned energy in the bones seemed to have taught him something. Hopefully after the next set of remains, he could push both of these Skills higher.


    Only when he was confident he was on track to reach level twenty in each would he begin to work on Corpse Preparation.


    Several of his Enchanting Skills had also progressed due to his new and innovative application in developing tools. A wee development, since they were notoriously hard to advance.


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 22


    Race: Human (Level 19)


    ss:


    Undead Weaver (Level 36)


    Sub-sses:<ul><li>Forbidden One (Level 24) </li><li>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</li><li>None (Locked)</li></ul>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    Feat Selections Avable: 1


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    38


    Dexterity:


    99


    Constitution:


    122


    Intelligence:


    237


    Wisdom:


    156


    Willpower:


    110


    Charisma:


    43


    Maniption:


    59


    Poise:


    59


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 4)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Engraving (Level 5)(Max)


    Skill Selections Avable: 4


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 14)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 13)


    Advanced Death Magick (Level 13)


    Bone Mending (Level 8)


    Minion Commander (Level 6)


    Undead Control (Level 4)


    Minion Modification (Level 5)


    Bone-Soul Melding (Level 5)


    Bone Weapon Sculpting (Bow) (Level 4)


    Death Infusion (Level 1)


    <strong>Anathema Skills:</strong>


    Abyss Tongue (Level 4)


    <strong>Arcanist Skills:</strong>


    Expert Magick Scripting (Level 29)


    Channelling (Level 10)(Max)


    Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 15)


    Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)


    Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 14)


    Expert Network Formation (Level 23)


    Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 17)


    Advanced Core Sense (Level 15)


    Expert Power Control (Level 24)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    Raise Dead (Level 14)


    Bone Animus (Level 14)


    Commune with Spirits (Level 6)


    Shivering Curse (Level 6)


    Death des (Level 7)


    Empowered Bone Armour (Level 5)


    Minion Sight (Level 6)


    Spirit Binding (Level 3)


    Death¡¯s Grasp (Level 5)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 5)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 4)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    Suppress Mind (Level 10)(Max)


    Repository (Level 6)


    Fear (Level 3)


    mour (Level 10)(Max)


    Invasive Persuasion (Level 10)(Max)


    Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 1)


    Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Feats:</strong>


    Skeleton Focus II


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery


    Spirit Mastery


    Undead Specialist


    <strong>Anathema Feats:</strong>


    Repository


    Wall of Thought II


    Drain Life


    <strong>Arcanist Feats</strong>


    Magick Thread Control II


    Compact Sigils II


    Conduit Seal II


    Core Networking II


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Advanced): WIS +20 CHA +20

 Chapter B3C7 - A Visit

    Chapter B3C7 - A Visit


    ¡°Couple of quick things,¡± Tyron announced as the staff gathered inside the shop prior to opening. ¡°First, I¡¯m going to be taking a trip out of the city, starting next week. I¡¯ll be gone for approximately six days. That means you and I are going to be extremely busy making sure our storeroom is filled with stock, Flynn.¡±


    ¡°Not a problem, Master Almsfield. I¡¯m not afraid of hard work.¡±


    ¡°Just make sure you let me know if you¡¯re getting too tired to work urately,¡± Tyron reminded him sternly. ¡°I apud your enthusiasm, but sloppy work, I do not.¡±


    The apprentice hesitated a moment before he nodded.


    ¡°Secondly, Cerry, this will mainly impact you. So far, you¡¯ve been responsible for opening and locking the store every day, and you¡¯ve been faultless at performing this task, even when I¡¯m not around. I want tomend you on your dedication and professionalism, wonderful traits to have in someone so young. Even after you awaken, I want you to know you¡¯ll always be wee to work here in this shop.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll want a raise. though,¡± the young woman smiled, full of pride at the praise she had received.


    ¡°After some consideration, however, I¡¯ve decided I have been irresponsible in entrusting this work to someone so young. There is a lot of money and valuables kept in this store. and I would hate it if you were attacked by someone wanting to get inside.¡±


    Cerry went to protest but Tyron held up his hand firmly.


    ¡°I know what you want to say, and as I said a moment ago, you have done excellent work and I couldn¡¯t have asked any more of you, but I refuse to allow this job to put you in any danger. I have contracted another party who will be responsible for opening and closing the shop each day.¡±


    He raised his voice.


    ¡°Come inside.¡±


    The front door opened with a ring of the bell attached to the frame and a woman d in hardened leather armour stepped inside, a broad smile on her face.


    ¡°Hello all,¡± she said in a friendly tone. ¡°Nice to meet you.¡±


    ¡°This is Wansa, a silver ranked yer who¡¯s decided to settle in the city for the time being. I¡¯ve brought her on at the rmendation of people I trust, and I hope you can all work together.¡±


    The three of them each said they could, some with more enthusiasm than others. Wansa continued to smile broadly, Cerry looked a little sullen and Flynn still looked a little dazed at Tyron¡¯s rebuke.


    He sighed.


    ¡°Wansa, find a spot to make yourselffortable, but please don¡¯t interfere with Cerry as she works the floor and handles transactions. Flynn, let¡¯s get upstairs and get to it. I¡¯ve ordered quadruple of our normal shipment of goods this week, and I intend that the cores be carved and set before seven days are done.¡±


    Apprentice Flynn swallowed and nodded heavily.


    ¡°Of course, Master Almsfield.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Still alive there, Flynn?¡±


    The apprentice raised his head from his workstation, red-rimmed eyes staring back at Tyron with barely a flicker of life in them. He could almost picture the young Arcanist as a zombie.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, Master Almsfield, just fine,¡± he wheezed.


    ¡°Did you manage to get those cores setst night?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I did.¡±


    ¡°Great work. This is thest of them then.¡±


    Tyron lifted the heavy case in his hands, filled with another hundred newlypleted cores, and ced it carefully on the cluttered bench. Flynn looked as if he might cry.


    ¡°Go home and get some sleep, Apprentice Rivner,¡± Tyron told him firmly. ¡°You can take your time with these. As long as they get done by the time I return, I¡¯ll be more than satisfied.¡±


    ¡°A-are you sure?¡±


    Caught between exhaustion and his desire to keep up, Flynn wavered between a determined expression and a look that seemed as if he were sleeping sitting up.


    ¡°You¡¯ve worked extremely hard this past week, much more than normal, and your output has been quality. I¡¯ve noints. Go. Home.¡±


    ¡°Right you are then, Master Almsfield. I-I¡¯ll just¡­ head on home.¡±


    Although he wobbled a bit when he stood from his chair, Flynn was able to make it downstairs alright, though Tyron was still concerned.


    ¡°Cerry, I¡¯ll watch the store for a bit, can you make sure apprentice Rivner gets home safely? I have pushed him too hard over the past week and he¡¯s not all too steady.¡±


    The young girl lowered her head and busied herself with shifting a few items back and forth before she drew a deep breath and turned around.


    ¡°I¡¯d be happy to,¡± she beamed. ¡°Come on, Flynn, let¡¯s get going.¡±


    Despite his mumbled protests, Cerry took hold of one of his arms and practically dragged him out of the store. For his part, Tyron stretched his back and flexed his fingers, listening to them pop with satisfaction.


    ¡°Those two are sweet on each other, you know that right?¡± Wansa said from her post near the door.


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°They are?¡±


    He¡¯d not noticed any signs, the two seemed perfectly natural around each other. Or perhaps that <em>was</em> the sign? A casual,fortable working rtionship was all he thought had developed between the two. Was that unusual between two people of that age?


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure why you keep the two of them around in the first ce,¡± Wansa said. ¡°My mistress could rece them in a day with <em>much</em>¡ªerk!¡±


    The moment she said mistress, the Necromancer''s fingers had shed through a sequence of sigils and he mmed his mind into hers. It¡¯d be far too easy over the years, to dominate the will of others in this manner. If only it weren¡¯t so <em>necessary</em>.


    He red at the yer, whose nk eyes stared at nothing.


    ¡°What did I tell you about mentioning your <em>mistress</em>?¡± he hissed. ¡°Or anything to do with <em>them</em>?¡±


    With a contemptuous snort he released his grip on her and the woman slumped forward, gasping.


    ¡°You are here because your <em>mistress</em> owes me, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you can be trusted. And you can be trusted, can¡¯t you Wansa?¡±


    She red back at him.


    ¡°Or should I have a word, a little chat, with your precious <em>mistress</em>? I don¡¯t think she¡¯d like what I had to say. She may be quite mad at you, perhaps even abandon you. What would that be like, to never feel the touch of your mistress again?¡±


    Wansa whimpered. The anger in her eyes immediately crumbled, reced with desperate, naked fear.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be quiet,¡± she breathed. ¡°I won¡¯t mention it again. You have my word.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    He turned his back on her and returned to the counter, leaving Wansa to collect herself. Once a proud yer who had fought for years at Undermist Keep, she had been reduced to her current state after bing entangled with Yor and her coven.


    Able to reduce even rtively strong yers like Wansa to quivering addicts, the methods of the vampires were powerful, but distasteful to Tyron. Yor looked at Wansa as a capable servant, fully able to utilise her mind and abilities, whilst being totally dependent. Tyron only saw a weak, trembling wreck. Emotional, unstable, and ultimately not to be depended on, these <em>enved</em> humans were a stopgap solution at best. He would rather have an undead by his side, every time.


    Still, she was a much neededyer of security, and was utterly loyal to her mistress, to the point of insanity. No doubt she was reporting everything he did to Yor, but he could live with that. It wasn¡¯t as if he did much in the shop other than work anyway. But she could never be allowed topromise his cover.


    Cerry and Flynn gave him an added veneer of authenticity. An unawakened youth was the traditional salesperson of choice for those businesses who wanted to appear trustworthy. Customers could shop confident in the knowledge they weren¡¯t being manipted by merchant skills or feats. Having an established apprentice like Flynn in his shop gave anotheryer, another connection to the trade and city atrge. Recing them with more bewitched ves of the coven would <em>not</em> help him in any regard.


    He breathed out and let the tension drain from him. With no customers in the store, he pulled out the ount books and began to go through them line by line. Just as he had for his uncle Worthy so long ago, Tyron found it strangely soothing to work through the numbers. Cerry kept a good record of each transaction, but her arithmetic wasn¡¯t perfect, and he made corrections here and there.


    All in all, the store continued to be very profitable. In any enchanting work, the cores were always the greatest expense, but limiting himself to the smaller grades, usually used for light, weak power cores, producing a little warmth and other such applications, saved him an immense amount of money.


    Compared to the vast sums of money master Willhem made on a daily basis, Tyron was living in poverty, but he had more than enough to fund his activities. With the added funds he earned from his share in Yor¡¯s business, he was on his way to bing genuinely wealthy.


    He drew no pleasure from it; all he needed was enough to fund the resources he required to fulfil his purpose.


    Cerry arrived back at the shop a half hourter, and Tyron took a few minutes to point out the errors she had made and let her know he had secured the safe in the backroom for the duration of his trip.


    With that done, he went to his room and stretched his back and shoulders once more. A week solid of relentless enchanting work was nothing to him; after three years straight of endless grinding in his apprenticeship, he felt like he was only getting started.


    Barring any unexpected surges in demand, the store should be stocked for the next month, which would leave him plenty of time toplete his excursion and then research on his next set of remains. With the amount of time he¡¯d bought himself, he should be able to research <em>while</em> maintaining a rtively normal sleep schedule. How luxurious.


    Still, there was little point in wasting any time. He stalked around his room, swiftly packed a small travel pack and set out. Just outside the western gate that led into Kenmor, a hugework of coaches and stables could be found just off the main road, which thronged with traffic at all hours of the day.


    Once there, he paid handsomely for a coach, climbed into the back and settled down to sleep. It would take almost three days to reach his destination, travelling around the clock. If possible, he¡¯d like to avoid having to make this sojourn to the backcountry, but there were obligations he had to meet.


    ~~~


    The carriage had been rattling over a rough section of dirt road for several hours, and Tyron was half certain his teeth were going to shatter if he didn¡¯t get some relief. At least he was sure they were approaching their destination.


    He¡¯d paid for speed, a ssed Wagoneer who could get the absolute most out of the horses he worked with, but perhaps he should have also sprung for a more padded coach. Something to consider next time, or perhaps he was just getting soft and should try to toughen himself up.


    Soon, the coach began to slow until it finally came to a stop, the horses huffing and whinnying with relief.


    ¡°Here you are, sir,¡± the wagoneer, Eric, called.


    Tyron grabbed his pack and opened the door, alighting to the ground with one wobbly step.


    ¡°Thank you, Eric. It¡¯s a rough journey and I thank you for persisting.¡±


    The middle-aged, stubble-faced man grinned wearily.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m paid for, sir. How long until we head back?¡±


    ¡°A little under a day at most, twelve hours at the minimum.¡±


    ¡°Well then, with your permission, I¡¯ll grab myself a bite to eat, something to drink, take a piss and get some sleep.¡±


    ¡°By all means. If you head to that house over there, they¡¯ll amodate you.¡±


    ¡°Thank ee, sir.¡±


    As the man trudged off, clearly fatigued, Tyron took a deep breath of the fresh air.


    <em>Still smells like shit.</em><em>Yet somehow, still better than the city.</em>


    As much as Kenmor had invested in sewers and sanitation, having so many people packed into such a small space was an impossible situation to manage. Shadetown stank even in the best areas, and the city itself was only marginally better. At least, outside of the Golden district and Castle.


    Before him stood severalrge farmhouse buildings made from cut stone. Centuries old, the stone had a light covering of lichen and moss, as well as a few climbing vines that lent a sense of age to the ce.


    ¡°Master Almsfield,¡± a voice greeted him and he turned to see Rita Oldan approaching.


    In her finely made clothing, the farmwife looked more like a prosperous merchant than a person of thend, though her thunderous expression betrayed her less than genteel temperament.


    ¡°You¡¯rete,¡± she said in clipped tones as she drew closer. ¡°We expected you two weeks past.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been upied,¡± Tyron replied coldly.


    If he¡¯d left the corpses sitting in his basement for two weeks, they¡¯d have saturated well before he could begin to work on them. Meeting the deadlines of his coborators was secondary to advancing his own craft.


    ¡°<em>They</em> don¡¯t care how upied you are. You¡¯re to meet your end of the agreement.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here, aren¡¯t I? If I arrive ording to my own timetable rather than yours, that is something you will simply have to deal with.¡±


    She scowled at him.


    ¡°You may as well let your real face show. Your man is going to be fast asleep in five minutes.¡±


    ¡°I will drop my mour,¡± Tyron said firmly, ¡°when I am out of sight, and not before.¡±


    Why was everyone he had to work with so <em>stupid</em>?


    Rita snorted.


    ¡°You¡¯re on the Ortan estate. We¡¯re two days from the nearest city and an hour to the nearest farm. You¡¯re as secure as you can possibly be out here.¡±


    She turned to lead him to one of the buildings and paused after three steps when he didn¡¯t follow.


    ¡°I want to go into the basement.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve kept the Venerable waiting long enough,¡± she grated.


    ¡°The old goat isn¡¯t going anywhere. I¡¯ll be there in ten minutes.¡±


    ¡°By Rot, your disrespect wille back to haunt you one day, Sterm.¡±


    Anger shed in Tyron¡¯s eyes at the use of his name, but he suppressed it.


    ¡°Basement,¡± he said.


    Mrs Ortan was furious, but she acquiesced, as he knew she must. A few minutester, she withdrew a long key from her pocket and used it to remove the heavy padlock from the cer door.


    ¡°I won¡¯t be long,¡± he said, as he ducked his head and walked down the narrow steps into the darkness.


    Conjuring a magick globe, he extended his senses to check on his wardings. When he found them intact and undisturbed, he nodded with satisfaction. One couldn¡¯t be too careful.


    A few keyphrases and a little sigil workter, he stood in a long, narrow chamber, the air heavy with dust and mildew. He empowered his globe, chasing back the shadows to reveal the contents of the cer.


    At the back, row after row of skeletons, the light in their eyes so dim as to be reduced to a bare spark, almost impossible to see. Almost fifty in total, as there had been thest time he was here. He briefly inspected them, ensuring their condition hadn¡¯t deteriorated, before he turned to the shelf that ran down the left side of the room.


    Stones of irregr shapes and sizes rested there, each engrained with a symbol. Moving down the chamber, he ran his hands along each of the stones, ensuring that each was in its proper ce, until he came to the one at the end.


    This one, he picked up and ced carefully in the centre of the dust-covered stone floor. He stood over it for a moment, contemting, before his hands began to move, fingers flickering through a rapid series of sigils.


    When he was done, mist began to rise from the stone, forming a cloud of chilling white right in front of him. From within the haze, a wailing, defeated voice emanated.


    <em>Let me die</em>, Rufus begged.


    Tyron stood coldly, staring at the trapped spirit. One corner of his mouth lifted the smallest fraction.


    ¡°No,¡± he said.

 Chapter B3C8 - Factions

    Chapter B3C8 - Factions


    ¡°I apologise for keeping you waiting, Venerable,¡± Tyron said as he bowed his head.


    A wheezing cackle came from the emaciated figure sat on therge wooden throne at the back of the room.


    ¡°No you don¡¯t,¡± the old man rasped. ¡°You couldn¡¯t give a shit. But that¡¯s fine, I don¡¯t think the three of them care much either.¡±


    He waved azy hand up toward the three figures carved and hung on the wall above his head. The two-faceddy, the storm-eyed bird, the withered tree. Crone, Raven and Rot.


    Tyron eyed the three of them, trying to conceal his distaste. He had never forgiven the Old Gods for attempting to force his submission, and had been leery of them ever since. Which had led to some¡­ difficulties, when it came to fulfilling the terms of his advanced sub-ss.


    ¡°It¡¯s not like they can¡¯t see what you¡¯re up to,¡± the venerable said, his voice so thin it was barely above a whisper. ¡°Despite your attempts to conceal yourself from their eyes.¡±


    For a moment, the old man lifted his brows to reveal eyes filled with lightning. Tyron averted his gaze and shifted ufortably. The venerable chuckled and let his wrinkled brow sink low once again.


    ¡°Thrice-blessed venerable, I¡¯vee to hear the word of the Three and fulfil the terms of our agreement. What do the Old Gods have to say?¡±


    After a short silence, the old man wheezed a shallowugh that quickly turned into a fit of coughing. When he was done, the venerable lifted himself on shaking arms so thin he appeared almost skeletal. He reached out to take hold of his staff and leaned heavily on it as he walked.


    ¡°Come on, you little shit,¡± he rasped, ¡°I want to go outside.¡±


    ¡°A-are you sure that¡¯s wise?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been blessed by three gods as old as this damned realm. You think <em>you </em>can tell me what¡¯s wise? You still stink of your mother¡¯s tit.¡±


    Tyron ground his teeth and reined in the sh of anger that threatened to choke him. Despite his fragility, there likely wasn¡¯t anything he could do to this decrepit old man, and the venerable knew it.


    Besides, he had no idea how old this geezer was. The venerable might be a hundred, or a thousand for all he knew. Apparently, he¡¯d lived here on the Oldan estate since it was established, which was at least two hundred years, but despite his best efforts, he¡¯d uncovered absolutely no information about him. As far as public records went, the man didn¡¯t exist, nor did any rumour of his existence.


    ¡°Come and help me, disrespectful brat,¡± the venerable grumbled and Tyron forced himself to take him gently by the shoulder, supporting him as he made his way through the house.


    ¡°Venerable?¡± Rita said as she caught sight of them, her eyes widening with rm, ¡°are you well?¡±


    ¡°Just getting a little fresh air, my dear,¡± he replied. ¡°Young master Sterm will assist me, no need to worry yourself.¡±


    She hesitated, eyes flickering to Tyron and back.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course,¡± he waved her off with a stick-thin arm. ¡°Be at ease, girl.¡±


    She was likely forty years old, but looking as he did, he could call her a toddler and get away with it.


    When they reached the outside, the old man stepped blinking into the sunlight, raising his head to the warmth of the light. A few wisps of hair still clung to his skull, reminding Tyron of the stubborn grasses he¡¯d seen on the Barrier mountains, rooted into the bare, unforgiving stone.


    ¡°You¡¯re thinking disrespectfully,¡± the old man noted querulously. ¡°Stop it, and help me over to that rock. That one gets the most sun.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    When he finally got situated, the venerable lowered himself with a sigh and pulled his loose fitting robes a little tighter around his shoulders.


    ¡°Gets a bit too cold for my old bones this far north,¡± he said. ¡°I lived close to the desert in my youth, and sometimes, I feel like I never adapted. The chill gets right through me.¡±


    <em>There¡¯s not a lot it has to get through</em>, Tyron noted, but kept his mouth shut.


    ¡°What do you think the Old Gods are?¡± the venerable asked suddenly, and Tyron suppressed a sigh.


    Every time he came up here, he was forced into discussion about the Three that he simply had no interest in.


    ¡°Ancient creatures of immense power and malevolent nature,¡± he answered honestly.


    The venerable chuckled.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t all that wrong, really. The Three are pricks. You hear me up there?! Pricks!¡±


    He raised his staff and waggled it weakly at the sky.


    ¡°But of course they seem like arseholes to us. How nice are you to ants? Or worms? They were born along with this realm, far before humans, or the dust folk came here. It belongs to them far more than it belongs to us.¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t defend it, so they lost their im,¡± Tyron shrugged. ¡°If they want to control the realm, then they need to get up and do something about it.¡±


    The motivations of the Three were difficult for him to understand. It seemed like they wanted things, but weren¡¯t willing to exert any of their massive power or influence to get it. Even their followers seemed mad to him. They begged for an intercession that may harm far more than it helped, what was the point?


    ¡°You think of them as if they were logical actors,¡± the venerable noted. Once again, he revealed his lightning-filled gaze. ¡°That is a mistake.¡±


    Tyron nodded, chastened.


    ¡°Crone, Raven and Rot. They feel no desire to be understood by the likes of you, no need to beprehended. They will do whatever the fuck they want, and there isn¡¯t a damn thing every living creature clung to this fracturing rock can do about it. And who knows? Perhaps their actions are perfectly logical, from their perspective.¡±


    Tyron doubted it.


    ¡°You little shit,¡± the venerable wheezed a chuckle. ¡°I can read your thoughts on your face, in as day. Let me ask you this, are you a multi-dimensional force of nature?¡±


    ¡°... No.¡±


    ¡°Then you have a fart¡¯s chance in a firece of figuring out what those three pricks want or need.¡±


    It was a valid point, and something for Tyron to consider. The venerable shifted on his rock and gazed out over the rolling hills. Southy Kenmor, in all its glory, and to the north west was Nortwatch, and beyond them ckrift and Undermist Keeps. It was green here, warmer than it was further west. Perfect farming country.


    ¡°You¡¯ve found more sess with the vampires because you find you can understand them better. They¡¯re transactional, they were once humans, they think much the same way you do, except on a much longer timescale.¡±


    The venerable nodded to himself.


    ¡°But it¡¯s an illusion. In reality, you don¡¯t understand them, or what they truly want. They are able to pretend they were human, they remember what it was like, some of them at least, but it isn¡¯t genuine. They are dead, with a heart that beats for nothing and no-one. If you depend on them too much, they will draw you in and bleed you dry.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m being careful,¡± Tyron said stiffly.


    ¡°Bullshit,¡± the venerable snorted and extended one gnarled, pointed finger towards his face. ¡°You lean on them for everything and rush to do their bidding to repay the favour. You aren¡¯t safe from them. The only thing that can protect you from the Dark Ones, is another of those powers.¡±


    ¡°So you want me to lean on you, instead? I don¡¯t trust the Three, and I¡¯m not sure that I ever will. Even the Abyss hasn¡¯t tried to suppress my will and dominate my mind.¡±


    ¡°No, but they <em>will</em> try and drink your soul if you aren¡¯t careful. Those secrets you chase are <em>expensive</em>, and it will lure you deeper every time you have a question. Am I wrong?¡±


    He wasn¡¯t. The few times he had called on the Abyss over the past few years had been tantalising, hints of knowledge and mastery that he yearned for, but wasn¡¯t granted. Each time, he was asked to step further into the void to get what he wanted.


    ¡°You chose to serve three masters,¡± the venerable noted, ¡°because you thought the only way to survive was to y one against the other. As good a strategy as any, I suppose, but it¡¯s not going to fucking work when you ignore one of the masters entirely.¡±


    After a moment of hesitation, Tyron nodded reluctantly. It was true. He <em>was</em> getting too deep with the Court, toofortable calling on them for favours and paying the prices they demanded. For now, they wanted resources, influence, but soon, they would begin to ask for more, ask for things he wasn¡¯t so willing to part with.


    ¡°What do they want?¡± he finally said.


    The venerable chuckled, then coughed and hacked before spitting up a hunk of phlegm.


    ¡°Hak! Ah, that¡¯s better. They want a few things, since they¡¯ve been waiting so long. They want to speak to you themselves, which will mean enacting the ritual you¡¯ve avoided for so long. For everything else, they will send an intermediary to work with you more closely. Can¡¯t expect you to go gallivanting to the forest everytime they want a word.¡±


    The Necromancer clenched his teeth, but released them slowly. He didn¡¯t have good memories of that ce, and he certainly didn¡¯t want some idiot priest poking their nose around his business and risk exposing him.


    ¡°I have a need for discretion,¡± he ground out.


    ¡°You think us followers of the Three don¡¯t? You idiot. Ever seen what happens when they find us? It isn¡¯t pretty. Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯ll be careful. The Old Gods might not give a shit, but we do.¡±


    The old man reached around and scratched his backside before he sighed.


    ¡°I¡¯m done. Can you go tell Rita to bring me a nket? Then you can fuck off.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Tyron said sourly. ¡°Don¡¯t die on me before I get back.¡±


    Low cackling followed him into the house as Tyron found the owner. There was still time before he had to travel back to the city. He stepped outside and oriented himself before he began to trek east, toward the mist-covered woods that bordered the property in the distance and spread toward the horizon.


    It¡¯d been too long since he¡¯d cleaned the grave.


    ~~~


    Filetta smiled at him as he emerged from the shadows in the sewer. It was a smile he didn¡¯t much like. Predatory, like Yor¡¯s often was, but also yful. Like a cat staring at a bird.


    ¡°Elten,¡± she purred, ¡°how lovely to see you again.¡±


    Tyron suppressed a sigh.


    ¡°The pleasure is mine,¡± he executed a short bow and the woman¡¯s eyes glowed with delight.


    She really <em>was</em> desperate for a taste of good manners.


    ¡°Another twenty of Kenmor¡¯s finest corpses,¡± she said, gesturing for her men to step forward. One by one, theyy their burdens down on the grating, tightly wrapped linen bundles of two corpses each.


    ¡°Excellent,¡± he breathed.


    The first set had proven to be <em>extremely</em> fruitful for his research, but had only opened his eyes to possibilities. He had so much follow up work to do before he could confirm any of it.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen someone so pleased to see a corpse,¡± Filetta observed, a slight smile tugging at her lips. ¡°Let alone this many.¡±


    Tyron stepped forward and passed her the purse directly.


    ¡°Your payment.¡±


    Even more than before, her eyes gleamed at the sight of gold.


    ¡°And I presume you want the same again next month?¡± she said.


    ¡°I do.¡±


    He hesitated a moment.


    ¡°I¡­ would also like to enquire about an additional transaction.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Her eager gaze flicked to his as she wet her lips. ¡°And what might you be looking for?¡±


    ¡°Bones.¡±


    ¡°Bones?¡±


    She nced down at the corpses.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you have enough¡­ bones, already?¡±


    He shook his head.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°What sort of bones would you require?¡± she asked, curious.


    ¡°Human. In decent condition, not crumbling, not splintered, preferably.¡±


    ¡°Hmmm,¡± she considered for a moment, eyeing him. ¡°I believe we can do this. But I would like to have another meeting in which we discuss the price and time of delivery.¡±


    That was reasonable.


    ¡°Shall we say, here, same time, in a week?¡±


    She frowned.


    ¡°No, nooo. That won¡¯t do at all. Let us say, tomorrow, at the evening bell, in the Golden Gateway.¡±


    If he wasn¡¯t mistaken¡­


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that a restaurant in the city?¡±


    She smiled at him, again, part predator, part y.


    ¡°Why yes, yes it is.¡±

 Chapter B3C9 - Dangerous Mix

    Chapter B3C9 - Dangerous Mix


    Once the bodies were safely stowed in his study, Tyron took a moment to think about Filetta¡¯s proposition. She wanted them to discuss the sale of <em>bones</em> at an upmarket eatery inside the walls? It didn¡¯t seem altogether prudent, in fact, it seemed like out and out madness, but she wasn¡¯t to be dissuaded.


    At least he would be able to appear with his Elten face and not his Lukas one. Detaching the entrepreneurial enchanter from any criminal enterprise was of utmost importance, and if he were honest, he didn¡¯t want to spend any more time in Filetta¡¯s presence than he absolutely <em>had</em> to.


    But he did need bones.


    He was able to craft bows and arrows from them already, it shouldn¡¯t be too hard to work out how to make swords and axes given the knowledge he possessed. If he could figure that out, he¡¯d save himself valuable Skill selections and save a fortune in outfitting his minions.


    <em>I need to test how well bone adapts to enchantments as a material</em>, he thought to himself. <em>If it¡¯s better than metal, that would be an unexpected plus.</em>


    Getting a random mix of bones should be much easier than sourcing whole, intact skeletons, so hopefully, they wouldn¡¯t gouge him too much. They may be useful for practising his threading technique also, another core skill he needed to work on.


    With a shake of his head, he pushed any thought of the uing¡­ discussion from his mind. He¡¯d been waiting two weeks for more materials to work with, and he¡¯d be damned if he¡¯d waste the opportunity in front of him.


    After the butchering and disposal wasplete, Tyron began to study the remains in detail. He took his enchanted ss (he really needed toe up with a name for it) in both hands, and began to pass it over the bones.


    About the size of arge dinner te, the lens didn¡¯t allow him to see through it in the traditional sense. When he stared at it, what he saw was the tiny threads of death magick within the bones, rather than the bones themselves.


    It was <em>fascinating</em> to see the process of saturation so early in its cycle. A healthy, living person contained not a trace of death magick in them, and nor did a terminally ill one, he¡¯d checked. Only after a person died did their body begin to take in ambient magick and transform its attribute. Slowly, over time, the process elerated, saturating the bones fully and giving rise to wild undead. Though this didn¡¯t ur in all ces. Some locations, it seemed, were more conducive to the formation of death magick than others.


    Most gravesites, for example, were selected with this in mind, and built in ces where the dead wouldn¡¯t stir. Though people had to be careful. If they buried too many in too short a span, that could give rise to undead.


    Tyron thought that phenomenon was due to the newly dead being more capable of forming links with each other, thereby sharing and multiplying the death energy they contained.


    For this reason, most of the deceased in Kenmor were cremated. Though there were many private plots outside of the city, and very few, very exclusive ones within.


    He moved from one b to the next, carefully annotating the progress of the saturation in each, and once again set his silver wire experiment. If he could identify which were more capable of sharing energy from their saturation growth, then he wouldn¡¯t need to use the wire at all in future.


    For the next step, he approached a heavy sack he¡¯d slung in one corner and opened it, removing a handful of the fine crystals within. He let them trail through his fingers before he fetched a heavy leather glove.


    Bone Salt, this substance was called, though it didn¡¯t really rte to bones, or affect them at all, which was why he wanted it. Merchants in the core trade used it when they bought fresh cores from yer expeditions to clean them. By rubbing the core with the alchemical salt, a reaction would ur between organic matter and the gem, removing any blood, ichor or grime that remained.


    Merchants, and more importantly, Arcanists, did <em>not</em> like to work with filth-encrusted cores.


    As he understood it, the Bone Salt <em>shouldn¡¯t </em>react to his own living flesh, but he didn¡¯t want to chance it and lose a hand. He hauled the sack to the middle of the room, removed a handful and began rubbing down each of the skeletons, one by one.


    It was a painstaking process, given the absurd number of bones in the human body. Two hundred and six bones, for twenty skeletons, turned out to be a lot of bones. He wasn¡¯t too fussed with the smaller ones, rather he wanted to make sure therger bones were scrubbed clean.


    The hypothesis went, that by removing any trace of flesh and blood, the skeletons would make better¡­ skeletons. Either the threading would take better to the bones, or the Raise Dead spell would perform better, or the death magick would umte faster inside the bones if there weren¡¯t superfluous matter around.


    He left five skeletons untouched by the salt as a control group, keen to see the differences between them. Careful observation over the next few days would hopefully teach him a great deal.


    Unwilling to test too many ideas at once, he reluctantly let his efforts rest there and turned his attention to other matters he could spend his time on. The Raise Dead ritual. The cornerstone of the Necromantic arts. As hisst feat selection, he had raised the level cap on this ritual yet again, and he was determined to reach it before he achieved level forty.


    It would be a difficult thing to achieve, he gained levels as an Undead Weaver for advancing his craft as well as for using it. Even if he created no minions at all, simply learning and discovering enough to reach his goals may bring him to the advancement. Hopefully not.


    Opening his old notes, he began to pore through them, taking what he thought was valuable and discarding the rest as he began topile a new base from which he could build his understanding of thisplex piece of magick.


    Since those early days, his knowledge of conduits in particr had expanded dramatically, and those early writings appeared exceedingly amateurish in his eyes. What he could construct now,pared to back then, would be a difference of night and day. If done correctly, he could reduce energy waste between himself and his minions by nearly halfpared to what it had been before.


    Engrossed in the work, he lost track of time until after lunch the following day.


    ~~~


    ¡°Shit, shit, shit!¡± he muttered as he stormed down the streets of Kenmor.


    Between his examination of the remains and the sigilwork he¡¯d been doing, reconstructing the conduit magick in Raise Dead from the ground up, he¡¯dpletely forgotten about his meeting with Filetta until it was almost toote.


    He¡¯d been so flustered, he¡¯d almost emerged from the sewers wearing the wrong face!


    <em>I should have worked out a spot where I could switch identities outside of my own home without arousing suspicion¡­. I could have gone to Yor¡¯s¡­.</em>


    A dangerous thought, one he pushed away as soon as it intruded. The venerable hadn¡¯t been wrong when he said Tyron had turned to the coven far too easily. This was something he could solve himself, without bartering or favours, so he should.


    His backup n had been to emerge from the sewer in a neglected part of town, then head to a clothier for a new set of clothes, and <em>then</em> to an inn equipped with bath facilities to get rid of the stink.


    When he emerged, Elten had never looked better, in a fine set of pants with an elegant robeyered over his silk shirt. Freshly tubbed and scrubbed, Tyron felt more refreshed than he had in years and made a mental note to schedule a regr wash as part of his routine.


    He¡¯d been getting by with soap and cold water for too long. A little civilisation might do him some good.


    All of his preparations took time, however, and the evening bell rang across the city just as he arrived outside the Golden Gateway.


    An opulent building, to say the least. The entire facing was formed of cut marble, with decorative carvings and statues lining the street outside. A line of people, dressed far more finely than he, waited in line, perfuming themselves and fluttering fans as they gossiped andughed in the cooling air.


    Somewhat hesitant, and unwilling to bete, he approached the oversized gentleman at the door, who immediately frowned at him.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to see Filetta?¡± he said, hopefully.


    ¡°Get to the back o¡ªFiletta, you say? Would you be Mr Elten?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I am.¡±


    ¡°Step right through, sir.¡±


    Under the envious gazes of those still in line, Tyron stepped inside, only to be whisked to a private dining room before he could limate himself. He got half an impression of ornate flower arrangements and gleaming silverware before he was sat at a table across from Filetta, who looked¡­ different¡­ than what he was ustomed to.


    ¡°You scrubbed up pretty well, Elten,¡± she smirked, taking a sip of dark, red wine and eyeing him over the rim.


    The Necromancer shifted ufortably.


    ¡°Ah, thank you. You as well,¡± he said.


    This was a profoundly ufortable environment for him, though he tried not to let it show.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never eaten here before,¡± he said. ¡°I wasn¡¯t quite sure what to expect. I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m a little underdressed.¡±


    Filetta herself was stunning in a tight-fitting green dress that left her shoulders bare, her dark red hair tied up with curls hanging loose behind her ears.


    He¡¯d not realised she had red hair¡­ it was too dark in the sewer to notice, or perhaps he hadn¡¯t been paying enough attention.


    <em>You idiot, that¡¯s not her real face. She can change the colour of her hair just as easily as you can.</em>


    ¡°You probably didn¡¯t expect the thief you do business with to eat in such an upmarket ce,¡± she smiled as she said it.


    Tyron winced.


    ¡°Not to worry,¡± she assured him with a wink, ¡°our privacy is assured here. This ce has close ties to my kind of people, if you take my meaning.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± he noted.


    She must have noticed something in his expression, and she chuckled lightly, swirling the wine in her ss before draining it.


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing you didn¡¯t expect we would meet somewhere like this? You probably expected something a little more¡­ rustic?¡±


    He nodded, seeing no reason to mince words.


    ¡°I did. Going from our¡­ previous ce of business¡­ to this,¡± he gestured around the spacious and meticulously appointed room, ¡°is something of a shock.¡±


    Filetta grinned.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have much reason toe here, most of the time. In my line of work, I deal with sailors, thugs and petty crooks more often than not. It¡¯s nice to have an excuse to bring a client out here. I enjoy a taste of the finer things every now and again.¡±


    ¡°And I presume you would rather wait to talk business?¡±


    She smiled again, that slow, predatory smile.


    ¡°I would.¡±


    Tyron settled back in his seat with a sigh. Although this was a pleasant environment, and though he may be reluctant to say it, thepany <em>was</em> stimting, a part of him was still back in his study, calcting and taking notes. Filetta clearly appeared interested in him, even he could see that much, though he was utterly unable to determine if those intentions were sincere.


    The entirety of his romantic experience could be summed up with a childhood crush on Elsbeth that had never gone anywhere.


    How was he supposed to act in this situation? He had no idea.


    ¡°I had you pegged as a thinker,¡± Filetta said, and he jerked his gaze back to hers and found herughing silently. ¡°You were a million kilometres away the second I said you¡¯d have to wait.¡±


    That¡¯d been rude of him.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯m not very ustomed to¡­¡± he waved a vague hand, ¡°... this.¡±


    She nodded sympathetically.


    ¡°You¡¯re a virgin?¡± she enquired, arching one brow.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he nodded.


    Filetta blinked, thenughed, her hand mming into the table.


    ¡°Usually, men are far more embarrassed to make a revtion such as that,¡± she chuckled, her eyes dancing with mirth.


    ¡°I hardly think lying would have done me any good. I¡¯m not the best of actors,¡± he pointed out.


    ¡°No, no. I¡¯m starting to get a better sense of who you are.¡±


    She eyed him, with interest.


    ¡°You¡¯re not the social type, you¡¯re a thinker, a little awkward, but there¡¯s a fire burning in you just below the surface that just¡­¡± she shivered, ¡°... warms me up inside. So let me be blunt, because I think that¡¯s the kind of approach you will appreciate the most.¡±


    <em>Thank the gods,</em> Tyron thought.


    Filetta ced her hands t on the table and stared him directly in the eye.


    ¡°As you are well aware, Filetta is not my real name and this is not my real face. The same is true for you. I like this arrangement, it creates a separation, a sense of distance, of mystery, if you will. Secondly, I sense an air of danger around you, an intensity that I find fascinating. I have no interest in learning more about what you do, or why you do it, I have a different purpose entirely in mind.¡±


    She leaned forward, and Tyron leaned forward also as she stared straight into his eyes, her expression serious.


    ¡°I want to fuck,¡± she said, and leaned back.


    Tyron blinked¡­ several times. She watched him carefully as she poured herself another ss of wine.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ direct,¡± he said. Then he frowned, ¡°and unwise.¡±


    ¡°It is, both of those things. But I know that you will agree. I have a surefire method of persuasion that works on people like you.¡±


    He couldn¡¯t imagine that would be the case, but something else bothered him.


    ¡°Why?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I find you fascinating, and I have an unhealthy interest in dangerous people. For some reason I can¡¯t quite figure out, I feel you are <em>very </em>dangerous.¡±


    ¡°And why would I agree?¡±


    She pouted at him. He rolled his eyes.


    ¡°You¡¯re lovely, of course, but entangling myself with a member of a criminal enterprise seems excessively foolish.¡±


    ¡°Because,¡± she purred, ¡°you¡¯re having trouble raising your race levels to twenty.¡±


    <em>Shit.</em>


    Filetta grinned and raised her ss.


    ¡°What¡¯s your Constitution score like?¡± she asked.


    He stared at her with hooded eyes.


    ¡°High.¡±

 Chapter B3C10 - Being Human

    Chapter B3C10 - Being Human


    Tyron stalked through hisb, unsure how to feel as he checked on his experiments and scribbled down measurements in his notes. It was promising to note that his tests had been progressing in line with his expectations. Either he was lucky, or he was on the right track.


    The work he¡¯d done on the Raise Dead spellform hade a long way as well. In another few days, he would havepleted his reconstruction of the conduit magick built into the ritual and already he was confident it would be a dramatic improvement.


    An interesting wrinkle was that the bones he had scrubbed clean of any flesh and blood were ruing Death Magick faster than those without. Did the flesh and bone interfere with each other? Or did the decaying strips of matter take in some of the energy, slowing the absorption rate of the bones?


    Probably thetter, since a zombie had death attuned energy in its flesh <em>and</em> bones. Although¡­ far more in the flesh. Another thing for him to investigate.


    No, his sessful experiments and developing research weren¡¯t what was irritating him, but rather his encounter with Filetta two days prior.


    Against his better judgement, he had agreed to her suggestion and he wasn¡¯t sure if he was annoyed at himself for going along with it, or with her for the fact that it had <em>worked</em>. To gain race levels as a human wasn¡¯t an overlyplex process, one had to form meaningful rtionships and interact with others. Humans were, by andrge, a very social race, more prone to collective action than other, longer lived species.


    That was fine for most people, but for Tyron? He¡¯d always found it difficult to trust others, or engage with them on a level ying field, a trait that had grown infinitely worse after his parents had died. Though he had made attempts to form friendships, such as his association with Vic, but with the manyyers of deception ced between himself and others, a true connection was almost impossible to form. As such, he had stagnated, the coveted third ss slot just out of his reach, which he <em>needed</em>, since one of his options had been taken by the trio of Dark Ones.


    Filetta had proposed a dramatic solution to his problem. It wasn¡¯t necessary to engage in a sexual rtionship to level as a human, far from it, but as a method to break down his barriers and get closer to him, it had been scarily effective.


    And that irritated him.


    Was that all it took to get through to him? Paradoxically, the sess of the measure only made him more insecure. When the status ritual had confirmed he had gained a race level, his heart had tried to leap and sink at the same time.


    He needed the race levels, but he <em>did not</em> wee emotional attachment. Not now, not with everything he was trying to achieve.


    Surrounded by the dead and darkness within the basement, Tyron sighed. In the corner, he had stashed the bag of bones he¡¯d collected from Filetta¡¯s goons the previous day. He was yet to start work on them. Perhaps when he was done with his current set of remains, he would get to work attempting to shape swords, spears and shields to equip his minions, but for now¡­


    With an irritated grunt, he pushed his notes away and rubbed at his temples. This wasn¡¯t as productive as it should be, he was distracted. Perhaps if he took a little time to clear his head¡­


    Taking his usual precautions, the Necromancer emerged from below ground and moved surreptitiously through the store, aiming to creep upstairs. Some rest, a bit of food and water, would surely screw his head back on right.


    As he ced his foot on the first step, he noticed an unusual atmosphere within the store. It was quiet, but more than that, it felt tense. Confused, he backed up and walked around to poke his head through the door to view the shop floor.


    Cerry stood, as usual, behind the desk, a forced smile on her face as she fidgeted nervously with the hem of her dress. Wansa sat in her customary ce by the door, though her normal, rxed posture was nowhere to be found. Instead, she was tense, a hand on her weapon as she eyed the lone figure moving amongst the merchandise.


    Tyron¡¯s breath caught in his throat and Cerry noticed him, rushing forward and clutching at his sleeve.


    ¡°Master Almsfield,¡± she whispered urgently, ¡°they came in a few minutes ago and the ce emptied out in <em>seconds</em>. What do you want us to do? Wansa could kick them out, but I wasn¡¯t sure if you were happy to sell to¡­ <em>them</em>.¡±


    Dust Folk.


    This one appeared just as he had read they would, covered from head to toe in thick, rough wraps, stitched with their own iconography. To his magickal senses, they pulsed with a strange and alien energy, something he hadn¡¯t experienced before.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Cerry. I¡¯ll talk to them myself.¡±


    The girl sagged with relief before she moved back to her post, appearing far morefortable now that he had stepped in. With a gesture, he indicated to Wansa to calm down before he moved around the desk and approached the stranger himself.


    ¡°Wee,¡± he said, speaking a little slowly and enunciating carefully. ¡°This is Almsfield Enchantments and I am Master Almsfield. How can I help you?¡±


    The covered figure turned toward him and he found it disconcerting to be face to face with someone who revealed nothing of their features.


    ¡°Fear not, <em>human</em>, I speak your tongue. Do not address me as one of your mewling, little¡­ squishy things. I forget this word¡­ the helpless ones.¡±


    ¡°Child? Or children?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that one. I am not one of your soggy-bottomed <em>children</em>. I speak clearly, yes?¡±


    ¡°You speak our tongue very well.¡±


    ¡°Yes. See. I have to learn, to trade for tribe. Still, it is difficult to buy when so many are unwilling to sell. Are you willing to sell?¡±


    The voice was like nothing Tyron had ever heard. There was a rustling, like sand sliding down a dune, every time they spoke.


    ¡°I am indeed willing to sell,¡± he affirmed, and he heard Cerry peep somewhere behind him.


    ¡°That is¡­ unexpected. But good! Yes. There isn¡¯t many who will sell your enchanted trinkets to my people.¡±


    ¡°They are probably willing, but unlikely to do so where others can see,¡± Tyron noted dryly. ¡°I¡¯m more open-minded, but even so, conducting our business away from prying eyes will be better for both of us.¡±


    ¡°<em>What</em> kind of eyes?¡±


    ¡°... Where people can¡¯t see us. If you wouldn¡¯t mind stepping into the backroom, we can discuss what you need?¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes.¡±


    Tyron led the wrapped figure by Cerry, who trembled on the spot, and into the room in which most of the setting was done. A t wooden table with several seats could be found there, and he invited his customer to sit.


    ¡°Is there a name I should address you by?¡±


    ¡°<em>Kash</em>. Humans and their <em>names</em>. Call me, Shadda, yes.¡±


    ¡°Would you care for any food or drink before we discuss your needs?¡±


    Shadda shed the air with one hand in refusal.


    ¡°No. It is <em>Al¡¯hakash</em>. Forbidden.¡±


    ¡°I apologise, no offence was meant.¡±


    Tyron seated himself, trying not to let his eagerness show.


    ¡°So, what are you looking to purchase?¡±


    ¡°Filters, coolers, ovens, purifiers, water sources. Yes. <em>Many</em> water sources.¡±


    Tyron had no doubt of that. The desert to the south in which the Dust Folk made their homes was <em>unimaginably</em> dry, to the point that water enchantments would break down due to prolonged exposure to such conditions.


    ¡°You¡¯ll need to be specific about the requirements for each of those,¡± Tyron noted with a frown. ¡°Almsfield Enchantments specialises in affordable, efficient, low-power options. If you want something stronger, I¡¯ll need to make it custom for you.¡±


    ¡°I noticed your prices, and the cores you use. Frugal? Is this the word, yes? I like this. My people like to make much with little. I have the requirements written in your tongue.¡±


    Shadda reached within their wraps, loosing one strand with a finger, sliding it in and withdrawing a t, folded piece of worn parchment.


    As he reached out to take it, Tyron noticed sand trickling from the page onto his table.


    The writing was rough, but legible, and he ran his eyes down the specifics. It was clear that whatever group or tribe Shadda came from weren¡¯t overflowing with resources. None of the enchantments they were asking for were the best avable, or even close.


    ¡°I can give you what you need. Much of this I have in stock, although if you are willing to wait, I can produce superior versions that should exceed your requirements.¡±


    With not even their eyes exposed, it was impossible to read Shadda¡¯s expression, but he could tell they were interested.


    ¡°Why would you do this? I will not pay more than is written, yes? I cannot, since I do not have more.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not an issue. There are things I am interested in more than money¡­.¡±


    This was a delicate moment. How to broach this issue?


    He rose and approached the door, making sure Cerry wasn¡¯t listening on the other side before he closed it again softly. He turned to see Shadda had risen from their seat, arms folded across their chest.


    ¡°What deviant things are you nning? Shadda will have no part in them!¡±


    Tyron blinked.


    ¡°What? No! Please be seated! My interest is in magick. <em>Restricted </em>magick. I didn¡¯t want to be overheard.¡±


    ¡°Magick?¡± Shaddah said doubtfully, still postured defensively.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Tyron pped a hand to his face as he sat down again. ¡°Magick. There¡¯s a particr type of magick that is much moremon in yournds than mine. I am interested in securing knowledge rather than more money.¡±


    ¡°I can be discrete, yes? However, this request is difficult, depending on what you ask for. My people will share some things willingly, others¡­ not so much.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m mainly interested in construct magick. Your people are known to be incredibly resourceful when ites to this particr branch of enchanting and crafting.¡±


    As much as he wanted toe out and ask for spellbooks and forms rted to Necromancy directly, he didn¡¯t want anything to tie Lukas Almsfield to the undead. Not even loosely.


    Shadda folded their arms and leaned back in their chair.


    ¡°This¡­ will be difficult. Some things, yes? Some things can be shared, but others? <em>Kash</em>. No. But Shadda can not say yes or no. It is not for me, yes?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine. I¡¯llplete this transaction for you, as I said, at no extra price. The next time you need to restock, bring back whatever you can. Based on what you have, we¡¯ll see what else I can do for you.¡±


    ¡°I agree,¡± Shadda pronounced, before they bowed their head over the table. ¡°<em>Chan¡¯r</em>. This is pleasing. This trade will be good for my people.¡±


    ¡°I hope it is profitable for both of us,¡± Tyron smiled.


    If he could get his hands on something useful from the Dust Folk, it would be another avenue for him to improve his craft. In the desert, they used a number of different constructs, including undead ones, to perform tasks in the scorching heat. Constructs didn¡¯t need to drink, or eat, they didn¡¯t care about the sand winds which cut flesh like paper.


    Tyron stood.


    ¡°If you return here in two days¡¯ time, I¡¯ll have everything ready for you. If you could do me a favour, though, please arrive <em>after</em> the store closes. It will be easier for both of us if you draw less attention.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Shadda waved a hand, ¡°I am used to this. I thank you.¡±


    Without another word, the wrapped figure rose and strode from the store. The Necromancer blew out a breath, before he strode back into the store.


    ¡°Our client will be back after the store closes in two days, Cerry.¡±


    He looked her in the eye.


    ¡°I hope that isn¡¯t an issue.¡±


    She looked like she wanted to say something, but held her tongue.


    And just like that, he¡¯d taken on even more work. To deliver on what he had promised, he would need to alter his normal patterns, which meant design work would be necessary. He couldn¡¯t leave this to Flynn.


    He stretched and cracked his fingers. It would be a long couple of nights.

 Chapter B3C11 - High Society

    Chapter B3C11 - High Society


    ¡°Vic, I haven¡¯t slept in two days, I¡¯m going to need you to use innguage, for a change.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s difficult. The exalted blood within my veins demands I speak in as roundabout terms as possible.¡±


    ¡°What exalted blood? Your dad is a merchant and your mother is a jeweller. You''re as noble as I am.¡±


    ¡°As much as the Almsfield name rings throughout thend, there is a key difference between our families. Mine is <em>exceptionally</em> wealthy.¡±


    ¡°Get to the fucking point, Vic,¡± Tyron dragged a hand down his face. ¡°I¡¯m tired and I¡¯m not in the mood for your delusions of grandeur.¡±


    The Necromancer had been engaged in a frenzy of work since his unexpected visit from Shadda. Completing the order had required a furious pace of activity, but doing so while upkeeping his experiments had been exhausting. Luckily, the task had beenpleted on time and the delighted Dust Folk had departed back to the desert with the goods in tow only hours before Vic had arrived and begun pounding on his door.


    ¡°You wound me. I haven¡¯t visited you in weeks and <em>this</em> is the wee I get?¡±


    ¡°This wee is about to get a <em>lot</em> less friendly,¡± Tyron red.


    The guard behind Master Willhem¡¯s apprentice stepped forward, a frown on his face, only for Tyron to turn his stare in his direction.


    ¡°At least wee me inside, damnit,¡± Vic sighed. ¡°It¡¯s getting cold out here and I¡¯m worried I¡¯ll get murdered.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re perfectly safe, you coward.¡±


    Nevertheless, he stepped aside and allowed his associate into the store.


    ¡°Looks like business has been ticking along nicely,¡± the Arcanist observed as he walked between the ss cases of disyed wares, noting the various ¡®sold out¡¯ items. ¡°Perhaps you weren¡¯t as crazy as I thought you were when you opened this ce.¡±


    ¡°Come on, Vic, <em>please</em> get to the point. I¡¯m not kidding when I tell you I¡¯m exhausted. Another time, I would love to invite you in for tea and biscuits, but I¡¯ve just filled a big order and I need some fucking sleep. Out with it.¡±


    The well-dressed apprentice sighed and pouted.


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    He reached into his coat, frowned, fumbled at several pockets before he smiled and withdrew a sealed envelope. With a small flourish, he presented it to his friend, who took it with a weary expression stered on his face.


    ¡°The Lady Shan is throwing a ball tomorrow evening and I not only have an invitation, but have also been given the privilege of granting an additional seat at the table. Naturally, I thought immediately of you, my dear friend, to take advantage of this rare opportunity.¡±


    ¡°Master Willhem pulled out at thest minute, didn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°... I mean¡­ what are you¡­ I would never¡­ yes.¡±


    Tyron barked out augh.


    ¡°Still trying to curry favour with the Master, Vic? You should know by now he doesn¡¯t care for this stuff,¡± he pped a hand against the envelope which surely contained an invitation. ¡°If you want his favour, then work harder. Enchantments are all that man cares about.¡±


    ¡°It was worth a shot,¡± Vic shrugged, a sly smile on his face. ¡°Although, I must admit, I didn¡¯t think he would ept in the first ce. When he did agree, I <em>certainly</em> never imagined he would withdraw at thest second. So, to try and stave off embarrassment, I am forced to lure the Master¡¯s favourite apprentice in his stead.¡±


    ¡°Who is going to be at this thing?¡±


    ¡°Why, an esteemed gathering of rising young entrepreneurs, along with a cadre of Lady Shan''s close friends and allies amongst her peers.¡±


    The apprentice waggled his brows suggestively.


    ¡°A chance to rub elbows with the nobles is worth its weight in gold. You may thank me now.¡±


    Tyron just stared at him, disbelief stered on his face.


    ¡°You invited Master Willhem to a gathering of <em>young</em> aristocrats?¡±


    Victor¡¯s smile slipped.


    ¡°Well¡­ perhaps I didn¡¯t think it all the way through. Never mind. The details are on the invitation, make sure you aren¡¯tte, or early.¡±


    He began to collect himself and head to the door before Tyron could object.


    ¡°Make sure you wear something worthy of the event. Don¡¯t embarrass me. Look dashing, but reserved, arcane. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll be thrilled to meet someone the old goat actually approved of.¡±


    ¡°Wait a second¨CVic?¡±


    ¡°Oh, and don¡¯t forget your plus one. Everyone is expected to bring a partner. Except me. <em>I¡¯m</em> escorting Lady Shan for the evening.¡±


    Victor radiated concentrated smug energy as he stepped out of the store, his guard shadowing him closely.


    ¡°See you tomorrow, my friend!¡±


    And with a cheery wave, he was gone into the night, leaving Tyron standing on his own doorstep, filled with weary frustration.


    ¡°Well, <em>shit</em>.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Stop fussing,¡± Yor scolded him.


    ¡°I hate these stupid robes. Who could <em>possibly</em> have worn something this unwieldy?¡±


    ¡°This is a type of formal robe that was popr in my Mistress¡¯s realm. Several thousand years ago.¡±


    ¡°And you just had one <em>on hand</em>?¡±


    ¡°You should be grateful, not bothering me with this nattering. Now sit still.¡±


    The carriage continued to roll smoothly along the road as the vampire reached across and settled theplexyers in an esoteric pattern that eventually materialised into an elegant formation.


    She sat back with a look of satisfaction on her pale features. Yor herself was dressed wlessly in a flowing gown, scarlet, of course, her hair bound in intricate curls and flowed down the nape of her neck. A picture of deadly perfection.


    ¡°This was a bad idea,¡± Tyron groaned, not for the first time.


    ¡°Nonsense. To decline this invitation would be suspicious. Craftsmen of your status would murder their families for the chance to forge ties with the nobility. Not to mention, inviting me has <em>more</em> than made up for your recent <em>dependance</em> on us.¡±


    ¡°I expect the ledger to be squared,¡± Tyron red. ¡°You promised knowledge, I would have it supplied.¡±


    The vampire smiled, blood red lips peeling back to reveal her fangs.


    ¡°No need to be so <em>forceful</em>. You will have it. Along with these.¡±


    She reached down to the carriage seat beside her and lifted an ornate, palm-sized box. She undid thetch and lifted the lid, presenting the contents to Tyron. Inside nestled five gem-like ovals gleaming with red light, each the size of a fingernail.


    The Necromancer frowned, but reached to take the case regardless.


    ¡°Five at once. That is¡­ unusually generous,¡± he remarked. ¡°Should I be worried about your intentions tonight?¡±


    ¡°Calm yourself. I will <em>behave</em>. Indeed, I do not need to do much other than present myself.¡± She arched an elegant brow. ¡°The young lords anddies wille running to me for a <em>deeper</em> taste.¡±


    She was probably right. Sculpted by blood magick, she was a picture of perfection, beautiful to the point of fantasy. Even Tyron found it difficult to take his eyes away from her at times, and he knew full well what she was.


    ¡°It¡¯s almost depressing how effective a weapon appearance can be,¡± he said.


    Sheughed throatily and he suppressed the stirring of his blood. For some reason, his recent¡­ <em>experience</em> made it even more difficult for him to remain calm in her presence.


    ¡°No time like the present,¡± he muttered, mainly to distract himself, and withdrew the case again, removing one capsule and cing it in his mouth. With a sharp <em>crack</em>, he bit down, releasing the gleaming fluid contained within.


    The moment he swallowed, he felt the burning in his veins and hissed against the pain. Soon, it withdrew, leaving an echo of fire that continued to flow just below his skin. When he recovered, he fumbled for the capsule he had brought for the night and slotted it into the now open groove in the case.


    Yor watched the process through hooded eyes, a slight smile twisting her lips.


    ~~~


    ¡°Invitation,¡± the guard spoke gruffly as he extended an armoured hand.


    With what little grace he could muster, Tyron withdrew the envelope from his sleeve and presented it. The document was inspected carefully by eye before a crystal was waved over it, then inspected again. Finally, the guard nodded his approval.


    ¡°Wee Mister Almsfield, and guest. Before you enter, a mandatory status check is required. I thank you for your cooperation.¡±


    ¡°Not a problem,¡± he remarked stepping forward and presenting his right hand, palm up.


    With care, the guard epted a silver needle from another behind him and pricked Tyron, then Yor on the pad of their middle finger. The two of them were presented with a page of creamy paper and he almost rolled his eyes at the waste before he caught himself.


    The two of them enacted the ritual, waiting as their blood flowed over the page, forming the words and numbers that made up their status. These pages were again inspected carefully, then subjected to arcane inspection via the crystal before the guard nodded.


    ¡°Wee to the Shan estate, Mister Almsfield, Miss Kiris.¡±


    The guard stepped back from the carriage and as he did so, the other dozen stepped back with him, lowering their weapons as the gate slid open to allow them passage inside.


    ¡°Kiris?¡± he asked as he pushed down the nervousness he felt.


    ¡°It¡¯s a word from my native tongue,¡± she mused. ¡°I¡¯ve been feeling nostalgictely.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing it means ¡®blood¡¯.¡±


    She turned to him slowly.


    ¡°Why would you think that?¡±


    ¡°Because, at the end of the day, that¡¯s all you care or think about.¡±


    The vampire sniffed daintily.


    ¡°A small price to pay for immortality. Are you <em>sure</em> you aren¡¯t tempted? Eternal life has many <em>benefits</em>.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, thank you,¡± he replied dryly.


    When they alighted from the carriage, it was difficult for Tyron not to grimace. The structure before them was an abomination, an exercise in opulence. Fountains hovered overhead, drizzling water down into verdant gardens of exotic flowers as paintings formed of bent light glittered on either side of the path.


    The residence itself was enormous, a towering edifice of radiant, golden stone and coloured crystal, studded with glowing orbs that ensured no part of it would ever be hidden in shadow.


    For one family tomand this much <em>space</em>, inside the Castle District no less.


    Tyron did his best to ignore the gigantic fortress that loomed to his right, dominating the skyline. The weight of it felt as if it pressed down on him every time he caught a glimpse in the corner of his eye.


    ¡°Lukas! There you are!¡±


    Victor stepped from a small gathering outside the ballroom door, waving. Rather than his normal apprentice robes, he was dressed in an impable suit, his long, dark hair pulled back and tied in a neat tail that trailed down between his shoulders.


    ¡°You¡¯re looking <em>very</em> dignified there, friend, and I see you managed to find a¨Choly shit!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± Tyron frowned.


    His friend gaped like a fish for a moment before he recovered himself with a strangled cough. Cheeks flushed, Victor appeared to struggle to tear his eyes away from Yor with a mighty effort.


    ¡°I see¡­ you found¡­ a date,¡± he managed to grind out.


    <em>Fucking vampires. This is so pitifully easy for them, </em>Tyron thought, not for the first time.


    ¡°This is a friend and business associate of mine, Yorin Kiris. Yor, this is my¡­ friend, and an apprentice of Master Willhem, Victor Tarkyn.¡±


    ¡°A pleasure,¡± she said before dipping into a wless curtsy.


    As she dipped, Victor¡¯s eyes flicked to her bosom and appeared arrested there. Tyron decided to step in and save him, cing himself between the vampire and the apprentice.


    ¡°You may want to ensure your eyes stay glued to Lady Shan tonight, Vic,¡± he murmured quietly in his friend¡¯s ear. ¡°This is a big opportunity for you, right?¡±


    Victor closed his eyes and nodded slowly.


    ¡°You¡¯re right, I apologise.¡±


    He resolutely turned his back on Yor and marched away, though he walked a little stiffly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you inside,¡± he called over his shoulder. ¡°They¡¯re opening the ballroom in five minutes.¡±


    Tyron waved back before he eyed the various small gatherings scattered around the garden. Murmured conversations andughter filled the air, dim forms drifted amongst the shadows arm in arm with heads bent together in conversation.


    <em>I hate this.</em>


    An arm slipped around his own and he found Yor at his side, watching the knots of people like a wolf eyeing sheep.


    ¡°What did you say to your friend?¡± she asked pointedly.


    ¡°Nothing. Just¡­ try not to entangle him. He¡¯s apanying the host tonight and if he goes mooning after you, he¡¯ll probably be found dead in the morning.¡±


    Yor rolled her eyes.


    ¡°I <em>know</em> who he is. I know who all of these people are.¡±


    She licked her lips slowly.


    ¡°There¡¯s more interesting prey here than your little friend, of that, I can <em>assure</em> you.¡±


    Tyron rolled his shoulders ufortably.


    ¡°Well, try to exercise some restraint,¡± he said.


    ¡°Not for me,¡± she grinned like a beast. ¡°For you. Did you know that Lady Jana Shan¡¯s older brother will be in attendance? The young Lord Regis Shan is a trainee <em>Magister</em>. Isn¡¯t that <em>interesting</em>?¡±


    Tyron stiffened.


    ¡°Yes. Yes it is.¡±

 Chapter B3C12 - High Society pt 2

    Chapter B3C12 - High Society pt 2


    The inside of the ballroom was an even more opulent disy of wealth. Floating chandeliers drifted overhead, made of concentric rings, each rotating a different direction and speed than the one before. Enchanted gems hovered around these lights, sending glittering beams of fractured light around the room that rippled off crystal pirs, creating patterns that yed across the fountains that poured down the walls and ran into a stream beneath their feet.


    Birds formed of mist swooped and coasted high overhead amongst the beams that supported the vaulted ceiling, which was itself concealed behind a magickal cloud.


    Guards in ornate armour lined the walls and manned every entrance and exit, their decorated, gleaming weapons no less effective for the ostentation. Each one would be <em>at least</em> level forty, the rank of a Silver yer, and capable of slicing Tyron in half with a single blow.


    Around the outside of the room, long tables <em>groaned</em> with food, meats, cakes, pies of all kinds and varieties, each one more over-decorated than thest. When he spotted the six-tiered cake that dominated the central table at the head of the ballroom, covered top to bottom in a perfectly realistic image of who he presumed was Lady Shan, he almost groaned at the absurdity of it all.


    Then the cake winked at him.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Yor hissed under her breath.


    ¡°They enchanted the <em>cake</em> decoration,¡± he managed to choke out, sounding strangled.


    She flicked her eyes to the object in question then back to him in a second.


    ¡°Such a simple thing,¡± she sniffed. ¡°I don¡¯t see why you¡¯re so upset.¡±


    He wanted tounch into a detailed exnation of the amount of time and effort that would go into such a <em>pointless</em> waste, but then he remembered who he was talking to.


    ¡°I suppose this is all rather ho-humpared to the soirees they throw at the Court?¡± he sighed.


    The vampire''s eyes gleamed with hunger.


    ¡°I attended Lord Virek¡¯s ball twenty years ago. We arrived at his castle by gond, traversing a canal filled with fresh blood.¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t¡­ wouldn¡¯t the blood clot?¡±


    She looked at him as if he were an idiot. He rolled his eyes and nodded.


    ¡°Blood magick. Right.¡±


    <em>Still seems like a stupid waste. You were boating on your own food? What¡¯s the human equivalent? Sailing ake of gravy? What¡¯s the point?</em>


    Despite his misgivings, he knew the point. This was all a disy, a show of wealth and power designed to impress on the guests the strength of House Shan.


    As he took in the scene, and the many attendees, drifting from conversation to conversation,ughing and gossiping amongst each other, he felt strongly just how much he disliked it. Much as his parents had.


    Not once or twice, but many times had Magnin Sterm impressed on his son just how much he detested gatherings such as these.


    <em>¡°Waste of my time,¡± he would groan. ¡°Being locked in a bright, shiny cage with a bunch of puffy birds is still being locked in a cage. You wouldn¡¯t </em>believe<em> how much we were able to charge them to attend these things.¡±</em>


    <em>He shook his head, shaggy ck hair swaying around his face.</em>


    <em>¡°Your mother liked the food, but eventually I had to say I was done with it. I¡¯d rather eat your mother¡¯s cooking off the campfire. Though don¡¯t tell her I said that.¡±</em>


    ¡°Wipe that expression off your face,¡± Yor discreetly jabbed him in the side with a sharp elbow. ¡°You either look bored out of mind or as if you want to murder these people. <em>Neither</em> is a good look to have. <em>Master yourself</em>.¡±


    With a grunt, Tyron mastered his expression and forced the memories and the emotion they carried away.


    ¡°I apologise. I¡¯ll be focused from this point forward.¡±


    ¡°See that you are. This is an opportunity that you may not see again. Networking is the entire point behind these events, though youthful indulgence and y is also encouraged,¡± she flicked her eyes toward an amorous couple in the shadows at the back of the ballroom, being a little more friendly than was strictly appropriate. ¡°No doubt the Shan¡¯s were ted to have an opportunity to meet with the premier enchanter in the city, but when he couldn¡¯t attend, <em>your</em> invitation was vetted, of that I am certain. You wouldn¡¯t be here unless <em>someone</em> wanted to meet you.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± he shrugged his shoulders, feeling awkward in his manyyered robes, ¡°what do we do?¡±


    Yor rolled her eyes.


    ¡°We <em>talk</em>, to <em>people</em>. You aren¡¯t so socially inept as this, I know you aren¡¯t. Do your best to appear wise beyond your years, the robes should help with that, and try to smell like money.¡±


    ¡°Smell. Like money.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but not current money, <em>future</em> money.¡±


    ¡°That makes a lot of sense.¡±


    ¡°Hush. Now lead me around the ballroom, I need to be <em>seen</em>.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    Doing his best to mask his emotions, Tyron allowed Yor to take him by the arm and led her to a small group talking near the centre of the ballroom. Unsure what to expect, he was surprised to see that most weren¡¯t as young as he suspected, but likely closer to himself in age. They easily made way and allowed the new pair to join their circle, bringing them into the conversation with ease.


    ¡°Master Almsfield, a pleasure to meet such an aplished young craftsman,¡± a dashing gentleman extended a calloused hand, a swordsman perhaps.


    ¡°The pleasure is mine,¡± Tyron replied.


    ¡°And who is this charming youngdy apanying you?¡± the swordsman said, eyes sliding toward Yor, a warm smile on his face.


    <em>Of course.</em>


    ¡°This is a business associate and friend, Yorin Kiris, owner and operator of the Red Pavilion.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I have heard a lot about this establishment,¡± a young aristocraticdy tittered.


    ¡°Most of it <em>good</em>, I hope?¡± Yor purred.


    ¡°Oh!¡± thedy blushed. ¡°Ah. Y-yes. It has be very popr¡­ amongst the yers.¡±


    ¡°I would love to cultivate a more <em>genteel</em> clientele, but it is so difficult to provide services that will suit every customer. The yers like their entertainment¡­ <em>rough</em>, which is not suited to a more elegant customer.¡±


    Further blushes and abashed nces fluttered around the group and Tyron felt as if Yor¡¯s work was already done for the evening. Just like that, they had been hooked. The swordsman looked like he was about to offer to duel Tyron there and then for the privilege of keeping herpany for the evening.


    With what grace he could muster, Tyron excused them from the group and moved to the next.


    In this manner, they drifted from one group to another. He tactfully avoided bringing Yor to the group Lady Shan was in, lest Victor let his control slip in front of the hostess.


    Pleasantries were exchanged, people enquired as to how prosperous his business was and the health of Master Willhem, to which he managed courteous replies. His guest didn¡¯t speak much, she didn¡¯t need to, but he was grateful she was able to show a little more restraint as the evening wore on.


    ¡°Over there,¡± Yor nudged him in the side, ¡°that¡¯s young Magister Shan. In the group by the ice sculpture.¡±


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    ¡°The swan.¡±


    ¡°Not the <em>sculpture,</em> which person?¡±


    ¡°The one in the red robes,¡± she rolled her eyes. ¡°You don¡¯t see the family resemnce?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re in the shadows, I can¡¯t see in the dark.¡±


    ¡°Poor mortal¡­.¡±


    Attempting to appear casual, he began to shift them in that direction, but found his work was done for him when another young gentleman noticed him and eximed: ¡°Ah! Master Almsfield, I was hoping to speak to you tonight. If you have a moment?¡±


    Yor shot him a significant look and Tyron schooled his features as he stepped into the circle of conversation.


    ¡°Lukas Almsfield, at your service,¡± he performed a short bow and introduced his associate, who drew all eyes for a moment.


    ¡°Yes¡­ yes! As I was saying, I¡¯d hoped to have a moment to chat with you. But where are my manners! I am Lord Ammos Greyling. It¡¯s a privilege to meet someone as young and aplished as you.¡±


    ¡°Ammos, who is thismoner?¡± Magister Shan spoke with a barely concealed sneer. ¡°Is this who you requested we invite?¡±


    Ammos Greyling appeared to be slightly older than Tyron, perhaps twenty-five, tall, with blonde hair and an easy-going smile on his face. He turned to Regis without missing a beat.


    ¡°Of course! As you know, the <emmoner</em>, Master Willhem, the most respected and sessful Arcanist in the province, was expected to attend, and I¡¯m certain you hadn¡¯t objected to his presence?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Regis rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Well now, are you also aware of just how many of his many apprentices have received his personal endorsement over the years?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    He spoke the word curtly, but there was a hint of interest in the trainee-magister¡¯s eyes now.


    ¡°Two,¡± Ammos grinned. ¡°Just two. The first was¨C¡±


    ¡°Annita Halfshard.¡±


    ¡°... Right! And the second is this young man in front of you. Impressive, no? Of course I had to meet him!¡±


    With the objections dealt with, Ammos turned back to Tyron with a flourish.


    ¡°You may or may not be aware, but your senior apprentice, Annita, exclusively doesmission work for the noble houses, so we are all familiar with her incredible skills.¡±


    Tyron bowed once again.


    ¡°It¡¯s an honour to be mentioned alongside such luminaries as Master Willhem and Master Halfshard. I still have a long road before I canpare my abilities to theirs.¡±


    ¡°Is it true that your primary ss isn¡¯t Arcanist?¡± Ammos asked, leaning in, eyes wide.


    A little confused, Tyron nodded.


    ¡°That¡¯s right. I took it up as a secondary.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating! What do you say, Regis? Are you impressed now?¡±


    It appeared as if he may indeed be a little intrigued. At least his sneer had dissipated as he examined Tyron head to toe with an evaluating gaze.


    For his part, the Necromancer tried to keep his eyes on Ammos. Standing this close to a Magister was a gust of oxygen onto the ever-burning embers of rage in his chest. Internally, he fought to contain it as he carried on the conversation.


    ¡°Unfortunately, unlike my Master and Master Halfshard, I have directed my expertise in other areas, so it¡¯s unlikely I¡¯ll be able to service the great houses in the same manner.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard something of this,¡± Ammos noted, green eyes twinkling. ¡°You opened your shop in Shadetown, of all ces. Quite the scandal!¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Is it really? Master Willhem was more than willing to attend the opening and ce his que on the store.¡±


    ¡°That was the scandal! Imagine that old fusspot stumbling around outside the walls. The poor thing.¡±


    Ammos chuckled and shook his head as Regis contributed a question.


    ¡°You mentioned you focused on other areas. What has been the focus of your craft?¡±


    ¡°Conduit magick,¡± Tyron answered immediately.


    These two would have no interest at all in his advances in efficiency and what he was capable of achieving with low-grade cores. It was unlikely they¡¯d even seen a low-grade in their lives.


    ¡°In the field ofworking, arrays and conduits, Master Willhem dered I was his equal. I¡¯m not sure I believe him, but I can certainly state my ability in this area is exceptional.¡±


    ¡°His equal?¡± Regis muttered.


    ¡°As I said,¡± Tyron smiled, ¡°I personally don¡¯t think it¡¯s true, but his praise is wee.¡±


    It had cost a huge chunk of the wealth his parents had left for him to purchase his apprenticeship with Master Willhem, but it had been worth every gold piece.


    ¡°With a reputation like that, you would easily find work for the yers, or the noble houses,¡± Ammos noted, ¡°so why would you open a store outside the walls?¡±


    <em>So I can practise Necromancy in my basement without people prying</em>.


    He couldn¡¯t very well say that.


    ¡°To increase any craft in level requires not only improvements in understanding and technique, but also <em>volume</em>. Outside of the city, I sellrgely cheaper wares and do smallmissions, but the flow of work is constant andrge.¡±


    ¡°I see. Attempting to raise your skills as quickly as possible. I should expect no less from someone whopleted their apprenticeship in half the time.¡±


    Ammos Greyling was full of praise.


    ¡°I hope you aren¡¯t so busy that you aren¡¯t willing to take on any <em>additional</em> work?¡±


    It was likely that Tyron had only been invited for this moment. The lordling had wanted to evaluate him in person, to see if he was worthy.


    ¡°I am, of course, more than happy to entertainmissions from the noble houses, if they deem me worthy.¡±


    He turned to Regis.


    ¡°As amoner, of course I am in no position to discriminate between the great houses. Should the Shan family have a desire for my expertise, I would be more than happy to provide it.¡±


    <em>Or the magisters¡­.</em>


    ¡°Wonderful!¡± Ammos grinned. ¡°It just so happens I have a little something I¡¯ve been working on. Nothing grand, but if you would be avable, I¡¯d love for you to take a look over it as a¡­ consultant, of sorts. Naturally, you will bepensated generously.¡±


    ¡°It would be my pleasure.¡±


    Tyron bowed once more, not even having to fake the smile on his face.


    If he could impress at thismission, he could expect others. Regis had personally heard him ept the task, and would likely hear of his performance. All he needed was a foot in the door.

 Chapter B3C13 - Commissions

    Chapter B3C13 - Commissions


    Tyron <em>should</em> have spent the rest of the week grinding and polishing his enchanting skills, brushing up on his knowledge of conduits and ensuring he was in peak condition to work with Ammos Greyling. Ties to the noble houses were worth a great deal to him in ways that had nothing to do with finances.


    ess to the corridors of power, a chance to interact with the Magisters, to nt seeds and extract information.


    He was in no position to take advantage of anything he may learn right now, butter¡­ter, he may well be capable of <em>anything</em>.


    Instead, he had inevitably been drawn to his experiments, no matter how he had tried to resist.


    ¡°<em>Fascinating</em>,¡± he breathed as he continued to examine the contaminated silver-lining around one particr skeleton.


    The discovery that some remains transmitted more death magick than others had been made with his first batch of dead, but already that kernel of new knowledge had been expanded. The variation between the skeletons on the cold stone bs in the study was as much as twenty percent, but one particr set of remains was an outlier of extreme proportions.


    Laid carefully around the skeleton, the strip of silver was charred ck on both sides, a residual sign of the death aligned energy that had passed from this skeleton to those on either side. In fact, the silver was so degraded, the circuit no longer functioned!


    For whatever reason, this one set of bones generated and transferred death energy at a rate <em>ten</em> times higher than his current working average.


    ¡°What could the reason be? ss? Working conditions? Something to do with the remains specifically?¡±


    He had begged for more information about the corpses he was given, and Filetta had been able to provide him with¡­ a little. It was better than nothing, but not by much. Likely the providers of his materials were unwilling to provide anything that might lead him to track down their sources, either because he could incriminate them, or make a deal directly with wherever they looted these corpses.


    No matter the cause, this particr skeleton was valuable, and he intended to keep it.


    He would need to separate the bones when he stored them to ensure they didn¡¯t form a wild undead, something that was inevitable given the amount of energy umted within the remains. In fact, because of this one skeleton, <em>all</em> of the remains were approaching saturation far faster than they should.


    It was a snowball effect. The skeletons beside this one received more energy, which meant they <em>made</em> more energy, and then passed it to those alongside them, and so on. The bones furthest from his outlier were the least saturated, but they were still well ahead of schedule.


    ¡°Perhaps some remains simply have an affinity for death energy,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°A predilection, and perhaps it isn¡¯t determined by how they lived, or even how they died, but simply an¡­ inborn trait?¡±


    A theory, one he didn¡¯t have evidence for. Tyron sighed and put his notes down. He had so many questions about the fundamental nature of Necromancy, and almost no answers. Someone, somewhere, had surely solved these riddles already, but he had no knowledge of them, and no capacity to ask around.


    Once more, his thoughts turned to Arhinan the ck, reviled and feared Necromancer who had amassed an entire <em>army</em> of undead servants and led them against the empire. If some repository of that man¡¯s knowledge still existed¡­.


    It was a pipe dream. <em>If</em> it existed at all, <em>if</em> he could locate it, <em>if </em>he could ess it and <em>if</em> the work survived in any condition to remain useful, only then could he <em>possibly</em> learn something. Far too many ¡°if¡¯s¡±.


    Were he to devote his energy to such an investigation, he would probably waste so much time his own research would have yielded results by the time he discovered anything.


    It was frustrating, and slow, but pursuing his own avenues of inquiry was the best way. He had time on his side, years if need be, to master his craft.


    There wasn¡¯t much time until he was needed at the Greyling estate, however.


    ¡°Ah, shit!¡± he cursed when he realised just how little time was remaining.


    He rushed to seal away his precious specimen in four separate containers, ensuring it couldn¡¯t rise on its own before he ran upstairs, changed clothes and washed himself. After he fumbled and cursed with a second set of those <em>ursed</em> robes Yor had leant him, he managed to somewhat arrange them properly before he rushed out of the store and signalled a carriage to take him into the city.


    In the privacy of the coach, he reinforced his mour and took another of the vampire-made blood pills, grimacing as the substance within raced like fire through his veins.


    An incredible creation, only possible through their mastery of blood, to manipte whatever magick was contained within.


    A mandatory status check was performed at the gate to the noble quarter, and again before he was allowed ess to the Greyling estate.


    Just as ostentatious and obscene as what he had seen at the ball, the Greylings had clearly spared no expense in the construction of their familial abode. Yet it wasn¡¯t into any of the towering structures that Tyron was directed, instead his coach pulled up towards the rear of the estate, outside a much more humble, though still well-built, workshop pushed up against the rear boundary wall.


    The sound of hammers ringing on steel, the smell of forge-fire and the tang of alchemicalpounds filled the air.


    Ammos said he had been working on ¡®a little something¡¯.


    The man himself, along with four guards and an immactely presented maidservant stood waiting for Tyron to alight from his coach, and he did so with what grace he could whilst battling his damnable robes.


    ¡°Master Almsfield,¡± the noble scion smiled and spread his hands wide, ¡°wee to the Greyling estate. Thank you for taking up my invitation.¡±


    As decorum demanded, Tyron bowed at the waist before replying.


    ¡°I have to admit, Lord Greyling, I am most curious to see what you¡¯ve been working on in this facility.¡±


    ¡°Nothing so grand as what you are imagining,¡± the young man chuckled, ¡°most of the workers inside are busy with projects for the family, maintaining the equipment our guards use, that sort of thing. No, my little project is being worked on in that room there.¡±


    He indicated a door on the far end of the workshop and indicated for Tyron to follow. They walked together, along with the entourage of guards as Ammos expounded upon his project.


    ¡°This is a little something Imissioned to celebrate reaching level forty, a suit of armour. The best of the best materials were used to forge it right here in the family workshop,¡± he dered proudly, then smiled a little wryly, ¡°but when ites to the quality of our Arcanists¡­ we can¡¯t quite match up, so naturally, I had to bring in some outside help.¡±


    He pushed open the door and gestured for Tyron to step inside. Within the room, he found a short, rail-thin woman dressed in a loose-fitting shirt and pants scowling at him.


    ¡°This is bullshit, Ammos,¡± she growled.


    The Necromancer froze for a moment before he put two and two together. He stepped forward and extended a hand.


    ¡°Master Halfshard, an honour to meet you.¡±


    The diminutive Arcanist flicked her eyes up and down his manifold robes before dismissing him with a contemptuous wave of a hand, returning her gaze to the lord.


    ¡°You paid me toe and do the work, so I¡¯ve been here working, for a fucking <em>week</em>. Now you want this¡­ barely qualified upstart to check <em>my</em> work? I should throw down my tools and walk out this instant!¡±


    ¡°Now, now, esteemed Master. Nobody is here to check your work, that would be ridiculous! I simply thought this would be a wonderful opportunity for Master Willhem¡¯s two most favoured apprentices to coborate! You have final say on any decisions, of course.¡±


    ¡°I have final say? Fine. Get rid of him.¡±


    She pointed at Tyron without looking at him. A stunningly rude gesture, yet he found it almost refreshingpared to the flowery phrases and circr discussions of the nobles.


    ¡°The man gets what he pays for,¡± he shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ll take a look and see if I have anything to offer. If not, I¡¯ll leave without saying a word. That should satisfy your pride and your client, right?¡±


    Master Halfshard turned a baleful re on him for daring to speak, but he brushed past her and into the workshop, already inspecting the armourid out in pieces on the table. Not unlike a skeleton, he noted.


    ¡°I¡¯ll leave you two to get acquainted,¡± Ammos Greyling stated before he ducked out the door and closed it behind him. A tactical retreat, given he likely expected Halfshard to explode.


    Tyron found a ss lying on a bench and picked it up before holding it before his eyes as he leaned down to inspect the armour. Incredibly fine, delicate sigils had been engraved on every piece. Each arcane circle would provide a different magickal effect, powered by the cores which were yet to be set in ce.


    Before his senior apprentice blew up at him, he cut her off.


    ¡°Obviously, you¡¯re better than me,¡± he said as he continued to pour over the engravings. ¡°You have Arcanist as a main ss, for starters, and you¡¯ve been working for what, fifteen years longer than me? There¡¯s no chance I¡¯m better at enchanting than you.¡±


    ¡°Then why don¡¯t you fuck off?¡±


    ¡°Because Lord Greyling is paying me to look at the conduit work on this suit of armour.¡±


    Annita Halfshard paused for the first time, frowning.


    ¡°The conduits?¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    Satisfied with the shinguard he¡¯d been looking at, he moved to the twin piece for the other leg.


    ¡°Since I can never be as good as you or Master Willhem, level capped as I am, I chose to focus on certain aspects of enchanting, namely conduits and arrays. In this one area, our Master dered I was his equal.¡±


    She snorted.


    ¡°Bullshit.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m inclined to agree, but when ites to this one aspect of enchanting, I¡¯m <em>very</em> good. Better than you, in fact.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Annita squawked, outraged.


    ¡°Right here, see this? Your sigils aren¡¯t aligned properly, thiswork is leaking three percent.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit!¡±


    Despite her protestation, the esteemed Master snatched the ss from his hand and leaned down to inspect it herself. After a minute of careful examination and muttering, she threw the implement down.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with it, you chatan!¡± she dered.


    ¡°Do you have a shifter? I¡¯ll prove it to you here and now.¡±


    ¡°Like hell you will,¡± she growled, but nevertheless pointed him to the right side of the room where the implement he was looking for rested on the side table.


    Tyron moved with confidence to the table and began to arrange sigils on the shifter. A handy piece of equipment, it let an Arcanist carve sigils into the surface and then power the array using a spare core. Since the te was regenerative, one could carve in the surface over and over again. Was it as good as attempting to enchant a core directly? No, but as a teaching tool, or for demonstration and experimentation, it had its uses.


    ¡°Luckily, I don¡¯t need to copy your enchantment runes,¡± he remarked as he worked, ¡°because I have no idea how any of that works.¡±


    Master Halfshard snorted.


    ¡°But theponents you¡¯ve used to form yourworks are off. Look here, this is how you¡¯ve done it.¡±


    He took a step back and allowed his senior apprentice to inspect the te, which she did, carefully. Then shepared it to her own work on the armour to ensure he¡¯d copied it urately.


    ¡°Now let¡¯s power this circuit.¡±


    He ced a nearby core into the shifter,pleting the runework and lighting it with magickal energy. The two of them could both sense the arcane power running through it clearly.


    ¡°If I rearrange the sigils like so,¡± he made some <em>minute</em> adjustments and powered it again.


    The difference was slight, but it was there, as he knew it would be. Annita could feel it too.


    The diminutive woman chewed her lip as she stared down at thework on the shifter.


    ¡°Well, fuck,¡± she said.


    She turned to look at the armour syed across the table, a look of irritation on her face.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to have to adjust <em>every</em>work on the entire sodding suit?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Tyron said, ¡°<em>I¡¯ll</em> do that. You finish working on the big ticket items. As I said, I have absolutely no clue how most of that is working.¡±


    He wasn¡¯t lying. Hugely expensive enchantments to reinforce armour, project shields, add resistance to the elements and all the other insanelyplex things going on inside this one armoured suit were way, way out of his wheelhouse.


    The fact that Annita had been able to pack so many denseworks onto each and every piece of armour, <em>and</em> have them not interfere with each other, was almost miraculous. Without a doubt, she was the best Arcanist he had ever seen, with the possible exception of Willhem himself.


    ¡°Are you handy with a pliance? I don¡¯t want you ruining any of my work.¡±


    ¡°Handy enough to satisfy our Master.¡±


    ¡°Good enough.¡±


    Without any further discussion, the two grabbed separate sections of armour and moved to the workbenches. With a pliance in hand and a ss positioned in front of his face, Tyron set to work.

 Chapter B3C14 - The Dead

    Chapter B3C14 - The Dead


    ¡°Hey there, lover.¡±


    Filetta grinned at him as she sauntered through the sewer, her crew following behind, canvas-wrapped corpses over their shoulders.


    Tyron sighed.


    ¡°Is it really necessary to let your men know that we slept together?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I share everything with my crew,¡± she boasted, ¡°thieves need to be a tight-knit bunch to operate.¡±


    Judging by the appraising, and somewhat respectful looks he saw on a few of the men¡¯s faces, she¡¯d embellished the story quite a bit.


    He brought a hand up and massaged his right temple.


    ¡°What did you tell them?¡± he asked, almost despite himself.


    The thief, dressed in her work clothes, form fitting ck cloth and leather boots, smiled suggestively.


    ¡°I praised your stamina, high constitution and pain tolerance.¡± She licked her lips. ¡°These pansies were ready to lose their lunch before I was half way through describing the night.¡±


    His pain tolerance? What did that have to do with any¨C


    The Necromancer grimaced.


    ¡°You lied to me, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    A look of hurt innocence shed over Filetta¡¯s face.


    ¡°Elten, what a thing to say. Whatever could you mean?¡±


    ¡°You told me that stuff was normal!¡±


    One of the men froze, putting down a corpse, nced up at Tyron and shook his head slightly.


    ¡°It¡¯s not umon for some couples to strike each other,¡± she deflected.


    ¡°And the knives?¡± he ground out.


    The goon stumbled and almost fell t on his face, looking up at Tyron with a look of disbelief and admiration. Filetta stepped forward and sank her boot directly into the ruffian¡¯s side.


    ¡°I admit¡­ I got a little carried away,¡± she said after regaining her bnce. ¡°In my defence, you seemed to enjoy yourself.¡±


    He had.


    The evening had begun normally enough. They¡¯d eaten, had drinks and conversed before Filetta had led him into a back room. At first, she¡¯d been stunned by his utterck of experience, but had leapt into educating him with¡­ unseemly relish.


    She¡¯d taught him how to kiss first, as good a starting ce as any, and things had progressed rapidly from there. In hindsight, he¡¯d clearly let his guard down too much and let himself be led by the nose. It was deep into the night before she had gotten especially¡­ inventive.


    ¡°It was¡­ nice,¡± he managed.


    Filetta pouted at him.


    ¡°Only nice?¡±


    ¡°Fine. More than nice,¡± he rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Well then, if that¡¯s the case, you¡¯ll hardly want to refuse when I invite you to another intimate get together? Let¡¯s say, tomorrow night?¡±


    A frown crossed his face.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    Some of the men let out strangled chuckles before Filetta silenced them with a deadly re. She turned back to Tyron, an icy glint in her eyes.


    ¡°Why. Not?¡± she said, each word chopped as if by a guillotine.


    ¡°I¡¯ve already reached human level twenty,¡± he pointed out, ¡°it worked just as you suggested it might. Though I¡¯m a little nervous that was all it took to form an emotional connection with you. Ultimately speaking, I got what I wanted out of the arrangement. As for you¡­¡± he trailed off for a second, before he shrugged and decided to be blunt. ¡°If all you¡¯re looking for is someone to fuck, then I¡¯m certain you have far better irons in the fire than me.¡±


    He had no illusions that Filetta was looking for some sort of exclusive rtionship, it was likely she was sleeping with a range of people, and he didn¡¯t care, it was none of his business. What had transpired between them had been transactional.


    Filetta stared at him for a moment before she let out a harshugh and shook her head.


    ¡°Holy shit, Elten. I thought I managed to unwind you a little, but you¡¯re still strung so fucking tight. I¡¯ll spell this out a little more clearly for you.¡±


    As she spoke she strode forward until she stood right in front of him, red up with her brown eyes and jabbed him in the chest with one finger.


    ¡°First of all, I don¡¯t have that many ¡®irons in the fire¡¯,¡± she sniffed, ¡°finding people you trust enough to get naked around is difficult in my line of work.¡±


    ¡°You trust <em>me</em>?¡± he said incredulously.


    He was the shady as shit bastard who purchased human corpses off her every month. She had to think he was some sort of mad-alchemist, healer engaged in ck practices or just straight up suspected him of Necromancy!


    ¡°Of course not!¡± she hissed. ¡°But you have nothing to gain from my death, whereas every other thief I run with <em>does</em>.¡±


    That was a good point.


    ¡°Second of all, I¡¯m <em>interested</em> in you. That means I want to spend <em>time</em> with you. You¡¯re easy enough to look at, your conversation is educated, well-mannered and humorous, and you don¡¯t look down on me for my lifestyle.¡±


    <em>Who am I to go around critiquing other people''s lives? </em>He thought ruefully to himself.


    ¡°There! I can tell the thought had never even urred to you. Third, the sex was surprisingly good! You learned quickly and were respectful in bed, that¡¯s surprisingly hard to find.¡±


    She prodded him again.


    ¡°Now, did you enjoy spending time in mypany or not?¡±


    He blinked.


    <em>I¡¯m going to regret this, aren¡¯t I?</em>


    ¡°I did,¡± he sighed.


    ¡°Good,¡± she grinned, before she reached up, seized him by the hair and pulled his mouth down to hers.


    They separated after several long seconds, and judging by the triumphant gleam in her eye, she knew his heart was pounding in his chest.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow,¡± she breathed before she blew him a kiss and turned, sauntering off into the darkness, softly cursing out her men as they went.


    ¡°No knives!¡± he called to her retreating back, but she pretended not to hear him.


    ~~~


    Real progress, atst.


    Tyron stared greedily at the scarlet letters on the page before him, exaltation burning in his chest.


    <strong>Corpse Appraisal (Level 17)</strong>


    <strong>Corpse Preparation (Level 16)</strong>


    He was getting closer. The techniques he was developing to assess the remains he worked on had been deemed worthy of recognition by the Unseen. A wee indication he was on the right track.


    The main focus of his experiments had been Death Magick, how it formed and spread between the dead and undead. To unravel that mystery, his tests with the silver strips and the invention of his lens had taken him far.


    A lesser focus, though no less important, had been his attempts to uncover methods to ascertain the quality of a given skeleton before he worked on it. Bone density, flexibility, damage and wear, all needed to be assessed if he was to choose the right skeleton for the right job. Tougher, hardier bones were more suitable for frontline duty, carrying shields and des, whereas more fragile or flexible material was appropriate for archers.


    Tyron was a little disappointed his efforts at moulding bones into shields and des hadn¡¯t been recognised yet, but he hadn¡¯t been able to put in the time required to master the art. Completing themission for the young Greyling lord had taken longer than he would have liked, but Annita had insisted on double and triple checking all of his work.


    His senior apprentice wasn¡¯t used to coborating, and it showed. Still, her ability to weave enchantments together was nothing short of monstrous, and hermand of every element in the process doubly so. He eclipsed her in one aspect alone, and even that was close.


    Once she¡¯d been satisfied and the armour delivered to Ammos, who¡¯d been full of praise, Tyron had needed to spend a good deal of time catching up on his work in the store, then he¡¯d doubled down to make sure he was ahead of demand once more. His apprentice had looked on the verge of death by the time they were done, to the point he¡¯d been tempted to point the Death Lens at him to see if there was a response, but the work had beenpleted before the next delivery of remains from Filetta.


    <strong>Advanced Death Magick (Level 16)</strong>


    Another jewel in his crown. Despite feeling like he was no closer to truly understanding how this particr form of arcane energy functioned, at least he was able to identify and study certain behaviours it disyed.


    ¡°One more push. Maybe two,¡± he muttered to himself.


    When these three Skills reached their current allowed maximums, he could truly resume his necromantic work. Creating functioning Undead, studying them, working on the other, vital aspects of his craft.


    Despite his progress, there was still <em>so much</em> to do. His work on the Raise Dead spell had been rewarded with progress, but his focus so far had only been on the conduit aspect of the ritual. Creating the undead ¡®intelligence¡¯ and improving the binding of the minion itself were more difficult for him. Hopefully, the vampires or the Dust People could help him there.


    Satisfied with what he saw, he carefully destroyed the status page, leaving not even ashes behind.


    His butcher workplete, he disposed of the remains in the sewer, confident the rats would do their work, and packed his work away.


    With all he¡¯d done to improve his craft, another level in Undead Weaver couldn¡¯t be far away. He¡¯d have to be careful, but as long as he regrly performed the status ritual, he could be sure not to trigger his next Advancement before he was ready.


    After a wash and a change of clothes, he decided to get some sleep. It was only midday, but he had no pressing work to do and thought he may as well rest to prepare for a solid week of experimentation.


    His eyelids were just starting to close when he heard a timid knock at his door. At first he thought he was mistaken, his staff almost never bothered him in his chambers, but when the knock came again, louder this time, he sighed, rolled out of bed and threw on a robe.


    Cerry greeted him at the door, looking hesitant, but also curious.


    ¡°Good afternoon, Cerry,¡± he said, ¡°is there a problem?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­ Master Almsfield. There¡¯s a pretty¨CI mean, there¡¯s ady here to see you. She¡¯s downstairs. In the shop.¡±


    Tyron blinked.


    Yor? <em>Filetta</em>? Neither were people he wanted to see here. In the case of thetter, he <em>definitely</em> didn¡¯t want her to connect his two false identities.


    Feeling a little stressed, he closed the door, dressed himself in a hurry, and rushed downstairs. When he arrived, Cerry was busy trying to look as if she wasn¡¯t paying attention and even Flynn was conspicuously working close to an open door, setting cores.


    <em>Blood and bone. Save me from these busybodies</em>.


    Irritated with his staff, he swept his gaze across the shop floor and almost staggered when he saw the sun-haired young woman perusing the ss cases. She turned and spotted him, a polite smile appearing on her face as she began to approach, but she froze minutely halfway across the room, her eyes widening. Her stride resumed almost immediately, but he¡¯d seen that pause.


    Elsbeth recognised him somehow.

 Chapter B3C15 - Old Gods

    Chapter B3C15 - Old Gods


    ¡°Master Almsfield,¡± Elsbeth greeted him, much more warm than she had appeared before. ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Elsbeth Renner, I believe you were expecting to see me?¡±


    He was? He was!


    That cursed shrivelled prick had told him they¡¯d send a liaison to speak with him. If he¡¯d thought about it for a second, he would have known this wasing.


    ¡°The pleasure is mine,¡± he fumbled, dipping into a slight bow to cover his confusion.


    More than anything, the way she¡¯d almost instantly seen through his disguise was like a knife in his heart. Was he that transparent? How had she done it?!


    An awkward silence descended as he stood, brain churning until he suddenly became fiercely conscious of his two gossiping employees burning a hole in the back of his skull with their eyes.


    ¡°Uh. Please. If it pleases you, could you join me in my¨Cjoin me upstairs for some refreshment? We can discuss more privately there.¡±


    Elsbeth smiled again, a twinkle in her eye as she acquiesced and he turned to guide her, shooting a re at Cerry and Flynn as he went.


    Both studiously avoided his gaze.


    Only when they¡¯d entered his living quarters and he¡¯d activated the magickal protections around the door did he turn and demand ¡°How did you know it was me?¡±


    His childhood friend stared at him, open mouthed, a hint of reproach on her face.


    ¡°That¡¯s the first thing you say to me?¡± she said. ¡°<em>Really</em>?! No, ¡®Hi Elsbeth, turns out I¡¯m not dead¡¯, or ¡®Hey there, Elsbeth, it¡¯s great to see after four years, how have you been?¡¯¡±


    Tyron pped a hand to his face, and, after a moment, dismissed the mour that hid his features.


    ¡°Yes, you''re right, I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s just¡­ unnerving to have my disguise seen through so easily. I depend on this mour to keep me alive.¡±


    She simply stood, tapping her foot on the floor as she levelled a steady gaze at him.


    He sighed.


    ¡°Hello, Elsbeth. It¡¯s wonderful to see you after four long years. I would have reached out to you, to let you know I was alive, but it felt too dangerous. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    The priestess nodded slowly before she thrust her arms out to her sides.


    ¡°Now a hug,¡± she demanded.


    He rolled his eyes and stepped forward, enfolding her with his arms. To his surprise, she squeezed him tightly, to the point he almost felt his ribs creak. How¡¯d she gotten so strong?


    When they separated, she brushed a tear from the corner of her eye and Tyron invited her to sit at his table as he rummaged for some tea and biscuits.


    When he sat down and sipped his drink, he found himself at a loss for words. Elsbeth looked¡­ different. She was still radiant, but that innocent glow that she had always carried with her was subdued. After four years of serving such gods, she must have gone through a great deal.


    ¡°How have you been?¡± he asked softly.


    ¡°It¡¯s a struggle, out there,¡± she said, waving a hand vaguely toward the west. ¡°I¡¯ve seen just how hard life can be for people, how much they have to struggle just to survive. I learned a lot.¡±


    Tyron snorted.


    ¡°If I know you, then you¡¯re still doing everything you can to help them.¡±


    The Priestess of the Old Gods stuck her tongue out at him.


    ¡°So what if I am?¡± she said as sheughed and shook her head. ¡°I¡¯ve always wanted to help people, that¡¯s why I wanted to be a priestess in the first ce.¡±


    The Necromancer held up his hands.


    ¡°That¡¯s not a criticism. Quite the opposite. I¡¯ve never met anyone who had as kind a soul as you ¡®Beth. I¡¯m pleased to see that hasn¡¯t changed.¡±


    He hesitated.


    ¡°Are you still able to help, though? Considering your¡­ patrons?¡±


    Elsbeth lifted a brow.


    ¡°You think Crone, Raven and Rot don¡¯t help people?¡± she took a long sip of her tea and nibbled on an almond biscuit as she thought. ¡°In a sense, I suppose they don¡¯t, but they can be more supportive than you give them credit for. My teacher told me many times how surprised she was to see how many blessings I¡¯ve been able to wrangle out of them. Raven especially is getting sick of me.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that dangerous?¡± Tyron was rmed but Elsbeth waved away his concerns.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. Raven bestowed a blessing on me at my Advancement, so I don''t think they''re really that mad.¡±


    A blessing from the Raven?


    ¡°Is that how you were able to see through my mour? A gift of sight?¡±


    His guest looked at him, a slight frown on her face.


    ¡°What? No. You¡¯re making it far moreplicated than it is. That mour may hide your features, and disguise your voice to a certain extent, but your mannerisms, the way you stand, the way you hold yourself? All of that stays the same. I¡¯ve known you since we were kids, it was easy to recognise you.¡±


    He stared at her.


    ¡°Seriously? You spotted me by my <em>mannerisms</em>? So quickly? You thought I was dead!¡±


    ¡°I never believed you were dead, even before Ortan tried to convince me you¡¯d survived,¡± Elsbeth snorted. ¡°And yes. If Worthy had walked into this ce, he¡¯d have recognised you just as quickly.¡±


    The thought of his uncle wandering into the store caused Tyron a painful pang in his chest.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s a problem,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Is it? There¡¯s less than a handful of people who know you well enough to do what I did. Don¡¯t be too paranoid.¡±


    ¡°How¡­ how is he? Worthy? And Aunt Meg?¡±


    Elsbeth looked at him, sadness brimming in her eyes.


    ¡°Not great,¡± she said. ¡°The loss of his family hit him hard. He and Meg are still operating the Inn, but it¡¯s¡­ not like it was.¡±


    He could see she wanted to say more, but she feared it would be too painful for him to learn anything else.


    ¡°So¡­ now that you¡¯re here, we¡¯ll have plenty of time to catch up. I¡¯d love to hear more about your journey over thest four years, but first, I¡¯d be grateful if we could discuss more serious issues for a moment.¡±


    His old friend hesitated before she sighed and nodded.


    ¡°Fine. Do you have any questions?¡±


    ¡°I assume you¡¯re the intermediary the Venerable said would be sent my way?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. Since you won¡¯t talk to them yourself, I¡¯ll be around to pass along their words.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t exactly make themselves easy to trust,¡± he grunted.


    ¡°They don¡¯t care if you trust them,¡± Elsbeth rolled her eyes. ¡°They¡¯re <em>gods</em>. Don¡¯t think of them like people, they were never mortal. You¡¯ve taken on certain obligations and you have to fulfil them, that¡¯s all there is to it.¡±


    It hadn¡¯t been an easy decision to Advance his Anathema sub-ss the way he had, but he¡¯d known he couldn¡¯t afford to throw any possible source of power away, given what he was up against. That didn¡¯t mean he was willing to forget what the gods had almost done to him, and to Elsbeth, but he could look past it if they dealt with him more fairly in future.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re here. Tell me, what is it that the Three want from me? Build them an altar? Kill some priests? Defile some temples?¡±


    ¡°What? No!¡± Elsbeth wrinkled her nose in disgust. ¡°Why would they want you to go around <em>murdering </em>priests? Generally speaking, they don¡¯t care to interfere with the church of the five, and us followers don¡¯t want to draw attention to ourselves and get burned at the stake, so we avoid them as much as we can.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what then? What do they want me to do?¡±


    ¡°Nothing much. They want you to kill the Five Divines.¡±


    Elbeth took another sip of her tea, watching him over the rim of the cup. He stared back at her open-mouthed. After a few long seconds, he closed it.


    ¡°As in¡­ today?¡± he said finally.


    ¡°Obviously not,¡± she retorted. ¡°But ultimately, that¡¯s what they want you to do. It¡¯s only taken five thousand years, but the Three seem to have finally decided enough is enough. They want to reim the spark of divinity they gave away.¡±


    This was good news, since that¡¯s what Tyron wanted as well. With the help of the Old Gods, he might even have a chance of seeding. Although there had to be a catch, or five.


    ¡°Is there a particr reason they want me to do this? Can¡¯t they just do it themselves?¡±


    Elsbeth shrugged.


    ¡°Can¡¯t, or won¡¯t, I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m not even certain if they want you to kill the Divines directly yourself, or just help create the circumstances that lead to the oue they desire. The only way to learn more would be to ask them yourself, though they probably wouldn¡¯t borate.¡±


    ¡°Probably not,¡± Tyron agreed sourly.


    He thought for a moment.


    ¡°What do they want me to do in the short term? If all they had in mind for me was to help with some grand design far into the future, there¡¯s no reason to send you here now.¡±


    ¡°Of course there¡¯s more,¡± Elsbeth agreed. She hesitated before she continued. ¡°Have you gone out much, since your parents¡­ died? To the keeps, or anywhere else in the province?¡±


    He shook his head.


    ¡°I basically locked myself to an Arcanist¡¯s bench for three years straight,¡± he confessed. ¡°Since Ipleted my apprenticeship, I haven¡¯t travelled that far from the city.¡±


    ¡°People are¡­ pissed.¡±


    It was weird to hear her swear.


    ¡°Pissed?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Really pissed. When Magnin and Beory died, most of the yers didn¡¯t believe the exnation they were given. Instead, they med the Magisters.¡±


    Dove had told him that might happen before his family had perished. yers hated the Magisters on principle, it didn¡¯t take much for them to assign me to the hated mages.


    ¡°I think they kind of expected it, the Magisters, I mean. They were out and about the first year, making themselves known, making an example of any infractions they uncovered.¡±


    She shivered.


    ¡°They were brutal. The things they can do with those marks¡­ Anyway, I believe they expected things to die down after that, but it didn¡¯t. Things only got worse.¡±


    Tyron was confused.


    ¡°What are you telling me, Elsbeth? What¡¯s going on out there?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a rebellion brewing,¡± she told him. ¡°In all of the keeps, but especially the most remote ones. yers are renouncing their vows, many are turning from the worship of the Five, and they¡¯re banding together. The Old Gods are trying to harness this momentum. They¡¯ve been gathering followers, trying to create a locus of power, far from the Magisters¡¯ reach.¡±


    Was there any ce in the Empire that they couldn¡¯t reach?


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°Cragwhistle.¡±

 Chapter B3C16 - Cold Welcome

    Chapter B3C16 - Cold Wee


    Tyron was confused.


    ¡°So there¡¯s a rebellion of sorts developing out there. Although, it doesn¡¯t seem like much from what you¡¯ve said. yers can kick up as much of a fuss as they like, they¡¯re helpless once the Magisters turn the screws,¡± he finished bitterly.


    Not even Magnin and Beory had been able to deny the power of the brand. Resist it, dy, blunt, perhaps, but ultimately, even they had fallen prey, despite their preparations.


    For all their power, the yers were the most helpless people in the Empire. The stronger they became against the rift-kin, the more vulnerable they were to the Magisters.


    ¡°Even if they could rebel despite the marks, what could I do about it? I can¡¯t¡­ <em>lead</em> them.¡± He couldn¡¯t think of anything he was less suited to do. ¡°I¡¯m not even willing to fight at all until I reach my milestones and advance my ss.¡±


    Elsbeth shook her head and looked at him as if he were dim.


    ¡°What do you think is going on out there? Armies in the field or something? Don¡¯t be ridiculous. Is there anyone on this ne who understands their weakness more than the yers? You think they¡¯re just going to start throttling Magisters in the streets?¡± She raised her eyebrows and shook her head once more, sending her golden hair rippling in waves down her back. ¡°They are moving slowly. Trying to train unmarked people in secret. If this is going to work, it¡¯s going to take years.¡±


    Tyron leaned forward and pressed his palms together, his elbows resting on the table. This made a little more sense, but such things had been tried before. It was impossible for yers to rebel, the brand would strike them dead if they ever raised a hand to a Magister or Noble. Even with all they had done to mitigate the mark, it was likely even Magnin and Beory hadn¡¯t found a way around that particr restriction.


    It was, however, possible for them to raise up <em>others</em>, to teach and train vigers, or hire a rat and give them a bit more experience than was strictly necessary. His father had been the one to tell him about it. Magnin could even name a few of the incidents. The Farmer¡¯s rebellion. The Sundered Siege. The Red Fields.


    It always ended the same way. Throughout history, the Magisters had been consistently shitty at their job. A surprising fact, but when they had literal divines on their side, as well as the unbreakable magick of the brand, it may be excusable that they dropped the ball every couple of hundred years. However, they found out eventually. Sometimes they uncovered an unmarked warrior in the rifts and got on top of things early, sometimes they woke up to find a Keep had been burned down and one of their order had been strung up by the neck.


    Once it started, it was basically over. The Gold yers would bepelled to crush the rebellion, and if the situation was dire enough, they would bring help from the Central Province. Not even Magnin knew who these enforcers were, he just knew they were absurdly strong, and inhumanly brutal.


    ¡°This is dangerous stuff, Beth,¡± he warned her. ¡°How deeply are you involved?¡±


    With an exasperated scoff, she pped the table with the t of her palm.


    ¡°You can¡¯t seriously¨Care <em>you</em> trying to warn <em>me</em> off? I <em>know</em> what you want, Tyron. I think it¡¯s a stupid waste, but you¡¯re determined to do it anyway.¡±


    The Necromancer felt the anger in his chest roar into life. He clenched his jaw and spoke deliberately.


    ¡°You think it¡¯s a waste?¡± he rasped. ¡°After what they did to my family?¡±


    She sensed his pain and her eyes brimmed with sympathy, but she didn¡¯t back down.


    ¡°Yes. <em>Yes</em>. Because your mother and father did everything they could to ensure you would be free, that you wouldn¡¯t have to live your life for vengeance.¡±


    She reached across the table and sped his hand.


    ¡°Look at what you have here. Look at what you¡¯ve <em>built</em>. A shop, a trade, respect from you workers, a chance to make a difference in people''s lives. You probably don¡¯t know this, but the people down there in the Market are so pleased, so proud, to have someone like you living and working down here with them. They love your work, they rave about it.¡±


    There was a dull ache in his chest, but it was quickly consumed by the fire.


    ¡°All of <em>this</em>,¡± he waved at the building around them, ¡°only exists because I want vengeance.¡±


    He released her hand.


    ¡°It seems a little strange that the person who¡¯s supposed to be getting me to <em>help</em> this doomed rebellion is trying to talk me <em>out</em> of it. What do you need me to do? What do your <em>patrons</em> need me to do?¡±


    Despite everything she¡¯d gone through the past four years, he could still see the old Elsbeth in the way she looked back at him. She cared so much, and she didn¡¯t mind who knew it, her emotions were still written all over her face. It was¡­ difficult for him to hurt her, even now, but he was unshakable.


    ¡°I¡¯d hoped¡­ after everything that happened, you might have had a chance to be happy. That¡¯s all.¡±


    Tyron shook his head decisively, his eyes void of feeling.


    ¡°No.¡±


    The word cut through the conversation like an axe de, silencing them both. He waited. Elsbeth drew in a slow breath.


    ¡°For now, there isn¡¯t much that you¡¯re requested to do. Mainly, funnel resources. Gold, weapons, supplies, things that can¡¯t be traced. You have contacts in the city that aren¡¯t connected to any followers of the Three. Information is the other key element. There are already people on the inside passing along snippets, but they¡¯re yers. You can ess ces that they can¡¯t. Hear things that they won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°And the Three expect me to stick my neck out like this for no reward? Our rtionship is very much one of give and take.¡±


    His old friend pulled a face.


    ¡°You¡¯ll get your reward. Probably.¡±


    ¡°Probably?¡±


    ¡°Well, I haven¡¯t been told what it will be, and the Three aren¡¯t exactly known for their generous natures¡­. So I have no idea what you¡¯re going to get.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t they literally hand out divinity itself on a whim?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Once.¡±


    ¡°Technically five times.¡±


    ¡°... In one instance.¡±


    Tyron sighed.


    ¡°As long as they provide something that will help me with my Necromancy research, I¡¯ll be satisfied.¡±


    ¡°Your Necromancy research? What do you mean?¡±


    He rubbed his hand through his hair and scowled at Elsbeth.


    ¡°It¡¯s not like there¡¯s a manual or teacher I can use. Necromancy is illegal in the empire, remember? I have to figure everything out myself. It¡¯s painstaking work, and slow going. I¡¯d love for a little help from my patrons, but they seem <em>extremely</em> reluctant toe good on their promises.¡±


    Elsbeth scratched at her chin with one finger as she thought.


    ¡°Well. I have no idea if there¡¯s anyone amongst the worshippers of the Three with any knowledge of necromancy, but there might be. I¡¯ll ask around, and if I can¡¯t find anything, I¡¯ll appeal to the Gods myself.¡±


    A generous offer, much better than what he¡¯d received from Yor and certainly far beyond the vague whispers of the Abyss. Even so, he was concerned.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t this dangerous for you? Approaching the Old Gods and needling them for favours isn¡¯t something I would consider¡­ safe. I don¡¯t want you to risk yourself.¡±


    The Priestess scoffed.


    ¡°Pestering the Gods to help people they wouldn¡¯t normally help is basically my job. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll make sure you get some help. If you¡¯re going to stick your neck out for them, the least they can do is cough up a few secrets.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ grateful. Really grateful. I appreciate it ¡®Beth. I haven¡¯t beenfortable dealing with the Three, but with you around, I think¡­ we might be able to get somewhere.¡±


    She beamed at him.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m here for. I¡¯m a link between the people and the gods.¡±


    With their business concluded the two old friends fell to reminiscing, joking back and forth and discussing their experiences over the past four years. They talked back and forth until Tyron realised just what the time was.


    ¡°Oh. I¡¯ll have to ask your forgiveness, Elsbeth. I have an¡­ appointment in the city.¡±


    She nodded easily and rose from her seat.


    ¡°That¡¯s alright. I have a ce to stay not far away, so we can meet up again soon.¡±


    ¡°Probably best if you don¡¯te too often¡­.¡±


    She rolled her eyes.


    ¡°Yes, yes. Mr Secrecy. I understand. I¡¯ll be discreet, don¡¯t worry. I won¡¯te back until I¡¯ve started making my enquiries. When I have something for you, I¡¯ll make sure to let you know.¡±


    ¡°Fantastic.¡±


    She walked around the table and enveloped him in a firm hug before he escorted her down the stairs and out the door.


    It had been good to reconnect with her, and it was almost odd to have someone be so unreservedly on his side. If there was anyone in the realm he would trust to deal with him straight, it would probably be Elsbeth. She didn¡¯t have a deceitful bone in her body. If the Old Gods decided to screw him over, she would likely just tell him to his face, which was far better than a knife in the back.


    Thinking of knives made him shudder. If he wanted to make it to the restaurant on time, he would need to leave shortly. Filetta would be pissed if he waste.


    ~~~


    Two dayster, Tyron had mostly healed from his encounter with the thief and was busy in his workshop when he received another visitor. It was closing time and heavy clouds hung in the sky overhead, when a wide-eyed Cerry knocked on his door, practically vibrating at the effort of restraining her gossip-loving spirit. Wondering who in the world it would be this time, he descended the stairs and almost tripped and fell t on his face when he saw Yor standing on the shop floor, dressed as if she were attending a ball.


    Cerry studied his every move out of the corner of her eye, and once again, he could see the door to the back-room creak open so Flynn could listen in.


    These idiots!


    Trying to regain some semnce of poise, Tyron stalked across the shop floor until he drew near enough to hiss, ¡°What<em> in the Abyss are you doing in my shop!¡±</em>


    The vampire eyed him with icy dignity.


    ¡°Perhaps we should take our discussion somewhere <em>private</em>,¡± she announced, caressing the final word.


    Cerry <em>squeeked</em> behind the desk and Tyron was pretty sure he heard Flynn fall off his seat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he stood to the side and gestured for Yor to follow him upstairs. The whispers downstairs from the few remaining customers chased him up each step until he ripped open the door at the top and strained with all his effort not to m it behind him after his guest had passed through.


    She watched him with a slight smirk on her blood red lips, doubtless waiting for him to explode with rage, but he throttled it and matched her stare for stare.


    ¡°I assume the cloud cover is helping you rise a little earlier in the day?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Not to mention winter is drawing near. The days grow shorter, and the nights grow <em>longer</em>.¡±


    ¡°I thought we had an agreement that you wouldn¡¯te here in person. There¡¯s a reason I¡¯ve been trudging over to your ce of business and it isn¡¯t because I like the atmosphere.¡±


    Yor looked at him imperiously.


    ¡°I would have thought you would be a little more <em>grateful</em>. Besides, having a reputation for associating with beautiful women is hardly overtly damaging. Besides, Master Almsfield and I have already been seen in public together.¡±


    ¡°But not <em>here</em>. Wait, did you say <em>women</em>?¡±


    Did she know about Elsbeth?


    ¡°The Court delivers on itsmitments,¡± she announced, reaching into the bag slung over her shoulder and removing a tightly bound volume. ¡°Let it not be said that we renege on our agreements. As we agreed, this grimoire has been provided by my Mistress for you to peruse.¡± She raised a finger. ¡°For one month.¡±


    Tyron stared at the book with naked hunger.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Yor added, almost as an afterthought, ¡°I also brought <em>this</em>.¡±


    She reached into the bag once again and removed a carved, onyx, skull.


    ¡°Fuck me,¡± Dove eximed. ¡°You live here, kid? The ce looks positively <em>habitable</em>. I was expecting a stinking cave or some shit.¡±

 Chapter B3C17 - Skull Life

    Chapter B3C17 - Skull Life


    ¡°This is more like what I was expecting. A true shit-hole. Something dank and dripping. You¡¯vee back up in my eyes, Tyron. I knew you still had that filthy, cave-dwelling creep inside you.¡±


    ¡°Dove¡­¡±


    ¡°No, seriously. I¡¯m fucking proud of you. You didn¡¯t let the wealth or the luxury get to your head. You knew who you were, deep down, and created a stinking basement filled with bones and guts like the troglodyte you are. I¡¯d apud, but for obvious reasons, I won¡¯t.¡±


    Tyron sighed and ced the skull down on his table before he ced the grimoire next to Dove and slumped into his chair.


    ¡°How many skeletons do you have down here? You¡¯ve been getting busy! Hope you aren¡¯t killing them all yourself. I do have to say, it¡¯s nice not to be stuck hanging off some dickhead¡¯s¡­ dick. I¡¯ve seen some shit recently, Tyron. Some <em>dark, dark</em> shit.¡±


    ¡°Dove,¡± Tyron said, more insistently.


    ¡°What?¡± the skull replied, begrudgingly, his previous, familiar, lively and sarcastic tone vanished.


    ¡°We need to talk. Now that you¡¯re here, we need to work out¨C¡±


    ¡°Work out what? Huh? Work out <em>what</em>?! What to do with me? Go on then, tell me what you¡¯re thinking. What are we going to do here?¡±


    The flip from normal Dove to this anger was so immediate the Necromancer didn¡¯t know how to respond for a moment, but he pressed forward. Of course his friend was angry, who wouldn¡¯t be in his circumstances?


    ¡°Yor is <em>gone</em>, it¡¯s just you and me here right now. I can smash your skull and you can be free again. Go on to your¡­ afterlife. Finally.¡±


    ¡°IT¡¯S NOT THAT EASY, DIPSHIT!¡±


    The voice of the spirit roared throughout the basement and Tyron winced, hoping his sound dampening enchantments were up to the task. Thankfully, his mentor restrained himself before he spoke again.


    ¡°If you tried to free my soul, what do you think would happen? Yor would just swoop in and bring me back again. She pretty much told me so on the way over here.¡±


    As he spoke, some of the bitterness and despair that the former-summoner had kept locked deep inside began to leak out. His was a miserable existence, and had he been alive, he had no doubt madness would have imed him by now.


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean she would seed,¡± Tyron insisted. ¡°If we can find a way, we can move you on before they get hold of you. Or I can conceal the fact that you¡¯re gone long enough that they lose their chance.¡±


    ¡°Kid¡­ just¡­ don¡¯t. Fucking. Don¡¯t. You¡¯ve got no chance of winning when you go against the vampires and you fucking know it. They¡¯ve been doing this shit for thousands of years. You¡¯re smart, Selene¡¯s tits, you¡¯ve got the fucking gift, but we both know they can run circles around you when ites to controlling the dead.¡±


    It was true, of course it was. That was the entire reason why he¡¯d been so desperate to get his hands on their secrets all this time. To his knowledge, they were the most knowledgeable and powerful masters of the Necromantic arts, not only in this realm, but in all of them.


    Tyron slumped, defeated. He nced across at the book sitting t on his table.


    ¡°I¡¯m willing to bet that book contains precisely the opposite spells to those I would need to set you free.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a fool''s bet. It¡¯s basically a guarantee. In fact, I¡¯d go further and say they¡¯ve done everything they can to ensure what they gave you is of as little use as possible. Need to keep stringing you along, edging, but never letting you finish.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t need to say it in quite those terms¡­.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, I¡¯ve been unliving in a brothel for thest year.¡±


    Suddenly sure that he was right, Tyron reached over and flicked open the cover of the volume, turning over the heavy ck cover and looking at the first page.


    ¡°On the binding and domination of spirits and the dead,¡± he read aloud, then sighed. ¡°Yep.¡±


    He flicked a few more pages.


    ¡°And of course, all the sigils are written in some ancient vampiric bullshit.¡±


    ¡°She said the book hade from her Mistress¡¯s collection, it¡¯s probably a thousand fucking years old and certainly didn¡¯t originate from this ne.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think this is just a case of using different symbols to represent each sigil,¡± Tyron muttered, flicking through a few more pages, frowning. ¡°I think they¡¯re using a different form of spell-structure entirely.¡±


    ¡°And you only get a month to try and decipher any of it,¡± Dove barked augh. ¡°Pricks.¡±


    Tyron grimaced. He <em>could</em> do it in that sort of time frame, though it would consume his every waking hour. And even then, he wouldn¡¯t be able to decipher all of it. If there were sigils in the book that he didn¡¯t know in his <em>own</em> system, then how was he supposed to interpret them? And even if he did, nothing he learned would help Dove, which was his primary concern at that moment.


    He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, trying to think.


    ¡°There <em>has</em> to be something we can do to help you die. I refuse to let you keep suffering like this.¡±


    ¡°Look¡­ kid. I hate being like this, don¡¯t get me wrong, but I¡¯ve reached the point that I¡¯ve kind of given up on being able to escape. This is the problem you run into when you get involved with Necromancers. <em>Especially</em> when you get on their bad side. You can¡¯t fucking die! I¡¯m guessing that prick Rufus is still hanging around somewhere, am I right?¡±


    Without lifting his head, Tyron nodded slightly.


    ¡°Hah! I knew it. And the girl as well?¡±


    He hesitated this time, but nodded again.


    ¡°Fuckers. They deserve it. For a while, anyway. Look, I¡¯m pissed. I¡¯m pissed at you for bringing me back the first time, I¡¯m pissed at myself for being such an idiot around Yor, and I¡¯m <em>absolutely</em> pissed at <em>her </em>for bringing me back again. We had a tearful goodbye and all that shit, it was perfect! Then she decided she couldn¡¯t let myments slide and had to fuck with me, and not in a good way! But¡­ although I¡¯m pissed, I¡¯m kind of resigned to it. I¡¯m stuck like this now, and will be for a long fucking time. At this point, I¡¯m just hoping that she¡¯ll remember to let me go <em>eventually</em>.¡±


    A miserable way for a soul who¡¯d done more for him than almost any other to end.


    ¡°So I won¡¯t bother trying to kill you,¡± Tyron relented. ¡°You¡¯re almost certainly right, there¡¯s likely no point in it. I¡¯m sorry, Dove.¡±


    ¡°Tyron, I¡¯ve heard your apologies way too many times. They don¡¯t matter anymore. They don¡¯t <em>help</em>. I¡¯m just going to ignore how unrelentingly <em>shit</em> this all is as best as I can until I¡¯m finally set free.¡±


    It was a hard thing to hear, but he nodded, epting it.


    ¡°I just wish¡­ I could still do my magick,¡± the spirit trapped within the skull mused, wistfully. ¡°I really loved it, you know? Not like, physically, but I enjoyed studying and expanding my knowledge. The yers I worked with would sternly deny it, but I was serious about that, at least.¡±


    Yet another thing Dove endured because Tyron had taken it away from him. Yet another blow to his heart. The Necromancer¡¯s chin dropped to his chest.


    Then he lifted it again.


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t Arihnan the ck dead?¡±


    ¡°Uh, yes? He¡¯s been dead for a thousand fucking years! Took everything beyond the boundary mountains down with him, as I recall my history.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what? I thought Granin fell muchter?¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah, but having half your fucking empire ravaged by Undead isn¡¯t exactly great for your longevity. They hung in there for a while, but eventually fell to the kin. The paths through the mountains were lost shortly after, and nobody¡¯s been back over there since.¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t what I was talking about. You¡¯ve obviously read more than me, but as far as I know, descriptions of the Necromancer describe him as skeletal, like, actual bones.¡±


    ¡°Well, of course. He was a lich, an undead magick user. You know about this shit, kid. Some undead can still use magick, like the vampires.¡±


    ¡°But Arhinan started out as a person?¡±


    ¡°Yyyess? So?¡±


    ¡°Just like you.¡±


    ¡°Again, so?¡±


    ¡°So you can use it too!¡±


    ¡°No I fucking can¡¯t. Oh no. Shit. No. Tyron, I know that look in your eye. Fucking STOP, right now.¡±


    Tyron felt his heart quickening in his chest as his eyes began to flick from side to side rapidly, ideas cascading through his head.


    ¡°You can¡¯t use magick because you don¡¯t have a source. Of course you don¡¯t, the source is a physical thing, a part of our body, which you don¡¯t have, but what if we <em>made</em> one?¡±


    ¡°Kid, I am <em>not</em> your test dummy.¡±


    But Tyron wasn¡¯t listening. He sprang up from his chair and began to pace back and forth.


    ¡°Any lich must have an alternate way to collect and store magick. I know wild liches exist, but without studying one, I can¡¯t work out how they do it. Arihnan, though¡­ he had to create his own when he transitioned to unlife. He <em>had</em> to. I¡¯ve been experimenting with repositories for exactly this purpose, funnelling energy into an undead vessel. Now your case is a little unique, but it <em>should</em> be possible. I can create a matrix that stores magick easily enough, that¡¯s just basic, but finding a way to <em>connect</em> it to your spirit¡­. That¡¯s harder.¡±


    ¡°This fucking kid¡­.¡±


    Dove knew what was going to happen next. The crazy was taking over, he could already see it.


    ¡°Fuck me.¡±


    ¡°If I can bind your spirit to a skull, then surely I can bind a repository of power to your spirit. I just¡­ I just¡­.¡±


    The kid carried on mumbling to himself as he paced back and forth, his arms tracing vague lines in the air, his hands shing through seemingly random sigils as he pondered what sequence might bring him the result he desired. This was exactly the look on his face Dove had awoken to when he¡¯d first found himself locked inside his own skull. The same expression he¡¯d had when he created his first revenant.


    <em>Can¡¯t get any fucking worse,</em> Dove thought to himself, resigned to his plight, but, shockingly, the kid turned to him, a hint of lucidity returning to his gaze.


    ¡°Do you want me to try this?¡± Tyron asked.


    Dove was so shocked it took him a moment to reply.


    ¡°W-what?¡± he stuttered.


    Tyron stormed to the table and stared directly into the glowing orbs within the hollow sockets of the carved skull.


    ¡°I won¡¯t try this without your permission. I may seed, I may not, but if I do, you¡¯ll have ess to magick again.¡±


    ¡°I <em>really</em> didn¡¯t think you were going to ask me.¡±


    ¡°I like to think I¡¯ve matured.¡±


    ¡°Nice to see.¡±


    There was a long, drawn out pause.


    ¡°Dove?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fucking thinking, damn you! Give me a second.¡±


    ¡°Look. I¡¯m not sure if you¡¯ll be able to use your Summoning magick anymore, and I have no idea if or how the Unseen will interact with you in this state. All of this is unknown, so yes, you would be the experimental case and that¡¯s shit for you. But, I¡¯m <em>confident,</em> Dove. If the two of us work together, we can figure it out.¡±


    The trapped spirit thought a little longer.


    ¡°I¡¯ll only agree if you promise to try and fix me up with a body as well. I want hands and legs, for fuck¡¯s sake.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ tricky. But sure. I¡¯ll do my best.¡±


    ¡°And a dick.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±

 Chapter B3C18 - The Gift of Magick

    Chapter B3C18 - The Gift of Magick


    ¡°You¡¯re generating magick already, somehow. It¡¯s not much, miniscule, if I¡¯m being honest¨C¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t mock my size.¡±


    ¡°¨Cbut it¡¯s there. This must be how your spirit generates enough energy to maintain itself.¡±


    ¡°I always wondered about that, because you never created a conduit between the two of us, right?¡±


    Tyron nodded in confirmation as he continued to peer down at the carved skull through his Death Lense.


    ¡°At the time, I figured it was just a function of your status. A high level yer would be a powerful spirit and sustain itself. I didn¡¯t really have the time to investigate, so I just glossed over it. Now though, I have to wonder how it works.¡±


    ¡°You need to remember I¡¯m not in my original vessel anymore. Perhaps when you stuffed me into my skull, the bones were generating magick the same way your bony boys do, converting ambient magick into death attuned energy. Considering I was hanging around all your skeletons, they could have been feeding it to me as well.¡±


    Tyron put down the lens and pondered for a moment, arms folded over his chest.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ possible. Are you suggesting that perhaps your current¡­ ¡®vessel¡¯ works as a descriptor, I suppose¡­ your current <em>vessel</em> is different? Modified, somehow?¡±


    ¡°One way to find out.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I can crack it open without freeing your spirit.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to <em>break</em> it, you ass! Aren¡¯t you a fancy schmancy Enchanter or some shit? Bust out the tools and get fancy, for fuck¡¯s sake!¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Fucking found it!¡±


    ¡°Thank the mother¡¯s mammaries. I was getting sick of being rolled around this table.¡±


    Hunched over the table, Tyron continued to focus through his ss, tracing the <em>incredibly</em> fine fments carved on the inside of the ¡®cheek bones¡¯.


    ¡°Blood and bone, I can¡¯t believe they managed to fit such dense script in there. It¡¯s not even powered by a core! Fuck me.¡±


    It had taken two straight days of exhaustingly careful analysis to find the script. If he hadn¡¯t been so careful, he likely would have tripped one of the <em>four</em> hidden matrices that would have dissolved the skull to dust in his hands. Disabling those had taken a full day on its own.


    ¡°They <em>seriously</em> didn¡¯t want anyone to examine this thing too closely.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me a <em>thing</em>, that hurts my feelings. And, let¡¯s be real, the only person who was going to look at it was you. They didn¡¯t want <em>you</em> to look at it too closely.¡±


    ¡°I can see why,¡± Tyron muttered, ¡°this is¡­ incredible stuff. If I¡¯m not wrong, this script does exactly what you suggested it might. It takes in ambient magick and converts it to death aligned energy. That¡¯s what¡¯s been powering you.¡±


    ¡°If¡­ if you damaged it in some minute way, would that¡­ drain me of power? Over time? Maybe I¡¯d be able to escape that way, before they notice what¡¯s happening.¡±


    Tyron sat back and gave the suggestion the thought it deserved. Ultimately, he shook his head.


    ¡°It¡¯s possible it might work the way you suggest. But it¡¯s also possible that it would just drain you until you couldn¡¯t be in your ¡®awake¡¯ state, and then you¡¯d just be sleeping inside the skull forever, rather than being set free.¡±


    ¡°Well, shit.¡±


    ¡°It <em>might</em> work. I can do it, for sure, if you want me to.¡±


    ¡°... No,¡± Dove sighed, ¡°if I stopped waking up, Yor would realise something was wrong and just fix it. Even if she didn¡¯t, I wouldn¡¯t get free. Damn it all. Let¡¯s keep going with your n.¡±


    ¡°Well, this is a huge step forward. I need to copy out this script and study it. If I can figure out how, I can use this to feed you the power you need. Instead of taking in ambient energy, I¡¯ll feed it magick straight from my power array. This script will do the work of conversion for me, and feed that magick straight to you.¡±


    Unspeakably excited, Tyron got to work. Due to the incredibly fine work and the awkward position it had been done, he had to use small mirrors, his fingers, and a thin paint that he eventually blotted onto a clean sheet of paper to get a clear picture of the enchantment. Only then could he get to work on interpreting it.


    ~~~


    ¡°It¡¯s ridiculously sophisticated,¡± Tyron groaned as he rubbed his eyes. How long had it been since he slept? It didn¡¯t matter, he was <em>fascinated</em> by what he was seeing.


    ¡°Of course it is! This is vampire bullshit. I¡¯ve never seen Yor do anything in a straightforward manner if she had the option to do it in a needlessly bizarre andbyrinthine way instead. I imagine the attitude filters through every aspect of their spellwork as well.¡±


    Tyron grunted as he continued to trace lines and sigils onto <em>yet another</em> clean copy of paper.


    ¡°Apparently, there are differences between vampire groups; some of them are a bit more direct in their methods. I was warned that they mighte for me.¡±


    ¡°Oh great. So not only are they of limited help, they¡¯re an active danger as well.¡±


    ¡°To be fair, I never considered Yor to be anything other than dangerous.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think she could hurt me! I was already dead!¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t mocking you, just stating a fact.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Well don¡¯t look so smug when you do it.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Oh yes you were, smuggy.¡±


    ¡°Can I focus on this enchantment, please?¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    As Tyron continued to work, he couldn¡¯t help but muse out loud.


    ¡°I always intended to use my enchanting skills as a way to enhance my Necromancy, but I didn¡¯t expect to get the chance so soon.¡±


    Dove was a little confused.


    ¡°What do you mean, so soon? You¡¯ve been out here at this shop for months. What have you been doing all this time?!¡±


    ¡°Trying to max my core Skills before I hit level forty.¡±


    ¡°Oh, shit. I guess I kind of assumed you¡¯d advanced to Silver ages ago.¡±


    ¡°Never had the chance. I¡¯ve been running experiments, trying to increase my Corpse Appraisal and Corpse Preparation. When that¡¯s done, I want to hit my cap with Raise Dead as well, possibly Bone Stitching too.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a lot of work, but it¡¯ll put you in good stead going forward,¡± Dove mused.


    ¡°Only after that was I intending to start implementing my Enchanting ideas. Trying to focus on too many things at once would stall my progress on every front.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of, you probably haven¡¯t thought much on this so far, but I wonder if you have any ideas about your third Sub-ss? I assume you¡¯ve hit human level twenty?¡±


    Tyron paused.


    ¡°I have. Reached it I mean. To be honest, I¡¯ve not given much thought to it, considering everything I have on my te already. Something that can make my undead better, that¡¯s all I have right now.¡±


    ¡°Huh. I thought you might consider some sort of Mage ss so you have a better variety of spells to y with. Or a defensive ss to keep yourself alive.¡±


    The Necromancer shook his head.


    ¡°If you think about it, all of those purposes can be served by simply having stronger minions. I could add some sort of fire Mage subss and throw fireballs around, to do what? To damage my enemies? Stronger undead fighting for me will do that just fine. Protect myself? Some sort of Defender subss? Stronger undead could protect me just as well.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re probably right,¡± Dove considered ¡°Your subsses are meant to supplement and support your main ss. So what¡¯s going to help you create better minions?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. With the Enchanting, I had a clear idea of what I could do, the weakness it could shore up. Specifically, helping lighten the burden on my magick. For the next step, I¡¯m not sure. Perhaps I¡¯ll have a clearer picture after I advance my ss again.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Where the heck do you think you¡¯re going to stick that?!¡±


    ¡°Deep, deep inside you.¡±


    ¡°Tyron. That¡¯s so filthy, it brings a tear to my eye. Metaphorically.¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡±


    ¡°Seriously though, where is it going to fit? I¡¯m only skull sized!¡±


    The young mage picked up the matrix he¡¯d designed and held it in front of the skull, spread across his two palms.


    ¡°It looks bigger than it really is, and, to be honest, there¡¯s more surface area inside your skull than you think there is.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯m big after all.¡±


    ¡°I thought you said size doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    ¡°That was before I learned how massive I was.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Right. Anyway, if I make it much smaller than this, then the amount of power it can store won¡¯t be significant enough to do much with. I can create another array and connect it to this one, doubling or tripling the avable energy, when you have a body and I have more room to work with.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough. Still, are you <em>sure</em> this is going to work?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea. This is entirely guesswork.¡±


    ¡°That gives me a lot of confidence¡­.¡±


    ¡°Look, it <em>should</em> work, I <em>believe </em>it will work, but I¡¯m not a vampire with thousands of years of experience, alright? I¡¯m just trying to figure this out as best I can.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right, you¡¯re right. I told you to go ahead and try in the first ce. Fine, turn me over and stitch me up. I¡¯m ready.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to have to bolt you in ce while I¡¯m working, this is going to take hours to get it housed properly.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ great. Off to sleep for me then.¡±


    ~~~


    A week without sleep. Seven days straight of continuous work, and it all came down to this. He felt exhausted, down to his bones. His head swam every time he moved, and his eyes feltpletely raw. Simultaneously, he felt ted. The deep-rooted satisfaction that came from new discovery, from pushing his Skills to their limits and developing something new. It was a euphoric experience.


    The grimoire he had received from Yory forgotten on the side of the table as he unmped the carved skull and turned it back over, cing Dove carefully in the centre of his workspace. If all had gone well, then his power array was currently absorbing ambient magick, storing it, and then feeding it to the matrix the vampires had etched on him. If it worked as he believed it did, then that power would be converted to death magick before being sent straight to Dove¡¯s spirit.


    What effect that would have, and what Dove could then do with that energy, he had no idea. Hopefully, the former Summoner could draw on that reservoir to cast spells. He wouldn¡¯t be able to do what he¡¯d done before, namely, Summon creatures from the Astral ne, since Death Magick wasn¡¯t useful for that purpose, but he could figure something out. Maybe.


    ¡°W-w-what the¡­ what the fuck?¡±


    The dim lights in the hollow eyes of the skull flickered and brightened as the spirit within stirred himself from his ¡®rest¡¯.


    ¡°Hello, Dove,¡± Tyron croaked before he coughed, took a sip of water from his sk and tried again. ¡°H-hello. Shit. How do you feel?¡±


    ¡°Better than you, I think, which is an achievement, since I¡¯m fucking <em>dead</em>. I know what you¡¯re asking, though; I can definitely feel something is¡­ different.¡±


    ¡°For want of a better term, you¡¯re all hooked up. I¡¯ve tested every part of the powerwork, and it¡¯s functioning as it should. The work I did to connect it to the existing matrix is also working, energy is flowing. It¡¯s nothing like what you would have had avable as a human, but it''s a heck of a lot more than you had before. A hundred times, at least.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I can feel the difference, for sure. I feel¡­ better? Somehow? More solid. I can see a bit better also.¡±


    ¡°If we give it a day to build up, we can try and get you to cast some verbal spells, something simple. See if it works?¡±


    ¡°Fuck yes,¡± Dove breathed. ¡°I can¡¯t fucking wait.¡±

 Chapter B3C19 - A Shift in Dynamics

    Chapter B3C19 - A Shift in Dynamics


    Yor couldn¡¯t sense Tyron inside his little shop, which was usually a sure sign he was locked in his basement, fussing over bones and running experiments. It would have been amusing, watching him struggle to unlock even the most basic knowledge she had been taught in the first year of her apprenticeship, but it wasn¡¯t; she knew what kind of mind was housed in that skull.


    Still, it would be years before he could build his knowledge to the point where she couldn¡¯t consider herself better in the Necromantic arts.


    She was tempted, if only slightly, to enter the shop and make a show of herself, but decided against it. There was no need to antagonise him, especially when he¡¯d been so <em>testy</em>tely. She sighed. That meant she would need to infiltrate his ¡®study¡¯. A trivial exercise, to someone with her talents, but it meant entering the sewers, which she was <em>reluctant</em> to do.


    After a moment of concentration, Yor felt her senses expand, until every whisper became a shout, every glint of light a jagged beam in her eye, even the touch of the air on her dead skin felt oppressive. After a few seconds of searching, she rxed, allowing everything to return to normal.


    She walked around the corner and down the street until she came across what she had been searching for, a sewer grate, used by the maintenance crews to enter the tunnels. Through the small gaps in the metal te, she could already smell the stench below, which caused her to grimace with distaste. She <em>could</em> go through the shop and break the protections on the hidden entrance¡­.


    Tyron would be incensed¡­.


    With a final sigh, Yor stepped into the gathering shadows between market stalls and melded with the shadows. A momentter, a thick trail of blood oozed across the ground with gathering speed, falling into the drain and out of sight.


    When she arrived in the basement and began to reform her body, she¡¯d hoped for a strong reaction to her dramatic reveal. Doubtless, the boy had been wrestling with the tome she had given him, a valuable text for someone of his level, if he could interpret it. She expected a weary and bedraggled Tyron to turn and exim at the mysterious pir of blood that slowly resolved itself into her glorious form.


    When her eyes were whole, what she saw was rather different than expectations.


    Rather than weary and bedraggled, Tyron appeared like a madman, unshaven and filthy, wearing soiled clothing, his hair a mess of gnarled golden locks and eyes almostpletely bloodshot. Instead of carefully tranting the sigils of the vampires, he was engaged in a furious argument with¡­ a hand. The Necromancer was throwing his arms around the ce, pointing and yelling while the hand darted back and forth and made rude gestures at him.


    Dove was positioned nearby, sitting on the table, apparently talking also? What were they <em>doing?</em>


    Her ears werepleted a few secondster and she was treated to their¡­ stimting discourse.


    ¡°That¡¯s not how it works, you <em>donkey</em>,¡± Tyron bellowed, throwing his arms in the air once more. ¡°The transfer <em>isn¡¯t</em> lossless, regardless of what you <em>think you see</em>. I can detect the residue through the lens and you fucking know it!¡±


    ¡°Would you just <em>listen </em>to me, you cockless wonder! I <em>know</em> it isn¡¯t lossless, alright? I fucking <em>know </em>that. What I¡¯m <em>saying</em>,<em></em>is that we are talking a fraction of a percent! That much shouldn¡¯t matter, it can be safely ignored!¡±


    ¡°We have to find efficiencies! YES, even here! Just because the loss is small doesn¡¯t mean it can¡¯t be reduced or eradicated!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re just a fucking perfectionist! Let it go!¡±


    ¡°Yes I am, and no I won¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°Am I¡­ <em>interrupting</em>, something?¡± Yor drawled once her vocal chords had reformed.


    Tyron turned to see the still congealing mass of vaguely Yor-shaped blood in the corner of his study and blinked.


    ¡°Oh, hey Yor. Has it been a month already?¡± he began to fumble around on the table for the volume. ¡°Where did I put that book?¡± he muttered, blinking owlishly.


    That was it? She definitely felt her disy deserved more of a reaction than that!


    ¡°Good to know your security is socking that any undead can simply materialise inside your private sanctum without you even noticing,¡± she observed acidly.


    ¡°What?¡± he replied absently, still shifting things on his desk, ¡°oh. Security. I have wards in the sewers around here specifically for undead. I knew you wereing five minutes ago. Sorry I didn''t greet you properly, I was¡­ distracted.¡±


    The oaf snickered and she red at the carved skull on the table.


    ¡°I see our time apart has <em>rxed</em> your manners. It won¡¯t take long for that mistake to be corrected.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve learned a couple of things over thest month, I think you''ll be impressed with my progress. Like this: <em>Death Bolt!</em>¡±


    A st of magick flew from the hand on the table toward her, shocking the vampire to the point she almost didn¡¯t react. Thankfully, her speed was more than a match to the task and she pped the spell down with the t of her hand.


    ¡°What was that?!¡± she demanded of Tyron, and infuriatingly, he turned back to face her and said: ¡°what?¡±


    ¡°That cretin,¡± she dered, pointing imperiously at the skull, ¡°just attacked me with a spell!¡±


    Tyron pinched his brow and groaned.


    ¡°For fuck¡¯s sake, Dove. You promised me you wouldn¡¯t do that.¡±


    ¡°I was tempted beyond my means to resist!¡±


    ¡°No, none of your bullshit, I¡¯m disconnecting the hand.¡±


    ¡°What! That¡¯s bullshit.¡±


    The Necromancer ignored his protests, at which point, the skeletal hand on the desk leapt up onto its fingertips and tried to skitter across the table, but Tyron dove on it and muttered a few words as he tinkered with something. Instantly, the hand fell motionless and he ced it back on the table.


    ¡°I¡¯m really sorry about that, Yor, I warned him not to do anything stupid, but between you and me, I¡¯m pretty sure he¡¯s gone insane being locked in that skull.¡±


    ¡°Is he the only one who¡¯s gone insane?¡± she asked him, pointedly looking him up and down.


    The young mage followed her gaze, uprehending, before he gave an embarrassed cough and plucked at this filthy clothes.


    ¡°Oh, this. Yes, it¡¯s been¡­ busy¡­ over thest month. I do have to thank you for the book, though, it¡¯s been¡­ exceptionally helpful. If only I could¡­ ah! Aha! I knew I put it somewhere.¡±


    He shuffled across the room and picked up Dove, who squawked in protest, to reveal the vampire text had been sitting under the skull, propping him up slightly. Tyron brandished the bound volume triumphantly.


    ¡°Here it is. Thank you very much for providing this, it was incredibly informative. If you get a chance, pass on my appreciation to Master Hikaari. Really insightful and clearly presented ideas.¡±


    The words were distinguished, but they came from such a dishevelled and wild looking frame that she almostughed at the incongruity.


    ¡°So you tranted it, then?¡± she asked, a little surprised.


    ¡°Oh, a good chunk of it, I suppose. The useful bits. I copied a lot of it, I can figure the rest outter.¡±


    ¡°Oh? I thought you might struggle a little more with the vampiric runes.¡±


    Tyron blinked. Blinked again.


    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s right. That was the point, wasn¡¯t it? I was supposed to have a hard time cracking it, extracting only a little information after painstaking effort and then giving it back.¡±


    ¡°We wouldn¡¯t be <em>that</em> cruel,¡± Yor smirked.


    ¡°Yes you would.¡±


    He didn¡¯t even sound upset about it. The words were delivered t and without emotion, stating the reality in concrete terms.


    ¡°That¡¯s probably what would have happened if I didn¡¯t find that script in Dove¡¯s skull. Reverse engineering that gave me almost two dozen sigils that I could turn around and apply to the book. It¡¯s like picking at a particrly gruesome knot,¡± he plucked at the air vaguely with his fingers, ¡°once you manage to get a few threads, the rest unravels much more easily.¡±


    She turned her eyes to Dove, cidly silent on the bench.


    ¡°You found <em>what</em>? What have you done?¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious? I linked a power array to the matrix you put in the skull to feed him death magick. Then I used the information in the book to start binding his soul to a body. We managed to get the hand connected, but I¡¯m <em>trying</em> to find a more efficient way to do it, since there¡¯s a bit of energy loss and there isn¡¯t <em>really </em>any reason why there should be.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s normal in magick to expect some energy loss,¡± Dove scoffed. ¡°You just need to get over it.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t ept loss I can¡¯t exin,¡± Tyron shot back, red eyes ring.


    ¡°I could have been dancing around with a full skeletal body by now if it weren¡¯t for this dickhead,¡± Dove sighed. ¡°Even having a hand to move was incredible.¡±


    ¡°And you did all this¡­ in a month?¡± Yor asked.


    Tyron looked abashed.


    ¡°Well, I had to manage my experiments and make sure the shop was stocked. That¡¯s probably why I look like such a wildman. I haven¡¯t slept in¡­ Dove?¡±


    ¡°Five days.¡±


    ¡°Shit.¡±


    The vampire looked at him sideways.


    ¡°You know¡­ the undead do not need to sleep. If you shed the confines of your mortality, you could be so much <em>more</em>.¡±


    ¡°Oh, this again. Wait, don¡¯t you sleep everytime the sun is up?¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ technically.¡±


    What the vampires experienced was closer to torpor than sleep.


    ¡°But there are other forms of undead, if you do not wish to be a vampire. You aren¡¯t far away from transforming Dove into a lich. The same process could be undertaken for you. Only <em>much</em> more sophisticated.¡±


    He grimaced.


    ¡°No thanks. And I wouldn¡¯t consider Dove anything close to a proper lich. He has a trickle of power avable to him, and no ess to the Unseen. How do you manage that? Being dead? Well, I suppose you have ess to blood, don¡¯t you?¡±


    The Necromancer rubbed at his eyes and sighed.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a way to do it. There wouldn¡¯t be any point to bing a lich if you could no longer progress in the eyes of the Unseen. Any hints or clues, Yor?¡±


    She smiled and shook her head, her raven ck hair waving softly against her neck.


    ¡°I will only say that it <em>is, in fact</em>, possible. To give away such a powerful secret for free, however¡­ I cannot allow it.¡±


    ¡°I figured. Well, here¡¯s your book. And here¡¯s Dove.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡±


    The spirit protested as Tyron plucked him from the bench and presented him to Yor along with the tome.


    ¡°I¡¯d appreciate it if you could bring him back again sometime soon,¡± he said, ¡°as difficult as it is to have him around, it¡¯s very useful to have another Mage to talk to and help figure this stuff out.¡±


    He hesitated.


    ¡°Besides, he¡¯ll probably drive you nuts if you keep him around for too long. Having ess to magick has made him a little bit¡­ unbnced.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind,¡± she said wryly, shaking her head.


    Even when she thought she knew what he was capable of, he continued to surprise her. This was definitely someone worth keeping close to the Court.


    ¡°I¡¯ve little doubt that Dove fully intends to make a nuisance of himself so that I feelpelled to be rid of him,¡± she said, talking to both of them, ¡°so rather than squash his feeble efforts, I will instead offer to return him to you next month. As long as he behaves.¡±


    Tyron looked pleased, but then nced down at the skull and shrugged.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s up to him. I can¡¯t make him behave.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a child,¡± Dove huffed.


    Yor and Tyron looked down at him incredulously.


    ¡°I just <em>act</em> like one to annoy people,¡± the skull admitted. ¡°It usually works.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t fucking say. Thanks, Yor. I¡¯ll see you in a month, then.¡±


    ¡°Weren¡¯t youing to our regr catchup in two weeks?¡± she asked, arching her brow.


    He slumped.


    ¡°Can¡¯t we just talk here and now? Or in a month?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not. We have an <em>arrangement</em>. The conditions must be met.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± he relented, then stumped toward the stairs. ¡°I suppose you can see yourself out, then? I¡¯m going to <em>bed</em>.¡±

 Chapter B3C20 - Investments and Returns

    Chapter B3C20 - Investments and Returns


    Work continued in a flurry of activity for Tyron. After Yor returned with Dove, he slept for two days before he awoke, feeling like a dead man. With some food and drink in him, he felt much better, but noticed as he pulled his clothes on he was looking dangerously thin.


    Once upon a time, he¡¯d had his Aunt Meg and Uncle Worthy chasing him down and shoving delicious tavern meals down his throat. Since his Awakening, he¡¯d never really settled into a healthy routine, not even when he¡¯d enrolled as Master Willhem¡¯s apprentice. He¡¯d worked himself to the bone, hunched over his bench at all hours, eating whatever he could scrounge from the kitchens when someone reminded him to eat.


    Should he hire a cook? Perhaps someone to feed the staff in the store¡­ he knew Flynn didn¡¯t eat properly, although he might have seen Cerry bringing him food?


    No, he was the only one who needed help in this regard. He looked at the contents of his pantry. Dried meat, hard biscuits, pickled vegetables¡­


    ¡°Am I travelling?¡± he muttered incredulously to himself, before mming the cupboard door closed. ¡°That¡¯s it, I¡¯m getting a proper meal.¡±


    Having decided his course of action, he finished dressing himself and left the store after a brief discussion with Cerry, stepping out into the crowded streets for what felt like the first time in weeks. He carefully tried not to think about the fact it likely <em>was</em> the first time in weeks.


    There were a few good ces to eat near the market square, reputable taverns, although he also had the option to go into the city and find something more upmarket¡­.


    <em>To hell with it,</em> he decided, <em>I can¡¯t be bothered travelling inside the walls.</em>


    Rather than head to the stables and coach hiring houses, he wandered through the market itself, enjoying the sunshine and feeling the bustling crowd moving around him. After a time, he realised with a jolt, he didn¡¯t feel that surge of irrational anger or hatred at these people moving around him, going about their day. Farmers manned stalls, selling fresh produce from the fields, shoppers haggled with crafters and tradespeople offering their wares and services, and it all seemed¡­ fine.


    He wasn¡¯t sure if it was a good or bad thing that he felt more calm, or why. Perhaps being around more people, Filetta, Dove, Victor, Elsbeth, even Yor to some extent, had been good for him, helped unwind a little of the tension he¡¯d been holding tight inside his chest.


    Regardless of the reason, his rumbling stomach urged him to find something more substantial to fill it, and so he left the stalls and moved to the outer edge of the square, where the more established businesses could be found.


    He trailed his eyes across the stores until he found himself staring up at one quizzically. There was no way¡­ right?


    With a bemused expression, he pushed his way through the door, eyes wandering. It was a small ce, with only five wooden tables and simple furniture, but it was clean, and the smells wafting from the kitchen were delicious, a hint of smoke and roasting meat.


    There weren¡¯t any staff manning the counter, so he leaned against it and waited, until someone came through and he almost fell over.


    ¡°Wee!¡± she said, with a bright smile. ¡°Are you here to eat?¡±


    ¡°Wha- ah¡­ yes. Absolutely, thank you.¡±


    ¡°No problem. Why don¡¯t you grab a seat and I¡¯ll be over in a minute to let you know what¡¯s in the pot today.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    He tried not to act weird, she clearly didn¡¯t recognise him. After four years, she¡¯d done a lot of growing up, but she was still far too attractive to be that man¡¯s daughter.


    ¡°Don¡¯t see a well dressed gentleman like you around the market all that often,¡± she said as she walked up to the table with a jug of water and a ss. ¡°Are you from around here?¡±


    ¡°Me? Yes, I run¡­ I own a store nearby.¡±


    ¡°Oh really? Which one?¡±


    ¡°Almsfield Enchantments.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s <em>you</em>? Master Almsfield? Well, wee to my humble store! I know it isn¡¯t much, I awakened as a cook not that long ago, but you¡¯ll not find finer cuts of meat this side of the wall, that¡¯s our guarantee.¡±


    ¡°Yes, your father¡¯s a butcher, I take it?¡±


    She nodded, happily.


    ¡°That¡¯s right, been at it for a long time. Used to work out on the rifts, monster parts mostly, but now he¡¯s working on cows and game. Speaking of which, we have roast beef over the fire with vegetables, or a venison stew. Do either take your fancy?¡±


    ¡°The roast, thanks.¡±


    ¡°Gravy?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°And anything to drink?¡±


    ¡°An ale if you have any.¡±


    In short order, she¡¯d served the meal and given him some space to enjoy it, stopping by to offer him a top up and engaging in some chat. He managed to steer the conversation to where her father had worked before, and she exined their flight from Woodsedge.


    ¡°It was horrible,¡± she shivered. ¡°That noise was like nothing I¡¯d ever heard before. And the monsters¡­ sorry, I don¡¯t like to talk about it much. My father and I barely made it out, but we lost my mother. It was¡­ a very painful time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to have brought up such awful memories,¡± Tyron said awkwardly, kicking himself for prying. ¡°It seems you¡¯ve done well to find your feet,¡± he gestured to the store around them.


    ¡°Oh, thank you. It hasn¡¯t been easy, but we¡¯re getting there.¡±


    She hadn¡¯t lied about the food either. Her cooking Skill was likely still quite low, and it showed in the food, but the meat was exquisite. All she needed was time and practice, some trial and error, before her ss and Skills began to climb.


    He finished his te with relish, considered asking for more, but checked himself. He thumbed a coin from his pouch and onto the table.


    ¡°I hope that covers everything.¡±


    ¡°That more than covers everything! Wait there and I¡¯ll get you some change.¡±


    ¡°No, no. It¡¯s quite alright, I need to be on my way.¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not, sir, you wait right there!¡±


    She rushed out the back of the store, leaving Tyron standing by himself in the dining area. After ncing around a few times, he turned and sprinted out the door.


    Behind him, the proud sign, painted in red and white read <em>Gunderson Meats and Eatery.</em>


    ~~~


    ¡°Someone to see you, Master Almsfield.¡±


    ¡°Damn it all! Who is it this time?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Ah. I¡¯m¡­ sorry.¡±


    Tyron sighed and pushed himself back from his bench, tossing away his pliance.


    ¡°Sorry, Cerry, I didn¡¯t mean to snap at you. I¡¯m just getting tired of peopleing to the store and bothering me when I¡¯m trying to work.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s quite alright, Master Almsfield, Ipletely understand.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not alright, and it won¡¯t happen again. Now, who was it?¡±


    ¡°Right! I don¡¯t think I know this person, I haven¡¯t seen them in the store before, but they said they had a delivery for you?¡±


    He frowned and pushed himself up from his seat.


    ¡°A delivery? Did they say who from?¡±


    ¡°No¡­¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll go talk to them.¡±


    Irritated at being disrupted, he tried to smooth the frustration from his face as he descended the stairs. If it was one of his suppliers, then it wouldn¡¯t do to be snapping their heads off for entering his ce of business.


    But he didn¡¯t recognise the man in dusty looking robes, holding a wide, stitched hat waiting on the shop floor. He stood unusually still, only shifting his head slightly as he looked down at the wares on disy.


    ¡°Hello, can I help you, sir?¡± Tyron asked, forcing a slight smile onto his face.


    It was the best he could do.


    ¡°Are you Master Almsfield?¡± the man replied, turning to face him directly and staring him right in the eyes.


    ¡°Yes, I am.¡±


    The straightforward demeanour of the stranger was almost threatening, but the Necromancer didn¡¯t sense any ill will. Perhaps this was a cultural thing? Or maybe this person was just odd¡­.


    ¡°Our friend from the desert asked me to deliver this to you. Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d want them in your store again.¡±


    He reached deep into his own voluminous sleeve and retrieved a scroll case from within, presenting it to Tyron on his open palm.


    The Mage¡¯s eyes lit up with greed the moment heid his eyes on it. He reached out and carefully took the case in both hands.


    ¡°Many thanks. Would you care to stay for some refreshment?¡±


    ¡°No. Our business is concluded and I must be elsewhere. Thank you.¡±


    With the slightest tip of his head, the well-tanned stranger turned on his heel and strode from the store. Such actions could be considered rude, but Tyron was more than pleased. Nothing to dy him from examining the scroll!


    ¡°I¡¯ll be heading back upstairs, Cerry. Let me know if you need me.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Master Almsfield. Did you know that person?¡±


    ¡°No. Never met him before in my life, but I was expecting this to arrive, at some point.¡±


    Without another word he strode up the stairs two at a time and burst into his workshop, grinning.


    Of course, it wouldn¡¯t be sensible to simply open the case without some precautionary measures, so he scried it with his eye spell, used magick to examine the case and carefully inspected it through his lens before he opened it.


    Inside, he found a small sheet of paper wrapped around a longer one. The first sheet was a short letter from Shadda, written in a barely legible scrawl.


    <em>I have spoken to the elders and they consented to allow me to send you this. It is nothing special, but better than nothing.</em>


    <em>Shadda</em>


    ¡°Man of few words,¡± Tyron muttered as he put the letter aside and withdrew the scroll.


    He unravelled it eagerly, only to find it was significantly longer than he expected it to be, slipping from his grasp and rolling off his bench and onto the floor.


    Gingerly, he gripped the top and bottom and began to carefully roll it back up until he was holding the first section in front of his face. This would have been so much more convenient as a book¡­.


    However, his mildints were washed away as he read, then shuffled the scroll to examine the next section, then the next.


    These were instructions for golem building! <em>Exactly</em> what he¡¯d been hoping for. What¡¯s more, they included a detailed written description of the sigils used for the construction of the artificial mind.


    The Necromancer almost felt like dancing. With this, he could <em>finally</em> begin to unravel the process behind the simple artificial consciousness that was imnted in his minions. Once he understood it, he could begin to <em>improve </em>it.


    This could be the beginning of a monumental leap forward in the quality of his undead. Just thinking of the possibilities had him on the edge of abandoning his workshop and rushing down to the basement.


    <em>Settle down, Tyron. Breathe.</em>


    He couldn¡¯t go down there yet. There was work to finish for the shop, and vanishing during the day when the staff were around carried an element of risk.


    With care, he rolled up the scroll and returned it to its case before putting it aside and forcing himself to return to his enchanting. He had plenty of time. All the time in the world.


    It would take a lot of work to fully unravel the information contained in the scroll, and much more to then apply that to the Raise Dead ritual. Combined with what he¡¯d learned from the vampiric text, it may be enough to push his level in that spell to its maximum.

 Chapter B3C21 - The Verge

    Chapter B3C21 - The Verge


    So much progress in such a short amount of time, it was dizzying. With the knowledge Tyron had gained from the vampiric text, along with the treasure he had received from the Dust Folk, he was finally in a position to develop the most difficult aspects of the Raise Dead ritual.


    Naturally, Tyron threw himself into his work, feverishly scribbling and theorising in his study, only emerging when he was forced to.


    Several social engagements demanded his time. One with Filetta, another with Victor, but he was too distracted to properly engage with either.


    Even focusing on his shop and ensuring the smooth running of his business was immensely difficult. He felt as if he¡¯d been stalled at the starting line for so long, but now he was finally ready to race.


    Secluded in his basement, Tyron continued his experimentation as he built out his ideas. Testing on the remains he sourced from the thieves had never ceased, and he continued to see minor breakthroughs. Attempts to develop a method that would allow him to urately determine the suitability of a specific skeleton were finally bearing fruit.


    Almost by ident, he had discovered the location of death magick first began to umte in the bones. In thest set of bodies he had received, one must have been <em>incredibly</em> fresh, since it contained extremely small trace amounts of death aligned energy.


    After he inspected the remains carefully with the lens, he quickly butchered the corpse so that he could examine the bones more carefully. In this examination, he determined that the highest concentration of power was located in the ribs on the left side of the body, closest to where the heart had been.


    Further tests had led him to develop a metric for working out how long a particr set of remains had been deceased by measuring the umtion of energy in this particr area, and by the spread. Theplexity came in when he learned not all corpses were created equal. Some spread death energy much faster, not only to the remains around them, but also within themselves.


    Thus, the Tyron quotient was born. A form by which he could not only calcte how long the remains had been dead, but how quickly energy spread throughout the corpse. Although he hadn¡¯t been able to test the theory yet, it would make sense that those remains which were more receptive to Death magick would make better and stronger minions, or at the very least, cheaper to maintain ones.


    Furthermore, his earlier experimentation with alchemical substances, namely the mixture used to cleans rift-kin cores that he¡¯d applied to the bones to remove every trace of organic matter, had led him down another avenue of study.


    After spending a suspicious amount of time talking to Alchemists and doctors, he was finally able to concoct a method that allowed him to determine bone density, as well as produce a solution that actually <em>improved</em> the density of bones when they were submerged in it! Again, he would need to actually raise some minions to test how effective it was, but it was yet another feather in his cap.


    Naturally, all of this progress had him extremely excited that he was closing in on his goals, but he found himself strangely hesitant to conduct the status ritual and check how far he¡¯d made it. The thought that he would learn he was still far from maximising his Skills was a crushing possibility, and it was far too easy to allow himself to be distracted by his work on the Raise Dead ritual.


    The ritual itselfprised of three mainponents, a conduit between himself and the undead he created to funnel arcane energy, an artificial mind to allow the undead to ¡®think¡¯, and a binding that effectively enved the undead to his will.


    The text the vampires had provided dealt with the final part, the binding of undead entities. Although there wasn¡¯t much he found he could do to improve this aspect of the ritual, full and total control over basic undead was already full and total control, after all, he was able to <em>understand</em> it much better.


    He also felt this knowledge would be much more useful when it came to binding moreplex undead, such as ghosts and revenants. His control over those was far less robust.


    What Shadda had provided allowed him to gain insight into the second aspect of the ritual, the construct which formed the ¡®mind¡¯ of the undead. Finally able to ce many of the sigils in their proper context, his understanding of them grew by leaps and bounds. After several weeks of study, he could finally say he fullyprehended how the mind was constructed and how it functioned.


    The first element of the ritual, the conduit, he¡¯d alreadypletely rebuilt from the ground up using everything he¡¯d learned from his enchanting work.


    Finally out of excuses, Tyron could no longer put it off, and he conducted the status ritual. Drawing a nervous and shaky breath, he pressed his hand to the page and spoke the words, not even watching as his blood flowed over the paper.


    When it was done, he snapped his eyes down and read quickly, greedily, desperate to see if he¡¯d finally reached his goals.


    Past the dozen notifications of the progress he¡¯d made, he saw something that caused his heart to skip a beat.


    Undead Weaver had reached level 38.


    Two whole levels had been gained from his shenanigans with Dove and his improvements to his craft. Only two left before he would need to advance his ss.


    He bit his lip in frustration.


    That meant he couldn¡¯t perform the status ritual again until he was <em>certain</em> he¡¯d achieved what he needed, lest he risk triggering the advance early. A frustrating position to be in, but it was inevitable that his level would increase. He¡¯d known it would happen eventually, though he¡¯d hoped it wouldn¡¯t be this soon.


    Still, there were two notifications that caused his heart to leap inside his chest.


    <strong><em>Corpse Appraisal has reached level 19.</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Corpse Preparation has reached level 19.</em></strong>


    So close! He was <em>so</em> close! One final push and he¡¯d have reached the first of his requirements. He was so pleased he pushed himself away from his desk, pumping his arms with glee.


    Even better news.


    <strong><em>Raise Dead has reached level 24.</em></strong>


    Six more levels and he would reach the cap which had been increased by his Undead Specialist Feat. To do that, he¡¯d need to make substantial improvements to the remaining two aspects of the ritual he was the leastfortable with, but at least he had a chance now, thanks to the help he¡¯d received.


    Some minor improvements to his enchanting didn¡¯t help much, though he was a little surprised to see his Bone-Soul Melding and Spirit Binding had improved dramatically. In fact¡­ they¡¯d both reached their maximum level.


    <strong><em>Bone-Soul Melding has reached level 10 (Max).</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Spirit Binding has reached level 10 (Max).</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Advanced Death Magick has reached level 17.</em></strong>


    Which had to be a result of his work with Dove. Or, more urately, his work <em>on</em> Dove. It was true, his understanding of how to bind spirits to objects had advanced spectacrly, as had his knowledge of fusing those objects to a bound spirit.


    A wee reward for the work he¡¯d done. Besides making Dove happy, of course. The more abilities that reached the max level before his Awakening, the better a position he would be in.


    There was nothing else major in terms of improvements, so he turned his attention to selecting another Necromancer ability.


    <em>Anoint Undead - Bequeath a portion of your power to a set of remains before it is raised, empowering the ritual.</em>


    <em>Purify Bones - Purge the bones of impurities as preparation for the Raise Dead ritual.</em>


    Yet again, the Undead Weaver ss knew exactly what Tyron wanted and gave him two options he didn¡¯t want to pass up, but only let him choose one of them.


    Choosing either one of these would add an extra step to the preparation of his minions, and likely tip his Corpse Preparation Skill up to twenty immediately.


    The descriptionscked detail, as always, so Tyron did his best to intuit what the words meant. What did it mean to ¡®bequeath¡¯ his power? Was it a simple infusion of magick, or something more dramatic, and permanent? How did it empower the ritual? What effect did it have? So many questions about this one ability!


    Purify Bones, on the other hand, he understood much better. Within this realm, magick infused everything to some degree, slowly corrupting everything it touched.


    How long until rift-kin native to this realm were born? Nobody knew the answer, nobody wanted to think about it.


    This Skill would enable him to remove that influence from the remains he was working with, purge every trace of foreign magick from them. What effect would that have? Likely, it would enable the bones to more readily create and receive Death Aligned energy, hastening the process.


    He brought his hand to his chin and considered. It would be a worthwhile addition to his current abilities, and it suited his needs, fulfilling his primary goal of creating better and stronger undead¡­ but.


    Now that he knew such a thing was possible, he could attempt to recreate the method on his own, saving a skill selection. There were sigils used to drain magick power, they weren¡¯t too dissimr from those used to absorb energy from the atmosphere. He didn¡¯t know them, but if he asked Master Willhem¡­.


    The fact that the possibility existed was enough for Tyron. He ced his mark next to Anoint Undead. Whatever this skill did, he had no idea how he could replicate it.


    Ending the ritual, he sat still as the power of the Unseen flowed through him. After five minutes, he felt ready and pushed himself up from his seat, destroying the ritual paper with a thoughtful expression on his face.


    ¡°It¡¯s close,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°Very close.¡±

 Chapter B3C22 - Business With the Master

    Chapter B3C22 - Business With the Master


    ¡°Is it just me, or does Master Willhem look happy today?¡±


    ¡°Happy?¡± Victor scoffed. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if the old man even knows how to smile.¡±


    He leaned closer to his fellow apprentice, Artin.


    ¡°In fact, I heard a rumour that he pushed all the knowledge of joy, happiness and love from his mind, purged it from his brain in order to be a better Arcanist.¡±


    Artin shoved him off.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you have work to do, Vic?¡±


    ¡°Me? Ipleted all of my assigned tasksst night!¡±


    ¡°Last night? Did spending so much time with the Night Owl rub off on you after all?¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯tpare me to that guy,¡± Victor rolled his eyes. ¡°All he knows how to do is work. Last time I saw him at his shop, he looked like death itself. He eats, breaths and drinks magick.¡±


    ¡°Which is what you should do too!¡± A thin, squirrely voice pierced through them, and the two apprentices snapped around to see their Master ring at them from behind.


    ¡°Talented, butzy, just like so many who¡¯vee through my doors,¡± Master Willhem poked Victor in the side with his walking stick.


    ¡°You must admit, I¡¯ve been putting in more efforttely, Master,¡± Victor spluttered as he tried to fend off the nimble stick. ¡°My studies have been advancing steadily as well.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s about time,¡± the Master grunted, before he turned his re on Artin. ¡°And you¡­¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± the young Arcanist squawked, gesturing to his workbench and pliance. ¡°I¡¯ve been working this whole time!¡±


    ¡°You call this work?¡± Willhem snapped. ¡°Your sigils are sloppy, poorly aligned, this <em>Ruohm </em>isn¡¯t even in the right ce! Are you trying to ruin the reputation of my shop?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± Artin stared down at the core through his ss, ¡°... well¡­ damn. But this isn¡¯t for sale, Master Willhem, this is my own project.¡±


    ¡°If your projects are garbage, then what does that say about my workshop?¡± Willhem retorted. ¡°You¡¯re a long way frompleting your apprenticeship with rubbish like that.¡±


    The old Master continued down the line, poking and scolding his apprentices as he went. Artin stared at his work even harder before he slumped back with a groan.


    ¡°How can he even <em>see </em>that? I¡¯ve been scraping away at this damn thing all morning and I thought it was fine.¡±


    Victor rested a hand on his shoulder and shook his head in pity.


    ¡°That old man is one of the greatest Arcanists the province has ever produced. There¡¯s almost no chance he doesn¡¯t have an enchanting rted Mystery. Possibly two. I think poorly formed runes stand out to him like a bad smell. That¡¯s why he always enjoyed Lukas¡¯ work, that guy was always so precise in his work it probably smelled like a bouquet of roses.¡±


    Suddenly he snapped his fingers.


    ¡°Of course! I recognise that pep in his step now. Lukas must being.¡±


    ¡°The Night Owl?¡± Artis wonders. ¡°Why would he being? He alreadypleted his apprenticeship.¡±


    ¡°Probably wants to nose through the Master¡¯s books and get some advice.¡±


    If you couldn¡¯t find Arcanist knowledge in Master Willhem¡¯s library, then it probably didn¡¯t exist in the Western Province.


    ¡°Oh, speak of the kin and they shall appear,¡± Victor observed as a shadow darkened the door to the workshop.


    The door opened, and the dark-eyed, blond-haired face of Lukas Almsfield appeared. Once again, he looked as if he hadn¡¯t slept in days.


    ¡°Lukas,¡± Victor greeted him cheerfully, ¡°you look like shit.¡±


    ¡°Vic,¡± his friend replied, ¡°you look stupid. How are things working out between you and Lady Shan?¡±


    ¡°Well enough,¡± Victor demurred. ¡°She is charmed by me, as all people are. It¡¯s difficult, being this handsome and sessful, but I bear the burden as best I can.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh,¡± Lukas said, not really paying attention. ¡°Is Master Willhem about? I sent a message letting him know I¡¯d be in today.¡±


    Victor and Artis shared a significant look before thetter replied.


    ¡°I think he went upstairs a few moments ago. He was down here scolding us not long before you arrived.¡±


    ¡°Scolding you?¡± Lukas frowned, then leaned forward and inspected the core under the ss. After a moment, he winced and shook his head. ¡°You can do a lot better than this, Artis¡­.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve already heard it from the Master, I don¡¯t need to hear it from you too!¡± the apprentice groused, flinging his arms into the air.


    ¡°He¡¯s a bit sensitive about it,¡± Victor whispered, loudly, to his friend.


    ¡°Sorry if I hit a nerve,¡± Lukas replied, sounding not the least bit sorry. He continued to peer into the ss. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ are you drunk? Have you been concussedtely? These lines are¡­¡±


    ¡°Fine! Fine!¡± Artis grumbled as he snatched the core and shoved it into a drawer containing several other failures. ¡°I¡¯ll start again!¡±


    Before Victor could say something encouraging, Lukas nodded and said: ¡°Good idea, that one was terrible. Nice to see you both. Victor, Artis.¡±


    He waved to the two of them and then found his way upstairs. It was ufortable for Tyron, being back in the workshop. Many of the apprentices still toiling away at their benches, doing bitwork and simplemissions for the Willhemmercial empire, had been there when he graduated. Over a third of them had been there <em>before</em> he¡¯d even started. Still they ground away, using what free time they had to scrape away at their personal projects, hoping to improve their Skills and finally reach the standards the Master set for them.


    There were more than a few envious stares drilling into his back as he moved to the far side of the room and ascended the stairs.


    He found Master Willhem working with the newest apprentices in the cramped upstairs workroom. It felt like decades ago the Master had first seen him here, mistaken for a thief, working through the night.


    Tyron waited respectfully until the instruction was finished before he bowed low as his teacher turned to face him.


    ¡°Lukas, myd,¡± Willhem greeted him warmly. ¡°It¡¯s always a pleasure. Things are going well at your shop, I hope?¡±


    ¡°They could hardly go badly with your endorsement,¡± Tyron replied dryly. ¡°For which I am truly grateful.¡±


    The thin old man waved his gratitude away.


    ¡°Pish! That¡¯s nothing. A que on a wall, doesn¡¯t cost me anything. It isn¡¯t often I get an apprentice who <em>truly</em> appreciates the craft. A little thing like that to help you get established is the least I can do.¡±


    The two young apprentices working upstairs were staring at their Master as if he¡¯d gone insane, and Lukas held back a chuckle. The number of apprentices Willhem had given his blessing, at this point, was two. And one of them didn¡¯t even own a shop!


    Almsfield Enchantments was the <em>only</em> purveyor of enchanted goods in the entire city, other than Master Willhem¡¯s own, that carried his guarantee for quality. That assurance was a heavy burden, one that Tyron¡¯s own apprentice, Flynn, struggled to work under. Nevertheless, it had been a huge risk for Willhem to give him that, putting his own reputation on the line, and Tyron would never forget it.


    ¡°Things seem fine in the workshop,¡± he observed as a way of making small talk, ¡°not much has changed, if I¡¯m being honest.¡±


    The old man wheezed augh.


    ¡°Of course they haven¡¯t changed. This ce hasn¡¯t changed in two decades and that¡¯s the way I like it. I¡¯m far too old to be changing the way I work, so I won¡¯t! Whoever takes over after me can upset the apple cart if they choose, but I won¡¯t.¡±


    The old Master nced slyly at Tyron from the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction, but the young man only smiled.


    ¡°Speaking of your sessor, I did a little work with Master Halfshard recently on a set of runic armour. She¡¯s incredible. The only other person I¡¯ve seen work with such dense, smoothly flowing script is you.¡±


    At the mention of her name, aplex expression flickered over the old man¡¯s face.


    ¡°She¡¯s an odd one, that¡¯s for sure,¡± he muttered.


    Tyron sensed the odd mood of his teacher and felt a little confused. Wouldn¡¯t he be proud of having such an aplished and highly skilled student?


    ¡°A full Arcanist like her, she¡¯s far ahead of me in terms of skills,¡± he freely admitted, ¡°I learned a lot just from working alongside her.¡±


    ¡°You fixed her conduits, didn¡¯t you?¡± Master Willhem surmised.


    ¡°They were almost as good as mine, and I¡¯m pretty much a specialist. She¡¯s extremely impressive.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ that¡¯s enough talk on Master Halfshard. For what reason have youe to visit your old Master?¡±


    ¡°I was hoping to have the opportunity to examine your library and pick your brain a little, Master Willhem.¡±


    ¡°Oh? What are you working on?¡±


    Tyron hesitated a little. It was dangerous to reveal too much, but he¡¯d alreadymitted bying this far.


    ¡°I¡¯m interested in creating null-magick zones, leeching the ambient energy from an object in order to better enchant it.¡±


    The Arcanist raised his brows.


    ¡°That¡¯s fairly advanced work, I¡¯m surprised you would be bothered to take that step. I¡¯m not slighting the products you sell in any way, but the difference it would make for such things would be¡­ almost undetectable.¡±


    Tyron gave a slight smile.


    ¡°I¡¯ve had a fewmissionstely, and as a result, I¡¯ve decided I need to work with more purified materials. I believe you do so with some of your high-end items as well, so I thought I¡¯d look into it and see how applicable it is.¡±


    Willhem held his chin and nodded thoughtfully, his gaze directed upwards as he thought.


    ¡°This kind of thing has an effect when you want to imbue a specific affinity of magick into an object directly, which <em>does</em> increase the efficacy of enchantments which deal in the same type of energy. I remember I made a sword for the Chirn¡¯s. I used an obsidian shard for the de, cleansed it of energy and filled it to the brim with fire magick. When I finished working on it, the sword was so damned hot it could melt steel.¡±


    Heughed.


    ¡°They had to pay me to make a special hilt and gloves so anyone could hold the thing. Right, this should be interesting then. Come this way, my boy.¡±


    With a hop in his step, the old man turned and led them back downstairs, out of the workshop and next door, into the library. The guards on the door, and the librarian who worked inside were only too happy to wave the owner in, whereas an apprentice would likely get a kick in the shin.


    It wasn¡¯t often the apprentices were given the chance to actually <em>enter</em> the building, normally they¡¯d make their requests through a slot in the wall and have the book delivered. Tyron had been in a few times, but never to the restricted sections towards the back, which dealt with the Master¡¯s personal collection. When he noticed Tyron¡¯s odd look, his Master waved his concerns away.


    ¡°I keep these volumes back here because there¡¯s no real application for ny-nine percent of students. It¡¯s not hard, or particrly dangerous to do, but the benefits are so low outside of specific applications that it¡¯s a waste of time for students to dedicate themselves to it. The number who will get the chance to do that sort of work is¡­¡±


    ¡°Low? I presume that¡¯s because you have the market cornered, Master Willhem,¡± Tyron chuckled.


    Everyone in the city knew who the best Arcanist was. If you wanted extreme, high-end enchanting done, then you went to Willhem. However, the old man worked alone, refusing any help, and at this stage in his career, he only epted a handful ofmissions a year. Only the top, top spenders had a chance to purchase his personal work. For everyone else, they couldmission his shop, which would mean the work was performed by his senior apprentices, or the few paid Arcanists he kept on staff, and overseen by the Master. Or you could work with Master Halfshard, or any of the few dozen other high-end shops in the city.


    But if there was one thing everyone in the empire knew about the Nobles, it¡¯s that they obsessed over having the <em>best</em>.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ true,¡± Willhem acknowledged. ¡°But it won¡¯t be for long. As I mentioned thest time we spoke, I¡¯ll be retiring soon, and I¡¯d like to have someone I can trust to leave in charge of my store.¡±


    The old Master gave him a significant look. Tyron shrugged ufortably.


    ¡°Without an Arcanist Primary ss¡­¡± he began, but Willhem threw his hands in the air before he could finish.


    ¡°You could <em>change</em> your Primary. It¡¯d be hell. It¡¯d be expensive. You would never be as good as if you¡¯d Awoken it, but you would still be the best damn Enchanter I¡¯ve seen in a long, long time. You¡¯ve a gift for the magick, boy! I can¡¯t understand why you¡¯re so dead set on keeping your Curse magick. You aren¡¯t using it, you aren¡¯t going out to the rifts to fight against the kin. It¡¯s such a waste of your talents.¡±


    The old man was worked up, his pale face turning red, but Tyron¡¯s expression firmed.


    ¡°It pains me to disappoint you, Master Willhem,¡± and it genuinely did, ¡°but for personal reasons that have to do with my family, I refuse to give it up. Were this not the case, I would dly take you up on your offer, and acknowledge the honour that you show me. I¡¯m terribly sorry, but I cannot do this.¡±


    He bowed low at the waist towards his teacher, who mastered himself with some difficulty.


    ¡°So you said before,d,¡± he said roughly, before he coughed. ¡°Well¡­ well I suppose that¡¯s the end of that.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m grateful for everything you¡¯ve done for me, Master Willhem. Truly. When I had nowhere to go, your workshop was a refuge for me. If ever you need anything from me, you have only to ask.¡±


    ¡°For the time being, I¡¯ll be the one doing you the favours,¡± he grumped, returning to his usual, somewhat cantankerous mood. ¡°Take these two volumes, they¡¯ll be more than enough to get you started. If I¡¯m not mistaken, from the base level knowledge there, you¡¯ll be able to figure the rest out on your own.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have them back to you safely before two weeks have passed.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    The air was still awkward between them, but they parted on good terms after discussing Tyron¡¯s work for a while. It truly <em>was</em> a shame. Being offered the keys to the Willhem empire was a dream to every Arcanist in the entire province, and Victor would probably punch him in the face if he ever found out that not only had his friend Lukas been offered that fortune, but turned it down to boot. Were he anyone else, Tyron would ept, and put himself through the torture required to meet the Master¡¯s expectations. But he wasn¡¯t anyone else. He was Tyron Sterm, and he didn¡¯t want wealth, or status, or the acim of the nobles.


    He wanted revenge. He wanted them to <em>burn</em>. And then he wanted to strip their flesh, stuff their souls back into their unliving corpses and bind them to his service for all eternity.

 Chapter B3C23 - New Minions

    Chapter B3C23 - New Minions


    The acknowledgement of the Unseen was more than just a number on a page. It was more than just recognition from one''s own progress, the advancement of knowledge and execution of a Skill.


    It was both of those things, but it was <em>also</em> a measure of support the Unseen, whatever it may be, offered to a person. The higher his Skills levelled, the more power the all epassing entity that swallowed this world would push alongside him.


    Secure in this knowledge, Tyron couldn¡¯t <em>wait to</em> get to work.


    Twenty fresh corpses awaited his attention. These weren¡¯t for experimentation, these would not be ground up and dumped into the sewer. For the first time since he¡¯d left the mountain above Cragwhistle, he would raise the dead.


    However, there was a lot of work to do before he reached that step.


    Eagerly, he pulled his butcher¡¯s tools down from their spot on the wall, giving each de a quick check to ensure it was sharp and free of nicks. Hakoth had always <em>obsessed</em> over the condition of his knives, and Tyron had found it a good lesson to learn. He didn¡¯t particrly enjoy butchering human remains, to put it mildly, and the less time he spent doing it, the happier he was. Well-maintained tools ensured the work progressed smoothly.


    With his unnatural level of hand coordination and strength, he finished all twenty in a little over two hours, dumping the flesh into the main sewer stream connected to the river. Next, he cleansed the bones in his alchemical solution, wiping away every trace of blood and other organic material, leaving them glistening and clean. He¡¯d constructed a wide bath for this purpose in an attempt to expedite the process.


    A steel ted,yered shelf had been attached to the wall, the top row about level with his head. He could fit five skeletons at a time, using a mechanism to lower the entire rig down into the prepared solution. After ten minutes, he could raise them up and shift the rig along pre-prepared grooves in the wall to the next station, into which he lowered the shelves again. In that ten minutes, he¡¯d finished loading another set of five into another steel shelving rig, which were ced into the cleansing solution.


    It had taken him longer than expected toe up with a working model of the null-magick field. Master Willhem had probably overestimated him, or understated the difficulty, but after three weeks, he¡¯d learned enough to return the books. Effectively, the enchantments did what he had attempted to do with Dove, but in reverse. Rather than feeding <em>in</em> ambient magick and converting it, he leeched <em>out</em> energy that contained affinities, and returned it to neutral.


    Naturally, that arcane power then had to go somewhere, it would diffuse into the air naturally, but Tyron siphoned it into a power array. May as well put it to use.


    ¡°This is a little more sophisticated than I remember the process,¡± Dove observed from the table. ¡°From what I recall, all you needed was knives, a t surface and a cave.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been tainted by civilisation. What can I say?¡± Tyron replied as he carefullyid out the next set of five skeletons on their trays.


    Getting all this metalwork, and the sliding racks, <em>and</em> therge metal baths installed had been quite a process. He couldn¡¯t do it all himself, obviously, what did he know about carpentry, or metalwork. He hadn¡¯t wanted to rely on Yor for the task either. He¡¯d been getting toofortable doing that. In the end, it had been Elsbeth and her contacts amongst the followers of the Old Gods who¡¯d delivered a metalworker who could do what he asked, and someone to help him install it all.


    He¡¯d been reluctant to allow someone else into his study, but someone sworn to silence by a god was about as reliable a person as he was likely to find.


    When the first set of five were done in the leeching array, he lifted them up, shifted them along the track to the right, and brought in the next five, moving each set along. Then he took them and slid the skeletons off the rack, one at a time,ying them on a stone b, still atop the stiff metal sheet they¡¯d been ced on.


    ¡°Good thing bones don¡¯t weigh that much,¡± he muttered, pulling the next from the rack.


    The metal was heavy, but for a bronze ss yer like him, it was more than manageable.


    Using this system, he had all the skeletons cleaned, cleansed and sitting on their bs, with density tests and death magick sensitivity testingplete within an hour.


    ¡°What¡¯s next?¡± Dove asked.


    ¡°Still have to test for gaps and leaking power in the bones,¡± he said, as he walked around cing small tokens at the feet of each skeleton.


    ¡°And what the fuck are those?¡±


    ¡°Oh. These are just little reminders of what each skeleton is going to be used for. Those three will be archers, too brittle for anything else. Those six are pretty dense, they¡¯ll be sword and board, the rest will be spears.¡±


    ¡°Can you make bone spears?¡± Dove asked.


    ¡°Not yet.¡±


    ¡°What about swords and shields?¡±


    ¡°Also not yet.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a lot to work on. What the fuck have you been doing all this time?¡±


    Tyron muttered something under his breath but focused on his work. The old method of surrounding the bones in a cloud of his own magick to find weaknesses and leaks in the material was long gone. He¡¯d created a new lens for that purpose and he employed it now. Whenever he found a gap, he used his bone moulding Skill to manipte the bone until the problem had been resolved.


    ¡°Hang on¡­ what¡¯s that token. It¡¯s different from the others. Is that one not going to be a spear-skelly?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call them spear-skelly¡¯s,¡± Tyron frowned. ¡°And no, that one¡¯s a little special. Actually, thanks for reminding me.¡±


    He stepped over and shifted that particr skeleton to the most central b, ensuring it was surrounded by the others.


    ¡°This is the skeleton most conductive to death magick of these twenty. It¡¯s going to be¡­ a locus skeleton, I guess you could say.¡±


    ¡°A locust? It¡¯s going to grow wings?!¡±


    ¡°No you idiot, a <em>locus</em>. It¡¯ll be easier to exin after I¡¯ve started working on it.¡±


    ¡°Alright. But if I see a skeleton bug, I¡¯m leaving.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t work with anything non-human right now,¡± Tyron told him. ¡°Eventually, I¡¯ll be able to raise other creatures, but not yet.¡±


    Tyron moved from skeleton to skeleton,pleting the process, then he infused each with a tiny amount of Death Magick, kick-starting the saturation process.


    The initial stages of Corpse Appraisal and Preparation wereplete. Tyron leaned back, stretched his spine before heced his fingers and flexed them.


    ¡°Time to put those magick hands to use,¡± Dove told him.


    ¡°Yep. I feel like I¡¯m a little out of practice doing this.¡±


    ¡°By the way, magick hands was my old nickname.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove.¡±


    Weaving the artificial muscture and ligaments was one of the first things Tyron had ever learned to do as a necromancer, and in his opinion, it remained one of the most fundamental and key Skills in his arsenal. This was where a true master of Skeleton minions differentiated themselves from the less dedicated. He was determined to make every aspect of his minion creation as wless as it could be.


    Stepping to the first skeleton, he began to work from the toes up.


    All his fears about being out of practice fell away as he continued to work. With the Feats and Skills he had, along with the bonuses he received from his enchanter sub-ss, his hands were incredibly dextrous, his fingers danced as heced together the weave with an effortlessness a younger Tyron would have gaped at.


    Despite the ease with which he worked, it still took hours toplete all twenty skeletons.


    ¡°Done for today,¡± he said to the skull resting on his table. ¡°I assume you want to sleep here?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I thought I¡¯d get up and do a fucking dance. I don¡¯t <em>want</em> to sleep here, but I will. What other choice do I have?¡±


    Tyron could only sigh.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to work on your body once these twenty are done. I promise.¡±


    ¡°Your promises aren¡¯t worth that much to me at this point.¡±


    ¡°But they¡¯re all you¡¯re going to get, unfortunately.¡±


    The resentment Dove held towards¡­ everything¡­ was perfectly understandable, and there was nothing Tyron could say to make it better. Rather than offer titudes and words, he decided he would simply speak as straight as he could to the former-summoner.


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you in the morning, Dove.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    It was difficult for Tyron to sleep, he was so excited by the prospect of raising minions after so long, until eventually he forced himself to rest, using the Sleep spell to quiet his mind.


    In the predawn darkness, he awoke and descended to his study immediately. Before anything else, he grabbed his Death Lens and carefully examined each skeleton, noting the progress of the death aligned energy in each.


    ¡°Good morning to you too,¡± Dove noted, grumpy.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to wake you unnecessarily,¡± Tyron said as he continued to work.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m actually interested in watching this. You should have made a lot of progress over thest few years.¡±


    ¡°These will be the finest minions I¡¯ve ever created,¡± Tyron assured him.


    Satisfied with the progress of each skeleton, Tyron turned to his bench, reaching beneath it to remove a thin, long wooden case. Grasping it carefully in both hands, he ced it next to Dove, whose eyes glowed with curiosity.


    ¡°Got something good in there?¡±


    Tyron grinned, happy to share the fruits of hisbour.


    ¡°This is why I became an enchanter in the first ce. Take a look!¡±


    He flung the case open and pulled it in front of the skull so Dove could see the contents.


    ¡°I see¡­ shitty cores. Shitty cores arranged very neatly.¡±


    ¡°Bah,¡± Tyron scoffed. ¡°What you are looking at is a precisely calcted, intricately worked array. In fact, it¡¯s an array of arrays. Each of these will go into one of the twenty skeletons. This is my masterpiece.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what does it do?¡±


    ¡°Essentially, they gather and store power, as well as share it between the twenty linked arrays. Thanks to what we learned working on your skull, I¡¯ve even been able to improve them beyond my original vision, changing the gathered power into Death aligned energy before feeding into thework.¡±


    ¡°Your skeletons are going to be able to passively gather their own magick? Do you want them to cast spells?¡±


    ¡°No. I just want to have to pay less magick to upkeep them and fuel their movement. With this attached, these skeletons will cost nothing to maintain, and will likely not need to draw on my energy even when they¡¯re walking around. Only when fighting will I have to pay anything at all!¡±


    ¡°Which means.¡±


    ¡°Which means¡­ I¡¯ll be able to maintain an army of skeletons ten times the size of what I could before. In fact, with the added death magick flowing through them, the skeletons may even be stronger just from that.¡±


    Grinning happily, he pulled the first of the core arrays out and began to set it into the first skeleton. He fused the enchantment to each skeleton in the same ce, inside the ribcage on the spine. It was the most protected spot, difficult for an opponent to shatter or target with spells and arrows.


    Eventually, he might find a way to shape armour for each of his skeleton minions, and this area would be the most important to reinforce. Damaging the array wouldn¡¯t harm the skeletons, but it was a lot of work for him to remove and rece them.


    When all twenty were set to his satisfaction, he returned to the bench and removed another, smaller case. Inside was another array, more borate than before.


    ¡°And this one is?¡±


    ¡°This one is for my locus. Think of it as a power storage and regtor. It¡¯ll manage the amount of energy being distributed through the array, evening it out and supplying extra where it¡¯s needed.¡±


    ¡°So one of the skeletons is going to be¡­ like an Arcane battery for the others?¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Skeletons share energy between each other naturally, we know that, but this is going to supercharge that process.¡±


    With the utmost care, he ced therger array around the first on the central skeleton before he connected the two. When it was done, he leapt back to the bench, snatching up his Lens and examining each of the skeletons in turn. He grinned.


    ¡°It¡¯s already working,¡± he gloated. ¡°The energy is flowing.¡±


    He was so pleased, he pped his hands together in glee. How many skeletons could he maintain like this? A thousand? And when he advanced his ss? How many then?

 Chapter B3C24 - Rise From Your Grave

    Chapter B3C24 - Rise From Your Grave


    ¡°It kind of looks like you''re marinating them. Have you gone full canine? Your hunger for sweet bones can no longer be contained?¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t I already exin this to you?¡±


    ¡°You did, but I¡¯m bored.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m working on your fucking hands right now, and you¡¯re <em>distracting </em>me?¡±


    ¡°I understand that you want me to feel bad, but I¡¯m still pissed off. I had to sit here for two days before you started.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been undead for years at this point. Two days shouldn¡¯t be a big deal. I told you I¡¯d have time at this point in the process to focus on you, and here we are.¡±


    ¡°It looks weird, that¡¯s all I¡¯m saying.¡±


    Tyron sighed and turned to look at his twenty skeletons. Currently, they were submerged in the bone strengthening solution. Each b now had raised sides so he could cover each set of remains in the alchemical mixture. It would take a few days for the skeletons to fully saturate with Death Magick, so he was using this opportunity to test the efficacy of the solution at the same time.


    ¡°This seems like a lot of work for the most basic of the basic minions, Tyron,¡± Dove observed. ¡°Not to mention, it looks fucking expensive. Are you really going to do this for each and every one of your skeletons? For Revenants, sure. Treat the bones nice and tender, power them up, enchantments, the works. But for these bony boys? No chance this is worth it.¡±


    ¡°In a sense, you aren¡¯t wrong,¡± Tyron replied as he turned back to focusing on what he was doing, namely connecting Dove¡¯s soul to a pair of skeletal hands. ¡°Let¡¯s imagine I reach a point simr to the only powerful Necromancer I¡¯ve seen records of, Arihnan the ck. An army of undead, tens of thousands of minions. Would it be practical to go through all this trouble for each and every one of them? No, of course not. Zombies and Skeletons, the simplest undead minions, are meant to be disposable. Easy to make, easy to lose.¡±


    ¡°So what¡¯s the point of all this, then? You¡¯re going in the opposite direction.¡±


    ¡°First of all, I¡¯ve always been determined to make the best possible minions I can. If my skeletons be twice as strong as they¡¯re meant to be, then the effort will be worth it. Even without that consideration, this is all for the sake of experimentation. Right now, I¡¯m doing everything I possibly can to improve the quality of the minions. It may turn out that some things don''t have a significant effect, or aren¡¯t worth the time and expense, or are impractical in battle.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re employing the ¡®throw everything at the wall¡¯ approach.¡±


    ¡°For the love of whatever you consider holy, don¡¯t reference your dick and walls.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    ¡°Basically, yes. I still have a couple of steps before I can raise them, but it should only take another day.¡±


    ¡°In the meantime, what about me? How¡¯s it going?¡±


    Tyron leaned back with a sigh.


    ¡°Give it a try,¡± he gestured toward the hands he¡¯d been working on.


    They were carved, just like the skull, each bone lovingly recreated. It had taken a huge amount of effort to ensure they articted properly, were powered, and properly linked to the former Summoner. Despite all his careful work on his new minions, these hands might just be his greatest masterpiece so far. Not quite undead, they nevertheless were close, perhaps a cross between golem-making and Necromancy.


    As he watched, the fingers twitched, then curled. Slowly, both hands flexed as Dove tested each finger in turn, until he lowered all of them on both hands, except the middle one, which he pointed proudly in Tyron¡¯s direction.


    ¡°You¡¯re wee,¡± the Necromancer said sarcastically.


    ¡°This is amazing,¡± Dove breathed. ¡°I¡¯d almost forgotten what it was like to have a pair of hands. Look at this!¡±


    One of the hands fell over, then propped itself up on its fingertips and skittered across the table to one of Tyron¡¯s books, which he promptly pushed onto the floor.


    ¡°Yes. Amazing.¡±


    ¡°Not being able to interact with the world around me has been so maddening! Finally, I can impart my will onto reality.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re starting to sound like a viin.¡±


    ¡°Tyron, I¡¯m an undead mage trapped in a skull who fucking hates everyone. Of course I¡¯m a viin. I¡¯m pretty sure you''re a terrorist who wants to burn down the empire, kill their gods and murder the nobles. So I wouldn¡¯t exactly consider you a ¡®good guy¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Are you saying my revenge is unjustified?¡± Tyron clenched his jaw, turning a baleful stare on the skull.


    ¡°Whoa, don¡¯t give me the stink eye. I¡¯m just saying it''s a matter of perspective.¡±


    He grit his teeth but forced his anger down as best he could. Someone else would probably say it wouldn¡¯t make sense to wreak so much havoc, cause so much upheaval and kill so many people, in order to avenge two, no matter how unjust their deaths. Destroy the Magisters? Kill the Nobles? Topple the Divines? Any normal person would probably call him a madman.


    But he didn¡¯t care.


    Tyron no longer had it in him to spare a thought for what other people might think or feel about what he intended to do. Intellectually, he understood what would happen if he were to seed. There would be chaos. Complete, and utter, chaos.


    If the Magisters were destroyed, their tower knocked down and their control over the yers eliminated, society as a whole would copse in an instant. Most of the Gold yers were decent people who just wanted to kill kin and try to preserve the realm, but there were many who were not. What would happen when the chains were taken off and the immoral, unbeatable warriors were set loose on the public?


    Were the Nobles to die, then it would mean war, immediate, irrevocable war. The empire was founded to the east, and they would not sit idly by and allow a huge chunk of theirnd to fall to outside influence, nor let their distant rtives¡¯ deaths go unpunished. There would be an invasion, a punitive force, followed by a great purge, as everyone and anyone the least bit suspicious was put to death. Blood would run in the streets of Kenmor for years on end.


    And finally, if he seeded in his ultimate, unreachable aim, and killed the Divines, then their followers, the clergy, and all the support the gods themselves offered to hold back the rifts would be gone overnight. An unthinkable, unmitigated disaster. More kin would roam free, more breaks would ur. How many innocents would die, torn to shreds by the mad beasts from beyond, before the situation became stable again, or the realm was finally lost? Thousands. Tens of thousands. Millions maybe.


    He knew all of this. He just didn¡¯t care.


    No matter how long he thought on it, or considered the implications, his thoughts didn¡¯t waver. Tyron could no longer imagine living in a world in which the people responsible for the deaths of Magnin and Beory continued to live. It was unthinkable, against thews of reality as he viewed them. The light could be cold, the ground liquid, up and down could reverse themselves, but his parents <em>would</em> be avenged.


    Ideas like good and evil never entered his mind.


    ¡°Now that you have hands, we need to work on the rest of the upper body,¡± he said, brushing the earlier conversation aside. ¡°We need a spine, cor bone, shoulders, arms and ribs.¡±


    He shook his arms out.


    ¡°That¡¯s going to be a <em>lot</em> of work.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t as simple as just creating muscture and attaching the bones together, he needed to stitch them to Dove¡¯s <em>soul</em> as well. Only then could the mage control them. That process was far more difficult and intricate than just creating skeletons.


    Essentially, Tyron was creating a semi-lich. Rather than binding Dove to his own remains, he was binding him to a golem-like skeletal frame. It would probably have been easier to do it with his own remains, but there would have been addedplications as well.


    Managing the Repository, the well of power that Dove had ess to via the enchanted array, was another factor that had to be taken into ount. If they added too many ¡®parts¡¯ to Dove¡¯s soul, and he didn¡¯t have the magick required, who knew what kind of damage that could do to him?


    ¡°I <em>do</em> appreciate what you¡¯re doing, kid,¡± Dove said, almost begrudgingly. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°I get it. It¡¯s difficult to be grateful to the person who put you in this mess in the first ce. Don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯ll do my best to get it together quickly, but this process is extremely difficult. I¡¯m figuring it out as I go and any mistakes are going to blow back onto you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not like my existence can get any worse.¡±


    ¡°If you believe that, then you¡¯re stupid,¡± Tyron said tly. ¡°Or maybe you want me to enve you to my will? Or for Yor to do it? She could¡¯ve. Easily.¡±


    ¡°Once upon a time, I¡¯d make a lewd joke at this juncture.¡±


    ¡°Is this personal growth? Should I apud?¡±


    ¡°Fuck you.¡±


    ¡°No thanks.¡±


    ¡°Very funny. I¡¯m still hoping I can convince you to give me a dick. I might getid again before you manage a first time.¡±


    Tyron hesitated for a <em>fraction</em> of a second.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± he said.


    A moment.


    ¡°You piece of shit! Who is she?!¡±


    ~~~


    Thest thing Tyron needed to do was use his new ability, which would ¡®empower the ritual¡¯, somehow. The sensible thing to do would be to vary the amount of arcane energy he fed into each skeleton so he could measure the result, but he wasn¡¯t going to do that. Instead, he was going to pour in everything he could to each minion in order to produce the best result.


    For that purpose, he had prepared plenty of Power cores and even a stash of mage candy if they proved insufficient.


    He took a deep breath.


    ¡°Here we go,¡± he muttered to himself.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got this, kid,¡± Dove gave him a double thumbs up.


    He stepped to the first b, raised his hands and began to push his power out through his palms. Words resonated throughout the dark cer as the Arcane energy swirled in a dense cloud, hovering over the ribs.


    When he¡¯d poured out everything he could, he cut off the flow and collected himself. Then he raised his hands again, and enacted the Raise Dead ritual.


    His words mmed into the air like hammers and his hands seemed to cut through reality itself as he used his magick to bend the world to his will.


    Dull, purple light began to gather in the eyes of the skull.

 Chapter B3C25 - Necromancer

    Chapter B3C25 - Necromancer


    ¡°So how does it feel to have a legion of mindless ves at your beck and call once more?¡± Dove asked.


    Tyron blinked. He was tired. <em>Very </em>tired. Constantly emptying and refilling his magick to use the Annoint spell, as well as casting a long andplex piece of ritual magick twenty times, was draining, to say the least.


    But he¡¯d done it.


    Almost a full day of constant spellwork. His mouth was as dry as a bone and his head pounded, but it was all worth it. He greedily gulped down water from the canteen he¡¯d left on his bench and nibbled at the biscuits he¡¯d brought down for the day.


    Twenty skeletons stood to attention next to their bs, totally motionless, the only sign of their unlife the flickering purple light in their eye sockets.


    ¡°Feels good,¡± Tyron said finally, almost gleaming with pride as he cast his eyes over the finest skeletons he had ever made.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t supposed to admit you feel good having mindless ves¡­.¡±


    Tyron snorted.


    ¡°You¡¯re the guy who was desperate for me to enve ghosts and create Reventants. Now I¡¯m supposed to believe you¡¯re all squeamish about ¡®enved¡¯ artificial minds.¡±


    ¡°Good point.¡±


    The two skeletal hands on the bench danced about on their finger tips for a moment before they both pointed at the Necromancer.


    ¡°But you¡¯re back at it finally. Making undead. Necromancing. Now you just need to work out if any of the insane shit you did was actually worth it. For the time and expense, these skeletons better be capable of punching holes in brick walls.¡±


    ¡°Unlikely.¡±


    ¡°Then it was aplete waste of time. Scrap the whole project, start again.¡±


    ¡°Also unlikely. How about you shut up for a minute and I¡¯ll actually take a look at them? Then we can discuss if what I did was worth it.¡±


    Putting Dove from his mind, Tyron stepped to the closest skeleton, eagerly rubbing his palms together. He could <em>feel</em> the connection between them, the conduit for magick to flow through, as well as the deeper bond that bound the skeleton to his will. Excitingly, the skeleton was drawing <em>nothing</em> from him, just standing there. The ambient magick it collected was enough to power it.


    ¡°The first thing I need to determine is the effectiveness of the Reservoir and the conduit work I¡¯ve done,¡± he said, mostly to himself.


    ¡°And how are you going to do that?¡± Dove replied anyway.


    ¡°Slow and painful repetition.¡±


    ¡°The way of the Mage,¡± the former Summoner said approvingly. ¡°Better get some paper ready. I sense <em>measurements</em> in your near future.¡±


    Using the Mage Eye, it was possible to see the flow of energy in a general sort of way, but for Death Magick specifically, Tyron turned to his Lens. After drawing up some tables and settling himself on afortable chair, the experiments to determine the efficacy of his enchanting and conduit work began.


    <em>Walk to there</em>, he ordered the skeleton with his mind.


    It did so. He carefully peered through the lens, sensed the link inside him, scribbled something down.


    <em>Walk back to that spot</em>, he ordered.


    It did so. He carefully peered through the lens, sensed the link inside him and scribbled something down.


    And so on, and so on.


    For five hours.


    When it was done, Tyron was grinning broadly, staring between the paper in front of him and the minions around the room.


    ¡°This confirms it, Dove,¡± he whooped, ¡°look at these numbers! And it¡¯s so <em>efficient</em>. There¡¯s almost no leakage at all, the amount is so tiny I can barely measure it. This is why it¡¯s important to strive for as close to lossless as possible!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah. Congrattions, kid. You worked hard for this.¡±


    So many years of effort, all for this. What he¡¯d done was rtively simple, enchanting-wise, especially since a lot of it was based off the repository ritual he¡¯d learned from the Unseen. Even so, what he <em>had</em> done was executed to an absurdly high degree. The flow of energy between the minions was <em>wless</em>, or as close to it as he could manage. Every skeleton drew in power of their own, and fed a portion of it to the locus, who then stored it and distributed that power to the others based on their need.


    Marching one skeleton up and down the room had drawn on none of Tyron¡¯s magick. <em>None</em>. In fact, the skeleton was almost able to sustain that much activity purely on the energy it absorbed itself! A small trickle had been drawn from the Locus to sustain that movement, almost undetectable.


    Two skeletons marching, same story, there was zero drain on his energy. Three? Same. Four? Same.


    It was only when <em>ten</em> skeletons were walking at once that he had to pay any magick at all.


    ¡°It¡¯s a sessful test. But I don¡¯t think these bony boys are going to be walking around all naked-like that often, right? You still have to give them weapons, shields, armour maybe. The additional weight will increase the magick drain. Also, this is just <em>walking</em>, moving quickly, fighting, digging a fucking hole in the ground, all of that is going to take a <em>ton</em> more energy.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Tyron nodded impatiently, ¡°but think about it. Having the minions exist and move without me having to pay any price for it is astounding on its own! Will they draw more power when fully equipped and fighting? Yes, of course. At the same time, I can expand and develop this system to pull in and distribute more magick. There¡¯s no reason I need to stop here.¡±


    Undead who were formed in roughly the same area at roughly the same time already spread Death magick between each other. The more undead created at once, the more total Death aligned energy was generated every minute between them. Tyron was effectively piggy-backing on that natural system with his enchanted artificial one. He couldwork more than twenty minions together if he wanted to.


    Or he could bind the locus from different groups together and have them share energy between squads of twenty¡­.


    Ultimately, he would need to find a way to draw in more magick to fuel his minions, but with this alone, he had <em>dramatically</em> cut the cost of maintaining his undead horde.


    ¡°Their movement is so smooth,¡± he noted as hemanded a skeleton to show him its full range of motion. ¡°Look at the artiction on these fingers! I could get them to hand-cast magick, I think¡­.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that fucking obvious? You did these nifty digits, after all,¡± Dove wiggled his fingers at him.


    ¡°I really did get a lot better at weaving. The mobility of my fingers has made a huge difference.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t think it would?¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure.¡±


    The early signs were good and Tyron was immensely pleased with his new minions. When he got weapons in their hands, he was confident they would be able to wield them better and more efficiently than his previous creations, simply from the quality of their muscture.


    ¡°So how are you going to arm them? It¡¯ll look a bit suspicious if you go and buy a heap of weapons. Smuggling them into your basement without anyone knowing is going to be another trick.¡±


    Without saying a word, Tyron walked to the corner and withdrew a femur from an open topped box. He turned and waved it in the skull¡¯s direction.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to make all the weapons from bones?¡± Dove eximed. ¡°By the sweet melons of mercy, how much work do you have to do to get a single fucking skeleton in fighting condition?¡±


    Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°There are advantages and disadvantages to the Necromancer sses, just like every other.¡±


    ¡°Not Summoner. It¡¯s wless.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh. How many of those Astral creatures could you bring out at once?¡±


    ¡°Four.¡±


    ¡°I can maintain hundreds, and I¡¯m not even Silver ranked yet.¡±


    ¡°Yeah but yours are shit. They don¡¯t sparkle with ethereal light.¡±


    ¡°True.¡±


    It <em>was</em> a lot of work¡­ but the reality was, Tyron had time on his side.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got the leasure to slowly amass my strength right now,¡± he said. ¡°I get twenty fresh corpses every month along with a shipment of bones. When I have a decent number of minions, well armed and maybe even armoured, then I can advance my ss and take my next steps from there.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like you¡¯re getting a littlecent,¡± Dove warned him. ¡°You think you¡¯re so safe that nobody will find you. The powers that be around here have been in charge for a very,<em> very</em> long time, for a good reason. They don¡¯t fuck around. The second one of the Divines notices you, you¡¯ll be snuffed out like a candle.¡±


    ¡°You think a god is going to reach down from the clouds and smite me?¡± Tyronughed.


    ¡°No. They¡¯ll tell a noble or a priest and a gold ranked yer will pull your face out of your arse ten minutester. Don¡¯t forget the Magisters. They monitor the city like fucking hawks. One whiff of Death Magick and they¡¯lle down on you like a lightning bolt.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like to see them try,¡± Tyron snarled.


    ¡°No you fucking don¡¯t,¡± Dove said. ¡°Twenty bony boys isn¡¯t going to protect you from them.¡±


    He paused a moment.


    ¡°I¡¯m just trying to warn you that you¡¯re still on the clock, even if you think you aren¡¯t. Every day that passes brings you closer to the inevitable moment of discovery.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Tyron breathed out slowly. ¡°Maybe I do need to be a little more purposeful with my research.¡±


    He¡¯d been investigating in so many directions. Perhaps it was time to narrow his focus.


    ¡°Well, for the time being, I need to learn how to make shields, swords and spears out of bones.¡±


    ¡°How in the shit are you going to do that?¡±


    ¡°Well, I can already mould bones into bows. I¡¯ve been trying to replicate the technique to make other weapons.¡±


    ¡°Trying to grab Skills without having to purchase them? I like the way you think. Let¡¯s see what you¡¯ve managed so far.¡±


    Tyron brought out one of his attempted swords and held it in front of the skull to inspect. Dove studied it carefully.


    ¡°This is¡­ terrible.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s supposed to have an edge. I¡¯m no demaster, but I¡¯m sure that swords have an edge. You know¡­ for cutting.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t get the bone topress properly,¡± Tyron exined, exasperated. ¡°You can¡¯t make a sword out of just normal bone, the material isn¡¯t strong enough, it¡¯d shatter in an instant. It stands to reason you need topress it somehow, but I haven¡¯t been able to figure out the trick.¡±


    ¡°Same for a spear tip, I guess.¡±


    ¡°And for the outer face of a shield.¡±


    ¡°Well, exin to me how you¡¯re trying it and I¡¯ll see if I can think of something.¡±

 Chapter B3C2626 - Enter the Dragon

    Chapter B3C2626 - Enter the Dragon


    ¡°Lord Regis Shan, a pleasure to see you again,¡± Tyron bowed.


    The young master of the Shan family, resplendent in his Magister¡¯s robes, nodded slightly, almost seeding in hiding his contempt.


    ¡°Master Almsfield. Thank you foring on such short notice. We¡¯ve made an area avable for you to work, if you coulde this way?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    The Necromancer straightened, a professional smile on his lips, and burning anger in his heart. One step behind his host, he entered the Red Tower.


    Not that the imposing structure itself was red, but rather that was the colour associated with the Magisters thanks to their robes. Somewhere in this building dwelled the heart of the brandwork. Tyron felt his pulse quicken at the thought, but he was careful to regte his emotions. Nothing good woulde from getting himself too worked up. At this point, he didn¡¯t even know why they had summoned him.


    ¡°There will be a final Status check here,¡± Regis gestured to a secure room immediately inside the gate.


    ¡°You¡¯ve already checked me three times,¡± Tyron chuckled, concealing his nerves. ¡°Any more status rituals and I¡¯m going to run out of blood.¡±


    ¡°Besides the Baron¡¯s castle, this is the most secure building in the entire province,¡± Regis replied dully. ¡°Normally, someone like you¨Ca person of your status would not be able to enter at all. The ritual, if you please.¡±


    ¡°I assume this is much the same as the previous check?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°As you can see.¡±


    With a sigh, he stepped into the waiting cage, assisted by the heavily armed and armoured guards stationed at this point. The door nged shut behind him and he waited a second before a small gap slid open, through which he pushed his hand.


    There was a sharp pain as his palm was cut, followed by the sensation of paper being pressed to the wound. He spoke the ritual and felt queasy as yet more blood was pulled from his body and onto the page. When that was done, an ointment was smeared on his hand which he knew would heal the wound in a few minutes. In fact, it was already itching like mad.


    He stood silent in the cage for a few minutes longer as they inspected his sheet until finally the cage door rattled as it was unlocked and the door hauled open.


    ¡°Thank you for your patience,¡± the guard said, his face hidden behind the facete of his helmet.


    ¡°Not a problem,¡± Tyron said. ¡°Everything in order, I take it?¡±


    ¡°We unlocked the cage didn¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°R-right. Thanks.¡±


    He stepped out to find Regis waiting for him in the corridor.


    ¡°This way,¡± he said and began to walk at a brisk pace down the corridor, forcing Tyron to jog to catch up.


    Lined with perfectly aligned bricks on either side, the corridor was both long and narrow, causing a suffocating feeling to rise in him the further he walked. Was the entire building like this? One giant ustrophobic warren of paths and security checkpoints?


    Unlikely, this was probably just what it was like for the outsiders who were brought in.


    As they travelled, in silence, his skin prickled repeatedly as they passed through invisible enchantments, some powerful enough to cause his hair to stand on end.


    This building really was locked down to an almost ludicrous degree. It would be impossible for them to get any work done if the Magisters had to pass through all this security every day, which was probably why the senior members lived in the tower itself.


    ¡°Do you live in the tower?¡± he asked innocently as he continued to trail in Regis¡¯ wake.


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± the lordling replied, the words clipped. ¡°I am still an Initiate. When I¡¯ve finished my trial period, I will be a full Magister and be permitted to live in the tower.¡±


    As a dutiful third son should. Tyron knew that Magisters weren¡¯t allowed to inherit noble estates or titles, so the heirs were never sent to train as one. However, it was expected for the noble families to send spare progeny to help fill the ranks. Nominally, they would swear off their allegiance to their families when they joined, but even the poorest turnip farmer in the province knew that was just lip service.


    The bickering and infighting of the noble houses yed out inside the tower just as it did in every other aspect of life in the province.


    ¡°I hope you are sessful in your ambition, Lord Shan.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me Lord Shan. It¡¯s inappropriate. Magister Shan is fine.¡±


    ¡°As you say.¡±


    Of course, Regis wasn¡¯t a lord, and never would be. Perhaps it was rude to remind him of that fact? Though he¡¯d been perfectly happy to y up his noble inheritance at his sister''s birthday gathering.


    ¡°I have to say, it¡¯s a little intimidating to be here,¡± Tyron admitted openly. ¡°This is where the most powerful mages control the fate of the province, after all.¡±


    A slight smile crossed Regis¡¯ face.


    ¡°That¡¯s true. The tower is where the divine fight against the rifts is organised. All of our people are kept safe thanks to the work that is done within these walls.¡±


    <em>Spoken as if you were fighting the rift-kin yourself, not just holding the leash of those that do.</em>


    To think that these people actually thought that way, it was just what Tyron had expected, yet he still found it disgusting. None of this showed on his face, of course. His mour remained in ce, despite the many attempts to unmake it he had endured while entering the building.


    The Old Gods were good allies when they wanted to be.


    ¡°In here,¡± Regis gestured finally, after almost ten minutes of fast-walking through a twistedwork of narrow corridors.


    Had they gone any longer, Tyron might have no longer been able to track their route.


    He looked into the small chamber Regis indicated and found it quite sparse, with only a in wooden table and two chairs inside. With little else to do, he entered and lowered himself into the closest seat. Regis stepped in after him, closing the door behind him but curiously didn¡¯t sit down. Instead, he stood by the closed door, his arms folded in front of him.


    Tyron tapped his fingers on the table, drumming out aplex rhythm using his absurd coordination and control.


    ¡°It¡¯s quite a thrill to be invited here, truly,¡± Tyron said, ¡°and I hope I can be of service, but I have to wonder what it is I¡¯m supposed to achieve inside this room?¡±


    He nced around. There weren¡¯t even tools inside. No ss, no pliance, or anything one would expect to see in a professional Arcanist workshop.


    Regis¡¯ face tightened.


    ¡°We just need to wait here for a moment and then all will be clear, I assure you.¡±


    <em>He doesn¡¯t know either</em>.


    This was getting more intriguing by the minute. He attempted to engage Regis in further conversation, but the lordling was reclusive and gave him short, non-answers to most of his questions. Eventually, he relented and waited patiently for someone else to show up.


    It was difficult to say how long he waited in that small, cramped and windowless chamber before finally the door was pulled open to reveal a new arrival. A stout, middle-aged man with a short beard and weathered face entered, apologising as he did so.


    ¡°Very sorry to keep you waiting,¡± he said, closing the door behind him. ¡°It¡¯s so difficult to move around on these lower floors, I get lost half the time Ie down here.¡±


    Tyron rose from his seat to greet the Magister, for that is what he was, judging by his robe. In fact, not an Initiate like Regis either, but a full Magister.


    ¡°Lukas Almsfield,¡± he introduced himself, bowing at the waist.


    ¡°I know who you are, of course. We were the ones to invite you,¡± the man said as he sat down and indicated Tyron should do the same. ¡°I am Magister Gilden. I hope young Regis has been able to keep youpany?¡±


    ¡°He has been an excellent guide and conversationalist.¡±


    Magister Gilden quite openly looked like he didn¡¯t believe a word of it, but was pleased to hear him say it nheless.


    ¡°Now, I don¡¯t want to waste any more of your time, so we will get straight to what caused us to bring you here, shall I?¡±


    ¡°If it pleases you.¡±


    ¡°It does.¡±


    The genial expression faded from Gilden¡¯s face, reced with a cold and hard-edged facade.


    ¡°I probably don¡¯t need to exin this, but the work we perform here in the tower is inextricably linked to the survival of this province. The yers, and by extension, the Magisters, are what protect our people from the ravages of the rifts. Without us, there would be chaos and we would fall to the beasts like so much of the realm already has.¡±


    <em>Oh yeah, you¡¯re a real bulwark of civilisation.</em>


    Unaware of the sarcasm running through Tyron¡¯s mind, the Magister continued.


    ¡°That means we have to be careful, more than careful, with who we work with and in what capacity. You¡¯ve been thoroughly vetted before even reaching this point, and were it not for the¡­ unfortunate gaps in your records, then you may well have been sitting here some time ago.¡±


    Of course there were gaps in ¡®Lukas Almsfields¡¯ records. He didn¡¯t exist until Tyron had made him up when he arrived at Woodsedge. Of course, to adopt the persona on a semi-permanent basis, more had been required. Falsified records, bribes and a little illegal contract magick had been required to establish him more firmly within the bureaucracy. However, to make life that much easier, he had put his ce of birth as Woodsedge, which no longer existed. Any records kept in the city had been lost in the catastrophe.


    ¡°I trust you¡¯ve been able to investigate to your satisfaction then?¡± Tyron said.


    Surprisingly, Gilden shook his head slightly.


    ¡°Not really,¡± he replied shortly. ¡°But Master Halfshard and Master Willhem have vouched for you, along with young Lord Ammos Greyling and our own Magister Initiate Regis here. With all of that together, we are at least willing to give you a chance.¡±


    So saying, he reached into his robe and removed something, cing it on the table, along with a pliance, and a small, handheld ss.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you take a look at that and tell me what you think?¡± Magister Gilden suggested.


    Tyron frowned. Some sort of test? Despite himself, he was intrigued. What sort of device would the <em>Magisters</em> consider difficult enough to use as a test of ability?


    The object was cylindrical, formed of several saucer-sized disks stacked on top of each other, with a central rod connecting them all and holding them roughly two centimetres apart. There were five disks in total, each perfectly t withpletely smooth edges.


    Andyered onto the top and bottom of each disk was dense, <em>dense</em> script, all powered by a high-grade core mounted onto the top of the rod.


    With none of the normal conveniences of a workshop, it was difficult for him to get a good angle to properly examine the script, but he supposed that was part of the test. He grabbed the ss, small enough to hold in a single hand, and peered through it as he tried to decipher the sigils and work out their pattern.


    In only a few seconds, he was frowning.


    Contained in the bunched runes were a plethora ofworks, at least ten on each disk, and he had a strong suspicion that not all of theworks were performing a useful function. They were there to act as decoys, to addplexity and confusion to the pathways to even further muddy the waters.


    Slowly, his curiosity grew to something more fierce as Tyron¡¯s intellect began to heat up. He loved puzzles, he loved sigils, he loved enchanting and more than anything else, he loved magick. It may have been a parlour trick designed to weed out the incapable, but the device was cunningly designed and beautifully made.


    The room faded from his perception as he focused, even the two Magisters vanishing from his awareness as he turned the object in his hands, his eyes darting from ce to ce as he peered through the ss. At one point, he even put the ss down and began to feel the script with his fingers, relying on his sense of touch to separate the miniscule runes from each other.


    He went over it from top to bottom, several times, before he eventually picked up the pliance and traced several runes, muttering to himself as he pieced theworks together, tracking the flow of energy. The variety of sigils used was incredible, and there were many he had never seen before, but with context, he could figure them out.


    Finally, he ced it back on the table, his awareness returning. His shoulders ached.


    ¡°It¡¯s an energy exchanger,¡± he said, then pointed to each of theyers in turn, ¡°from water to fire to air to ground, and then back again.¡±


    He shook his head.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen anything like it. Containing such opposed affinities of magick so close together, the thing should explode if you ever used it, but I bet it doesn¡¯t. Whoever made that is a genius.¡±


    ¡°Would you like us to pass on your regards to the creator?¡± Gilden said.


    ¡°I can speak to Master Willhem myself.¡±

 Chapter B3C27 - Divine Right

    Chapter B3C27 - Divine Right


    ¡°Did I pass?¡± Tyron asked, ncing between Regis and Gilden.


    He thought he¡¯d been quick, but honestly couldn¡¯t say how much time had passed. Getting absorbed in aplex piece of magick to an unhealthy degree was one of his ws, and one he didn¡¯t know how he could work on.


    Magister Gilden chuckled.


    ¡°Well, if we had any doubts as to your talent, those have been assuaged. You certainly figured that out a lot quicker than I did.¡±


    ¡°Oh, are you an Arcanist then?¡± Tyron enquired politely.


    ¡°I am, though I didn¡¯t train under your esteemed Master. I have to ask, why did you put down the ss and begin to use your fingers?¡±


    How much could he say?


    ¡°Recently I had the fortune to work on a rare enchanted item. I had to decipher the script inside the object without breaking it, and getting a good line of sight was difficult, so I used my fingers to examine the script. I¡¯ve continued to use the practice since it seems like a useful skill to have.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m impressed you can discern the difference between the lines.¡±


    ¡°I must have sensitive fingers. I really can¡¯t exin it any better than that.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating. Well, at this stage you have earned the right to learn a little more about what we may wish for you to do. Though I must stress at this point, Master Almsfield, that your tests are not yet over. Your aptitude for the art of enchanting is high, but we will need to thoroughly examine your abilities before we are prepared tomission you for work.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Tyron nodded, ¡°there can be no room for error in the work of the Magisters, I totally understand.¡±


    ¡°Good. For the most part, we train our own Arcanists to manage the many enchantments used within the tower. The defensive arrays, such as the ones you passed through, the reinforcements, the power arrays, so on and so forth. I am one such Arcanist as well. Naturally this allows us to hold as many secrets as possible close to our chests, but asionally we need outside expertise to work on more ambitious projects. It is at such times we will reach out to non-affiliated specialists, such as yourself.¡±


    Magister Grindel extended a hand along with thepliment and Tyron permitted himself a small smile.


    ¡°Over the years, we have called on Master Willhem and Master Halfshard, along with a handful of others at the peak of the craft, toplete work for us. Should you prove capable enough, we would like to add you to that list of trusted craftspeople.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m honoured you would consider me,¡± Tyron bowed in his seat. When he straightened, he bore a pensive expression on his face. ¡°If I may ask, do you have a project in mind for me? Or are you simply¡­ enrolling me? I don¡¯t mind either way, I simply want to stress my limitations and proficiencies. As someone who doesn¡¯t have Arcanist as a primary ss, my growth potential in the field is limited, and my build is rtively narrow in focus.¡±


    ¡°We are aware of your choices and abilities. Master Willhem was able to answer our questions on that front. In terms of a project we have in mind, it¡¯s too soon to be talking about something like that. Perhaps there is, perhaps there isn¡¯t. For now, we will progress you to the next stage.¡±


    ¡°Will Iplete the full process today?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Oh no,¡± Magister Gilden replied as he pushed back his chair and stood with a sigh. ¡°We have one more stop today, and then you¡¯ll be able to go back to your shop for the time being.¡±


    For the first time in a while, Regis Shan spoke up.


    ¡°Do you want me to apany you, Magister Gilden?¡±


    The older man hesitated a moment, then shook his head.


    ¡°Best not. Head back to your rooms and continue your studies for now. Thank you for your help today, Initiate.¡±


    Regis bowed low at the waist, turned and walked through the door without so much as a nce in Tyron¡¯s direction.


    <em>Well fuck you too.</em>


    If his senior noticed this cold treatment, he didn¡¯t react, instead he stepped into the corridor and gestured for Tyron to follow him, which he did.


    ¡°These passages are deliberately obtuse. Without a guide, it¡¯s very easy to get lost. We need to head up a few floors, so follow close behind me.¡±


    ¡°Up a few floors?¡± Tyron asked. ¡°Into the tower proper?¡±


    Gilden began to walk at a brisk pace and the Necromancer hurried behind him as his guide talked over his shoulder.


    ¡°These floors are still part of the tower. Work gets done here, even if it¡¯s a bit inconvenient. As a matter of fact, the tower extends down beneath the surface level quite a ways, so there¡¯s a lot that goes on outside the upper floors. We¡¯ll head up to the fifth floor, that¡¯s about as low as they¡¯ll go.¡±


    ¡°They?¡±


    ¡°The person you¡¯ll be speaking with.¡±


    ¡°Should I be nervous?¡± Tyronughed.


    Gilden turned just enough to eye him over his shoulder as he continued to walk.


    ¡°<em>I</em> am,¡± he said simply.


    Tyron didn¡¯t speak anymore as they made their way through the maze and up the stairs. Eventually they came to a simple, if sturdy, wooden door. Once they reached the fourth floor, theyout of the tower changed to something more conventional andfortable, but here on the fifth floor, things were more spacious and¡­modious. Tapestries hung from every wall, rich, woven carpets ran down every passage and spherical light globes were fitted to ornate iron sconces mounted on the walls.


    Magister Gilden looked as if he were trying to control his nerves, something that didn¡¯t do Tyron¡¯s attempts to maintain his cool any favours. Who were they going to meet? Some upper crust Magister in charge of enchanting in the tower? How was that intimidating? Obviously it was someone important, so he schooled his expression and steadied his breathing.


    Gilden knocked.


    ¡°Enter,¡± came a female voice.


    After a brief pause, the Magister pushed open the door to reveal afortable sitting area that led to an ornate desk, behind which a woman sat, with perfect posture, reading a document ced in front of her.


    ¡°Take a seat,¡± she said without looking up, ¡°I will be with you in a moment.¡±


    Following his guide, Tyron entered and tried not to stare at the opulent disy of wealth inside the room. Everything glittered with the sheen of magick, even the clock. Almost everything in the room was enchanted to one degree or another.


    He looked down.


    Even the <em>rug</em> was enchanted. He pressed his shoes firmly into it and felt a hint of warmth. It generated heat to keep their feet warm? Put on some damn socks!


    He sat and neatly arranged his robes before he allowed himself to lean back slightly, his gaze focused on the person he was here to meet.


    It was difficult to say how old she was, not young, certainly, and he noted she did not wear a Magister¡¯s robe, which he found curious. There was a certain elegance, a dignity in the way she moved, even slight motions like turning a page were executed as smoothly as a dance. She had brown hair that fell in gentle curls to her shoulders, and wore a simple styled dress decorated with far too many gems.


    He couldn¡¯t help but wonder who this could be, but then she ced her paper down neatly, folded her hands on the table in front of her, and looked at him.


    In an instant, he felt pierced by her icy blue gaze, as a terrible weight fell upon him.


    <em>A Noble!</em>


    Not just any noble, not like Regis, or Ammon, or Lady Shan, lordlings anddy¡¯s without title or authority. They didn¡¯t have the wealth, or the power, or the <em>ss</em>.


    After a single second of being the subject of her stare, he knew that this person, whoever she was, <em>did</em>. She possessed the Divine Right to rule.


    Desperate to break eye contact, he bowed low in his seat and kept his head down to conceal the sweat breaking out on his forehead.


    ¡°It is an honour to be in your presence,¡± he managed to say smoothly. ¡°Your humble servant is known as Master Lukas Almsfield.¡±


    After a long pause, she spoke.


    ¡°You may rise.¡±


    To be perfectly truthful, he didn¡¯t really want to, but he did, and met her gaze once more. She tilted her head slightly to the side, the merest hint of a frown on her face.


    ¡°I am Lady Erryn,¡± she said. ¡°I am responsible for ensuring the smooth operation of the tower and act as a liaison between the court and the Magisters.¡±


    He bowed once more.


    ¡°A pleasure, Lady Erryn.¡±


    When he straightened, he found she was still frowning at him, and he began to feel even more nervous.


    ¡°<strong>Break</strong>,¡± she said.


    Wham!


    Sharp pain exploded. Tyron¡¯s head reeled back as his hand flew to his nose. Was it broken? No, there was no blood. In fact, there was no injury at all. What had happened? He felt as if she had punched him in the face.


    Actually, that wasn¡¯t quite it¡­ she had punched him <em>over</em> his face. She¡¯d attacked the mour!


    There were mirrors all around the room, but if he so much as nced at one to check it remained in ce, that was as much as confirming he wore one. He straightened and turned his eyes directly on the noble.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry if I¡¯ve offended you,¡± he said, unsessfully trying to keep all the heat from his tone. ¡°But I do not believe I have done anything to warrant such an act.¡±


    She still stared at him, her eyes endlessly cold.


    ¡°I apologise,¡± she said finally, though she clearly didn¡¯t mean it. ¡°We must be careful, in our work, to ensure those we engage with are beyond reproach.¡±


    It was all he could do not to slump in his chair. Whatever the Crone had done to reinforce his mour, it had held. He needed to buy Elsbeth a cake or something.


    ¡°I will do my best to meet your expectations,¡± he managed to say.


    ¡°Your word is freely given and wee, but does not suffice for our security. Additional steps need to be taken.¡±


    ¡°Well then¡­ what do you require of me?¡±


    ¡°That you listen.¡±


    She turned and nodded slightly to Magister Gilden, and he turned his face away, then her stare returned to Tyron and he felt locked in ce.


    ¡°<strong>By my authority, you will not speak of what you have learned here. You will not share what has been discussed, what you have seen or heard, through any means. Should you fail to heed thismand, your heart will cease to beat, and you will die. Divines make it so.</strong>¡±


    Tyron felt the weight of her authoritye crashing down on him like a mountain. It bypassed his resistance, slipped beyond his defences and wrapped around his mind without him being able to do a single thing about it.


    Divine Right. The highest power of the Nobles, afforded to them by their sses that were handed down by the Five themselves. He had never felt it before, but he knew what it was. Magnin and Beory had known all about it. There were reasons why they avoided the capital like the gue.


    After a minute in which he felt he was suffocating and suffering a migraine, Tyron slowly began to recover. He was still seated on the chair, a hand clutching at his heart as he sweated profusely.


    ¡°You may go now,¡± Lady Erryn said, once again reading through her papers.


    Magister Gilden stood immediately, and Tyron staggered to his feet.


    ¡°By your will,¡± he managed to say, before he turned and followed his guide.


    The trip back to the shop was lost in a haze to Tyron, but he made it back somehow. He copsed into his bed the moment he could, his head still pounding, and his heart still thudding in his chest.


    The Divine Right. He hadn¡¯t expected it to be so <em>terrifying</em>.


    But even more than his fear, there was anger, like a roaring bonfire burning in his chest. He was certain. <em>Absolutely certain</em>. He had sat in the presence of the person who had overseen his parents¡¯ murder.


    Lady Erryn.


    What an undead she would be.

 Chapter B3C28 - Mountains of Bones

    Chapter B3C28 - Mountains of Bones


    ¡°There¡¯s obviously a Skill you¡¯re missing,¡± Dove groaned for the eleventh time that day. ¡°If it were possible to do what you¡¯re trying to do without it, then you would have figured it out already.¡±


    Tyron ground his teeth as he tossed aside <em>another</em> shin bone. Shins made the most sense for swords, since they, along with the bones of the forearm, namely the ulna, were the hardest in the body, and about the right size.


    ¡°I <em>know</em>,¡± he finally retorted as he reached across to grab another from the box to his right. ¡°I also know what the Skill is: Bone Compression, I passed it up at level thirty six.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe this. You mean all this time you <em>knew</em> what you were missing?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I knew. If I already know how to shape bones thanks to the bow making Skill, then what¡¯s the point of buying nine thousand other ways to manipte bones? It stands to reason that I should be able to figure out how it should work given what I already know.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not how it works, fuckface.¡±


    Dove wandered over and poked him with a skeletal finger.


    ¡°Just because you¡¯ve picked up some stuff without having to ¡®pay¡¯ for it doesn¡¯t mean everything is just going to drop into yourp! You¡¯re trying to gain a Skill you don¡¯t have, <em>and</em> another Skill you don¡¯t have at the same damn time! You <em>don¡¯t</em> know how topress bones magickally, and you <em>don¡¯t </em>know how to form a sword from one, even if you did!¡±


    He put his hands on his bony hips and shook his head.


    ¡°No wonder you haven¡¯t been getting anywhere. This has been a waste of time.¡±


    Tyron scowled and shoved the skeletal construct away with one hand. Dove shrieked and covered himself.


    ¡°Who said you could touch my pelvis?¡±


    ¡°I <em>made</em> your pelvis.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t give you the right to <em>ravish</em> me without permission.¡±


    ¡°Balls of the Gods, Dove, if you don¡¯t shut up, then I¡¯m going to wire your jaw shut.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m bored! It¡¯s great to have a body again, but I can¡¯t leave your fucking basement, so the level of enjoyment I get out of it is pretty fucking limited!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not all that sympathetic,¡± Tyron muttered as he focused on the shin once again.


    How was he supposed to <empress</em> the damn thing? He was getting better at shaping bone the way he wanted to, and quite a few of his efforts <em>looked</em> like functional swords, but they just in weren¡¯t. It was like dough. Exceptionally hard dough, but still dough. He could shape it, mould it, stretch and tten, or squash the whole stupid thing into a ball if he wanted, but he couldn¡¯t change its density. He couldn¡¯t make it into a ball, and then squish it into a <em>smaller</em> one.


    Actually, the ball analogy worked fairly well, so he began to adjust the shin, stretching it in some ces, pressing it in others, as he attempted to create a round shape out of it. The exercise was more difficult than he¡¯d thought, and required a significant amount of concentration, effort, and magick expenditure on his part.


    ¡°Oh, you don¡¯t care about my suffering? Why am I not surprised?¡±


    Tyron continued to work as he argued with his former-mentor.


    ¡°Oh no, you can¡¯t walk around the city and have to stay here practising magick. How terrible.¡±


    Dove stared at him, the purple me burning in his empty sockets, then threw up his hands.


    ¡°Of course <em>you</em> think it¡¯s perfectly fine. Living as a hermit in a cave practising magick is your idea of paradise! Some of us want more from life. In fact, almost <em>all</em> of us want more from life. You¡¯re the weird one.¡±


    ¡°Dove. I went through an enormous amount of effort and personal expense to create that body for you. I wove it to the best of my ability, enchanted it, bound the entire thing to your soul. It was a long and painful process, and I went through all of that in an attempt to bring you some measure of happiness in your life.¡±


    He red up at the skeleton.


    ¡°So forgive me if I¡¯m not all that patient while you prattle around my study whining about how you can¡¯t drink, eat or fuck. I don¡¯t care. I. Don¡¯t. Care. You can help me with what I¡¯m doing, or study and practise your own magick, but if you keep whinging like a whipped dog, I swear I will crush that fucking skull and leave you to Yor forever.¡±


    Finished saying his piece, the Necromancer looked down and continued his moulding, fuming silently. Dove watched him for a long moment.


    ¡°You¡¯re cranky. Something stressing you out, kid? Other than the ever present threat of death hanging over your head. I wouldn¡¯t stress about it. Death can be a <em>lot</em> less permanent than you think.¡±


    A grimace flickered over Tyron¡¯s face.


    ¡°Yor has already told me my soul is likely to get seized upon by one of a number of Vampires if they manage to sniff it out after I die. I¡¯m tempted to make arrangements for the Abyss to take it upon my death, just to avoid the possibility.¡±


    ¡°You¡­ never told me that.¡±


    ¡°Dove, you¡¯ve been so wrapped up in yourself you haven¡¯t had the time or attention to pay to anything other than Dove. Which I understand, given how shitty everything is for you, but there¡¯s been no reason for me to go bbing to you about my worries.¡±


    ¡°Well, there is now. Whatever is bothering you has gotten you so worked up you¡¯re threatening to destroy this incredible specimen of perfection.¡±


    The former-summoner ran his bone hands suggestively over his skeletal frame, which managed to get a smile out of the younger mage.


    ¡°That¡¯s the most bizarre thing I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±


    Normally, his skeletons moved with a ruthless efficiency, even the revenants. Once Dove had gained his full form, he¡¯d began prancing, dancing and engaging in all sorts of very un-undead-like movements. It was strange to see, to say the least.


    ¡°Just wait until I show you what I¡¯m capable of when I¡¯m fully equipped,¡± Dove boasted, thrusting his bare, bony hips forward repeatedly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll kill you. I mean it.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    Thankfully, he stopped.


    ¡°What¡¯s bothering you? It can¡¯t just be that you are <em>still</em> failing to make a sword. Actually, what the heck are you making right now?¡±


    Tyron held up hispleted sphere.


    ¡°I thought I¡¯d mould it into a ball shape and <em>then</em> try topress it. Essentially, if I manage to make the ball smaller, then I¡¯ve seeded.¡±


    ¡°But you would need to apply force equally from all sides, wouldn¡¯t that be harder?¡±


    ¡°Maybe it''s harder in <em>practice</em>, but it seems easier <em>conceptually</em>. I don¡¯t have to worry about where I should and shouldn¡¯t be trying topress, I just try andpress the whole thing.¡±


    ¡°That makes sense,¡± Dove mused, scratching at his bone chin. ¡°I¡¯m not distracted, though. Out with it, spill your problems into the open so I can point andugh at them.¡±


    The ball in his hands stubbornly refused to shrink, no matter how he pressed or manipted it, but he didn¡¯t give up.


    ¡°I¡¯m just stressed. There¡¯s always too much to do, and with the advancement approaching, I¡¯m worried it won¡¯t be optimal. I can¡¯t afford to miss out on a ss Advancement that suits my goals and needs.¡±


    ¡°Your needs <em>are</em> rather specific. Something that supports arge number of powerful undead that you can use to fight and level against the rifts and against the empire. Essentially, you need to be on the path of Arihnan the ck.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Tyron said. ¡°I need an army of minions, nothing else will be sufficient. Havinge so far, the thought of failing at this point is just¡­ uneptable.¡±


    ¡°Which is why failing to make a sword is pissing you off so much.¡±


    ¡°Probably. I don¡¯t know, Dove, I just don¡¯t understand why this thing won¡¯t fucking <em>shrink</em>.¡±


    He was trying to use his hands and magick to press on the ball from all sides at once, but all that happened was the bone cracked, forcing him to repair it.


    At least he was training his Bone Mending at the same time. Part of his irritation stemmed from the fact he was <em>certain</em> there was some sort of unified bone modification Skill which would allow him to perform all of these functions at once. Mending, Shaping, Compressing, probably Merging as well, he just wasn¡¯t high enough Level to ess it. The thought of wasting multiple Skill selections, and then losing them to an Advanced Skill down the line filled him with dread.


    ¡°Look, kid. You¡¯re already fucked. A lone wolf, going up against an entire empire full of expert wolf-killers. Rebellions like this get cut off at the knees a couple of times every century. The odds of you seeding are infinitesimal.¡±


    ¡°This is real encouraging so far.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying you should rx a little and go with the flow! The current course of action is already certain death! Not much room to go down from there.¡±


    The skeleton construct considered for a moment.


    ¡°Or you could let go of your need for revenge and live a quiet life enchanting. You <em>do</em> have that option.¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡±


    The Necromancer stared at the sphere in front of him as if by his will alone he could condense it.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care how powerful they are, or how many get in my way. They will pay for what they¡¯ve done.¡±


    He said it simply, as if stating a universally epted truth. Up was up, down was down, Tyron would have his vengeance.


    ¡°Well, in that case, I think you need to pick up the pace. You¡¯ve got what? Forty of your new bony boys? I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s going to cut it against the empire.¡±


    He¡¯d worked tirelessly to hone his Skills and Spells while perfecting his ability to create undead over the past month. While maintaining the stock in the shop and keeping up appearances, he had devoted every spare waking hour to his craft. The problem wasn¡¯t that he hadn¡¯t been working hard enough, it was theck of progress.


    His current minions may be the strongest he¡¯d ever created, but there weren¡¯t enough of them, and he was only gaining twenty a month. He still needed more. He needed ghosts, and powerful revenants to anchor his force. Weapons for the skeletons had to be secured, and then he needed to start <em>fighting</em>.


    None of it could happen until he Advanced.


    He was on the precipice. He just needed to find the courage to fling himself off the edge.


    Like forging a de, he was trying to create the perfect version of himself. Right now, he was in the fire, unsure of when he could pull himself out. There was no way to be sure, so he may as well just go for it.


    ¡°I¡¯ve decided,¡± he said firmly. ¡°Tomorrow, I¡¯ll perform the status ritual. Dying any further is only going to drive me insane.¡±


    ¡°Good man!¡± Dove pped him on the back. ¡°Good to see a bit of ¡®Fuck you!¡¯ energy back in your eyes.¡±


    Metal changed in the fire. It grew softer, more malleable. Only when you took it out could you make something useful with it. Shape it.


    The sphere of bone weighed heavily in his hand. He tilted his head as he gazed at it.


    Bone, as it was, could be shaped, he could do that much, but he couldn¡¯t <em>hammer </em>it. There needed to be a qualitative change before something like that with metal. Cold metal couldn¡¯t bepressed, it had to be heated first. So what did he have to do to the bone before he couldpress it? Heat it? That didn¡¯t make sense, it would just crack.


    Dove was talking, but Tyron was no longer listening.


    What could he do that he <em>knew</em> could create qualitative change within bones? Death Magick was the answer. It was the only form of energy that remains could ept.


    He¡¯d taken the Death Infusion Skill a while back but hadn¡¯t yet found much use for it outside of a few experiments. He could pour Death Magick into an object via touch, transmuting the neutral energy from his body into the more dangerous form. It allowed him to kickstart the saturation process of remains whenever he wanted. He hadn¡¯t tested it yet, but he could use it as a weapon in a pinch, a literal touch of death.


    Wanting to understand more about Death Magick, he¡¯d picked it since it allowed him to produce the stuff on demand, but since he hadn¡¯t found a way to utilise it when creating minions, he hadn¡¯t devoted the time to the Skill he should have.


    There were trace amounts of Death Magick in the sphere of bone presently, but that could rapidly change. With a frown of concentration, he began to infuse it with arcane power.


    Death aligned energy flowed from his hand and into the ball as he watched it carefully. The light around his hand began to darken as he poured out more. <em>More</em>.


    The sphere was saturated now, but he didn¡¯t stop. More power. More Death. The ball itself began to darken as he continued, the bone going from a bleached white to an ominous, smoking ck.


    <em>Now</em>.


    Suffused with so much power, the bone didn¡¯t behave as it had before. He could sense the difference. Taking the sphere in his hands, he gripped it physically, and also with his will.


    He pressed.


    ¡°You prick. I can¡¯t believe you figured that out.¡±

 Chapter B3C29 - Advance or Die

    Chapter B3C29 - Advance or Die


    He¡¯d done everything he could think of, but Tyron was still unbelievably anxious. What if it went wrong? What if his Advancement options were terrible?


    For the millionth time, he cursed hisck of a proper ss guide. Without any clue of what was even <em>possible</em> for a Necromancer to grow into, he was totally fumbling in the dark.


    His nerve wavered, but he firmed it again as he stared down at the nk piece of paper.


    <em>You did everything you could. Raising more minions isn¡¯t going to help, you¡¯ve learned everything that you can at this point.</em>


    It wasn¡¯tpletely true, and he knew it. He could spend years chasing down every idea he had, seeing which ones bore fruit and which didn¡¯t, modifying, tinkering, squeezing everyst drop from his Spells and Skills. It was easy to be ny percent proficient at a Spell, but thest fraction took twice as much time and energy as the previous ny.


    More and more, he¡¯d begun to feel time was against him. As more minions umted in the sewers around his shop, more and more Death Magick was creeping into the air. He did his best to suppress it, going so far as to install enchantments that both concealed his minions and converted any ambient Death energy to unaligned neutral power.


    But all it took was one slip, and he would be exposed. He needed to get his minions out of the city and get to fighting with them. That meantpleting his advancement.


    He¡¯d already dyed it once. When talking to Dove, he¡¯d said he¡¯d do it the next day. In reality, that had been three weeks ago. Discovering how topress bone had been a major breakthrough, and he¡¯d experimented extensively, even managed to create decent swords and shields, though he wasn¡¯t prepared to arm his minions with them yet. Then he¡¯d dyed a little longer, so he could process the next batch of twenty bodies and raise them. Just in case.


    So now he had sixty skeletons stashed in the sewers, increasing his risk even further.


    ¡°Stop stalling, Tyron,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°Just do it.¡±


    With a shaking hand, he withdrew the dagger from his belt and pressed his thumb into the tip. The cut was much deeper than required and he winced as the blood flowed freely. Still, he pressed the digit to the page and enacted the ritual.


    Immediately, the blood began to creep across the paper, forming letters, words and sentences until it came to a stop, the ritualplete.


    Not daring yet to read, he snatched up a clean bandage and pressed it to his thumb, wrapping it tight to prevent further blood loss. Then, with no excuses left, he sighed and looked down at the page, trembling with nerves.


    There were several lines about improvements to his Enchanting, but he glossed over them quickly to focus on what he cared about.


    <em>Your understanding of the methods needed to assess remains has advanced. <strong>Corpse Appraisal has reached level 20.</strong></em>


    <em>Your understanding of the methods needed to prepare remains has advanced. <strong>Corpse Preparation has reached level 20.</strong></em>


    <em>You have discerned a method to forge bone like steel and mould it to your needs. <strong>Bone Forging has been learned. </strong>Bone Weapon Sculpting (Bow) and Bone Mending have been subsumed.</em>


    <em>Your understanding of Death Magick has deepened. <strong>Advanced Death Magick has reached level 20.</strong></em>


    <em>Your capacity to modify existing minions has improved. <strong>Minion Modification has reached level 7.</strong></em>


    <em>Your ability to insert Death aligned energy through touch has improved. <strong>Death Infusion has reached level 4.</strong></em>


    <em>Your skill at weaving magickal sinew has increased. <strong>Bone Animus has reached level 20.</strong></em>


    <em>Your understanding of the ritual has grown stronger. <strong>Raise Dead has reached level 30.</strong></em>


    <em>Yourprehension of the spell has grown stronger. <strong>Anoint Undead has reached level 3.</strong></em>


    <em>You have raised minions and improved your craft. Undead Weaver has reached level 40. You have received +2 Strength, +4 Constitution, +6 Intelligence, +2 Wisdom, +2 Willpower, +2 Maniption and +4 Poise. </em>


    <em>The world slowly tumbles toward chaos and your patrons delight. The Abyss hungers. Forbidden One has reached Level 25. You have received +2 Constitution, +2 Intelligence, +2 Willpower, +1 Maniption, and +1 Poise.</em>


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 23


    Race: Human (Level 20)


    ss:


    Undead Weaver (Level 40)


    Sub-sses:<ul><li>Forbidden One (Level 25) </li><li>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</li><li>None </li></ul>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    Feat Selections Avable: 2


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    42


    Dexterity:


    99


    Constitution:


    132


    Intelligence:


    251


    Wisdom:


    163


    Willpower:


    113


    Charisma:


    43


    Maniption:


    64


    Poise:


    68


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 4)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Engraving (Level 5)(Max)


    Skill Selections Avable: 5


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    <strong>Corpse Appraisal (Level 20)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Corpse Preparation (Level 20)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Advanced Death Magick (Level 20)(Max)</strong>


    Enhanced Minion Commander (Level 6)


    Undead Control (Level 4)


    <strong>Minion Modification (Level 7)</strong>


    Bone-Soul Melding (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Death Infusion (Level 4)</strong>


    <strong>Bone Forging (Level 10)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Anathema Skills:</strong>


    Abyss Tongue (Level 4)


    Spell Concealment (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Arcanist Skills:</strong>


    <strong>Expert Magick Scripting (Level 30)(Max)</strong>


    Channelling (Level 10)(Max)


    Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)


    Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 15)


    Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 15)</strong>


    <strong>Expert Network Formation (Level 25)</strong>


    <strong>Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 20)(Max)</strong>


    Advanced Core Sense (Level 15)


    <strong>Expert Power Control (Level 26)</strong>


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    <strong>Raise Dead (Level 30)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Bone Animus (Level 20)(Max)</strong>


    Commune with Spirits (Level 6)


    Shivering Curse (Level 6)


    Death des (Level 7)


    Empowered Bone Armour (Level 5)


    Minion Sight (Level 6)


    Spirit Binding (Level 10)(Max)


    Death¡¯s Grasp (Level 5)


    Anoint Dead (Level 3)


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    Pierce the Veil (Level 5)


    Appeal to the Court (Level 4)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    Advanced Suppress Mind (Level 17)


    Repository (Level 6)


    Fear (Level 3)


    mour (Level 10)(Max)


    Invasive Persuasion (Level 10)(Max)


    Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 5)


    Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Feats:</strong>


    Skeleton Focus II


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery


    Spirit Mastery


    Undead Specialist


    <strong>Anathema Feats:</strong>


    Repository


    Wall of Thought II


    Drain Life


    <strong>Arcanist Feats</strong>


    Magick Thread Control II


    Compact Sigils II


    Conduit Seal II


    Core Networking II


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Advanced): WIS +20 CHA +20


    <strong><em>Undead Weaver has reached level 40. Choose an Additional Feat:</em></strong>


    <em>Zombie Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Zombies.</em>


    <em>Skeleton Focus III - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.</em>


    <em>Spirit Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Spirits.</em>


    <em>Flesh Mastery - Increased skill with flesh based undead and abilities.</em>


    <em>Minion Controller - Improve the capacity to direct undead.</em>


    <em>Intelligent Dead - Improve the minds of undead minions.</em>


    <em>Boon Giver - Spells and abilities that empower the dead are strengthened.</em>


    <strong><em>Undead Weaver has reached Level 40. Choose one additional Skill or Spell:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Ghoul Flesh - Instil Death Magick into the flesh of the deceased</em>


    <em>Bone Compression - Harden andpress bone.</em>


    <em>Bone Weapon Sculpting (Sword) - Create swords from Bone</em>


    <em>Bone Fusion - Meld bones together.</em>


    <strong><em>Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Crepify - An infusion of power to Undead Flesh, rapidly healing damage and strengthening it for a duration.</em>


    <em>Undead Leader - Bind undead to one of their own to empower it and increase its intelligence.</em>


    <em>Command Spirit - Reces Commune with Spirits and raises the maximum level to 20.</em>


    <em>Death Fist - Reces Death¡¯s Grasp and raises the maximum level to 20.</em>


    <em>Mark for Death - Curse a target. Your minions will hunt it and be stronger when fighting the victim.</em>


    <em>Purify Bones - Purge the bones of impurities as preparation for the Raise Dead ritual.</em>


    <em>ck Miasma - Create a cloud of Death saturated energy that empowers and heals undead while hindering the living.</em>


    <strong>Forbidden One has reached level 25. Choose an additional Feat:</strong>


    <em>Dark Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Dark Ones.</em>


    <em>Abyssal Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Abyss.</em>


    <em>Scarlet Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Scarlet Court.</em>


    <em>Ruler in Shade - Your false faces are harder to ovee or pierce.</em>


    <em>Corrupting Presence - Encourage Death Magick growth in all around you, even the living.</em>


    <em>Bewitching Gaze - Those who look into your eyes are more susceptible to magickal influence.</em>


    <em>ck Soul - Tune your spirit to the void.</em>


    <em>Dead Flesh - Adapt your body to contain death aligned energy.</em>


    <em>Stormwise - Empower all of your abilities when the sun is hidden by cloud.</em>


    <em>Still Blood - Your blood will cease to flow, and change.</em>


    Tyron slumped forward, relief filling him. He¡¯d done it. He¡¯d actually done it! Even more than he¡¯d hoped, he¡¯d been able to max out far more abilities than expected. The odds of him getting the Advancement he wanted had vastly increased.


    A part of him wanted to rush through his ability selections, just so he could pick his Advancement that little bit faster, but he held himself back and went through the notifications carefully.


    Almost immediately, a smile tugged at his lips. He¡¯d been right, there <em>was</em> a unified bone maniption skill, and he¡¯d gotten it! This was a great achievement, though it wasn¡¯t without its shorings. He¡¯d be able to make swords now, sure, but he wouldn¡¯t have the knowledge and instincts that selecting the Bone Weapon Sculpting (Sword) would have gotten him. He¡¯d need to work out how to make the best swords, shields, spears and whatever else he wanted on his own.


    Even Raise Dead had reached level thirty. A warm sense of pride filled him as he gazed down on the notifications. His father and mother had always emphasised mastering the basic elements of a ss, and here he was being faithful to their advice.


    He felt a pang in his chest, but pushed it aside.


    He needed to choose his final Feat from his current ss, and the choice was difficult. Anything to do with flesh based undead was out, obviously, as was Boon Giver, since he didn¡¯t focus on powering up his minions <em>after</em> they were created, but that left several things he was interested in. Skeleton Focus III was still appealing to him, as skeletons would form the bedrock of any undead army he hoped to build. Intelligent Undead and Minion Controller were also tempting, but hisck of information held him back. He¡¯d get better at controlling more minions, but by <em>how</em><em>much</em>? Simrly, how much smarter would his minions get? How useful would that be? Did he even need either when he could create Revenants and have them direct his other undead?


    After some hesitation, he selected the next rank in Skeleton Focus. It was disappointing not to reach the fourth, and presumably highest level in this Feat chain, but this was the widest applicable boost he could get for his minions right now.


    Then he needed to select a new Spell or Skill. Hisst for the Undead Weaver ss. The two new options were obviously powerful. Bone Fusion would have been incredibly tempting if not for his breakthrough, as he suspected he knew what it would allow him to do. Creating bone constructs, much as he had with Dove, but with real bones, would be possible with that Skill. With Bone Forging, he should be able to achieve the same end result, though with far more trial and error.


    ck Miasma, the other level forty selection, was interesting. It allowed him to empower and heal his undead as a fight was going? That was certainly a powerful effect, though it likely would cost an unbelievable amount of magick to create and maintain. Thankfully, his maintenance costs had gone down as much as they had, along with his capacity climbing through the roof.


    He could choose it¡­.


    His eye flicked down to the Forbidden One Feats. This was his first chance to see them, and many of the options were¡­ unappealing.


    Curry favour with the patrons? He grimaced. If he had to, sure, but at the cost of a Feat? Unlikely.


    Ruler in Shade was tempting, more than tempting. Having his mask broken was one of his greatest fears.


    Bewitching Gaze was something he felt would be useful, but wasn¡¯t enamoured with selecting. Maniption was a necessity of his existence, but he didn¡¯t enjoy it. For survival, he would dly shove his preferences aside.


    These transformational Feats¡­. He shuddered. Doubtless, they would be powerful, even if he couldn¡¯t understand exactly what they did. How he was supposed to keep a low profile if his flesh became imbued with Death Magick, he had no idea.


    Stormwise¡­. Surely not.


    He checked the wording of ck Miasma, it specifically mentioned cloud. The Unseen was always precise with itsnguage, which meant these two abilities would interact. If he stood within the miasma while his minions fought, the Feat would be active. That sort of synergy seemed too obvious to be idental. Perhaps his patrons had a finger on the scale in his favour? Still, thebination would be potent, he was sure.


    He selected both options. Then took a deep breath. This was the moment.


    He confirmed his selections, endured the change, then pressed his thumb to the page once more. Blood flowed, and he leaned forward, breath caught in his throat.


    <strong>Undead Weaver has reached Level 40.</strong>


    <strong><em>Select a ss Advancement from the following:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Necro-Master: </em></strong><em>Further your understanding of the Necromantic craft.</em>


    Following on from Necro-Acolyte that he¡¯d been offered at level twenty, this was likely the default advancement for reaching the silver rank. It didn¡¯t hold much interest for Tyron.


    <strong><em>Soul Binder: </em></strong><em>Bend the spirits of the dead to your will.</em>


    Likely this advancement didn¡¯t focus on ghosts alone, but perhaps other types of spirit-based undead, perhaps revenants also. There was a whole world of more powerful ghosts out there, including some who could manifest themselves physically. This ss would be his first opportunity to learn the secrets of their creation.


    <strong><em>Lich Initiate: </em></strong><em>Learn the secrets of eternal life.</em>


    Tyron paused as he saw this option. A Lich? Would this ss really give him the Skills and Spells needed to turn himself into a Lich and change his race? Interestingly, he didn¡¯t need to use those abilities on himself, he could turn others into undead and bind them to his will.


    <strong><em>Lord of the Ossuary:</em></strong><em> Harness the most powerful skeletal minions.</em>


    With hisplete mastery over every Bone rted Skill he had, this option didn¡¯t surprise him. This would be another path toward creating revenants, something he could already do, but would also have the greatest chance of empowering them. Perhaps it would also facilitate arge number of minions as well? A possibility, to be certain.


    <strong><em>Bone Smith: </em></strong><em>Constructs of Blood and Bone will serve.</em>


    This was¡­ unexpected. Perhaps it had be avable due to his unlocking of the Bone Forging Skill? Perhaps it would focus on the creation of weapons and armour, as well asrger constructs.


    <strong><em>Acolyte of Death: </em></strong><em>Death energy will heed your call.</em>


    Another unexpected option, focused on Death aligned Magick itself. No doubt this had be avable thanks to his maxing of Advanced Death Magick.


    But what would the ss focus on? Using Death Magick to fling spells and empower minions, probably. It sounded powerful, but wasn¡¯t what he focused on.


    No more options appeared, and Tyron leaned back to think. This was where his ability as a Necromancer would flourish. From the beginning, he had known that his ss was one that grew much stronger at the higher levels rtive to other sses.


    Now that he¡¯d reached level forty, he was finally at the point where he would be a force to be reckoned with, even against other yers. All he needed was a few things to go right. With enough minions to fight, he could gain levels extremely quickly, so long as he could upy a rift.


    So what did he want? What would make him the strongest? What was he best at?


    He didn¡¯t want to be a Lich, so choosing that option felt wasteful, even if he was <em>very</em> curious as to what he may learn. Necro-Master was also out. It was generic and likely weaker than the others. Soul Binder would doubtlessly be strong, but ghosts were not his area of expertise at this point. There would be much he would need to learn to maximise their strengths. Could he really afford to wait that long?


    Acolyte of Death was tempting, but somewhat mysterious. Would it focus on minions, or something else? Death Energy would heed his call, but in what way? Hisck of knowledge was frustrating. This ss would be powerful, he was sure, but would it synergise with him?


    Bone Smith and Lord of the Ossuary. Those were both fascinating options that worked well with what he could currently do. Already, he had ideas for constructs he could create to support his skeletons in the field. With the guidance of Bone Smith, he could make those ideas a reality. However, there was a chance he could do that anyway.


    Lord of the Ossuary. The most potent skeletal minions he knew of were revenants, which he could already make, and wights, which he couldn¡¯t. Of all the options he had avable, this was the only one that hinted that it would help him reach the quality <em>and</em> quantity of minions he needed to threaten an empire.


    He chose it.

 Chapter B3C30 - Growth

    Chapter B3C30 - Growth


    <em>The Awakening</em>.


    <em>Tyron Sterm. Your mastery of your craft has advanced by leaps and bounds, proving your choice of Ascension was a wise one. Your soul burns with hunger, now you shall fashion an army to feed it.</em>


    <em>You are Ascending.</em>


    <em>+20 to all stats.</em>


    <em>You are able to advance Mysteries to the next stage.</em>


    <em>You have received the ss: Lord of the Ossuary</em>


    <em>A perfectionist, focused on achieving the peak of performance with one form of undead, a Lord of the Ossuary can create the ultimate Skeletal warriors, and more. To advance, raise skeletal minions and have them fight in your name. </em>


    <em>ss Attributes per level:</em>


    <em>Strength +2;</em>


    <em>Dexterity +2;</em>


    <em>Constitution +3;</em>


    <em>Intelligence +3;</em>


    <em>Wisdom +2;</em>


    <em>Willpower + 2;</em>


    <em>Maniption +2;</em>


    <em>Poise + 3;</em>


    <em>The maximum Skill limit of Raise Dead has been increased to 40. Your knowledge of this Ritual has been expanded. You may now apply it to horses. Your knowledge of this Ritual has been expanded, you may now engrave spells upon the minds of your skeletal minions.</em>


    <em>The maximum Skill limit of Bone-Soul Melding has been increased to 20.</em>


    <em>The maximum Skill limit of Bone Forging has been increased to 20.</em>


    <em>The maximum Skill limit of Bone Animus has increased to 40.</em>


    <em>Through your feats, you have been granted a new Mystery. Your insights into Death Magick and the properties of this energy have unlocked: Essence of Death, at the initial stage. </em>


    The rush of power was so intense that he could no longer stand. He crumpled to the floor, legs quivering as his body and mind underwent another grand transformation.


    Some timeter, Tyron shivered. The strength given to him by the Unseen since his Awakening was nothing to sneeze at, but his second advancement still hit him pretty hard. An additional twenty to all of his attributes, a hundred and eighty points in total, rocked him to his core, to the point he had copsed to the floor, but still conscious, unlike his early levels.


    The further he rose, the more he left normal humanity behind. In normal circumstances, he would now be ssified as a Silver ranked yer. For most people, that was as high a rank as they would ever reach. Compared to the average citizen, who didn¡¯t have the advantage of the power granted tobat focused sses, his current status page would look like something out of legend.


    At sixty-two, he was already stronger than a human had any right to be, his muscles tense with power. In his old vige, perhaps only Rufus¡¯ father, the cksmith, would still be stronger than he was, despite him hardly getting any points in it from his sses.


    With over a hundred dexterity, he had cleared the first threshold, able to control the movements of his body with unearthly precision. A useful trait for casters to have to help them cast spells and rituals that required gestures. For Tyron, it was all about his finger-control. Carving runes, weaving thread, casting rituals, he needed all the fine-motor dexterity he could get.


    He sat up and wiggled his fingers, chuckling at the strange sensation he got as he did so. With both hands in front of his face, he experimented, bending each digit to different angles, forming shapes, first mimicking the movements on both hands, then moving them separately. How much better would he be able to do his work now?


    Of all of his physical properties, his constitution was by far the highest, nearly reaching the second threshold and two hundred.


    Although he hadn¡¯t been in a fight recently, he could still tell his body was hardening. He no longer cut himself by ident. Paper couldn¡¯t slice through him, the sharp edges of his tools didn¡¯t prate his hardened skin. Even Filetta remarked at just how hard it was to make a mark on him. Illness was almost a distant memory, and his ability to endure the harsh conditions he ced on himself, poor diet,ck of rest, was always rising.


    Which probably wasn¡¯t a good thing, he chuckled to himself. Once again, Tyron made a note to try and take better care of himself. It was hard to do once he got absorbed in something, but it was important, even if he could survive it.


    His Intelligence had almost reached the third threshold, his highest attribute. He¡¯d long grown used to the difference it made, sharpening his memory, elerating his decision making, and more importantly, increasing the store of Magick at hismand.


    Still seated on the cold stone floor of his study, he took a deep breath and held it, focusing on the well of arcane power that dwelt within his body. It was this source that would eventually turn all who dwelt in this realm to kin, he knew, but even so, he rejoiced to feel it swollen with energy, more than he had ever felt before.


    At this point, he was confident that the Magick Battery feats he had taken were not a t increase to his capacity, but rather increased the amount of Magick his body could hold per point of Intelligence. That was what he¡¯d hoped for, but couldn¡¯t confirm it was true before making the selection. The realisation sent a wave of relief rushing through him, and he threw back his head andughed.


    Wisdom, close to the second threshold, was his second highest attribute. Who knows why the Unseen designed things this way, but it divided the attributes of all who fell under its reach into Physical, Mental and Social groups, and then divided those three into power, control and resistance.


    Tyron¡¯s physical power was low, but his control and resistance wereparatively very high. His mental power was absurd, his controlgging behind, and his resistance was the lowest of the three, though still high.


    That control eased the difficulty he felt wrestling his vast reserve of Magick to do as he wished, easing spellcasting to the point where his early struggles felt like a distant memory. There was no ritual or spell Tyron currently knew that challenged him at all. Bending the Magick to his will, holding his nerve, maintaining precise movement of his hands and clear diction of his voice were easier than they had ever been.


    Socially, he was still rtively weak and vulnerable to maniption. Those with extremely high Social attributes were dangerous to be around, especially if they had the Skills and Feats to match. Most people refused to shop from a merchant or store that employed such an individual, as they could be persuaded to part with almost anything they owned without realising what was happening.


    Many professional musicians and bards, who travelled the provinces entertaining the people, were apanied by a guard at all times. With their powers of persuasion, they could create an uprising, or convince blushing milkmaids or strapping farmhands into doing things they wouldter regret.


    Not that Tyron would ever have the capacity to do such things. He manipted minds in a rather more¡­ <em>direct</em> fashion.


    He would always be weak socially, that didn¡¯t bother him. He needed to do more to ensure he wasn¡¯t vulnerable to it, however. Thest thing he wanted was to be talked down by someone as he sought to enact his vengeance.


    The rest of the changes were¡­ eye-opening. The additions to his Raise Dead ritual were¡­ staggering, especially thest part. Being able to raise horses made¡­ some kind of sense. Skeletons on skeletal horses. Sure. Why not? Engraving <em>spells</em> on their minds? What did that mean? Could he create skeletons who could use <em>magick</em>? Skeleton mages? That would be¡­ absurd. How could he possibly supply enough energy to minions such as those?


    Or would he have to? With his enchanting arrays, but scaled up¡­ perhaps he could figure something out¡­?


    Tyron shook his head, it was too early to think on that. He tried to focus on the present.


    All of his bone rted Skills and Spells had their maximum levels increased, which was to be expected. If he raised them to the cap once again, his proficiency with skeletal minions would reach another peak altogether. That thought alone was enough to get him excited.


    And who knew what powerful Skills, Spells and Feats would be avable at this rank? Only his main ss could go beyond level forty and give him real power, and now he was finally able to realise this potential.


    The Necromancer pushed himself from the floor and stood, a little wobbly at first, but his bnce returned steadily with each moment that passed. New ideas were already bubbling away in his brain as the knowledge and impressions the Unseen had imprinted there began to surface, but he pushed them away.


    It was too soon. Over the next few days and weeks, those concepts would settle and he could examine them at his leisure then. For now, he had other priorities.


    To help himself limate to his new body, Tyron began to walk in slow circles through his study, his hands trailing over the cold stone bs, free of remains for the time being.


    It was hard to focus. He was so full of energy, so full of drive! He wanted to rush out of his store, wanted to return to what it had been like before, out on the rifts with his minions, fighting against the tide of kin. Inbat, he would quickly reap levels, doing what a Necromancer should, growing quickly in the face of death, but he couldn¡¯t, not so soon as that.


    There was so much to do. The shop couldn¡¯t be abandoned, nor could his persona as Lukas Almsfield. It was bearing surprising fruit, after all. He¡¯d been contacted several times about helping withmissions for high ranking families, and even the Magisters hade calling, screening him for their services. Coming face to face with a true Noble had been unexpected, and dangerous, but ess to people of that rank was precious if he was to n his vengeance. It would also help him if he was to support the growing rebellion from the shadows.


    No. He <em>would</em> leave to fight and train his abilities, but it would have to be carefully nned.


    As he was wont to do in such hectic moments, Tyron reached for paper and a pen, and began to write.


    ~~~


    ¡°You want <em>how many</em>?¡± Filetta squawked.


    Tyron pulled his shirt on and buttoned it carefully.


    ¡°Being honest? As many as you can get, but at a bare minimum, I need a hundred over the next two months.¡±


    Still tangled in the sheets, the thief rolled from the bed and began to rummage for her own clothes.


    ¡°You really think it''s that simple for us to find fresh corpses?¡±


    This surprised the Necromancer.


    ¡°I thought there would be far more than a hundred deaths in and around Kenmor in a week, let alone a month.¡±


    Filetta rolled her eyes in the dark.


    ¡°Yes, obviously. The city has millions of people in it, there are tens of thousands of deaths every year. The issue isn¡¯t finding dead people, it¡¯s <em>smuggling</em>. We need to spirit the remains away and rece them with something <em>before</em> they go into the fire.¡±


    ¡°What do you use?¡± Tyron asked, curious.


    ¡°Cow parts, so I¡¯m told,¡± she shrugged, ¡°I don¡¯t handle that end of things. I¡¯m more of a <em>customer rtions</em> expert,¡± she leered.


    Now it was time for Tyron to roll his eyes.


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll pay extra, obviously, and I¡¯ll need more regr shipments of bones as well.¡±


    ¡°More bones as well? Why the rush? The faster we move, the greater the risk of discovery. You know that, right?¡±


    Tyron finished with his shirt and began to pull on his coat.


    ¡°Of course I know that. This is a temporary matter. Once I have the hundred, we can slow the pace for a time, to dissipate any heat that might have umted.¡±


    Filetta nodded slowly.


    ¡°Very well. I¡¯ll talk to my people and we¡¯ll do what we can.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m grateful,¡± Tyron nodded, then turned and pushed open the door, stepping out into the corridor.


    Another hundred minions should suffice to start with, but he would need more in his fight against the rifts. Unfortunately, there was a limit to how many he could gather in the city without drawing suspicion.


    He may have to purchase a few shovels. Grave robbing might be back in fashion.

 Chapter B3C31 - Dark Bargains

    Chapter B3C31 - Dark Bargains


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you¡¯ve already reached your second Advancement,¡± Elsbeth pouted. ¡°Just how much have you been grinding?¡±


    Tyron raised a brow and took a sip from his cup, a wry smile twisting his lips.


    ¡°Can you me me for being driven? All things considered?¡±


    His old friend sighed and shook her head, looking sad.


    ¡°No. No, I suppose not.¡±


    She looked as if she wanted to say something, but ultimately restrained herself with a shake of her head.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s still a good thing you managed to reach this point,¡± she said, looking for the positives. ¡°Are you nning to celebrate? Some sort of party?¡±


    The Necromancer looked at her as if she were crazy.


    ¡°Of course not. You want me to wave a banner and announce I¡¯m a level forty Necromancer?¡±


    ¡°Well, you have a fake first ss right? You could pretend you advanced in that.¡±


    ¡°Then I would have to get branded,¡± he told her acidly. ¡°On my documents, I¡¯m a curse mage, which is a registeredbat ss.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s right,¡± she sighed, deted. She rested her cheek on her hand, looking glum. ¡°It would have been nice if we got to celebrate <em>something</em> for you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not like you can celebrate advances in your ss openly,¡± Tyron observed wryly. ¡°Or do they wee priestesses of the Old Gods in the taverns and restaurants these days?¡±


    ¡°In some of them, they do,¡± she replied seriously. ¡°I reached my first advancement two years ago, and the other priests arranged a gathering for me. It was fun.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not really bothered by it,¡± he said.


    She pounded the table.


    ¡°But I am!¡±


    ¡°Calm down and drink your tea,¡± he scolded her. ¡°We¡¯re supposed to be talking about revolution and uprisings, not advancement parties.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    She harrumphed and took a quick nibble on her pastry to calm herself.


    ¡°It¡¯s taking time to connect everyone together. There¡¯s always been a loose association between pockets of believers, but never a firm, reliablework. The Gods are taking an active role now for the first time since¡­ possibly ever, so connecting all the groups and establishing lines ofmunication is happening faster than I would have thought possible.¡±


    This was big news. The Old Gods actually <em>doing</em> something? He could only imagine how shaken the believers were.


    ¡°How¡¯ve your fellow clergy taken this¡­ change in divine policy?¡± Tyron wondered, a twinkle in his eye.


    Elsbeth frowned at him.


    ¡°I know you don¡¯t really like them, but they¡¯re <em>gods</em>, Tyron. Try to show a little respect. And the change has been met with¡­ confusion, for the most part.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d think they¡¯d be happy their gods are taking a more active role in the realm.¡±


    ¡°Then you don¡¯t know the Old Gods as well as you think,¡± she snorted. ¡°Drawing their gaze can be a blessing or a curse and it¡¯s a flip of the coin which one it¡¯s going to be. Just because the Three are being active, doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re being helpful. It could be quite the opposite.¡±


    That was sadly true. From what Tyron knew, drawing the gaze of Crone, Raven or Rot was celebrated amongst the faithful¡­ to an extent.


    ¡°Rebellions against the Nobles and the Magisters have never seeded before, but they¡¯ve never had the support of the true divinities either. The Old Gods aren¡¯t going to smash the empire to pieces, but they¡¯re willing to assist their clergy and followers. This is a momentous step.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s something worth thinking about,¡± Tyron muttered. If the Old Gods wanted the empire to fall, they could do it easily, most likely. ¡°How much can the Five Divines resist them? Can they really just do what they like?¡±


    Elsbeth made a face.


    ¡°Nobody can answer that question. The Old Gods wouldugh and say they can tear them apart with a thought, but who knows if that¡¯s true? Perhaps they can do that, but don¡¯t because they want the mortals to rise up and throw the false gods down, or because they want them to suffer as their power is slowly stripped away.¡±


    ¡°Or perhaps they can¡¯t do it and are just lying.¡±


    ¡°Or that. Personally, I think it¡¯s the suffering angle. They can be extremely vengeful.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve no doubt.¡±


    ¡°At any rate,¡± Elsbeth pressed her palms to the wooden table. ¡°The centre of this rebellion is going to be at Cragwhistle.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡±


    Cragwhistle was as far from civilisation as one could get. Which might be the point, but that distance and istion would make a lot of things difficult.


    ¡°There¡¯s a rift, and almost no Magister control,¡± Elsbeth shrugged. ¡°And the Old Gods have been gathering followers there for years. You wouldn¡¯t recognise the ce now if you saw it. A lot has changed.¡±


    ¡°I bet. It¡¯s probably the best ce for me to hunt as well,¡± Tyron mused, ¡°considering theck of Magisters and yers. Only problem is, it would take weeks to get there, and weeks to get back.¡±


    He pondered the issue for a moment before he noticed Elsbeth shifting ufortably in her seat. The two of them were together in Tyron¡¯s upstairs rooms above the shop, protected by wardings that dampened sound and prevented scrying.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you?¡± he asked after a moment. ¡°The bathroom is through that door.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need the bathroom,¡± she blushed. ¡°I was just¡­ thinking on whether or not I should share a thought I¡¯d had.¡±


    Tyron leaned forward, intrigued.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re going to have to share it now you¡¯ve got me interested.¡±


    ¡°I suppose,¡± she sighed. She fell silent for a moment. ¡°Obviously, reaching Cragwhistle would be difficult for you, and for your minions. But¡­ there is a way you could travel that distance <em>much </em>faster.¡±


    ¡°Elsbeth¡­ where did you learn about this method?¡± the young mage asked with narrow eyes.


    ¡°From Raven,¡± she replied, hesitantly.


    ¡°Is it dangerous?¡± he asked slowly.


    ¡°Yyyes,¡± she replied, slowly, averting her gaze.


    ¡°What do they want me to do?¡± he gave in.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to tell you this,¡± she defended herself, looking him in the eye. ¡°I was against it, but Raven insisted. And he¡¯s <em>loud</em>. To be honest, I was surprised they suggested it in the first ce.¡±


    ¡°Elsbeth. Just tell me what it is.¡±


    She drew a deep breath and then the words tumbled out of her in a rush.


    ¡°YoucouldtravelthroughtheAbyss.¡±


    Tyron blinked.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The¡­ Abyss.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ a great idea¡­ and also¡­ a terrible one.¡±


    She averted her gaze.


    ¡°You know what it would cost? To do something like this?¡±


    Clearly, she herself was aware. Raven must have told her.


    ¡°I¡¯ve paid their price before,¡± he told her, more coldly than he¡¯d intended, and she flinched.


    No matter how far they¡¯de from where they¡¯d begun, she still thought of him as who he¡¯d been back in Foxbridge. He was not that person anymore.


    ~~~


    ¡°Congrattions,¡± Yor smiled, showing more than a hint of fang. ¡°You¡¯ve reached your goal, that is to bemended. I presume that means you will be taking a more active role in securing your vengeance?¡±


    Tyron tried to ignore the swaying walls and faint hint of intoxicating smoke that remained in the air, or the sounds of music and¡­ other things that still reached his ears.


    ¡°Is there any particr reason you insist our meeting be held here?¡± he asked tly.


    ¡°I find the atmosphere conducive to rxing and productive conversation.¡±


    ¡°No you don¡¯t,¡± he snorted, ¡°I can tell you¡¯re practically blood drunk. You know how much I hateing here, that¡¯s the reason.¡¯


    ¡°Perhaps that¡¯s the case, it¡¯s an <em>interesting </em>theory. Regardless, you agreed to meet here at the Red Pavillion, and that is what we shall continue to do.¡±


    The young mage nced around the room, sensing with more than just his eyes.


    ¡°Is this room properly secured?¡± he queried. ¡°I can never tell how strong your wards are.¡±


    The vampire leaned back and stretched, pulling her sheer ck dress tight across chest.


    ¡°That¡¯s the <em>key</em> to a good defence. If someone sees a fortress, then they know you have something you want to protect. If they see a little rabbit hole, they won¡¯t suspect a thing.¡±


    Tyron was about to protest that <em>no</em> defence was hardly a good defence, but she held up a finger and pierced him with her blood red gaze.


    ¡°If they stick their hand in the bunny hole, then it gets bitten off. A powerful defence disguised as one that is weak.¡±


    It made sense. He should take notes.


    ¡°Fine. I have a few things I want to discuss.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Can I expect another transaction to take ce? How <em>interesting</em>.¡±


    He grimaced, but didn¡¯t deny it. There were many ways to get what he needed, but none of them were attractive. The reason he¡¯d be a Forbidden One was so he could trade favours with his three dark patrons, hopefully without any of them getting their fingers on his soul. He¡¯d been sessful, so far.


    Right now, he needed the favour of the Abyss, and he knew of only one method to get it.


    From the seat beside him, Tyron picked up a small chest, simr to a jewellery box, and ced it on the table. Yor leaned forward with interest as he opened it, only to appear disappointed to see nothing but small, ss spheres inside.


    ¡°Is this a new fashion?¡± she wondered. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ different.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Tyron shook his head. Fashion? How did her head work? ¡°These are vessels. I need souls.¡±


    She immediately knew what he wanted.


    ¡°You think we are going to help you pay one of our rivals?¡± she grinned. ¡°How <em>wicked</em>.¡±


    ¡°I think you would rather I owed you a favour than them. I can¡¯t get what I need to fill these,¡± he gestured to the spheres, ¡°but <em>you</em> can.¡±


    That wasn¡¯t entirely true. He <em>could</em> get the spirits required, but it would be difficult. Difficult and¡­ unpleasant. Collecting them in the city would be impossible, he couldn¡¯t be wandering the streets conducting dark rituals to bind souls every time he stumbled across a dead beggar. Gaining ess to the spirits of the recently deceased right under the noses of the priests and priestesses who served the Five Divines would also be an absurd risk.


    No, he would need to leave the city for an extended period of time to gather what he needed, and even that wouldn¡¯t be without risks.


    His only other alternative would be to go through Filetta and her crew, but he suspected they would baulk at bringing him a few dozen people and ughtering them in front of him. After all, the spirits were bound to the ce of death, not the corpse. He got none at all from the bodies they brought him.


    For Tyron to gather the souls he needed, people would have to die. Then he would take their spirits, and feed them to the amorphous horrors that lived outside the fabric of this reality. It was a nightmarish, terrible thing he was going to do.


    But he was still going to do it.


    ¡°Bring me the spirits, and I will bind them myself,¡± he said. ¡°I know your coven doesn¡¯t exactly have clean hands. You won¡¯t need to do anything you aren¡¯t already doing, except give me the souls of those you¡¯ve killed.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s true there is the odd feeding <em>ident</em>, among other business,¡± Yor admitted freely. ¡°But this favour is still a costly one. I hope you¡¯re prepared to pay the price.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get a loan from the Old Gods,¡± he shrugged. ¡°They seem quite well disposed to me at present.¡±


    Yor¡¯s eyes narrowed.


    ¡°You¡¯re ying a dangerous game if you continue to beg favours from each in turn. If we believe you will go to the others for payment, we will ask for something they won¡¯t want to give up. And what position will that leave you in? If you think dealing with us is hard, you can only imagine how painfully we deal with each other.¡±

 Chapter B3C32 - Stretched Thin

    Chapter B3C32 - Stretched Thin


    ¡°You have to hone your concentration further.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I struggle to maintain my focus for long periods of time.¡±


    Tyronpared the scripting he¡¯d had his apprentice, Flynn,plete over the past five hours. As time stretched on, they grew progressively worse, small errors creeping in by the three hour mark.


    ¡°It¡¯s something you must improve at if you want to be able to work in this field as a Master of the craft,¡± he told him. ¡°Being able to produce wless sigils, hour after hour, is the hallmark of the trade.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Flynn hung his head in shame but Tyron just tapped him on the shoulder so he would look up again.


    ¡°It¡¯s not an insurmountable problem. Most apprentices struggle with this. Too many focus on trying to produce a wless enchantment, and then stop once they¡¯ve seeded. It isn¡¯t enough to create work without errors, you have to be able to do nine times out of ten for eight hours at a time. The level of mastery ispletely different.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ what should I do? To improve, I mean.¡±


    His Master pulled open a drawer filled with cores.


    ¡°Practice. Have a routine to sharpen your focus and shake off distractions before working on a core. Don¡¯t ept anything less than a perfect result. Then repeat until you can¡¯t do it anymore. If you continue to repeat this practice, your endurance and precision will increase.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯ll forgive me, Master Almsfield, when should I do this? I don¡¯t want to interfere in the normal running of the shop.¡±


    Tyron almost responded with ¡®skip sleep and do it at night¡¯, but closed his mouth at thest possible moment. Flynn wasn¡¯t like him and, like most people,cked his nocturnal habits and obsessive drive. He considered the question.


    ¡°I¡¯ll give you two days off per week for the next few months so you can devote them to improving your Skills and focus. You can have free use of the store¡¯s supply of cores as well. Only the chips, of course.¡±


    Chips referred to the lowest grade of cores, not evenrge enough to form a full sphere inside their monstrous host. Instead, they were a shard, a sliver of crystal that could be difficult to work with, along with having poor power absorption.


    They were readily abundant, found in the smallest and mostmon types of kin, but had little use in traditional enchanting. Most of the time, they¡¯d be used as a reagent in alchemical mixtures or fused together to create a crude form of Mage Candy.


    Flynns face fell when he learned he¡¯d have to work with the difficult gems and Tyron relented enough to tell him why.


    ¡°Working with chips forces you to be extra precise with your sigil-work and spacing. If you don¡¯t concentrate on applying your knowledge and skills, then it won¡¯t work. Too many apprentices getfortable andzy, performing the basic enchantments by rote, without considering the implications.¡±


    The irregr surface of the chips meant that even if you were applying the same enchantment to ten of them, you would have to adjust it ten times to fit each specific one.


    Despite the difficulty of the task, Flynn¡¯s expression firmed and he resolved himself to the work.


    ¡°Thank you for the extra lessonstely, Master Almsfield. I know how busy you are.¡±


    Tyron scratched at his cheek, feeling slightly guilty.


    ¡°Yes, there¡¯s been a lot to do, and I''ll be leaving for a trip in a few months, but while we have time, I¡¯ll do what I can to help. You¡¯ve been a good apprentice and I don¡¯t want you to feel neglected.¡±


    At this unexpected praise from his young teacher, Flynn smiled happily.


    ¡°However, I would appreciate it if you stopped flirting with my clerk in front of the customers.¡±


    ¡°Sorry!¡±


    ~~~~


    ¡°What¡¯s a sword, anyway? At what point does it qualify as a sword?¡± Tyron threw the sharpened bone he¡¯d been working on to the stone floor of his study.


    ¡°You are asking the wrong fucking guy,¡± Dove replied, bending down to pick it up and swishing it through the air a few times. ¡°Seems fine to me. It¡¯s got some heft, seems to cut, the edge appears to be sharp. What else do you want?¡±


    The Necromancer threw his hands into the air and paced back and forth.


    ¡°I¡¯m never going to learn the sword crafting Skill now, so I¡¯ll never know if I¡¯ve actually achieved a satisfactory level in the eyes of the Unseen.¡±


    ¡°Which means you won¡¯t <em>know</em> when you¡¯ve actually seeded,¡± Dove mused, understanding. ¡°This is only a problem for moronic perfectionists like you. In all likelihood, you seeded weeks ago. How many hundreds of these stupid things are you going to make?!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep going until I¡¯m satisfied!¡± Tyron snapped back.


    The walls were covered in notes, diagrams, excerpts from texts and a dozen metal des leaned against the stone bs around the room. There were swords of all sorts, falchions, rapiers, short swords, long swords, even a two-handed bastard sword.


    ¡°Will you ever be satisfied?¡± Dove asked sceptically. ¡°Until you produce a masterwork de and get a mystery or something, you¡¯ll never stop. If it¡¯s made from bone, can cut and stab, do you really need to give a shit beyond that?¡±


    To demonstrate, the former Summoner executed some clumsy thrusts and parries, whipping the sword through the air and enjoying the satisfying <em>swoosh</em> sound it made. He was so bad even Tyron could point out the ws in his technique.


    ¡°I was satisfied with my progress on the spears and shields,¡± he defended himself. He was <em>not</em> some obsessive maniac who didn¡¯t know when to quit!


    Doveughed sarcastically.


    ¡°Those are spears and shields,¡± he mocked. ¡°All you had to do for a spear was make a pointy bit you could attach to the end of a stick! There¡¯s a reason they¡¯re considered the poor person¡¯s weapon. As for the shield, as soon as you made something you could hit without it breaking, you¡¯d done your job. Swords are a different matter. I¡¯ve seen Swordsmen who literally slept with theirs, the kinky fuckers. They have to have the right weight. They have to have a cutting edge and sharp tip. They need to be perfectly bnced. The shape needs to be right. The curve of the de, if there is one. There¡¯s a million different ways to make the fucking things, and each has its own merits. People get obsessed with finding the perfect one and the amount of money yers will spend to get ahold of their dream de is absurd.¡±


    Tyron found it difficult to rte to them. His father, the most renowned Swordsman in the province, perhaps ever, hadn¡¯t given a <em>shit</em> when it came to his weapons. He collected them, in a sense, but he¡¯d only had one requirement when it came to the de he bore intobat.


    ¡°As long as it doesn¡¯t break when I swing it, I¡¯m happy,¡± he wouldugh, weighing a de in his hand. ¡°When you get to my Level, that¡¯s a tall order, most swords shatter. Keep the fancy enchanting rubbish away from me, it just gets in the way.¡±


    Magnin had favoured simple longswords that allowed for a two-handed grip, giving him flexibility to swing with extra power when he wanted to. Straightforward in design and make, all he¡¯d had to worry about was finding materials strong enough to withstand him and a smith capable of forging them.


    If it was good enough for Magnin Sterm, it was good enough for Tyron. He stood up and grabbed hold of a new set of femurs, infusing them with Death Magick the moment he touched them. With a determined expression, he began to fuse and mould the bones, as familiar now with the basicponents of a sword as a smith.


    He moulded the fuller, hardened the edge to the limit of his ability, then did the same for the point. He used a shoulder de, or scap, to create the hilt as a separate piece.


    Modifications were necessary, of course. A traditional longsword was a flexible and versatile weapon, but would be difficult for his skeletons to wield shoulder to shoulder, so he shortened it a hand. This was probably a good idea anyway. To properly create a bone-weapon that long, he would have needed to include even more raw material, cutting into his dwindling supply.


    When it was done, he took the de and connected it to the hilt, checking the grip before he tried a few test swipes. The bnce was good, which surprised him, that was where he failed the most often.


    ¡°Looks good,¡± Doveplemented his work, stepping closer to inspect the de. ¡°Let¡¯s assume that this design is good enough. Practice it a few more times and then can we please move on with our fucking lives?¡±


    ~~~


    Tyron stretched his back, groaning. Nearby, wiping down the disy cases, Cerry chuckled at his disy.


    ¡°You sound like an old man, Master Almsfield. My grandfather does exactly the same thing at the end of a day.¡±


    ¡°I <em>am</em> old,¡± he told her seriously, ¡°old in spirit. Now my body is finally catching up.¡±


    ¡°I think you¡¯ve just been working too hard,¡± she chided him, then pouted. ¡°Even Flynn has been locked up in the workshop thest few days. You two are going to fall over dead at this rate.¡±


    ¡°Apprentice Rivner is working hard to seed in his lessons so he can graduate and be a full Arcanist. There will be time for your dates when he¡¯s done,¡± Tyron chided her, causing the girl to flush.


    ¡°Oh! I didn¡¯t mean anything by it!¡± she protested, but he just waved her off.


    ¡°Back to cleaning. He¡¯ll be down soon enough.¡±


    Chastised, she went back to polishing the ss disy cases until they gleamed, the various products nestled on their cushions within,belled with a note written in wless calligraphy. Those notes had cost a small fortune, Tyron recalled. Those who had truly mastered the art of decorative writing were few and charged well for their services. It was worth it, though; each letter was like a painting, drawing the eye.


    The past few weeks, Tyron had been working himself ruthlessly hard, ensuring the store was well managed and supplied as business continued to grow, along with his nocturnal production work. Minions didn¡¯t create themselves after all, and Filetta had delivered on his request. For the next while, he could expect regr deliveries of remains, and he had a lot of work to do to get one batch out the door before the next arrived.


    As dusk fell, there was little business in the shop, which meant he was a touch surprised when the bell rang over the door. He turned to the entrance to see someone he hadn¡¯t expected.


    Cerry flinched and shifted herself to another cab away from the door as the heavily robed and cowled form he recognised as Shadda entered the shop.


    He gestured to Wansa to put her weapon away as he stepped forward.


    ¡°Greetings. It¡¯s been some time.¡±


    The Dust Folk shuffled into the store, face hidden.


    ¡°Human, Shadda has returned, yes. My tribe is happy with what you sold. Much praise for Shadda. Some for you. A little. And so cheap! A little knowledge, this is easy, yes?¡±


    Tyron blinked. Obviously, his work had gone over well in the desert. That wasforting to know.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go into the back room to talk.¡±


    ¡°We escape the prying eyes. I learn.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Good.¡±


    Soon they were seated and the Dust Folk was eager to get down to business.


    ¡°The moisture condensers, they work so well, on so little magick. My <em>Graal,</em> my¡­ leader?¡±


    ¡°Chief?¡±


    ¡°Is close, yes. My chief is very pleased. We want more, twice as much asst time.¡±


    ¡°The same terms asst time, then?¡± Tyron enquired. ¡°What you procured for me was very interesting and I would love to learn more.¡±


    ¡°<em>Chan¡¯r, </em>of course. Shadda hase prepared.¡±


    From within the robes emerged a slim, bound volume, possibly only a few dozen pages. Tyron seized it eagerly.


    ¡°Two days,¡± he assured Shadda, e back in two days and I¡¯ll have everything you need.¡±

 Chapter B3C33 - The Legion Grows

    Chapter B3C33 - The Legion Grows


    The carriage rattled across the worn cobblestone road, with four wagons in train behind it. Tyron looked back over his shoulder to make sure they were keeping pace as he¡¯d instructed and was pleased to note that they were.


    ¡°Our stop ising up,¡± he told the driver.


    ¡°Right you are, sir. I know where we¡¯s going,¡± the gruff man replied, his face more beard than anything else.


    At thiste hour, darkness had fallen over Shadetown. There were few people about, and most houses weren¡¯t lit, their residents sleepingfortably. asionally, someone stuck their head out a window and swore down at the carriages for making such noise so far from the main road.


    ¡°Here we are, then,¡± the driver said, pulling back on the reins and slowing the horses to a stop.


    A warehouse loomed to their left, four men on the door, faces shrouded in the night. Tyron dismounted the carriage and approached them.


    ¡°Good evening to you all. Apologies for thete hour. Are you prepared to load the wagons?¡±


    One of them leaned over and spat on the street.


    ¡°¡®Course, we¡¯re ready. It¡¯s fuckingte, let¡¯s get on with it.¡±


    Tyron red at him.


    ¡°Make sure you move my cargo with care. Rudeness, I will tolerate. Sloppy work, I will not.¡±


    Something in his gaze warned the porter not to try his luck, and before long, the men were working in pairs, bringing out box after box and sliding them onto the wagons. Tyron watched, impatient as the process went on until each of the wagons was stacked four boxes high and thenshed down with solid rope and a thick covering.


    ¡°Hope that¡¯s to ya satisfaction,¡± the man grizzled.


    Tyron shed gold in his hand.


    ¡°Is this to yours?¡± he replied.


    Greed flickered in his gaze as he reached for the coin. Tyron seized his wrist in a powerful grip, forcing the hand down, then ced the coin carefully in his palm.


    ¡°The same again next time,¡± he said.


    Without looking back, he turned and mounted the carriage once more, closing the door behind him.


    ¡°We can go,¡± he informed the driver, and with a click of his tongue, he had the horses moving again.


    They made frequent stops on the journey, not for any practical reason, but mainly for Tyron to inspect his precious boxes and ensure they hadn¡¯t been disturbed or damaged.


    The driverined, but he settled the man with extra coin for the dy. The trip was much slower than when he travelled alone, but that was to be expected. It was four days before they arrived at the Ortan Estate, and by that time, Tyron was stiff and irritable from sitting in the carriage for so long. As usual, Rita Ortan greeted him as the wagons pulled up outside the manor.


    ¡°Wee, Master Almsfield,¡± she said, barely concealing her sarcasm at the use of his name.


    He scowled at her.


    ¡°Hello to you as well, Mrs Ortan. I take it you received my letter?¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± she cast her eyes over the wagonsden with the odd, rectangr boxes. ¡°It seems you¡¯ve been busy.¡±


    There was clear disgust on her face and Tyron felt a true spark of anger ignite. Could this woman not contain her emotions at all?


    ¡°If you¡¯re done being obvious about what I am doing here, perhaps you could take yourself elsewhere before you get all of us murdered by the Magisters in our sleep?¡±


    She scoffed at his blunt warning, but the heat in his words gave her enough pause that she made an effort at least.


    ¡°I take it your driver and wagoneers will need lodgings and food?¡± she asked with stiff dignity.


    ¡°They will,¡± he nodded, ¡°and I will reimburse you for the cost.¡±


    ¡°So you should,¡± she sniffed. ¡°The Venerable would like to see you while you are here on the Estate.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure he would,¡± Tyron said tly, ¡°but if he wants to chat, then he needs toe to me. I¡¯m going to be busy.¡±


    She rounded on him in anger, but he coldly met her gaze.


    ¡°This is not an appointed meeting time,¡± he reminded her. ¡°I am not obliged to meet him. I¡¯m sure he is spry enough to make his way down to the basement.¡±


    So saying, he turned back and instructed the men to begin unloading the wagons, stacking the boxes meticulously under his supervision by the basement entrance before they were dismissed for the night. No longer required, the wagons could leave in the morning; only the carriage and driver needed to stay the full two days before Tyron was ready to leave again.


    It was deep into the evening by the time everything was done to his satisfaction and the workers could finally retire, yawning broadly as they stumbled off. Despite his fatigue, the Necromancer knew he wouldn¡¯t be able to sleep, not without magick, anyway. He was far too excited.


    He trailed his hands along the smooth wood of the boxes, pleased with the quality and finish on them. Most crates of this sort were crude, not designed tost, but these were solid, the wood expertly cut and treated to resist the elements. Waterproof, they protected the precious cargo within from wind and rain, while inside, they were lined with enchantments to prevent the leakage and detection of Death magick. He¡¯d even designed them to be opened from <em>within</em>, preventing anyone from prying at their contents.


    He waited an hour for everyone to settle on the grounds before he began to ¡®unpack¡¯. Starting at the uppermost containers, there was a series of clicking sounds as his skeletons reached out their fingers and undid the sps, then pushed the crates open from within. It was a ghastly sight, several sets of skeletal arms reaching out from within the boxes, but Tyron was delighted. Three skeletons per crate, they emerged and shifted their own containers before he ordered them down into the basement, pressing themselves tight against the wall. It was going to be a tight fit in there.


    Layer byyer, the skeletons rose, then made way for the next group before they marched down the steps, their bones cking against the stone steps. Tyron¡¯s eyes gleamed with pride as he watched them move. These were his finest creations, each representing the umted effort and knowledge he hadpiled since bing a Necromancer. They were stronger, faster, more durable, more efficient. In fact, as they moved and shifted the crates, he felt barely any drain on his magick at all, causing him to grin.


    When all his new minions had finally removed themselves, only the final few boxes remained. These were opened in a more conventional manner to reveal stacks of swords, shields, spears, bows and arrows which were removed, carted down into the basement and distributed amongst the skeletons ording to his will.


    Those with the weakest bones had been assigned as archers to keep them away from the thick of the fighting. These skeletons were also the lightest, able to move deceptively fast and with surprising grace.


    The heaviest skeletons with the most durable bones were his front line,rge bone shields on one arm, spears on the other. Those in the middle were his swordsmen, longswords forged of bone gripped in both skeletal hands held in front of their faces.


    Tyron admired his new soldiers, checking on their intricate arrays, weaponry and connection to himself. All he needed now was to bulk out the numbers of basic skeletons, and ¡®enlist¡¯ a few revenants to his cause.


    With a thought, he summoned his one remaining revenant, the nameless swordsman he had fought so long ago. Covered in dust after so long in the cer, he looked very much the worse for wear. Tyron examined the undead carefully, then probed it with his mind.


    Even now, after years had passed, there was still an undercurrent of resentment and rebellion simmering beneath the surface. When he had bound the soul of the yer, there had clearly been a mistake, since his minions should not be able to harbour this much ill will towards him. Thanks to what he had learned from Yor¡¯s book, Tyron knew how to fix that now, but wasn¡¯t sure if he should.


    ¡°You¡¯re outdated,¡± he told the revenant, gesturing to his new undead. ¡°Things have changed a great deal since you were made. Not to fear, though, I can fix you up. You¡¯ll be fit to serve again soon.¡±


    A sh of rage, a despairing wail, then silence, as Tyron enforced his will.


    ¡°Once upon a time, I might have set you free, but not now. Not with everything I need to aplish.¡±


    He pushed past the revenant and cast <em>light</em>, revealing the line of stones resting on a dusty wooden shelf.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care about your despair anymore, or your suffering, or your pain. So you will serve. <em>All</em> of you, will serve.¡±


    Beneath the shelf sat another row of small,belled boxes. He reached out and grasped the onebelled <em>Rufus</em>. Inside, he found the bones, traces of rotten flesh still clinging to the remains, a leering skull, hastily fused back together, resting atop the pile.


    ~~~


    The Venerable found him in the morning, hard at work. Tyron had remained in the basement all night, pulling apart his old minions and putting them back together again as best he could.


    Coughing as he stepped into the damp air choked with dust, the old man blinked as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.


    ¡°Are you favoured of Rot, boy?¡± he asked, querulous. ¡°My lungs are going to grow mould if I stay down here another ten minutes!¡±


    ¡°Then feel free to leave,¡± came a voice from near the back of the cer, and the venerable grumbled to himself.


    ¡°At leaste over and help me down the steps,¡± he demanded, his thin voice resonating in the narrow stone cer.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you have a cane for that?¡± Tyron¡¯s voice drifted from the darkness.


    ¡°It¡¯s not enough at my age.¡±


    ¡°How old are you again?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s none of your business.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Tyron snapped. ¡°Wait there a second.¡±


    The young mage strode from the recesses of the cer, his face creased in a scowl, his hair and clothes covered in cobwebs and dust.


    ¡°You could¡¯ve cleaned the ce before you started working here,¡± the venerable said, his thin voice hardly prating the dust-choked air.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have much time, and it takes more than a little dust to bother my constitution,¡± Tyron replied as he stepped forward briskly.


    With care, he helped the old man down the steps, and the venerable took in the sight of the many skeletons lined against the walls.


    ¡°Weapons made of bones? Looks like you¡¯ve been progressing well,¡± he noted as he peered at a sword.


    The skeleton snapped its head towards him and the venerable chuckled.


    ¡°Takes more than that to scare an old dog like me.¡±


    Tyron shrugged, somewhat impatient. He only had two days in which to update his old minions as best he could, and create new revenants. He wanted Rufus to be one of them, but his skeleton still needed a lot of repair work after what Magnin had done to him.


    ¡°I was told you wanted to talk, but I hope you forgive me if I continue to work while you speak,¡± Tyron said, bending down to the pile of bones he was currently re-threading.


    The muscture on his old minions was <em>totally</em> inadequate. He was lucky they¡¯d even been able to walk! The venerable nodded agreeably, watching with interest as the Necromancer''s fingers began to dance through the air with impossible speed and grace, fine threads of magick trailing from his fingertips.


    ¡°You¡¯vee a long way,¡± the venerable said, ¡°I¡¯m a bit surprised. Seems like you haven¡¯t been wasting your time down in the capital.¡±


    The younger man flicked an irritated nce at the older as he continued to move with dizzying speed.


    ¡°You think my desire for vengeance is so weak theforts of the city would be enough to snuff it out?¡± he scoffed. ¡°You don¡¯t know me, old man. I¡¯m desperate enough to throw in with your gods to get what I want. Underestimate my drive at your own peril.¡±


    The venerable didn¡¯t respond immediately, continuing to watch him spin his threads into muscle and sinew.


    ¡°The gods seem to think you have a chance to seed,¡± he finally said, quietly. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen the Three put their faith in anyone like this for a long time. I hope you are worthy of it.¡±


    It was difficult, but Tyron managed to suppress the urge to spit out a deprecating or sarcastic reply. Worthy? He didn¡¯t care about being worthy. Whatever Crone, Raven and Rot had in mind certainly wasn¡¯t for his benefit, but their own.


    The venerable seemed to sense his mood.


    ¡°Even if you don¡¯t care about the Three, then spare a thought for their followers,¡± he urged quietly. ¡°At the behest of their gods, they are sticking their necks out for the first time in centuries. At the very least, try not to let <em>them</em> down.¡±


    Tyron red up at the old man.


    ¡°Do you know what¡¯s going to happen? If you have details, spit them out.¡±


    ¡°Something great,¡± the old man said, ¡°and terrible. It¡¯lle quickly from here. I hope you¡¯re ready, boy.¡±

 Chapter B3: Tending

    Chapter B3: Tending


    Tyron looked down and let the emotions run through him. Rage, pain, grief, shame. It was difficult to be here, hard to endure the internal tumult he felt every time he stood in this ce, but still he forced himself to. It was here that he renewed his purpose.


    Magnin and Beory looked the same as they had in life. They wereid next to each other, arms touching, facing the sky above through a gap in the trees. This ce was on the edge of the Ordan estate, but he wasn¡¯t worried anyone would find it, or what they might do if they did.


    His parents were encased in a clear, ice-like substance, as hard as diamonds. Of course, they had arranged for everything when they¡¯d died, or at least, everything they could manage, including the preservation of their own remains.


    The greatest swordsman of the west had told him that the bodies he and Beory would leave behind would be the best materials he would ever find, and the two of them had taken steps to ensure they would be preserved. He hadn¡¯t been wrong, Magnin¡¯s soul was gone, his supreme swordsmanship gone with it, but this was the body of someone who had pushed close to level eighty, possibly gone beyond it.


    Tyron deeply hoped he was never forced to a ce where he had to make use of it. It wasn¡¯t sentimental attachment that prevented him from making use of what his family had left behind, but he didn¡¯t believe he had it in him to butcher his own parents. He was simply too weak.


    Wherever their spirits had gone, he hoped they were happy, finally free of the concerns that had bound them in this ce. No more brand, no more demands on their time and energy, just the endless adventure they had craved.


    They deserved that.


    Down here, in this ce, Tyron would burn everything their killers had built down to the ground. Not for them, Magnin and Beory hadn¡¯t wanted him to walk this path. He would do it for himself.


    Leaning forward, he ced a hand against the cold, clear surface that encased the two figures. For a time, he struggled to think of something to say, anything, but eventually gave up. They weren¡¯t here, all that remained was flesh and bone, anything he said wouldn¡¯t reach them, so he didn¡¯t bother.


    He gave them onest look, then turned and left.


    ~~~


    Tyron¡¯s hands ached and a persistent throbbing pounded in his head, but he was satisfied with the work he¡¯d gotten done. Updating his old skeletons to bring them fully in line with his current ones wasn¡¯t possible, but he could do a great deal to strengthen them. First, he¡¯d grouped with the other skeletons they¡¯d been raised with and bound them with the same enchantments the others had. Having prepared the cores andworks ahead of time, all he¡¯d had to do was attach and activate them.


    Unwinding and fixing the bone stitching was harder. It took more time and required a great deal of dextrous weaving on his part, leaving his fingers pained and stiff, but he¡¯d seeded in this also. Then he¡¯d repaired their bones, patching up any cracks, and equipped them with his new bone weaponry. After the spruce-up, his old skeletons were looking good as new, ready to take on allers.


    After which, he¡¯d turned his attention to the more important work. If he was going to take on the rifts, he needed more revenants, and he needed to make them as well as he could.


    Rufus had been split down the middle by Magnin, and looking at the bones, Tyron still couldn¡¯t believe how clean the cut was. He¡¯d done what he could to fuse them back together before departing the mountain, but a proper repair would take time and effort. After ensuring everything was together enough to endure the journey, he carefully packed the remains of the would-be swordsman back into his box, along with the stone that held his soul. When he finished his work, Rufus would have a new home, and a new purpose.


    Laurel was also destined to be a revenant. A talented archer with a great deal of skill, she¡¯d be useful as a minion, more than most anyway. The shield-bearing yer he¡¯d fought would join them, along with the young mage. Tyron wanted to test his ability to create a spell-casting undead, and a mage in training would make an excellent candidate.


    With those four, he would have five former yers in his service, ready to lead his skeletons into battle. They were only iron-ranked, hardly the powerful minions he would prefer, but after he¡¯d given them the full treatment, he expected they would serve their purpose.


    His workpleted and everything packed away, Tyron slumped against the wall. He¡¯d barely made it in time, but soon he would depart. Exhaustion gripped him, and he was covered in dust, but he forced himself to carry his ¡®luggage¡¯ up and out of the cer before locking it with almost two hundred skeletons inside.


    Job done, he returned to the manor house for a meal and a bath before the long journey back to Kenmor.


    Mrs Ortan found him in the kitchen, filching a second slice from a meat pie he¡¯d found cooling on the window sill.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to steal,¡± she told him, fists on her hips. ¡°If you ask for a meal, I¡¯ll have you served.¡±


    He shook his head as he chewed, then swallowed.


    ¡°Not enough time,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯m leaving in ten minutes.¡±


    She shook her head.


    ¡°You work so fast, I¡¯m surprised you get anything done,¡± she said, looking at his still dust-covered form. ¡°Whatever happened to taking your time and doing your tasks right? Saves time in the long run.¡±


    Tyron grunted as he choked down another bite.


    ¡°Turns out¡­¡± he said, ¡°... if you work fast <em>and</em> do it right, you save even more time.¡±


    The matron barked out a sharpugh.


    ¡°Everyone thinks that way, but nobody actually pulls it off. They always end up finding things they overlooked and having to redo the task all over again. It¡¯s the mostmon pitfall on a farm, people fall for it all the time. There¡¯s always more work you could be doing, so the urge to work faster is always there, but it¡¯s a trap.¡±


    He¡¯d heard much the same from Master Willhem. The old man could work at incredible speed when he wanted to, but he usually didn¡¯t. Tyron had watched him work in one of the rare moments he¡¯d been allowed to observe the Master practising his craft. Willhem¡¯s movements were never fast, and never slow. He worked at a steady, even pace, ensuring that no mistakes urred at every step, even though he never made any.


    Tyron swallowed thest of the pie.


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind,¡± he said. ¡°Any chance I can wash off?¡±


    ¡°Please do,¡± Mrs Ortan told him acidly, eyeing her floors. ¡°Try not to brush against the walls until you¡¯re clean.¡±


    ~~~


    The journey back was quicker than the trip there, and Tyron did his best to sleep the whole way, but still felt exhausted when he finally alighted from the carriage out the front of Almsfield Enchantments.


    The carriage driver was just as fatigued, having pushed through the journey without break for two days. Tyron thanked the man before he personally unloaded the crates he had brought back and ced them in front of the store.


    ¡°Wansa,¡± he called as he stuck his head through the door, ¡°I need a little help.¡±


    The burly yer stepped outside and he indicated the boxes.


    ¡°Can you take these into the back room please?¡±


    She squinted as she stared down at the crates, then at him.


    ¡°I¡¯m not here to carry your stuff,¡± she told him coldly.


    ¡°You¡¯ll do it anyway,¡± he yawned, ¡°because you know what will happen if you don¡¯t.¡±


    He brushed her off.


    ¡°Besides,¡± he called over his shoulder, ¡°it¡¯s not like I ask you to do this stuff all the time. Help me out.¡±


    The inside of his store was bustling with an unusual number of customers, who thankfully didn¡¯t recognise him. Cerry was doing her best to manage the floor, moving from one group to the next, answering their questions as best she could by reading from the ledger containing the specifications of every product they sold.


    Where the heck was Flynn? The man was supposed to help with sales when it got busy. Tyron slipped through the crowd and behind the counter without Cerry spotting him and made his way upstairs where he found his apprentice plying his trade in the workshop.


    ¡°Flynn!¡± Tyron snapped and the young man nearly leapt out of his skin. ¡°Cerry is getting flooded downstairs, what are you doing?¡±


    He stepped forward and peered over his stammering apprentice¡¯s shoulder to see the core he¡¯d been working on. Tyron tsked.


    ¡°That¡¯s <em>awful</em>. What happened there?¡±


    ¡°It was fine until you startled me,¡± Flynn groaned. ¡°My hand slipped. Couldn¡¯t you have knocked?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have had to if you were doing your job. The floor. Now.¡±


    With a sigh, his apprentice pushed his chair back and rose, cing his pliance down on the bench.


    ¡°Are youing, Master Almsfield?¡±


    ¡°What? No. I¡¯m going to bed.¡±


    ~~~


    For three days, Tyron slept, ate, scrubbed himself and tended to minor chores around the store. He¡¯d been burning the candle at both ends,tely, then inserted an extra wick somewhere in the middle. When he awoke on the fourth day, he felt revived. His head was clear, his eyes weren¡¯t grainy, he even looked a little less pale. What a picture of health. Of course, it couldn¡¯tst, there was simply too much to do.


    The first night back, he¡¯d taken his crates and brought them down into the study, carefully unpacking the remains, but then leaving them be. After resting, he was ready to get to work creating his revenants. Of course, as a superior form of undead, they deserved his very best attention, so hevished it on them.


    He ran his hands along the bones, sensing for even the slightest imperfection and repairing them to pristine condition. Each skeleton was treated to remove remaining tissue, cleansed of magick and then held in the strengthening solution for a full day, the bones soaking up every drop. The series of tests he had developed was carefully applied until he knew every detail of the bones, then he began to modify them.


    Tyron¡¯s newfound capacity to manipte bones allowed him to make all sorts of modifications which were never possible before. He strengthened the arms, shoulders and cor bone, fusing spare material into the skeletons after treating it. He toughened up the ribcage and skull as well,pressing them to their limits.


    Armour forged of bone was next. Helmets, shoulder ting, arm guards, dyed ck by the infusion of Death Magick within.


    He wove an intricate and meticulous thread for each of them, settling it deep within their bones and pulling the skeletons together. They would have a wless range of movement and fully articte hands. Tyron was particrly proud of the spines, which had more flex than any other skeleton due to the extra weave he¡¯d done there.


    The bones slowly umted death magick as he worked until they approached full saturation, and it was time to finish the job.


    He took hold of the stone containing the first soul, feeling it weigh heavily in his palm. It was time.

 Chapter B3C35 - The Legion Grows

    Chapter B3C35 - The Legion Grows


    <em>Do you think I deserve this?</em>


    Laurel¡¯s voice echoed from the spectre that hovered in the centre of the obscuring cloud of mist created by the Commune with Spirits spell. Ghostly eyes filled with rage red at him, baleful and red. Tyron folded his arms across his chest.


    ¡°You went after a Necromancer in the hopes of getting some coin, Laurel. You knew what might happen.¡±


    <em>You have no reason to keep me. Set me free.</em>


    Freedom had always been the deepest of Laurel¡¯s desires. She didn¡¯t want to be controlled, she didn¡¯t want to be bound or limited by the circumstances of her birth or ce a limit on her own potential. In many ways, she¡¯d been like his parents, manically devoted to living an unbound life. He couldn¡¯t keep a smile from twisting his lips.


    ¡°Freedom? You won¡¯t get freedom for a <em>long</em> time, <em>friend</em>. You¡¯ll serve instead.¡±


    The spectre screamed, like a wind of death blown straight from a crypt.


    <em>You want me to apologise? You want me to beg?</em>


    Tyron only shook his head.


    ¡°Do you think I care about what you did anymore? The only reason we are speaking at all is because I felt like I owed it to you, given the time we spent together. I¡¯m not sure if you can see it in your present state, but look there, your vessel is ready and waiting. The next time we speak, you¡¯ll be there, inside your skeleton, bound to serve until I die.¡±


    <em>I will kill you.</em>


    ¡°No¡­ you won¡¯t.¡±


    ~~~


    The creation of a revenant was something that Tyron had learned without the aid of the Unseen, but after all his research and strides forward, he felt that he understood the process so much better now. Of course, that could just be his new mystery whispering in his ear. Any Necromancy he performed since earning Essence of Death had felt that little bit more natural, as if death was revealing itself to him.


    The process involved binding the spirit to the bones, something he had intuited. A spirit was a manifestation of magick, and magick could be moulded into any shape when enough will was applied. To create a revenant, he had to pour their spirit into the skeleton like molten iron, fusing the ghost and the threadsced inside the bones together. Only then would the ghost have control over the remains.


    Was it strictly necessary to use the skeleton and spirit of the same person to achieve this result? Possibly not, but Tyron believed it was certainly much easier, and likely produced a better undead. After all, who was more familiar with Laurel¡¯s frame than Laurel herself?


    The first time he¡¯d done this, Tyron had struggled mightily to control the process, but now, it was simple. He exerted his will and enacted the ritual,yering the two spells atop each other as he Raised the Dead and summoned the ghost simultaneously. Laurel¡¯s spirit wailed as he bound it to her bones, but he didn¡¯t so much as blink.


    Finally, he bound her mind in shackles of iron, using what he had learned to correct his mistakes from the past. There would be no rebellious fits from <em>this</em> revenant. She would obey unconditionally and never be able to turn her rage against him.


    When it was finished, light bloomed within the skeleton, inside the hollow sockets of the skull, and a brighter fire within the rib cage, the telltale sign of a revenant. It was there that the spirit was most concentrated.


    He bid histest minion rise.


    ¡°You look good, Laurel. One of my finest creations, I must say.¡±


    Wordless rage boiled through the connection he shared with the undead, but it was confused and aimless. Magickally prevented from directing her emotions towards him, they floundered aimlessly, thrashing for something, anything, to strike at. He handed her the bow he had prepared. Made from reinforced bones and enchanted to produce greater speed from the projectiles itunched, it was an excellent piece of work.


    ¡°This is the best bow you¡¯ve ever gotten your hands on. Hopefully, it¡¯ll serve you well.¡±


    Wordlessly, he ordered her to collect the quiver of arrows, which the revenant silently slung over her armour. She drew an arrow, knocked it to the bow, and drew back. A shimmering thread of purple light ignited as the hand came back, stretching until the string rested next to Laurel¡¯s bony cheek. She released, and the arrow whistled through the air for the barest fraction of a second before it shattered against the stone wall.


    The ease at which the skeleton had moved pleased him greatly. The main advantages of a revenant was that it carried over at least some of the Skills the spirit had possessed in life. Laurel had been a gifted archer from a young age. It was a shame she¡¯d never made it to her first ss advancement¡­.


    ¡°You¡¯ll do,¡± he said.


    ~~~


    It was too hard to keep the smile off his face as light swirled from the rock on the ground, so he didn¡¯t bother. The mist formed and within, the shadowy form of Rufus¡¯ spirit.


    <em>Let me die!</em> He raged.


    ¡°No chance. I¡¯ve got a use for you. It¡¯s about time <em>someone</em> did.¡±


    The ghost thrashed and howled, twisting around itself as it tried to break free of the spell that bound it in ce. The anger that burned in Rufus was so bright Tyron could almost feel it like heat on his face. It warmed him.


    ¡°Do you have any idea how long it¡¯s taken me to fuse your stupid face back together? I didn¡¯t find all of your teeth, though, sorry about that. I¡¯ve substituted some for you. You¡¯re wee.¡±


    Did Rufus even know how he¡¯d died? Tyron had never told him before.


    ¡°I¡¯m curious if you remember much of your death,¡± he pondered. ¡°That was the one and only swordsmanship lesson Magnin had ever taught you. A valuable experience, to be sure.¡±


    <em>It wasn¡¯t you</em>, Rufus rasped, taunting. <em>I had you. I HAD YOU.</em>


    ¡°And look at you now,¡± Tyron pped his hands sarcastically. ¡°You¡¯ve continued your winning streak in life.¡±


    Suddenly, it didn¡¯t seem interesting any more. Why was he here, taunting a dead man? Rufus wasn¡¯t just defeated, he was bound and broken, about to be enved. There was no benefit to it.


    ¡°Speak to you again soon, Rufus,¡± he waved his hands and ended the spell, sending the spirit back into the rock.


    When the Ritual wasplete, Rufus was entombed within his own skeleton, his will shackled just as tightly as Laurel¡¯s. He ordered his new revenant to walk up and down the study, keenly inspecting its gait to ensure the repairs had worked properly. Thankfully, everything seemed to be in order.


    Ignoring the rage and despair that thundered inside the undead, he handed a finely crafted longsword, the best Tyron had made, enchanted with a fairly basic form of hardening that would hopefully prevent the weapon from chipping, or worse, breaking. His Bone Forged arms were yet to be truly tested in the heat of battle, regardless of what he¡¯d done to them on his own, and part of him still didn¡¯t trust they would be durable enough to survive.


    ¡°Give it a swing, Rufus,¡± he ordered aloud. ¡°Let¡¯s see how you move.¡±


    Histest revenant shed the air, unable to even contemte refusing hismands, and Tyron was pleased to see the artiction of the wrists and elbows. His father had always emphasised how important wrists were for swordsmanship, though Tyron himself had never really understood it. Nevertheless, the range of motion was pleasing and histest revenant appeared sufficiently deadly.


    ¡°A shame you didn¡¯t get more levels,¡± he told his minion. ¡°Eventually, you¡¯ll be reced with better yers, but I¡¯m happy enough with this for now. Wee to your new existence, Rufus.¡±


    The spirit within the revenant was apoplectic with rage, but had no outlet for it. Externally, the undead stood as still and silent as any normal skeleton, though it looked much more impressive with its custom-made armour and brightly burning spirit fire. If not for the connection that allowed him to sense the emotions of the soul trapped inside, Tyron would have no idea how Rufus felt about his captivity. Ultimately, it didn¡¯t matter. To achieve his revenge, he needed powerful undead servants, and that meant revenants would inevitably be part of his retinue. Far better if he tested his techniques on the weak souls he had avable, unranked yers like Laurel and Rufus, thanter, on actuallypetent people.


    Simr to Laurel, he dismissed Rufus and turned his attention to his next project. He didn¡¯t know the name of the yer who had borne the shield in their conflict, though he could summon the spirit to find out. Tyron opted not to. Although this person had tried to hunt him down for profit, there was no real grudge between them, and he felt that taunting the souls of deceased foes may prove to be a slippery slope. Already, he found it difficult not to talk to his minions, despite repeatedly telling himself not to. Next, he¡¯d be conjuring up the spirit of every yer and marshal he killed to throw rocks at them.


    A waste of time.


    So he didn¡¯t bother. Instead, he focused on each step of the process in creating histest revenant. He had four archetypes of skeletons at the moment. Sword and board, sword only, spears, bow and arrow. Rufus would act as the revenant leader of the longsword wielders, he had Laurel for the archers, and now this nameless yer for the more defensive of his minions.


    To emphasise his role, Tyron had taken great care in preparing this particr skeleton and its armour. The skeleton itself had almost doubled in weight due to the reinforcement he¡¯d done, which didn¡¯t mean a lot in the greater scheme of things, skeletons were exceptionally light, but the final result was much tougher than before. For the armour, he¡¯d done simr, reinforcing the bone beforepressing and moulding it to the proper shape. This revenant would be the most heavily armoured by far as well, with bone ting covering its entire chest, along with thick, ovepping tes down the spine. Even the knee and ankle joints were protected, a touch which had taken far more time than he¡¯d expected.


    When the ritual wasplete, the revenant rose and he once again put it through its paces, watching with keen interest as the skeleton swiped its weapon through the air, or braced its shield while he threw bones at it. He was satisfied with the result.


    Now came the more interesting challenge. His ascension to a new ss had brought with it a number of surprises, but foremost amongst these was his capacity to engrave spells upon the minds of his minions. It may be possible for him to create skeletons capable ofunching death bolts or simr, but for now, he wanted to test this newfound ability on a mind more conducive to spellcasting. He intended to inscribe two spells upon his revenant: Death Bolt, and Death Grasp, along with a much more borate enchanting array to gather the power necessary to fuel the magicks.


    What he¡¯d been able to glean from the hazy thoughts and impressions granted by the Unseen had been dutifully recorded and expanded upon in his notebook, and he referred to them now as he began to prepare the ritual. Raise Dead was already a difficult spell, at leastparatively, but by this time, Tyron knew it like the back of his hand. Modifying it, even to this extent, wasn¡¯t difficult for him, and he moved through the casting with confidence.


    Words of power echoed through the chamber as he wove sigils with his hands, forging a new, unique form of undead.


    When it was done, the revenant rose, hate and terror emanating from it in equal measure.


    Tyron pointed to one wall.


    ¡°Cast Death Bolt,¡± hemanded.


    The soul bound within the revenant had certainly known how to form a normal bolt, every mage did to some extent, but a Death Bolt? Absolutely not. Nevertheless, the revenant extended its skeleton hands, forming the arcane sigils with dextrous fingers of bone, and a mass of dark energy shot forth to smash against the stone wall.


    ¡°Wonderful,¡± Tyron breathed.

 Chapter B3C36 - Dark Knowledge

    Chapter B3C36 - Dark Knowledge


    ¡°It took longer than expected to collect these. I hope you weren¡¯t too inconvenienced?¡± Yor asked with an arched smile.


    Tyron sat grimly in his workshop, the darkness only kept at bay by the small globe of light he had conjured.


    ¡°As grateful as I am for the service you¡¯ve done for me, don¡¯t you think it would be more appropriate to send word of your arrival? Rather than wake me in the middle of the night?¡±


    Yor pouted and the Necromancer averted his eyes. Evil things shouldn¡¯t look so appealing. It was wrong on a fundamental level.


    ¡°You can hardly me me for waking you. I happened toe on the rare asion you were actually sleeping. A very <em>rare</em> urrence, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡±


    Tyron still preferred to work at night, even when he was enchanting. Theck of distractions was wee, and he didn¡¯t struggle to fall asleep during the bustle of the day. The noise from the market was irrelevant when you could drift off to sleep with a spell at a moment''s notice. More people should learn that spell, it was unbelievably convenient.


    ¡°No, I suppose I see your point. Are you going to deliver what you promised, or will I have to jump through hoops and a prolonged conversation I¡¯d rather have no part in?¡±


    If he¡¯d noticed one thing about Yor and her coven, it was their propensity for <em>talk</em>. They could chat in circles around a topic all night without batting so much as an eye. He found it infuriating. What was the point of a conversation that didn¡¯t convey something? Yor insisted he simply wasn¡¯t seeing the nuance or reading the subtle signals, Tyron simply pronounced they were wasting time.


    The vampire frowned before she extracted a familiar wooden case from the shadows around her and passed it to him. As he reached out to take it, he realised she wasn¡¯t letting go, the box held firm in her grip.


    ¡°Of course,¡± he sighed. ¡°Shall we discuss the colour red for five hours while constantly hinting that we are talking about blood but never specifically saying so?¡±


    Despite his sarcastic tone, he didn¡¯t actually expect Yor to be angered by his words, but to his surprise, a bit of heat shed through her eyes as she gazed down at him.


    ¡°The games we y serve a very <em>specific</em> purpose. The Scarlet Court is a ce where an imprecise word, a poorly turned phrase, or a slip from the correct mode of speech will earn an eternity of suffering. My coven practises so that they may be inplete control of their tongues at all times, as it is the only way for a vampire to survive. Do you understand?¡±


    She red down at him as he remained seated in his chair. Tyron pinched his brow.


    ¡°I apologise. I know too little of your customs and ways to be passing judgement on your activities. Suffice to say, they do not suit me, but that is no excuse for my tone.¡±


    She released the case and he brought it close to his chest, nodding in thanks before he opened it to inspect the contents. Each of the ss spheres was now dyed ck, the scent of Death Magick rising thickly from them. If he looked closely, he swore he could almost see the shifting souls wailing in despair locked within. Or perhaps that was just his guilty conscience. He snapped the case shut.


    ¡°Of course, this one isn¡¯t going to be free, or paid in a nebulous favour we demandter,¡± Yor announced. ¡°We have a task, though it will wait until after you return from your¡­ sojourn.¡±


    In the dim light, she was a disturbing sight, her pale features standing out against her raven ck hair. What stood out the most was her eyes, blood red, and glowing with purpose. Was there a hint of fang in her smile?


    ¡°What do you need me to do?¡± he asked.


    Whatever it was, it wouldn¡¯t be something he liked. This was a heavy favour he had asked for, they were sure to demand a price equal in weight.


    ¡°I warned you some time ago that other¡­ groups¡­ from within the court may soon seek to establish a presence here in this realm. Rtively stable and filled with blood, it¡¯s a <em>tempting </em>slice of reality for my kind, after all. Such an event has nowe to pass, my Mistress has confirmed it. We expect they maye to you, but we no longer wish to take that chance.¡±


    ¡°You want me to go to them?¡±


    ¡°<em>Indeed</em>.¡±


    He really didn¡¯t like her smile.


    ¡°But we want you to survive. So we will call on you to perform this task for us after you have returned. I hope you are a little stronger at that point than you are now.¡±


    ¡°Me too,¡± Tyron muttered.


    ~~~


    ¡°I¡¯ming with you,¡± Dove dered, hands resting on his bony hips.


    ¡°What? Why?¡± Tyron stared at the skeleton, unsure quite what to make of this request. ¡°Is this a joke of some kind? I don¡¯t really have the brainpower for it right now, Dove.¡±


    The skeleton pped a hand to his skull. A hollow ¡®tak¡¯ sound reverberated through the study.


    ¡°Not enough brainpower? You?! What happened? You tripped over and lost half of your Intelligence?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a lot on my te,¡± he snapped as he massaged his temples. ¡°I¡¯m organising the shop, preparing for the trip, managing my undead.¡±


    There was also the many avenues of research he¡¯d been feverishly scribbling out notes for, but he didn¡¯t see any reason to mention those. The more time he spent chasing his thoughts down each and every little avenue, the more Tyron became convinced that Necromancy was an unmasterable pursuit. There were simply so many ways one could specialise. If he spent a hundred years, he still didn¡¯t think he¡¯d have time to ferret out every little secret, optimise eachponent of his craft.


    The moment he thought he had a solid grasp of one concept, he realised that his new understanding had applications in a dozen other ces, and <em>those</em> changes fed back into what he¡¯d been studying in the first ce! It was endless, but his mind simply wouldn¡¯t allow him to put any of it to the side. He <em>had</em> to know.


    ¡°It¡¯s interesting the way you say ¡®trip¡¯ like you¡¯re nning a jaunt into the central province for a spa day. I think a better phrasing would be ¡®horrifying journey through nightmarish un-reality¡¯, or ¡®sanity-annihting trek through a non-dimension filled with soul-devouring worms¡¯. It¡¯s more honest.¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Abyssals are worms?¡±


    He¡¯d never been able to ascribe a defined shape to them. To him, they appeared as an amorphous mass of tentacles and¡­ whatever they were made of.


    ¡°Of course that¡¯s what youtch onto. No, Abyssals aren¡¯t worms. Nobody knows what shape they are, the damn things start to disintegrate the second they arrive on this side of the veil, so it¡¯s not like you have time to take a good look.¡±


    The Necromancer knew that Abyssal creatures couldn¡¯t exist in this reality, or anywhere outside of the abyss, but he didn¡¯t realise they perished <em>that</em> quickly.


    ¡°Why do they want toe through, then? They seem desperate to get to this side.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t fucking know!¡± the skeleton threw his bony arms in the air, exasperated. ¡°I¡¯m not an expert on the Abyss! The only reason I know as much as I do is because I¡¯m Dimension Mage <em>adjacent</em>. Abyssals can¡¯t exist on this side of the veil, but they love toe over, melt themselves and kill everything nearby while they do. You don¡¯t seem to understand how terrifying they are.¡±


    ¡°And yet, here¡¯s you, offering to apany me on this journey through the Abyss¡­ for what purpose? To go to Cragwhistle? If I remember correctly, you described it as a frozen shithole on the arse of the world.¡±


    ¡°Some of us <em>like</em> a good shithole.¡±


    Tyron stared at him.


    ¡°You¡¯ve changed, Dove.¡±


    ¡°Not like that! Wait, <em>you¡¯re</em> the one making dirty jokes now? The <em>fuck</em> is going on here? The world has gone mad.¡±


    The skeleton paced up and down, and once again, Tyron was disturbed at the sight of a skeleton moving with such human mannerisms. It was¡­ unnatural. Like a sheep discussing the weather, or a bird weaving fabric. Undead <em>famously</em> didn¡¯t have personalities, barring a rare few kinds. Watching Dove idly reach behind himself and scratch at the back of his pelvis like he still had a backside was simply jarring.


    ¡°Look,¡± Dove fronted Tyron again. ¡°The reason I want to go is so I can throw some spells and kill some kin, alright?¡±


    Far from clearing matters up, this only confused Tyron more.


    ¡°What? You want to¡­ kill kin? What for?¡±


    He highly doubted that the reason was so Dove could relive his glory days as a yer. Although¡­ maybe it was?


    ¡°We need to try and figure out how to connect me to the Unseen,¡± Dove dered, wiggling his skeletal fingers in Tyron¡¯s face. ¡°Neither of us know how to do it, but we both know it¡¯s possible. Yor and her fellow suckers are proof that undead can still level and have sses.¡±


    Of course. Why hadn¡¯t Tyron considered that as a possible motivation?


    ¡°You think if you kill enough rift-kin, eventually the Unseen will recognise your existence? Grant you a ss and Race?¡±


    What would his race even be? Revenant?


    Dove crossed his arms across his ribcage, the purple light ring in his sockets.


    ¡°Obviously, the odds of this working are low, I know that, you know that, but I <em>have</em> to try. You don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like being cut off from the Unseen, from power and independence. I¡¯ve lived with it my entire life. In fact, I was silver, like you¡¯ve be. Now that I can finally move again¡­ thanks for that, by the way¡­ I want to have a <em>purpose</em>. Apart from fighting the kin alongside my fellow bone boys, what else is there for me?¡±


    If he was honest with himself, and Tyron almost always was, there wasn¡¯t much reason for Dove to continue to exist. As a mentor, he¡¯d been invaluable, but that time had passed. Tyron now equaled the former Summoner in terms of rank, if not quite in level. Were it not for the benefits of his formal mage education, Dove would have nothing to teach him anymore. Even then, at this point, there wasn¡¯t much he knew that Tyron couldn¡¯t figure out on his own.


    ¡°So we take you along and you can fight, kill a few kin, hope that you get a ss¡­ somehow.¡±


    Tyron sighed and shrugged.


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll take you along.¡±


    ¡°YES!¡± the skeleton pumped his fists.


    ¡°But make sure you don¡¯t cause any issues,¡± Tyron warned him. ¡°We both know you aren¡¯t at your most stable right now,¡± he held up a hand to forestall any protest, ¡°and I don¡¯t me you for that. I just can¡¯t afford any fuckups from you. There will be no skeleton running through Cragwhistle being a dickhead. You stick with the skeletons. Am I understood?¡±


    ¡°Completely,¡± came back a solemn vow.


    Tyron didn¡¯t believe it for a second.

 Chapter B3C37 - The Terrible Price He Paid

    Chapter B3C37 - The Terrible Price He Paid


    Pierce the Veil was one of the first Rituals Tyron had ever learned. Unwieldy and mind-bendinglyplex as it had been to him at the time, now he viewed the magick as a blunt instrument. Sometimes he wondered if the Abyss wanted any of those who contacted them with this spell to survive at all. In essence, all it did was manifest the veil, which was rather difficult, then poke a hole in it, which wasn¡¯t.


    After that, the ritual caster was pretty much on their own.


    The ritual circle was <em>some</em> protection, of course, at least physically. In reality, the mind of the caster was almost totally vulnerable to the psychic emanations of the Abyss and almost certain to go mad. If the madness didn¡¯t win, then the opening in the veil almost certainly would. The creatures of the Abyss <em>hungered</em> to be free of that ce. Tyron had felt that desperate desire from them and the intensity of it had shaken him to the core. Why, and for what purpose, he didn¡¯t know, but it was certainly real, they wanted <em>out</em>, even if it meant death. Any opening in the veil was like lighting a candle at night next to a swamp. Insects rushed to the me the same way the Abyssals moved to the ritual site.


    Of course, the opening was small, only one could hope to get through, but what happened when one did? They, of course, would devour everything they could find, the first of which would be the one who had cast the stupid ritual in the first ce.


    So Tyron had been forced to find other ways tomunicate with the Abyss that didn¡¯t involve offering himself up on a silver tter. Learning the rudiments of their speech had been the first step. Heavily modifying Pierce the Veil had been second. As it turned out, one could <em>conceal</em> the opening in the veil if you knew how, which had been very tricky to figure out. Also, it was possible tomunicate with the creatures on the other side without allowing them through. Of course, they would hunt for the opening, which put the conversation on something of a clock, but it was possible.


    Using this method, Tyron had been able to construct a couple of deals. Hopefully, they would stand him in good stead now.


    Night closed around him tightly, but it didn¡¯t bother him. As requested, Mrs Ortan had allowed the construction of a small ritual site disguised as a woodman''s lodge on the outskirts of her property. The Necromancer had spent the better part of five days ensuring it was enchanted to his satisfaction. No whisper of the magick he conducted here could ever be allowed to leak, that had been the conditions ced on him, which he would have adhered to anyway. The less chance of his secrets leaking, the better he felt.


    Instead of drawing his ritual circle in dust, as he had the first time, the young mage had taken more conventional steps, painting the borate design on the smooth floor with a magickally charged alchemical paint. When it was done to his satisfaction, he painted over it with a special, clear sent. Theseponents cost a fortune, but would be well worth it to ensure his defence was as strong as possible and impossible to disrupt. If all went well, he would be able to use this circle over and over again in the future, without having to start from scratch every time.


    Once the floor waspleted to his satisfaction, Tyron turned to the walls. Soon, those too were covered in arcane sigils arranged in loops and whorls, arrays into which he embedded cores to power them. Finally, he brought out thedder and began the difficult task of painting the ceiling. Eventually, that too waspleted, aplex enchantment that covered every centimetre of avable space.


    Ever since Yor had apanied him into the Abyss, Tyron had never stepped foot into that ce again, but toplete his aims, this time he must, and without her help. Owing favours to the vampires was bing more and more dangerous. He could no longer afford to lean on them for anything he might conceivably be able to do himself. He could only hope he was as prepared as thought he was.


    ¡°So that¡¯s it then?¡± Dove asked as Tyron stepped out through the heavy oak door and leaned thedder against the stone wall. ¡°Are we ready to go?¡±


    Outside the small building, under the cover of the thick foliage overhead, stood Tyron¡¯s full army of undead. Silent ranks of skeletal warriors armed with their weapons of bone, each with the glowing purple eyes of the dead.


    ¡°Almost there,¡± he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. ¡°I¡¯ve finished the circles. All I need to do now is affix the ritual focus and we¡¯ll be as prepared as we can be.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be fine, kid,¡± Dove assured him, ¡°I worked on those circles with you, they¡¯re as watertight as any I¡¯ve ever seen. It¡¯ll be a piece of piss, you¡¯ll see.¡±


    As much as he wished he shared the optimism of the skeleton-bound spirit, he simply didn¡¯t. The Abyss was dangerous, deadly dangerous. It¡¯s not as if the Dark Ones or the Scarlett Court were particrly safe, but they were at pains to put a human face to themselves. Human-ish, anyway. Yor was terrifying, but she was like a kittenpared to the real monsters who lurked in that realm of neverending night. The Old Gods worked through their priests most of the time, which was a lot morefortable than being summoned to stand before them. He could still remember how it had felt, those titanic, alien presences looking down on him from a distance. He shivered.


    With the Abyss, there was none of that, no kind face, no childhood friend, no gentle touch. Instead, there were only ravenous entities from a realm beyond realms, creatures of madness and hunger who were inimical to life.


    ¡°We¡¯ll do it tomorrow,¡± Tyron said over his shoulder as he re-entered the building to retrieve the rest of his tools and paints. ¡°It¡¯ll take a couple of hours to settle the focus, then we can go ahead and cast the ritual. If all goes well, we can secure travel through the Abyss and be out the other side by the end of the day.¡±


    With great care, he began to store his implements away in the case he hadmissioned for them. Each of his implements nestled into their own pocket of shaped velvet, the container itself enchanted against jostling and moisture. These tools would be needed when he got to his destination, desperately needed. Tyron didn¡¯t intend this to be a one way trip, which meant he had to construct another circle on the other side in order to get back.


    ¡°Come on! Surely we can do it tonight. A little more work and bam, it¡¯s done and we can get through.¡±


    Tyron turned to re at the skeleton.


    ¡°I¡¯m the one casting the Ritual, and I say tomorrow. I want to be fully rested before exposing myself to the Abyss, nothing less is eptable. Are you trying to get us both killed?¡±


    Dove scratched at the side of his skull.


    ¡°Techincally¡­¡± he began.


    ¡°You can¡¯t be killed, yes, I get it,¡± Tyron ground out.


    The skeleton picked at the robes Tyron had made him wear.


    ¡°Do I really have to keep these on? It seems kind of restrictive and unnecessary. You know what? I never understood people who preferred to go nude before, but now I¡¯m starting to get it. Clothes are a prison. Free your mind, Tyron.¡±


    ¡°Keep them on and shut up,¡± the Necromancer snapped.


    He flung himself into his bedroll.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to sleep. See you in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Be that way.¡±


    When he awoke the next morning, Tyron yawned and stretched, thinking idly of theforts of his home in the city. The store would be fine in his absence. Plenty of stock had been set aside, instructions had been given to the staff and Flynn could handle the rest without Tyron looking over his shoulder. Hopefully. To the regr folk of the city, Lukas Almsfield was on a sabbatical, taking a rest after working hard to establish his business.


    He rubbed at his eyes before he turned to look at his skeletal army, only to blink when he noticed something out of ce.


    ¡°Dove,¡± he groaned as he kicked himself free from his nkets.


    At some point during the night, the former-Summoner had ¡®freed¡¯ himself of his robes and dressed Rufus in them. Now he was probably hiding amongst the ranks, pretending to be a regr minion. This had be his new favourite pastime and Tyron found it exceptionally irritating.


    With a thought, hemanded all of the skeletons to kneel, which they did instantly. One skeleton was a beat too slow. Soon, that skeleton had been seized and dragged to the front by the others.


    ¡°How dare you rise against me, your skeletal brethren?¡± Dove howled. ¡°Are we not bone brothers, initiated in the ways of bone? This is a betrayal of the gravest kind! You¡¯ll all be dead by sundown!¡±


    ¡°Dove, how in the name of all that is holy did you ever manage to get yourself onto a yer team? Second question, how did you manage to <em>stay</em> on one?¡±


    The skeleton huffed and wrestled himself free of the minions who had deposited him in front of their master.


    ¡°Some people find my antics charming and humorous.¡±


    ¡°No they don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°It was mostly because Summoners are rare and I was good at it.¡±


    ¡°I thought so.¡±


    Dove re-robed himself and promised to behave, so Tyron opted not to tie him to a tree while he finished his work. The focus he had purchased for this ritual was specifically designed to channel dimensional energies,monly used by Summoners and the like, and by affixing it in ce, Tyron could double its effectiveness. He¡¯d no longer be able to use it for anything other than operating this specific ritual circle, but he had arrived at a ce such luxuries were well within his means.


    After a couple of hours, he was done. He took some time to refresh himself by washing in a nearby stream, put on clean clothes and eat a hot meal, letting the food settle before he packed up the camp with Dove¡¯s assistance. Finally, all was prepared.


    Despite the dread that tickled at the edges of his mind, Tyron firmed his resolve. He had prepared well for this, it would go well. In one hand, he gripped the case filled with the soul beads before he carefully ced it inside his inner pocket. He would need both hands for the Ritual. With a final nod to Dove, Tyron stepped inside the stone building and closed the door behind him, locking it with an audible click.


    ¡°Light.¡±


    He conjured a small globe and hung it directly overhead before he took a deep breath and stood before the ritual focus. Without dy, he raised his hands and began to speak.


    The first syble to leave his lips seemed to impact the air before him, as if reality resisted the push of his magick, but Tyron held firm, his hands moving gracefully from sigil to sigil as his words continued to roll from his tongue. Gradually, resistance faded as reality began to bend to his will and the ritual circle slowly began to re into life. To manifest the veil was still a difficult process, and Tyron applied all his focus to ensure there were no mistakes, no hesitations or slips in this part of the spell.


    Eventually, the grey haze appeared before him, and Tyron moved seamlessly to the next phase of the Ritual. Before the opening could be made, it must be concealed from the creatures of the nightmarish ce. Deftly, he wove sigils and spoke the words of power, his every utterance now reverberating like thunder within that small room.


    Magick poured from him in an endless tide as he weaved it with unmatched dexterity and skill. When he had bound this section of the veil with powerful arrays of concealment, he proceeded to form a needle of magick, one so fine as to be almost invisible, crafted to pierce the wall between this realm and the realm that was not. With utmost precision, he perforated the veil ever so slightly, creating an infinitesimal gap.


    Even this was dangerous. He could hear them already, the whispers, tugging at his mind, daring him toe forward, to reveal himself, and in return, they promised such secrets that set his heart ame. Steadied by his protections, this was not enough to fray his resolve. Carefully, ever so carefully, he extended the ritual through the gap and into the Abyss, seeking.


    <em>Ah¡¯karesh. Theo¡¯razzn. Chironusbolg.</em>


    Barely a breath, he spoke these words into the Abyss, repeating them like a mantra. Over and over again, for hours, he held that gap in the veil, sweat dripping down his face as the abyssals began to swarm, catching scent of his world, until finally, a voice spoke back.


    With a trembling hand, Tyron reached within his robe and took hold of the case. He opened it and extended it before him.


    For a moment, he heard nothing, then he heard it, so soft as to almost be inaudible, so deep it rattled his bones, a sigh, filled with longing, with hunger.


    The tiny gap in the veil expanded in an instant, and for only the second time, Tyron stepped forward and into the Abyss.

 Chapter B3C38 - Beyond the Rift

    Chapter B3C38 - Beyond the Rift


    A haunted expression stered across his face, Tyron stumbled from the small stone building. Dove tried to read the look in his eye, but the young mage was already collecting himself as he handed out silent orders to the gathered skeleton army.


    In neat ranks, they gathered their weapons and gear that remained in the camp and began to file into the building, disappearing into the darkness within.


    ¡°So you seeded then?¡± he asked. ¡°You¡¯ve secured passage through the Abyss?¡±


    Tyron nodded sharply.


    ¡°It¡¯s done,¡± he replied, his voice hoarse from the ritual casting, or perhaps from something else?


    ¡°What about the pri-?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to worry about the price,¡± the Necromancer snapped, ¡°are youing or not?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I wouldn¡¯t miss it for a feel of Selene¡¯s backside.¡±


    The young man could handle himself. Dove pushed his concerns aside and slid into line with the silently marching skeletal minions. It was disconcerting looking at them, knowing that he looked essentially the same as they did. It was hard to <em>think</em> of oneself as a skeleton. In his mind, he was still¡­ still Dove. A scrawny, bearded human mage who summoned creatures of the Astral ne to fight against the kin.


    Yet that wasn¡¯t who he¡¯d been for a long time now.


    He jumped and clicked his heels together. He¡¯d never been so light on his feet as a human. Even his substitute bones weighed an awful lot less than a full human body, which allowed him to move with surprising crity. It just felt so <em>good</em> to have a body again. His time as a head, at first semi-voluntary, then very much against his wishes, had been a nightmare he was unable to wake from. Unable to move, to touch, to affect the world in any way. He was quite confident it had driven him mad, in the end.


    Thankfully, Tyron had <em>eventually</em> gotten around to fixing the problem. The problem of not having a body, that is. Dove was fairly sure his mind would never recover. At least, it wouldn¡¯t return to what it had been before.


    As he passed within the small stone building, he swirled his bony fingers, letting the feeling of power, of magick, flow over them ever so briefly. Such a precious, limited supply he had, but there was so much he could do with it, given the chance. All he needed was an opportunity to slip the leash.


    A puncture in reality, the opening to the Abyss yawned before him. On one side, a dimly lit remote building, exquisitely drawn ritual circle sealed into the stone floor, and on the other, nothing.


    A nothing soplete and total, so all epassing, it had gone all the way around and be <em>something</em>. Even so, it was still nothing.


    To his ghostly sight, it was just ck, a void, and as he stepped through, that was all he saw. In his current form, he couldn¡¯t feel, he had no skin or flesh to assess temperature or pressure, but he felt confident that he wouldn¡¯t feel anything regardless. Not here.


    Along with the skeletons, Dove shuffled forward, finding a ce amongst the narrow and dense formation. If he stepped too far to the side, he¡¯d probably fall off¡­ whatever it was they were standing on. No matter how he tried to study the area around him, he couldn¡¯t get a read on anything at all, not even the abyssals who doubtlessly swarmed around them at a distance.


    ¡°Stay close to me.¡±


    Tyron appeared at his elbow and began to stride toward the head of the group as Dove leapt to follow in his wake.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on? We have a limited travel area?¡±


    Whatever deal Tyron had negotiated with the denizens of this ce, Dove had no doubt it was restrictive in the extreme. Anything that lived in the Abyss wasn¡¯t happy to be here, but he imagined that led them to guard what they had even more zealously.


    ¡°More limited than you imagine,¡± Tyron replied tersely.


    The young man¡¯s eyes glowed as he maintained the ocr magick Dove himself had taught him.


    ¡°Is that even useful in here?¡± he wondered.


    It allowed one to see traces and flows of magick. As far as Dove knew, there <em>was</em> no magick within the Abyss, not as he understood it anyway.


    ¡°It is,¡± Tyron confirmed as he watched their surroundings warily. ¡°I had to modify it first.¡±


    ¡°Of course you did.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no magick here, except for what we bring with us.¡±


    ¡°I <em>knew</em> that.¡±


    ¡°But, if you know what to look for, you can detect changes in the¡­ stuff.¡±


    ¡°S¡­ stuff? Is that the technical term you came up with? Fucking <em>stuff</em>? Try a <em>little</em> harder, holy shit.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove. What do you call the soup of un-reality that surrounds us? Huh?¡±


    ¡°Unsoup.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re wee.¡±


    The two walked in silence, Tyron forging ahead, nervously ncing over his shoulder as if to assure himself that his minions were still there. Possibly whatever allowed him to sense them was being interfered with in here. Or perhaps the magick was degrading over time? This wasn¡¯t exactly a healthy ce for anything not born here to be, after all. Abyssals melted apart if they came through the veil, perhaps it was simr for the people of his own realm when they trespassed here?


    ¡°The opening is just ahead. At least, it should be,¡± Tyron muttered.


    ¡°Just like that? Cragwhistle, here wee.¡±


    ¡°Not quite,¡± came the grim reply. ¡°Opening rifts in between our realm and the Abyss is dangerous, for everyone. I don¡¯t want to give it¨C,¡± he grimaced, as if remembering something unpleasant, ¡°any greater hold on us than we can manage.¡±


    ¡°So where are we going?¡± Dove was confused.


    ¡°Taking a slight detour,¡± Tyron stated. ¡°We¡¯re going to appear on the other side of a rift, then travel to Cragwhistle.¡±


    ¡°On the other side of a rift?!¡± Dove squawked. ¡°Are you serious? By yourself? Are you trying to get killed?¡±


    ¡°Obviously not,¡± Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Could¡¯ve fooled me. What sort of fuckhead jumps through a rift <em>by himself</em> the second he bes silver? You¡¯re out of your mind.¡±


    The Necromancer nced behind him at the hundreds of skeletal minions.


    ¡°You think I¡¯m going by myself?¡±


    ¡°Those don¡¯t count!¡± Dove raged. ¡°I¡¯ve been through the rifts plenty of times, but only with a high level team by my side.¡±


    ¡°Dove, we both know you¡¯re full of shit. Some of the rifts are safer than others, even on the other side. A small, brand new rift like the one at Cragwhistle has an extremely low chance of attracting anything too dangerous. The biggest and baddest monsters can¡¯t fit through, so they don¡¯t bother with it.¡±


    ¡°A low chance isn¡¯t no chance,¡± Dove insisted. ¡°We could pop out and find ourselves squashed by a giant frost monster in <em>seconds</em>.¡±


    ¡°What do you care? If you die beyond the rift, the chance Yor will bother trying to track your soul down is simrly low. I half thought that was the real reason you wanted toe out. Sneak off through a rift and get yourself ttened.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ shit, that might actually work.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t even think of it?¡± Tyron boggled at him.


    Dove waved his bony arms in the air.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been too absorbed in being able to touch myself again!¡±


    ¡°You can touch other things too¡­.¡±


    ¡°But why would I bother?!¡±


    ¡°I hate you, Dove.¡±


    ¡°I hate you too.¡±


    Tyron stiffened, eyes widening as he tracked <em>something</em> move around them.


    ¡°This is it,¡± he said, voice suddenly tense. ¡°Get ready.¡±


    The former summoner looked at him oddly until Tyron nced back at him, ufortable.


    ¡°What?¡± he asked, finally.


    ¡°We could be walking into abat situation,¡± Dove reminded him.


    ¡°I know that.¡±


    ¡°So why are you at the front?¡±


    Tyron blinked, then took several slow steps back amongst the ranks of his minions. Dove cackled.


    ¡°Not exactly feeling like a brave adventurer now, are you?¡± he hooted.


    ¡°You were a Summoner. I bet you couldn¡¯t throw a rock and hit the frontline your entire career,¡± Tyron grumbled.


    Before either of them could continue to bicker, a rent opened in front of them, showing a deste, frozen wastnd. Harsh wind blew, snow and ice shing through the air, yet Dove could hear none of it, nothing came through into the Abyss, not a single snowke.


    ¡°Here we goooooo! Bony boys, follow hard up my rear!¡±


    So shouting, he leapt through the opening and into the freezing cold. For a moment, he almost braced himself for the cold, long practised survival instincts told him he would freeze to death in weather like this, naked as he was. Yet the ice and snow chilled him not at all. It was liberating, in a way.


    A depressing reminder of his shallow existence in another.


    Behind him, rows of skeletons, followed by Tyron, began to emerge from the inky void. Dove scanned the area keenly, wondering if they¡¯d stepped out of the Abyss and into their own doom, but as far as he could tell, there were <em>no</em> kin nearby.


    Not that he could see very far.


    Whatever realm this was, miserable would be a gentle descriptor of the conditions. Storm clouds boiled overhead, thrashing and rolling as lightning flickered like a snake¡¯s tongue, cutting through the darkness in momentary bursts of blinding light. A constant barrage of ice, borne aloft by the wind, punched into him, forcing the skeleton to raise a hand to protect his skull from the onught.


    If the enchantments within were damaged, he¡¯d be back to an immovable head and he would <em>not </em>have it.


    Suddenly, he was ovee with frustration at how helpless he was. No magick sight to see the threatsing, no powerful summons, no enhanced physical body or mind, nothing that had be so integral to who he was and what he did. The anger bubbled up within him so quickly he was almost shocked by its intensity. Here he was, beyond the rift, where he was supposed to be at his strongest, supposed to fight, and win, yet he was almost helpless.


    ¡°There¡¯s so much magick,¡± Tyron called in disbelief.


    The young mage had put on his bone armour, and he looked severely intimidating, wrapped in ck bone, rounded tes of the stuff covering his shoulders and even a helmet of sorts on his head.


    ¡°How far do we need to travel?¡± Dove yelled above the din, not wanting to talk about the power he couldn¡¯t touch.


    ¡°Not far¡­ I think,¡± came the reply, as Tyron tried to get his bearings.


    After spinning on the spot for a moment, he grunted and pointed a finger.


    ¡°That way, about three kilometres.¡±


    ¡°Three kilometres? In this?!¡±


    ¡°What, are you cold?¡±


    Tyron himself was clearly shivering, despite pulling his thick cloak over his shoulders.


    ¡°Weak as piss,¡± the Necromancer chattered at his skeletalpanion.


    ¡°Do you see any rift-kin?¡± Dove ignored the insult.


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°They¡¯re over there. We¡¯ll be putting my legions to the test shortly.¡±


    Despite himself, a smile crept over his face.


    ¡°I can¡¯t wait to see what happens.¡±

 Chapter B3C39 - The Skeletal Legion

    Chapter B3C39 - The Skeletal Legion


    As he watched his minions sort themselves into neat ranks, Tyron felt a surge of pride at what he had aplished. The skeletons moved smoothly, with bnce and strength. Despite having such arge group on the move, he was more than capable of supplying the magick required, proving his efforts in enchantment were paying immense dividends.


    Particrly here.


    As a mage, he was sensitive to arcane energy, and the way it filled this ce was¡­ disturbing. Magick swelled and overflowed here, an abundance that felt suffocating, like a thick nket pressed over his senses. It was warm andforting, but no less dangerous than a de to the throat. It was this power that had ruined this realm, destroyed all that had lived here and that power now produced the rift-kin, sending them out to spread the contagion.


    Magick and the Unseen, blessings and curses.


    ¡°How far ahead, kid? I can¡¯t see a fucking thing. I¡¯m as blind as a decapitated cow in a mineshaft.¡±


    ¡°Not far,¡± Tyron replied, directing his troops. ¡°You¡¯ll see them in a second.¡±


    Responding to his mentalmands, his archers formed up, notched arrows, drew their bows and fired. In the horrific wind, it was impossible to fire with any uracy, but sheer numbers counted for something. The shots shed out into the blizzard, less than half finding their mark.


    A trumpeted bellow of rage resounded, followed by others as more kin answered the call. The ground rumbled beneath their feet as Tyron focused, shifting his troops. Of course, he couldn¡¯t just focus on that alone, he had a role to perform that was greater than simply telling his skeletons where to stand. Words of power began to puncture the air as he formed the magick, hands shing through the sigils he shaped with consummate skill.


    <em>Death des.</em>


    Cast over a much wider area, the spell settled across his army as they braced. The moment he was finished, his hands began to sh once more, the next spelling hard on the heels of the first.


    Through the storm came a mammoth, just like the one Tyron had faced outside the rift at Cragwhistle. The only difference was, this mammoth wasn¡¯t alone.


    Two more thundered forward behind it as Tyron¡¯s skeletons moved to intercept. Spears thrust forward as the light and nimble undead skated to the sides of the beasts, avoiding their charges even with the sleet and snow making the footing uncertain.


    Ethereal bowstrings thrummed and another wave of arrows was fired, much more effective at such close range. He moved his archers like skirmishes, sending them forward, then scattering them as the rime-coated tusks of the mammoths swept in their direction.


    <em>Show me what you can do.</em>


    He ordered Laurel forward, along with his first mage skeleton. The first snatched an arrow from the quiver strapped to her bony hip and fired it at a speed and power unssed humans could never hope to match. Even without reaching bronze rank, Laurel had trained her Skills and invested her feats wisely, it seemed. Alongside, the mage began to shift its hands, taking far, far too long to weave the simple magick, but eventually a death bolt was formed, the shadow ball of death magick streaking through the air to smack into a mammoth.


    The beasts bellowed in fury as the continual barrage of stinging arrows and spears began to prate their thick coats. They swung their heads, sweeping their tusks across the ground in wide arcs that forced Tyron¡¯s minions to dance back, though they weren¡¯t always fast enough.


    <em>Get in the fight</em>.


    Propelled by his will, Rufus, or what remained of him, stepped forward, two handed sword held tight in his skeletal hands. Alongside him, Tyronmitted the rest of his longsword-wielding skeletons.


    As they surged forward, he finished casting his spell, flinging his hands down to point at the ground beneath his feet. Energy poured from him and manifested as a billowing cloud of ck energy that spread rapidly. Tyron himself was quickly enveloped within as the cloud expanded.


    Already empowered by Stormwise, his cast of ck Miasma expanded with eerie silence and shocking speed. Soon, the cloud had epassed the entire battlefield, blinding the living and eating at their flesh while the undead were empowered, drawing in the energy to fuel themselves.


    Thankfully, Tyron himself was immune from the negative effects, otherwise he likely would have killed himself by casting this magick.


    ¡°This is a good spell,¡± Dove observed, looking around himself.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t you want to kill kin?¡± Tyron asked him, then pointed. ¡°There they are, go get them.¡±


    ¡°You want me to kill one of those mammoths? I don¡¯t exactly have a lot of firepower right now.¡±


    ¡°Give it a shot. Otherwise, you could just stand around scratching your own backside, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t <em>have</em> a backside, thank you very much,¡± Dove sniffed before he turned and brought up his hands.


    Able to speak the words of power, he expertly wove a Death Bolt, following the patterns Tyron had taught him, firing the bolt of energy into the nearest target. The speed and power of the spell was vastly better than what his revenant had produced, and the Necromancer turned and red at the undead, who remained next to Laurel, firing the spell over and over again.


    Fueled by the miasma, the longsword skeletons charged forward, Rufus at the front. They descended upon the nk of an unsuspecting and enraged mammoth, leaping forward and sinking their des up to their hilts in the creature¡¯s side.The beast immediately reared back, pulling several unsuspecting minions from their feet, before it wheeled and stomped down, but the skeletons were already gone.


    Pleased with the sight, Tyron couldn¡¯t repress a savage grin. The clumsy, stumbling skeletons he had started with were nowhere to be seen. His treatment of the remains was better, the weaving of the muscture and ligaments couldn¡¯t bepared, the extra magick the minions could draw on, and the improved Raise Dead ritual allbined to produce a transformative improvement. Now his undead moved with sure feet and rapid steps, their light frames carrying them over the snow and muck with ease.


    Unfortunately, as the minions fought, they drew on the miasma deeply, both to heal any damage and to fuel their movements, depleting the spell much faster than Tyron had anticipated. Briefly, he considered casting it again, but after carefully examining the battlefield, he decided against it.


    The mammoth beset by his longsword skeletons was faltering. With a thought, his archers switched targets, and began to pepper the ailing monster, alongside Dove and his revenant mage. Unable to turn and face any foe without being exposed to another, the beast could do nothing but sumb to the death-infused des of the skeletons.


    With one of the great creatures down, the skeletons charged at another mammoth, quickly overwhelming it before they turned on thest. Against overwhelming numbers, nimble opponents and the suffocating miasma, the mammoths were dispatched with minimal damage to Tyron¡¯s budding horde.


    ¡°By the blessed buns of the Goddess,¡± Dove eximed, ¡°I can¡¯t believe how well that went! Three of those mammoth creatures, and they were ughtered! I guess it¡¯s true what they say about Necromancers.¡±


    Despite the victory, and the welling pride Tyron felt, he didn¡¯t allow it to distract him.


    ¡°We have to move,¡± he chattered, suddenly reminded of the cold now that the fric battle was over. ¡°We still have a little way to travel before we reach the rift.¡±


    Skeletons rushed back to form into ranks while others began to carve through the remains. Tyron certainly wouldn¡¯t turn his back on cores if they were right in front of him.


    Despite the cold, he felt something from his minions and took a moment to hunt it down.


    Unsurprisingly, the source of the disturbance was his new revenants. Resentment and anger swirled in each of them, though it positively stormed inside of Rufus. Unable to direct their rage at the cause, namely himself, they were left screaming within their own souls.


    A dreadful fate.


    Perhaps some were deserving of this existential torture, but how many who were not would he subject to this torment before the end came? That thought would have bothered Tyron once, but not now. Now, the answer was simple: as many as it took.


    When the cores were retrieved, Tyron finished forming his ranks and proceeded to march forward to the rift, eager to be free of the cold. As he expected, the ice-kin he had encountered before swarmed around the opening, trying to push through into the other realm. With his numerous minions, Tyron stormed through them, using the ck Miasma once more to cover the rift and secure the opening.


    He directed his undead to form a protective circle around him as he magickally enhanced his eyes. Momentarily blinded by the surging arcane power all around him, he staggered and clutched at his head.


    ¡°It¡¯s pretty wild, right?¡± Dove said from beside him.


    All the magick Tyron felt in his own world came from rifts such as this one. The amount of energy flooding through even this tiny rift was staggering. A torrent of power screaming through like an ocean forcing itself through a barn door.


    He had travelled through this rift once before, but Yor had handled the journey, fulfilling the agreement she had struck with Magnin and Beory. This time, he would have to manage it himself.


    As he stepped forward, Tyron felt as if he should have been swept from his feet by the raging arcane winds, but of course, they had no effect on the physical realm. His eyes told him the maelstrom existed, but he couldn¡¯t feel it, it didn¡¯t buffet or throw him from his feet. This close, the rift warped reality, bending space and perhaps even time in strange and unpredictable ways. It was a dangerous ce to be and he had no intention of staying long.


    nting both feet in the snow and ice, Tyron thrust forward his hands and began to speak. Immediately, he felt as if he had mmed his mind into a brick wall, but he didn¡¯t allow it to perturb him. The words flowed smoothly from his lips and his hands danced gracefully, shaping the power that poured out of him.


    Manipting a rift in any way was fraught with dangers, but stabilising it to allow smooth passage was a necessity. As each word was spoken, the air around Tyron resonated like a bell. Every syble dropped like a hammer blow that he used to shape reality and bend it to his will.


    Bit by bit, a small pocket of stability began to take form around him, then extend, little by little, into the rift.


    All around, his skeletons fought without his direction, pushing back the rift-kin who trickled toward the rift, drawn to it almost mindlessly. He tasked his revenants with fighting on the frontline, hoping to preserve as many of his base soldiers as possible for the grind ahead.


    By the time he allowed himself to lower his hands, frozen sweat clung to Tyron¡¯s face and his mind ached. But he had been sessful.


    ¡°You want to go first?¡± he asked Dove.


    Without a word, the onyx-skeleton sprung through, whooping. The Necromancer shook his head before he issued the mentalmand. His guard of sword and shield wielding skeletons formed around him and Tyron stepped forward, pushing through the rift and back to his home realm.


    ording to Beth, Cragwhistle had gone through significant change since he hadst seen it. He was a little curious to find out if she was right.

 Chapter B3C40 - Earning a Living

    Chapter B3C40 - Earning a Living


    Trenan braced his shield tight against his nk as he drew back his hammer. Unheeding the danger, the rift-kin, a ¡®frost-ghoul¡¯ as the yers had taken to calling them, lunged forward, ws and teeth of iceing for him. At thest moment, he stepped in, stuffing the attack with his shield and knocking the monster off bnce.


    The ws scratched at him, but without weight and power behind them, all they could do was scratch his armour. As soon as space opened up, he tightened his grip on the hammer and swung it upward, controlling the motion and rotating his body, bringing the weapon up vertically to smash into the kin¡¯s jaw.


    Formed of ice, the head exploded, which forced Trenan to lower his head. Thest thing he wanted was shards of ice in his eyes. Someone had already met that fate after enthusiastically smashing a frost ghoul while leaning too far forward. Thankfully, the rim of his helmet protected him from that terrible fate and he kicked the now limp body of the creature away as he turned to assess the field.


    ¡°How are we looking, team?¡± he called.


    ¡°Miserable.¡±


    ¡°Cold.¡±


    ¡°My ass hurts.¡±


    ¡°For fuck¡¯s sake,¡± he muttered before he hardened his tone. ¡°We are in the field, you ck-jawed dickheads. I swear if one of you gets killed mouthing off in the brokennds, not only will I paint ¡®I told you so¡¯ on your casket, I will piss <em>and</em> shit on the grave.¡±


    ¡°All right, Trenan, stop swinging your dick around. We get it,¡± Brigette said wearily. ¡°We are clear of kin as far as I can tell.¡±


    ¡°Clear over here as well, Trenan,¡± Arthur said.


    ¡°I swear my cheeks are about to freeze off. Also clear,¡± Chol called.


    The Hammerman sighed and allowed himself a brief moment to indulge in self pity. Believing promises made upon graduating the academies was a foolish act, and now he¡¯de to regret it. They¡¯d be professional, they¡¯d said. One hundred percent serious on the job, they¡¯d promised. Absolute horse shit.


    ¡°We aren¡¯t far from the rift here, so stay alert,¡± he warned them. ¡°Only the gods know what mighte through at any given moment, so be ready to run.¡±


    Brigette rolled her eyes, then held her hands up when he turned to re at her.


    ¡°I get it,¡± she said, ¡°it''s just, we haven¡¯t seen anything except boars and frost ghoulse through for weeks. It¡¯s hard to maintain the tension.¡±


    With her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a tight braid and the freckles on her face, one could almost picture Brigette as a smiling vige girl, <em>if</em> you managed to overlook the two-handed bastard sword slung across her back and the broad shoulders and thick arms she sported. Talented, no doubt, but toox.


    ¡°Brigette, we are less than a month into our careers as yers, and <em>already</em>, you can¡¯t maintain the tension? How eager are you to die?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be so dramatic,¡± she waved him off, still grinning.


    <em>Never team up with your friends, </em>hemented to himself, not for the hundredth time. <em>It never works out well.</em>


    ¡°Sixty percent of yer teams lose a member before they reach silver rank. I <em>do not</em> want to be a part of that statistic,¡± he said tly.


    ¡°We <em>know</em>,¡± Chol said as she walked up to stand beside him. ¡°And that¡¯s why we wanted to join your team in the first ce.¡±


    ¡°You <em>want </em>to be on this team? Fuck, could¡¯ve fooled me,¡± he grumbled.


    The dark skinned woman grinned, shing her wless teeth at him. ¡°I know myself. Without someone like you kicking my poor, frozen backside, I wouldn¡¯tst, and neither would my Arthur.¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t married yet, Chol. I don¡¯t know if you need to say <em>my</em> Arthur.¡±


    ¡°You said <em>yet</em>. That is enough.¡±


    The mage ran a hand through his curly, dark hair as he gazed at his¡­ apparently fiance.


    ¡°Are all people in the Southern Province so forward?¡± he wondered. ¡°Or is it just you?¡±


    ¡°A bit of both,¡± she said.


    ¡°Would you two stop flirting and focus on the damn job?¡± Trenan spat. The more the others dicked around, the more he felt like a w was sliding around his throat. ¡°We¡¯ve got another two kilometres to cover before we reach the rift. As the only team on the mountain today, we need to watch our fucking backsides. Clear what we can, observe the rest, don¡¯t die. Got it?¡±


    Brigette snapped out a brisk salute.


    ¡°Got it!¡± she barked.


    No matter how hard she tried, it was impossible for that woman to look serious.


    ¡°Go fuck yourself, Brigette. Let¡¯s move.¡±


    Trenan took the point position, his shield up and eyes darting as he surveyed the slope ahead. He trusted his team would fall into formation behind him, they <em>usually</em> did. Too many yers said they¡¯d smarten up and take things more seriously once they reached silver. Those were probably the ones who didn¡¯t survive that long.


    Twice more, they encountered rift-kin on the approach, and with abination of Brigette¡¯s heavy hitting, Trenan¡¯s defensive work, Chol¡¯s nature magick and Arthur''s battle-mage skills, they made quick work of the kin. The rift at Cragwhistle was only recently formed, not allowing many monsters through, and generally only small ones at that. Some of the teams had encountered bigger monsters, giant hairy beasts with tusks, apparently, but only close to the sight of the rift itself. A perfect training ground for a new team like the Hooligans.


    ¡°Five hundred metres,¡± he called over his shoulder, trying to maintain his focus at its peak. If the team was going to find something they couldn¡¯t handle, it would be here.


    He risked a nce back over his shoulder and was pleased to see the three fucksticks were focused for once, their expressions firm and eyes wary. It was a sight he so rarely got to see that he almost did a double take before he caught himself. If the team was doing their job properly, then he would have to be twice as dedicated. He refused to have them show him up.


    However, the rift was curiously inactive. As they drew closer, theck of kin activity became increasingly unusual. Where were the packs of ice boars, or frost ghouls? Generally, there was always a decent number of them, either milling around the rift or forming into groups to charge down the mountain.


    Concerned, he signalled to the team to be on high alert. Theck of monster activity only heightened his caution and he didn¡¯t want the others to loosen up.


    When he finally saw something, it was almost a relief, then he realised what he was looking at.


    Was that¡­ undead?


    Sure enough, from behind a rock marched a skeleton, eyes glowing with a dark purple light, bare teeth grinning in the dim light. For a long moment, he froze in ce, unsure how to react, then the creature snapped its head around toward him, regarding the yer with eerie silence.


    ¡°Uhhh, Trenan. Has anyone mentioned undeading through the rift?¡± Brigette asked from behind him, her voice unusually hushed.


    ¡°N-no,¡± he said. ¡°Something is <em>very </em>wrong here.¡±


    If it was only a single skeleton¡­


    Before he could even finish framing the thought, another appeared, then another, then another. In a few seconds, the number of undead had leapt to over a dozen as they streamed down the mountain, moving lightly over the terrain towards them.


    ¡°Get the fuck out of here!¡± Trenan bellowed as he turned to run.


    The others were already moving, but before they got more than a few steps, darkness overtook them, a billowing fog that blocked sight and burned their skin. Trenan didn¡¯t allow it to slow him down, he stumbled, tripped, fell, but continued to move as quickly as he could.


    He heard the skeletoning, its bones cking against the rock as it raced up behind him. When he was certain he wouldn¡¯t be able to outpace it, the Hammerman firmed his grip, braced his shield and turned, trying to sense his opponent through the fog.


    ¡°Arthur? Chol? Light!¡± he snapped.


    His footing was sure, his posture correct, as good a ce to fight as any.


    ¡°I can¡¯t find Arthur!¡± Chol called back, panic in her voice.


    ¡°Try to focus and give us some light, dammit!¡± Trenan barked back.


    A secondter, a dull glow sputtered into existence, suppressed by the dark cloud. From the gloom, a skeleton rushed forward and he barely raised his shield in time before the sword of bone struck down. The blow held surprising power, but the Hammerman was skilled with his shield, and much stronger. He nted the face, allowing the sword to slide off it, and prepared to swing his hammer before the undead could recover, but another one was already there. Another wide swing, caught on the shield, then another, keeping him on the defensive.


    ¡°Brigette? Where the hell are you?!¡±


    He hadn¡¯t heard from the swordswoman and that worried him. She was usually the loudest in a fight, whooping and hollering as she swung her weapon with deadly grace.


    ¡°She¡¯s indisposed,¡± came an unexpected reply. A human¡¯s voice, a man. Who?


    In a blink, the burning fog rushed to the ground and began to dissipate, leaving Trenan blinking and uncertain. He brandished his shield and hammer as he tried to take in the situation, eyes darting wildly.


    He was surrounded. There were dozens and dozens of skeletons now, with moreing down the mountain. There must have been hundreds of them.


    There was also a man. Young, not much older than Trenan and his team, light build, dark hair and burning eyes. There were at least ten skeletons between the two of them. Should he try it?


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t bother,¡± that voice was so <em>cold</em>. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t reach me. Besides, it would be a shame to break up such a new team.¡±


    Brigette and Arthur, both motionless, eyes staring, were carried forward by a group of skeletons each before being stood on either side of this strange mage.


    ¡°What have you done to them?¡± Trenan growled, trying to suppress his rising fear.


    ¡°Temporarily dominated their minds,¡± came the matter of fact reply. Those eyes still stared at Trenan, as if trying to bore a hole through him. ¡°Now put down your weapons. You and the mage.¡±


    Chol allowed her staff to drop from her hands, her gaze locked onto Arthur. Trenan was reluctant, but lowered himself to ce his shield and hammer nearby on the ground. He rose, his hands in the air.


    ¡°What you¡¯re doing is illegal,¡± he tried to keep his voice steady, and almost seeded. ¡°You cannot interfere with yers in the performance of their duty.¡±


    The man gave him an incredulous look and Trenan realised how ridiculous he sounded. This mage was clearly beyond caring what was legal and illegal, pointing it out was useless.


    ¡°I will tell you what is going to happen. I will take the weapons from the four of you, then we will travel to Cragwhistle together. You will be held outside of the town while I contact a few people inside, then I will release you to them. Understood?¡±


    Trenan was shocked.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to let us go?¡± he said.


    Chol looked hopeful,tching onto the chance she might get her partner back.


    ¡°Of course. There¡¯s a rebellion on, after all. Young yers like yourselves might just prove yourselves to be useful. Now let¡¯s go.¡±

 Chapter B3C41 - Time Changes Everything Except Hatred

    Chapter B3C41 - Time Changes Everything Except Hatred


    ¡°It feels so damn good to be out of that cold,¡± Tyron huffed as he shrugged his shoulders and wiggled his toes. His extremities tingled as the blood flow returned.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got no idea what you¡¯reining about,¡± Dove replied. ¡°I feel¡­ nothing. I¡¯m numb and dead on the inside.¡±


    ¡°And the outside,¡± the Necromancer grunted. ¡°I didn¡¯t remember the other side of that rift being that freezing thest time I went through. Did Yor do something to keep me warm?¡±


    He waited for a few seconds, but Dove remained silent. Tyron turned to stare at him with wide eyes.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to let that go?¡± he asked, incredulous. ¡°No sex joke, no mention of tits, nothing?¡±


    Dove lifted his skeletal head and gazed off to the horizon as he scratched at his jaw.


    ¡°You know, Tyron,¡± he said wistfully, ¡°people can change. It¡¯s wonderful, and terrifying. The human condition, I suppose some call it. We can grow closer together, or further apart with the passage of time. What you knew to be true about me in the past may not be true for me now. I¡¯ve undergone a metamorphosis, a fundamental alteration on a deep, spiritual level.¡±


    ¡°She threatened you, or offered to free you. I refuse to believe anything else.¡±


    ¡°Both, actually,¡± the former Summoner replied, chattering his teeth together foric effect. It was a new habit he¡¯d picked up, Tyron hated it. ¡°She said if I watched my words for a while, she¡¯d let my spirit go when I decide to shuffle off, and said she would stuff my spirit into a urinal if I didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a little surprised she didn¡¯t go for that in the first ce.¡±


    ¡°So was I, after she¡¯d mentioned it. I had to ask, of course. She said it would¡¯ve irritated you too much.¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡±


    The skeletal army, with its four yer captives, continued its march down the slope toward the burgeoning town of Cragwhistle. Thankfully, no kin had emerged from the rift and overtaken them as of yet, but it was only a matter of time, so the Necromancer was sure to keep himself surrounded with a protective wall of minions.


    ¡°Almost a shame my new armour hasn¡¯t been tested yet,¡± he said, poking at the greaves wrapped around one forearm. ¡°I put a lot of work into this.¡±


    ¡°You <em>want</em> to get hit? That¡¯s an interesting position to take.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t actually want to, I¡¯d just like to see how effective the armour is inbat. Testing it myself isn¡¯t the same as fighting in it.¡±


    ¡°My advice? Put it on someone else and let <em>them</em> take the hits. Not me.¡±


    Thest was added when Dove noticed the young mage ncing at him askance.


    ¡°I could make you your own set of armour,¡± Tyron offered. ¡°All you¡¯d have to do is test it out for me.¡±


    ¡°No thanks,¡± Dove rebuffed. ¡°I¡¯ve actually got something to live for at the moment, which is a feeling I¡¯d almost forgotten, so fuck off.¡±


    Tyron grimaced. If Dove was feeling even a little more positive about his situation, that was probably a good thing. However, he couldn¡¯t shake the sense that the man had changed. The heroic yer who¡¯d died protecting him was long gone, twisted by the torment he¡¯d been put through since the end of his natural life. Of course, that wasrgely Tyron¡¯s fault, but his former friend and mentor also bore some of that me.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make you a set anyway. I can probably stash more enchantments for gathering magick on the bone, increase the pool you have to work with.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s generous of you,¡± Dove replied, trying not to sound surprised. ¡°I¡¯d appreciate that.¡±


    The two continued to walk in silence. Two dozen metres ahead of them, the four yers staggered forward, hands tied behind their backs, fifty undead positioned around them. With time and resources to work with, the Necromancer ss was starting to show its true worth, and he¡¯d ovee the group with rtive ease. Granted, he was above level forty and they were all low twenties, but it was four against one after all.


    He¡¯d been lucky there was only this one team on the mountain. Such a small rift didn¡¯t demand a full time presence of yers like the others, and there was the rather unique position it was situated in, which necessitated the kin take the only avable path down the mountain. The monsters could, of course, travel across country and hazard the cliffs, rock falls and avnches in the barrier mountains, but ny five out of a hundred were sure to take the obvious trail that led to Cragwhistle.


    To the rookie yers posted here, it must have been the easiest assignment they could imagine. Weak rift-kin that funnelled themselves down a narrow path? It was like they were being fed a buffet of experience. The only dangerous part of the assignment was having to climb up and check the rift itself every few days.


    ¡°Apparently, there¡¯s only five teams stationed in Cragwhistle,¡± Tyron told Dove, ¡°and all of them are bronze, barely graduated.¡±


    The onyx-skeleton shook his bony head.


    ¡°The yers are always stretched pretty thin, mainly because the strongest are ¡®encouraged¡¯ to live in that birdcage. If things get any worse, the magisters might be forced to relinquish their grip and let more golds go out to y. In the absence of a move like that, a remote location like this is always going to be a low priority.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d always heard that the yer keeps closest to Kenmor were better staffed than ces like Woodsedge. Undermist, ckrift and Reynold, for the most part.¡±


    ¡°I spent a summer in Undermist, not long after I was out of the academy. I thought every keep was like that. How naive.¡±


    When Cragwhistle came into view, Tyron had to stop for a second and take it in. Viewed from above, the town was barely recognizable from what it had been before. A stout wall of stone stood barring the mountain path, but it wasn¡¯trge enough to conceal the new buildings behind. The small vige had grown to perhaps five times the size it had upied before, dozens and dozens, perhaps over a hundred chimneys peeking out of houses withzy trails of smoke rising where there had been perhaps two in the past. It beggared belief that this could happen in just a few years.


    Elsbeth had tried to tell him, but he hadn¡¯t really believed her.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± he muttered under his breath.


    After he took in the sight, he undid the binding that held his armour to his frame and had his skeletons collect theponents before he stepped down the mountain to the four yers. Clearly, Trenan was the leader, so it was to him Tyron addressed himself.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to hold you here, away from the vige¡­ town¡­ until I¡¯ve spoken to a few people. Don¡¯t try anything stupid; just because I¡¯m not here doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m not watching.¡±


    Freed from his control, the swordswoman and battlemage looked up at him sullenly, but they were the least likely to act out. Having one¡¯s mind dominated was not a pleasant feeling, and had he wished, Tyron could have imnted all sorts of suggestions. They did not want to experience that again.


    ¡°You¡¯ll get home safe and sound,¡± he promised them, ¡°so long as you aren¡¯t stupid. If you are¡­¡±


    With a thought, he summoned a revenant, his first, to stand watch over the four.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t be the first yer who was made to serve after death. Do you understand me?¡±


    ¡°We get it,¡± Trenan said.


    Most of the bluster had gone out of him now. This was a young man doing his best to lead his team, only neen or twenty years old. It almost made Tyron feel old.


    When he turned to stride down the mountain, he found a skeleton jauntily walking beside him, bouncing on his bony heels.


    ¡°Dove¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh fuck off! You¡¯re going to keep me out of town?¡±


    ¡°Of course I am. You¡¯re a skeleton. Hell, you aren¡¯t even a skeleton, you¡¯re a ghost clinging to a facsimile of a skeleton!¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°And people will not respond well if I approach the wall with you traipsing along by my side. Sit tight and <em>wait</em>. Perhaps I¡¯ll be able to get you inside the walls at some point, but by my bones and blood, it isn¡¯t now!¡±


    The skeleton threw up his hands and petntly kicked a stone.


    ¡°Fine! But I¡¯m going to go annoy the shit out of the captives.¡±


    <em>Good. They¡¯ll hate you more than they hate me.</em>


    ¡°Whatever makes you happy.¡±


    So saying, he began his descent down the final few hundred metres. The wall was much better built than he¡¯d initially supposed. Solid blocks of stone, each well-carved and evenlyid, with good, solid mortar in between. Whoever¡¯d done the work clearly had levels and expertise in this sort of thing. Perhaps they were also the individual responsible, or at least one of them, for all the new construction.


    It didn''t take long before Tyron was spotted by people atop the wall. Not yers, at least, he didn¡¯t think so. Vigers keeping watch, armed with simple bows called out to him when he was still a hundred metres away. Unperturbed, he held his hands above his head and kept walking until he stood before the solid gate, four faces peering down at him.


    ¡°Greetings,¡± he called up to them.


    ¡°How in the name of fuck did you get up the mountain?¡± a bewildered-looking older man called down to him. ¡°I¡¯ve been ¡®ere all day and I aven¡¯t seen hide nor hair of ya.¡±


    ¡°I need to talk to Ortan. He¡¯s expecting me. Can you send him out?¡±


    ¡°Ortan?¡±


    The four consulted each other in hushed tones before the old man stuck his head over the edge of the wall again.


    ¡°What do you need to talk to Ortan for?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a friend of Elsbeth Renner. She sent me with a message for him.¡±


    ¡°The priestess? You know her?¡±


    ¡°For a long time.¡±


    The man squinted.


    ¡°¡®Old tight. We¡¯ll send a runner for ¡®im.¡±


    ¡°Much appreciated.¡±


    ¡°Stay where I can see ya.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll just take a seat on this rock if you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°¡®Aight.¡±


    It took twenty minutes before there was movement atop the wall and Tyron saw a familiar face poke over the edge.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± Ortan half-shouted.


    ¡°Nice to see you too.¡±


    Not long after, Tyron found himself seated in a well-appointed tavern, though not to his uncle¡¯s standards, sipping on a mug of ale as his old acquaintance stared at him from across the table.


    ¡°I told her you were alive, you know,¡± Ortan said atst, the big man looking slightly ridiculous hunched over the table, trying to speak quietly. ¡°I¡¯m not sure she ever really believed me.¡±


    ¡°Elsbeth? She probably knew from the start, given who her sources are.¡±


    The townsman scowled and took a deep pull on the mug, casting a wary nce at the people on the tables around them. Compared to when he wasst in Cragwhistle, the mood was almost positive, with cheerful faces andughter echoing around the room. There was even a bard, or musician, more likely, plucking jaunty tunes on a lyre and singing. It was such a baffling difference it almost felt surreal.


    ¡°I¡¯m not as positive about those ¡®sources¡¯ as a lot of the people in town,¡± Ortan said. ¡°Seems to me almost everyone who¡¯se in over thest few years is a member of a group I didn¡¯t know existed not that long ago.¡±


    ¡°There doesn¡¯t seem to be much point in fighting it,¡± Tyron said, ¡°considering who you¡¯re up against. <em>What</em> you¡¯re up against. If they want people toe here, then people wille. And they have; I can¡¯t believe what¡¯s happened here since I left.¡±


    ¡°Since you ¡®died¡¯, you mean,¡± the man said sarcastically before he brushed his hair back from his forehead and leaned back in his chair. ¡°It¡¯s been a shitload of work, I can tell you that much. Feels like we¡¯ve been bnced on a wire the whole time, but somehow things have had a way of working out when we needed them to. Enough food to make do, enough materials to get the next house built, enough wood to get us through the winter, the right tradespeople wandering into town at the right moment.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like you have friends in high ces,¡± Tyron smirked.


    Ortan slumped forward.


    ¡°That¡¯s what Elsbeth implied, but she would nevere out and say it quite so directly.¡±


    The Necromancer shrugged.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have her manners.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going to be able to hide your presence here, you know.¡±


    The huge man leaned forward to whisper again.


    ¡°All these people, they¡¯ve been waiting for a Ne¡ªfor someone like you toe. They¡¯ve been expecting it, said that their friends upstairs told them you would keep them safe.¡±


    It was Tyron¡¯s turn to scowl.


    ¡°It¡¯s not like I can stay here and protect them from the rift forever. Besides, they have yers for that already.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s the kind of protection they¡¯re talking about.¡±


    He nced around and Tyron almost rolled his eyes at how obviously conspiratorial the man was being. Someone thisrge shouldn¡¯t try and act so circumspect. He may as well have hung a side over the table saying ¡®These men have secrets¡¯.


    ¡°There¡¯s a magister in town,¡± Ortan breathed. ¡°Came two months back, after Elsbeth left.¡±


    Hot, burning anger ignited in Tyron¡¯s chest, scorching his throat. He clenched his teeth and found his fists had tightened into knots. Slowly, slowly, he eased the tension, tamped the fire down. It wasn¡¯t yet time. He had to be cautious.


    ¡°Just the one?¡± he confirmed, and Ortan nodded.


    ¡°He¡¯s beenmunicating by ro¡¯w?¡± he asked, and again, the big man nodded.


    Tyron sat back, his chin on his chest, pondering. After a minute, he looked up again, smouldering rage in his eyes.


    ¡°I¡¯ll need to meet this magister,¡± he growled.

 Chapter B3C42 - The First to Fall

    Chapter B3C42 - The First to Fall


    No matter what he did, the cold always managed to find Poranus Hean. It crept under his door frame no matter how he covered the gaps. It swirled down his neck, no matter how tightly he wound his scarf. Despite the thick, woollen gloves that he wore, his fingers still shook with it.


    In all his life, from downtown in Havercroft as a youth, living above his mother¡¯s dress shop, to his first post in the north, the magister had never experienced such a persistent and insidious chill. Any attempt to flee or protect oneself against the frost only seemed to invigorate it. He was slowly bing convinced the climate in this gods-forsaken ce was alive, tormenting him for its own amusement. No magister had set foot this far from Kenmor in over a hundred years. Perhaps thend itself had grown to reject his kind.


    Poranus rubbed his arms and scowled. If Cragwhistle didn¡¯t want him, then the damn ce would have to get over it. In a fit of pique, he¡¯dmitted himself to this posting, so now he was stuck with it for another six months, <em>minimum</em>.


    ¡°Lutin! Get in here, you miserable worm!¡± the magister bellowed.


    There was a timid knock at the door.


    ¡°Did you call for me, magister Poranus?¡±


    ¡°Obviously I did!¡± he roared. ¡°The walls are as thin as a caterpir''s anus, don¡¯t pretend you didn¡¯t hear me!¡±


    ¡°And h-how may I serve you today?¡± that soft voice stammered from behind the door.


    Poranus felt his eyes might boggle out of his head with rage. He tried to modte his tone, but sounded as if he were being strangled around the neck.


    ¡°Get. In. Here. Lutin,¡± he gargled.


    ¡°E-excuse me,¡± came the reply as the door slowly creaked open and the thin-faced manservant poked his nose through the gap. When he surmised that the magister was somewhat calm, he rxed a little and entered fully, standing straight, his hands sped before his midsection.


    The way he shifted his feet ever so slightly from side to side, with an air that nobody could see him, reminded Poranus of nothing so much as a mouse. It infuriated him.


    ¡°I¡¯m cold,¡± he ground out. ¡°Fetch more wood for the fire, and I want to see that oaf Ortan in here before the hour is done.¡±


    Having dealt with the servant without resorting to threats of maiming or losing his temper, Poranus was quite satisfied and sat behind his desk, intending to see to his papers.


    Cringing in the doorway, Lutin, like an unwee fart, remained.


    ¡°I¡¯m ever so sorry, magister,¡± he said, almost whining, ¡°but the vigers insisted they have given you more than double the normal household share of firewood. There is precious little to be had, and it isn¡¯t yet winter, so they are extremely reluctant to let people have too much.¡±


    The mage mmed his hand down on the table, his expression twisted with rage.


    ¡°Those damned <em>peasants</em>,¡± he roared, ¡°have <em>no </em>right to deny me <em>anything</em>. If I want their dead grandmother''s corpse in my bed, they say ¡®thank you, sir¡¯ and clean my sheets the morning after!¡±


    He grit his teeth and tried to calm his breathing. He¡¯d been right to demand a magister be sent out here, these people knew nothing of the proper respect due to his station, nor the authority he wielded. It shouldn¡¯t be surprising, this ce hadn¡¯t seen an official of the Baron¡¯s court in gods know how long. As far as he¡¯d been able to determine, no taxes had been levied here in five decades, and they were lucky if the marshals visited more than once a year.


    As isted as an ind surrounded by a permanent storm, Cragwhistle and other viges like it were more disconnected from the rest of the Empire than Poranus had imagined was possible in this day and age. The thought of these tiny pockets of surly, uneducated and illiterate people, unaware of their ce within the greater workings of the province, let alone the Empire as a whole, was baffling.


    At least here, all of that was bound to change. With the opening of a rift, yers woulde. When yers arrived, magisters woulde. The wealth extracted from the rift-kin would bring merchants and traders, eager to collect the wares and transport them to richer markets, which meant roads, inns, stables and wagons. yers needed weapons, healing, entertainment and food, which would bring restaurants, taverns, hospices, brothels, farmers and more. With the influx of poption, civilisation woulde knocking also: taxes,w, a permanent yer keep, with an official residence for a magister.


    Of course, it would be decades before all of that was realised, but Poranus drew some satisfaction looking at the sullen faces of the people here, knowing their attitudes would soon change for the better.


    ¡°Go out there, and return with wood for the fire, or I will burn you, Lutin,¡± he finally managed to say. ¡°Then I will go into the vige personally, I will return with wood even if I have to tear it from someone''s house with my bare hands. Understood?¡±


    The servant nodded jerkily before he turned and rushed out the door, barely remembering to close it behind him in his haste. The magister sat still, his trembling handsced together under his chin as he struggled to regain his equilibrium.


    It hadn¡¯t been that long ago he¡¯d been in council at the highest levels in Kenmor, representatives of the major houses sat around the table with him. Due to his own temper, he was now here, in this frozen hellscape, trying to bring order and dignity to people who resolutely did not want it.


    Infuriating. Every minute and every day was infuriating. If it went on like this, he didn¡¯t know how much more he could take. After dying and slowing his travel by as much as he possibly could, his arrival several months ago had felt like the knot finally being loosed on the gallows.


    ¡°Put it out of your mind,¡± he spat, trying to invigorate himself. ¡°No point whining over it like a sewing girl with a pricked thumb.¡±


    The stack of official documents in need of review was depressingly thin. Such and such a team with such and such as members sortied toward the rift, report included. Such and such a team engaged in a defensive action outside the wall, fighting off kin, then collecting such and such cores and sundry resources, which were sold for such and such, with assistance from team who cares and team nobody important.


    With such weak monstersing through the rift, only a handful of bronze teams were necessary to maintain the equilibrium. For a magister of his calibre to oversee the administration was an extravagant waste of talent.


    With a sigh, he diligently went through each document, noting the dates and intensity of each engagement, along with the resources gathered. Regardless of how demeaning it was, Poranus intended toplete his role wlessly, as well as engaging with his primary purpose foring to such a remote location.


    The rebellion. Rumblings of it had been heard even in the capital,pletely ignored by his colleagues. If evidence of such an uprising could be collected anywhere, it would surely be here. As of yet, he¡¯d seen no evidence of any kind hinting at an organised rebellion. The yers here were young, barely out of the academy, and the bulk of the people were stone miners, shepherds and carvers, hardly the sort to attempt to overthrow the baron. They might re and spit behind Poranus¡¯ back, but that was simply because nobody had whipped them for disrespecting their betters in generations. All of that would change.


    He leaned back in his chair, papers momentarily forgotten as he gazed up at the thatched roof of his abode thoughtfully. The house had been ¡®donated¡¯ for his use as an official residence and office upon his arrival, and despite being one of the best constructed in the vige, it was woefully insufficient.


    There <em>had</em> to be evidence somewhere. Before he was done, he had to take something back he could shake under those idiots on the council¡¯s noses, something that would stir them to action. Communications of some kind, proof of weapons being smuggled, or illegals fighting the kin. Perhaps he should go through the vigers and see if anyone unbranded had been involved in the battles. Some of them had achieved a surprising number of levels fighting the kin after the rift had opened, which had been revealed upon his arrival and collection of official status readings. If he were to perform another reading, perhaps he would shake loose a few people who¡¯d gained more levelstely than they strictly should have?


    It was a thought worth pursuing.


    There came a soft knock at the door and Poranus grunted, lowering his gaze back to his paperwork.


    ¡°Come in, Lutin. Throw it straight on the fire and then get out. I¡¯m busy.¡±


    Frequency and intensity of kin attacks on the walls seemed to be almost stable, and the reports from observing the rift itself suggested that it wasn¡¯t growing much anymore. If equilibrium had already been achieved, then that was a good thing. The province was stretched to produce enough yers as it was. They were running out of grist for the mill, so to speak. For now, Cragwhistle would serve as an ideal training ground for weaker teams before they would be sent to more established rifts.


    He scratched a few notes into his official records as the figure of Lutin entered the chamber and moved toward the firece.


    For the most part, the boar-like kin carried only the weakest grade of cores and little in the way of usefulponents, but the ice-creatures were better. Considering how weak they were, they tended to hold low-eight to low-three cores, which were worth a decent amount for bronze teams. The Empire¡¯s hunger for cores was insatiable, and apparently, a few teams had begun to see signs of crystalised magick in some of the caves higher up the mountain, which could also prove profitable.


    Suddenly, Poranus reeled as something battered into his mind. He fell to the side, papers flying as his hands jerked and twisted against his will.


    He snarled.


    ¡°You think I didn¡¯t know you were there? That worm Lutin always shuffles his feet.¡±


    The magister fought to bring his body upright, pushing back against the weight that sought to smother his thoughts. He red at the cloaked figure across the room, one hand extended towards the desk.


    Atst, someone had acted directly against him.


    With a rictus grin twisting his features, Poranus slowly forced himself to standing, pushing back against the pressure, gaining ground millimetre by millimetre.


    ¡°You and I, are going to have, a long conversation, after this,¡± he ground out, straining with every fibre of his mind.


    The cloaked figure watched him, seemingly unperturbed that he was losing the battle of wills.


    A fool, then. Trying to dominate the mind of a magister? Poranus and his brothers were the masters of that game.


    Something blurred in the doorway, and he barely had time to recognise the sh of steel in the dim light before pain erupted in his hand. With horror, Poranus nced down to see three fingers had been severed from his right hand, rings still glittering on the lost digits.


    The weight on his mind suddenly doubled, and the magister felt himself begin to buckle under the pressure.


    ¡°A little harder, without the ring, isn¡¯t it?¡± the cloaked figure said quietly. The hand tightened into a fist. ¡°Let¡¯s see how strong that Will really is.¡±

 Chapter B3C43 - Dangerous Game

    Chapter B3C43 - Dangerous Game


    Tyron watched carefully as the magister struggled to resist the influence of his mind. It was a desperate battle, will against will as they fought for supremacy.


    Over the years, Tyron had be unfortunately skilled at this practice. Yor had called on him numerous times, and Tyron had been forced to manipte several individuals establishing his identity as Lukas Almsfield. However, this was a form ofbat the Magisters were well versed in.


    Grimacing, saliva running down his chin, his opponent red at him with a frenzied glint in his eye, his hands frozen into ws that hovered in the air.


    ¡°Did you notice what it was that cut you?¡± Tyron said, keeping his voice low. ¡°An undead. You know what that means? You¡¯ve already lost, but it''s better if you¡¯re alive, right?¡±


    Almost against his will, the magister flicked his eyes to where the skeleton stood, bloodied sword still in hand. In that moment, his concentration wavered, and Tyron ruthlessly tightened his grip.


    Desperation crept into the fight as the wounded mage began to frantically thrash and w at his mind. He knew the only way out was if he won this battle in an overwhelming victory, crushing his opponent before the skeleton could be ordered to injure him.


    Tyron allowed the magisters'' increasingly panicked Will tosh against him as he continued to squeeze. The anger zed in him now, a roaring bonfire that crackled so loud as to drown out the rest of his thoughts. All he could see was the magister. All he could sense was his mind closing like a vice around his foes.


    First, there was a slight chink, one brick in the wall cracking under the strain, but Tyron was upon it in an instant, driving his Will through like a spike. The magister tried to plug the gap, to rally what remained of his defence against the intrusion, but it was toote. Once the first chink had been opened, more soon followed as Tyron worked ruthlessly to widen them.


    When there was no way left to hold him off, the Necromancer wrapped his Will around his opponentpletely, nketing his mind and suffocating it. He was now in total control.


    When he came back to himself, he found his entire body ached. His fists and jaw were clenched tight, a rictus snarl on his face, every muscle tensed and sore. Emotion had gotten the better of him. It was hard, seeing someone dressed in the robes of a magister standing in front of him, but that didn¡¯t excuse hisck of control.


    ¡°H-have you got him?¡± calm a hesitant voice from outside the door.


    ¡°Yes, I have him.¡±


    The door opened and the broad-shouldered frame of Ortan ducked through. He really was toorge for his own good. The Cragwhistle resident looked at the frozen form of the mage in wide-eyed shock, as if not believing the evidence of his own eyes.


    ¡°When you said you wanted to ¡®handle¡¯ the magister, I didn¡¯t really believe you could do it. He¡¯s actually under your control?¡±


    ¡°He is, but he can still hear you,¡± Tyron told him dryly.


    ¡°Shit! You should have warned me before I came in!¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nowhere for you to hide now, so don¡¯t bother. I¡¯m able to manipte his thoughts and memories to a certain degree, so he won¡¯t remember this has happened. Not exactly, anyway.¡±


    Ortan nched when he saw the severed digits on the floor.


    ¡°And how are you going to exin those with altered memories? Did he cut himself shaving or something?¡±


    The Necromancer reached down to pick up the fingers and pulled the ring from each in turn before dropping them onto the desk. He held up a ck ring between his thumb and forefinger, showing it to Ortan.


    ¡°Nasty piece of work this one. Helps protect them against mental intrusion and maniption. Has a specially moulded core wound through the centre of it. Without removing it from his body, there¡¯s no way I could have won.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t help you exin how you¡¯ll manage to prevent him from remembering it happening!¡±


    ¡°The best lies have an element of truth mixed into them,¡± Tyron said thoughtfully, tapping his chin as he considered the problem. ¡°Perhaps I¡¯ll suggest that it <em>was</em> a skeleton who cut his hand. A rogue undead from the ins, or someone recently deceased on the mountain. There¡¯s sure to be a few bony boys¡ªskeletons wandering around out there, considering all the death over thest few years.¡±


    He looked over to Rufus, the revenant standing guard over the frozen form of the magister and smirked. He couldn¡¯t help enjoying having him as a minion sometimes. Hopefully, he¡¯d grow out of it.


    ¡°Now, we have a wonderful opportunity on our hands,¡± Tyron said as he found a chair and pulled it over to the desk. With a flex of his Will, he forced the magister to sit, then eased himself down on the opposite side. ¡°We have a docile, controlled magister here to question to our hearts content. There are limits to what we can force out of him, but I think this is going to be <em>very</em> enlightening.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Six months,¡± Tyron muttered, ¡°I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s going to be enough.¡±


    Ortan looked at him sideways as the two settled themselves around the table in therger man¡¯s home.


    ¡°You want to monopolise a rift for six months and it won¡¯t be enough?¡± he said. ¡°Just how many kin do you need to kill?¡±


    Tyron flicked him a nce, a hint of irritation creeping through.


    ¡°I can¡¯t be here all the time. I have a persona, connections, and businesses to maintain. Not to mention that most of the materials I use to create my minions have been sourced from the capital. Kenmor is home to millions of people, nobody is likely to miss a few skeletons there. Where am I going to find hundreds of remains out here, or the resources necessary to process them?¡±


    He indicated towards the vige with one hand dismissively, but Ortan spoke to him seriously.


    ¡°If it¡¯s bodies you need, there are <em>thousands</em> out here,¡± he said quietly, looking down at the table. ¡°Entire viges were wiped off the map after the break at Woodsedge, and more have died since, to disease and starvation. There¡¯s good reason why so many people have been prepared to up and risk everything to move out here.¡±


    Tyron blinked, then nodded slowly.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, ¡°I didn¡¯t realise it was so bad out here. Elsbeth didn¡¯t mention¡­¡±


    Ortan frowned, then sighed.


    ¡°Well I suppose she wouldn¡¯t. She¡¯s got a good heart, doesn¡¯t want toy burdens on people they don¡¯t belong to.¡±


    He stood and walked to his humble cupboard, pulling down two mugs and a bottle of red wine that he poured into generously. With onerge hand, he pushed one mug across the table to Tyron, then gathered his own and raised it in a salute before taking a long drink.


    ¡°Hits the spot,¡± he rasped. ¡°Bit stronger than I remember. Heck. They bottle this north of Cluffton, near Dustwatch Keep. Thorn and Sons Vinyard. I swear you can clean blood off the streets with this stuff.¡±


    He took another pull while Tyron raised the nce and imbibed a cautious amount. The fluid burned his tongue and throat on the way down, tickling his nose. It was definitely strong.


    ¡°I¡¯m not surprised no one in the capital is talking about it, they don¡¯t care, never have. Help came east, but not much further than Foxbridge. Rebuilding at the rifts up north is sucking up a lot of resources. The Keep is about halfway done, and Woodsedge is starting to spring up around it again. This close to the barrier mountains,¡± the big man shrugged, ¡°nothing. I don¡¯t like to say it, but it really is a miracle we survived, even prospered, as well as we have. Under normal conditions, we¡¯d have starved to death long ago.¡±


    When it was said so inly, Tyron saw clearly that this had been predictable, knowable, perhaps inevitable. With a little thought, he would have been able to see just how people this far west would have fared in the aftermath of the break. He thought of the farmwives and their children he¡¯d saved from their horrible circumstances, so long ago, perhaps his only significant, heroic deed. Had they all starved to death, along with the children? Or fallen sick and perished forck of medicine?


    It hadn¡¯t mattered to him. He¡¯d been grieving, and burning for revenge. Even now, he didn¡¯t care, not really. His sympathy for these survivors had piqued, he wouldn¡¯t fool himself and say it hadn¡¯t, but he didn¡¯t live to help people in need, not anymore. He lived to enact vengeance, and he couldn¡¯t afford any distractions from that goal.


    ¡°Where would I find these bodies?¡± he said finally, leaning forward.


    The big man scowled at him, thenughed bitterly.


    ¡°We can help you with that, I suppose. It depends on how open you want to be with your¡­activities. I can have someone hunt down the mass graves for you, but the more¡­ dedicated people could probably be convinced to help you out, sort bones and the like. Of course, if you help us out, the folks here are more likely to chip in¡­ and keep their mouths shut.¡±


    It didn¡¯t really matter if the people were willing to keep his secrets or not. Of course, it would take longer for word to spread if they were disciplined, but in the face of a noble, or a significant member of the clergy¡­ they would be helpless before the Divine Right. They¡¯d sell their newborn baby before themand had finished ringing in their ears.


    Tyron leaned back in his chair as he thought. How greedy did he want to be? How much could he risk exposing himself? This far from Kenmor, it was tempting to simply drop the facade and <em>finally</em> be himself again, no mask. That impulse might be a trap.


    Walking around town with his natural face was one thing, even confronting the magister without a facade was eptable. After all, the number of people in the world who¡¯d seen Tyron Sterm at his current age and known who they were looking at could be counted on the fingers of one hand. ording to everyone in the province, he was dead, a ck mark on the family expunged by the sacrifice of Magnin and Beory, an event that urred close to five years ago.


    Still. When the magisters inevitably learned of a Necromancer on the loose, would they believe it was someone new who had managed to slip the, or would they immediately think it was Tyron Sterm, who had survived unexpectedly?


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you want me to do,¡± Tyron eventually said, ¡°my n is to stay here and use the rift to gain experience and levels, though the process will likely be slow, now that I¡¯ve reached silver rank.¡±


    ¡°So you <em>have</em> made it to silver. I guess you¡¯d have to be, in order to knock out a magister the way you did.¡±


    ¡°But as I said, I can¡¯t stay here permanently. I have a month before I need to go back to Kenmor, then I¡¯ll make, hopefully, another two or three trips over the following six months.¡±


    ¡°Your minions don¡¯t have to leave, though, right?¡± Ortan points out. ¡°Can¡¯t they stay and fight while you¡¯re not here?¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°Of course not. In order for them to move, I have to supply them with magick through a conduit. Moving such a vast amount of arcane energy over such a long distance would be¡­ impossible. I¡­ couldn¡¯t afford to¡­ have¡­ I¡­ think?¡±


    The Necromancer trailed off and Ortan stared at him expectantly, then grew slightly concerned as the mage¡¯s eyes began to ze over and stare straight through him.


    ¡°Hey¡­ Tyron? Hey!¡± he pped his hands and the young man startled in his seat, his gaze focusing once more.


    ¡°What? Where?¡± he stuttered, looking around himself in confusion.


    ¡°You spaced out there, are you alright?¡± Ortan asked cautiously.


    ¡°Oh¡­ yes. I had¡­ an idea.¡±


    He shook himself vigorously, trying to focus on the here and now, not allowing his mind to go racing down the thread he had discovered.


    ¡°Our main problem remains the magister, Poranus.¡±


    ¡°How is he an issue? Haven¡¯t you¡­¡± Ortan made an odd, scissoring motion with one hand towards his own head, ¡°fixed him up? So to speak?¡±


    The big man was clearly ufortable with the idea.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t ¡®fixed him up¡¯. I¡¯ve suppressed his thoughts and imnted false ideas to rece them. I¡¯ll have to check on him every now and again to ensure it doesn¡¯t break, but if all goes ording to n, he¡¯ll sit in that house for the next half year, filing paperwork and not setting foot outside, which means we can do whatever we like out on the rift. The issue will be when he goes back to Kenmor.¡±


    Tyron folded his arms across his chest and stared Ortan in the eye.


    ¡°Poranus is supposed to be here for six months. When that time is up, he¡¯ll return to the capital and go back to his regr duties, and someone else will be sent.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ you can just bamboozle the next magister as well. Can¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Probably. My main concern is if someone notices that Poranus¡¯ memory has been tampered with. The Magisters are famously practitioners of mental magick. If they figure it out, we may all be in trouble.¡±


    Ortan pped the table.


    ¡°Then shouldn¡¯t you have just left him alone? You¡¯ve put the entire vige at risk!¡±


    ¡°I have,¡± Tyron admitted, ring across the table. ¡°And I¡¯ll do what I can to protect you and these people, but I won¡¯t risk myself. I needed Poranus settled so I could ess the rift, regardless of what that meant for you and yours.¡±


    He leaned forward.


    ¡°I am here to gather the strength I need to enact my vengeance, Ortan. Anything that bes an obstacle to that will be dealt with. Understood?¡±


    The big man scowled.


    ¡°I get it.¡±

 Chapter B3C44 - Master of the Fief

    Chapter B3C44 - Master of the Fief


    ¡°You stupid bronze pieces of shit! Kneel before me!¡±


    ¡°We <em>are</em> kneeling, you fucking donkey!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± Dove roared. ¡°I will not tolerate this disrespect. I am your new Master, and you will obey mymands!¡±


    The onyx skeleton pointed a bony finger at the four captives, ring down at their kneeling figures with contempt burning in his burning, purple eyes.


    ¡°I was almost a gold ranked yer,¡± he boasted, pping himself on the ribs with both hands. ¡°You four are just puppiespared to me. If you behave yourselves, I¡¯ll tell my servant to treat you nicely when I¡¯m not around. You¡¯ll get muffins. Maybe.¡±


    He tapped his jaw lightly.


    ¡°What¡¯s the name of your team, anyway?¡±


    Trenan scowled.


    ¡°The Hooligans,¡± he muttered, a little reluctantly.


    Dove stared at him.


    ¡°That¡¯s terrible. I love it.¡±


    ¡°Dove,¡± a cold voice broke into the conversation, followed a momentter by the cloaked figure of the Necromancer.


    The four young yers tensed as he appeared, and Dove threw his hands up with disgust.


    ¡°This is ridiculous! They¡¯re terrified of you, but look at me like I¡¯m mildly irritating! As if I were indigestion, or old ham, or sour beer¡­ overripe cheese. Damn, I want food all of a sudden.¡±


    ¡°You could shove some in your face, I suppose,¡± Tyron said, voice wry. ¡°Not that you would taste it.¡± He stepped closer and nced at the captives. ¡°Why are they kneeling?¡± he asked.


    ¡°So that they know their ce!¡± the skeleton dered, performing a rude gesture at the team.


    Tyron rubbed his temples and sighed. He¡¯d hoped having a body and some basic magick would help stop Dove¡¯s slide into¡­ disturbing avenues of thought. At best, it had slowed him down¡­ slightly. He had a bad feeling that whatever was going on with his mentor would not end well. For anyone.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about him,¡± Tyron said to the four, who clearly did not expect an apology from their captor.


    Tyron briefly considered how to exin Dove¡¯s behaviour, then gave up and moved on to other things.


    ¡°All of you, stand up, please.¡±


    Brigette, Arthur and Choll all looked to Trenan, who nodded, and the three of them followed his lead in rising to their feet, all eyeing the Necromancer warily. For his part, Tyron was unafraid. Without their weapons and surrounded by skeletons, these four yers were no threat to him.


    He¡¯d considered for a while what he should say to these yers to help them understand what was happening here, what he was doing. Perhaps he should make some attempt to bring them into the rebellion, turn them against the magisters? ording to Elsbeth, this was where the Three wanted to make their stand, the hub around which the yer uprising would be founded.


    To this point, he didn¡¯t see it. The vigers were hard people, and no friends of the empire. In fact, in the wake of the break four years ago, themon folk this far from Kenmor were openly hostile to the authorities. For the yers, it was different. Magnin and Beory, specifically, the way they had been used and killed by the magisters, had been the final straw. After decades, centuries, of being suppressed and controlled, seeing their best and brightest being treated so poorly had exhausted their tolerance.


    But these four? They were fresh out of the academy, barely twenty years old. His parents had died before they had even Awakened. Did they care?


    Unable toe up with answers on what to do, he had simply decided to ignore them.


    ¡°I will be here for a few weeks. In that time, I will monopolise the rift. When I¡¯m done, I¡¯ll leave, and you can return to doing what you did before.¡±


    They watched him silently.


    ¡°Obviously, I¡¯m an illegal,¡± he spread his hands, being open with them, ¡°a Necromancer. You can attempt to report me, if you wish, but you might find it more difficult to achieve than you expect.¡±


    Most likely, they didn¡¯t believe him. It didn¡¯t matter; trying to speak to magister Poranus wasn¡¯t likely to go well for them. Not anymore.


    ¡°Whether you choose to believe me or not, I intend no harm to any of you, or the vige. So long as you stay out of my way and keep quiet about my presence, you¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    Trenan red at him.


    ¡°What assurance do we have that any of this is true?¡± he queried, despite the blonde swordswoman by his side digging a solid elbow into his ribs.


    Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°You¡¯re alive. If I wanted to kill you and raise you as my minions, I would have done so already. In fact...¡±


    He stepped back, into the waiting pack of shield-bearing skeletons. Once he was safely behind a wall of his minions, he had the yers¡¯ weapons returned to them.


    ¡°You¡¯re free to go,¡± he said. ¡°Remember what I told you. Whether or not you end up like them,¡± he gestured towards the revenant of Rufus standing to one side, ¡°depends entirely on you.¡±


    Somewhat bewildered, the four epted their gear, then stared as the skeletons stepped aside to allow them through. Hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence, Trenan led his team out of the wolf¡¯s mouth, walking down the slope and back towards town. Behind them, the Necromancer seemed to pay the yers no more mind, speaking softly to the weird skeleton as the rest of the undead walked toward the rift.


    Was he really going to hold off the rift-kin all by himself? Judging from how many skeletons there were, it was possible.


    ¡°What the hell was that about?¡± Bridgette whispered, ¡°I thought we were dead for sure.¡±


    ¡°Shut up,¡± Trenan said, more harshly than he intended. ¡°We can talk once we get back into town. That Mage is possibly gold, or high silver. We aren¡¯t safe to talk here.¡±


    The others nodded and the group moved with purpose, tension thick in the air until they arrived back outside the wall.


    ¡°Hooligans, returning from the rift,¡± he said stiffly to the men and women above the gate.


    ¡°Wee back, yers. Got someone inside who wants a word with you.¡±


    They exchanged nces, but there was a palpable sense of relief when they saw Ortan Larigold waiting on the other side as the thick wooden gate swung open.


    ¡°We need to speak, urgently,¡± Trenan said as he strode up to the enormous viger.


    ¡°Not here,¡± Ortan replied, ¡°let¡¯s move to your barracks.¡±


    ¡°Good idea,¡± Trenan nodded, ¡°the other teams should hear this as well.¡±


    The man nodded slowly.


    ¡°That too.¡±


    When they¡¯d arrived in Cragwhistle, the yers had been put up in a house, all that was avable at the time. Since then, something had been built, far from a proper yer keep, but it was spacious enough to house the three teams in whatfort a remote ce such as this could afford. It was to this building, long and low-roofed, formed of grey stone, that the five of them walked.


    Thankfully, the barracks was close to the gate, otherwise Bridgette may have exploded from the strain of holding in her words long before she arrived.


    ¡°There¡¯s a fucking <em>Necromancer</em> up the mountain, Ortan! There¡¯s <em>hundreds </em>of skeletons, way too many for us to kill!¡±


    The big viger blinked.


    ¡°That many? Damn.¡±


    His reaction was extremely off-putting for Trenan.


    ¡°You <em>know</em> about this guy? What the fuck is going on here, Mr Larigold?¡±


    ¡°Can you keep it down, please?¡± someone called in a piteous voice. ¡°I¡¯ve been drinking and would much rather be asleep than listening to you quarrel in the corridor.¡±


    Trenan turned and thumped on his door.


    ¡°Well you¡¯re shit out of luck, Gramble. Get your pudgy ass out of bed and get your team together. Some real shit is going down.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t it wait until morning?¡±


    ¡°No, you dumb fuck! Hurry up!¡±


    Trenan nced around.


    ¡°Where¡¯s team Starfire?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get them,¡± Chol offered, dragging Arthur with her. ¡°If they aren¡¯t in their rooms, I know their favourite ce to be.¡±


    ¡°Make sure you get everyone,¡± Trenan told her. ¡°We need to work out what we¡¯re going to do.¡±


    Ortan simply sighed. yers often had their blood up, wanting to act decisively and be in control, he¡¯de to notice. It was probably a result of them fighting day in, day out for so long. Being indecisive was how you got killed.


    In short order, the yers of Cragwhistle had assembled. The four members of the Hooligans held court in the smallmon room inside the barracks, while the other teams found ces to sit. Gramble had, with Trenan¡¯s assistance, dragged the other two members of his group, the Blue Dogs, out of bed,ining loudly the entire time. The five women of team Starfire had returned at Chol¡¯s urging, though unhappy that they¡¯d been forced to abandon their meal. Their leader, Samantha, wore a perpetual scowl at the best of times. Right now, she appeared even more fierce.


    ¡°Did you call us all here, Mr Larigold?¡± she demanded when she saw Ortan standing in one corner. ¡°I have all due respect to your position in the vige, but wasting my team¡¯s time is something I won¡¯t tolerate.¡±


    The big man held up his hands, palms out.


    ¡°Slow down there, please. It¡¯s true I wanted to speak to you all, but I¡¯m <em>not </em>the one who dragged you all here.¡±


    He stared pointedly at Trenan, who folded his arms across his chest and red back at him.


    ¡°We have an urgent situation that needs to be remedied, so all of you can shut the fuck up with your petty grievances. There¡¯s a Necromancer on the mountain, right now, as we speak.¡±


    He spat out the sentence and paused a beat to allow it to sink in.


    ¡°A powerful one, too. He captured my team, disarmed us and held us captive before he let us go, told us to keep our mouths shut.¡±


    ¡°Is this some sort of joke?¡± Gramble wondered, pushing his sses up his nose. ¡°A Necromancer? Here?¡±


    ¡°Do I look like I¡¯m joking to you, Gramble?¡±


    ¡°If I¡¯m being honest, you look like you¡¯ve never told a joke in your entire life.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    Samantha shared a worried nce with her team.


    ¡°And he just let you go? I don¡¯t know much about Necromancers except that they¡¯re illegal, but I understand that turning powerful fighters into undead ves is basically their go-to move.¡±


    Trenan grunted.


    ¡°Said he would leave us alone, leave the vige alone too, as long as we didn''t bother him. He wants the rift to himself for a few weeks. I¡¯m not sure I believe it.¡±


    ¡°Of course you don¡¯t believe it!¡± Grambleughed incredulously. ¡°He¡¯s probably trying to get stronger by taking on the rift before he wipes out the vige entirely! Killing all of us in the process! I, for one, am not going to sit around while this mage polishes a knife for my throat. Let¡¯s rally together and kill the prick!¡±


    Most of the yers in the room nodded at this, but Ortan spoke up, cutting through the rising aggression.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that,¡± he said clearly, causing all the yers to turn and stare at him.


    ¡°Why not?¡± Gramble demanded. ¡°We would be doing the people of Cragwhistle a great service, removing a clear and imminent danger! Besides, I¡¯m not sure what say you have in our decision, with respect.¡±


    Ortan dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, trying to work out how to phrase this diplomatically. yers had such sensitive egos at the best of times.


    ¡°For one, I think you would fail and die. There are hundreds of skeletons up on that mountain, so I¡¯m told, and in total, there are twelve of you.¡±


    ¡°I like those odds!¡± Bridgette announced.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t seem quite so confident on the mountain,¡± Arthur muttered.


    ¡°For two,¡± Ortan pressed on, ¡°the vigers here would likely turn on you if you did. Which you would <em>not</em> survive.¡±


    The big man grimaced as the faces staring at him grew decidedly more heated.


    ¡°Are you threatening us?¡± Samantha asked coldly.


    ¡°No. And I don¡¯t want to speak on this much.Suffice to say that the Necromancer is known to the people here, and they will not take kindly to him being hurt. The main reason I wanted to keep this conversation quiet was because I don¡¯t know how they¡¯ll react once they find out he¡¯s here. But if you try to go up the mountain and fight him, I <em>will</em> tell them.¡±


    ¡°We can prevent that,¡± Samantha growled.


    Something close to pity flickered across Ortan¡¯s face.


    ¡°No, you can¡¯t,¡± he said quietly.


    Upon graduating the academy, each and every one of them had been given the brand. In that moment, Trenan could feel it, searing like the day the cursed thing had been carved into his flesh.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing stopping us telling the magister,¡± Trenan said. ¡°He can send a message by ro¡¯w, have a team of silver yers here to rip the bastard¡¯s head off before the week is out.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re wee to try,¡± Ortan said, ¡°but I warn you, it won¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°Are we really going to sit here and listen to this <em>viger</em> tell us what we can and can¡¯t do?¡± Gramble said, staring around the room. ¡°Fine. If that¡¯s what you all want, then fine. Me and my team will <em>not</em> remain while some madman we are <em>permitted</em> to kill sits on the mountain. We¡¯ll pack our things and be on our way in an hour.¡±


    He made to stand up, but again, Ortan spoke before he could.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid you can¡¯t do that either,¡± he said, reluctantly.


    Gramble turned to re at him directly.


    ¡°Why not?¡± he said slowly.


    ¡°Because the magister would write you up for dereliction of duty, ruining your career. Your three teams have been posted here directly, you aren¡¯t free to leave.¡±


    Trenan didn¡¯t like what he was hearing.


    ¡°Why would Magister Poranus do that, Mr Larigold?¡± he asked. ¡°You seem awfully confident he¡¯ll do whatever is convenient to that Necromancer.¡±


    ¡°Suffice to say, those two have had a confrontation, which the magister lost,¡± Ortan said, shifting ufortably. ¡°Any attempt to turn Poranus against the Necromancer will¡­ not work out.¡±


    ¡°Mind magick?¡± Gramble gasped, horrified. ¡°That¡¯s monstrous!¡±


    ¡°And what they did to us isn¡¯t?¡± a voice grated out harshly.


    Shocked, many of the yers, including members of her own team, turned to stare at Samantha, who scowled back at them, fire in her eyes.


    ¡°Anyone who doesn¡¯t resent the brand, put your hand up,¡± she spat.


    Seconds ticked past in total silence. Nobody raised a hand.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought. I¡¯m not happy about this situation, but I¡¯ll jump through a rift naked before I feel sorry for one of those <em>bastards</em>.¡±


    A hush descended over the group as they each considered what they should do, until Gramble, the pudgy mage, had had enough.


    ¡°This is ridiculous,¡± he dered, pushing himself to his feet. ¡°I refuse to believe the people of Cragwhistle are behind you on this, Mr Larigold. It¡¯s absurd, and I¡¯m going to prove it.¡±


    He began to march toward the exit as Ortan stretched out a hand.


    ¡°Don¡¯t do that. Please!¡± He called after him, but without physically restraining him, there was nothing he could do.


    The others looked at each other before they too rose from their seats and began to file out of the barracks, wondering what Gramble was going to do.


    Full of ire, the mage boldly stepped out into the middle of the street, threw up his hands as if he were a circus performer and loudly dered.


    ¡°Good people of Cragwhistle. I must inform you of a real and present danger!¡±


    This obviously garnered attention, people turning from what they were doing, poking their noses out of shops.


    ¡°There is a vile Necromancer on the mountain!¡± Gramble shouted.


    The yers watched in shock as the people heard what he said, then turned to the mountain.


    A great cheer rose in the chill air.

 Chapter B3C45 - Ossuary Rises

    Chapter B3C45 - Ossuary Rises


    There was something refreshing about being on his own again. The city was filled with distractions, noises, and concerns. He had to wear many faces, be many things to many different people. Until he had stepped away from it all to make this trip, Tyron hadn¡¯t truly realised how exhausted of it all he was.


    Pulling so many strings at once was a difficult feat, and he found himself d to be able to put them all down, untangle the knots in his mind.


    ¡°Are you going to stand around staring at the trees, or are you going to kill some shit?¡± Dove said, prodding him in the side with a pointed, bone finger.


    It was <em>almost</em> peaceful out here.


    ¡°That¡¯s it, I¡¯m putting the armour back on,¡± Tyron brushed the skeleton away before he found the armour he¡¯d constructed. A brief ritualter and he was once again covered in the moulded bone tes, protected from the kin and irritating undead yers.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Dove urged him. ¡°The sooner you get to fighting, the sooner <em>I</em> can death bolt some kin in the head and see if I can start earning levels again.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s unlikely tha¡ª¡± Tyron began, for the umpteenth time.


    ¡°Yes, yes, yes, yes,¡± Dove waved him off, ¡°we all know that it probably won¡¯t work. No need to bring down the mood, you fucking killjoy. A slim chance is better than no chance, right? Let me have this.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± he conceded.


    There was no real reason to continually squash Dove¡¯s dreams of regaining his power, but he really didn¡¯t believe it would work. As far as he knew, the power of the Unseen was tied to blood. How, he didn¡¯t know, but the status ritual itself was proof enough. If more evidence was needed, then the blood capsules he¡¯d received from Yor being able to change his status was sufficient.


    Although¡­ he paused for a moment. Although the capsules changed the way his status was read, it didn¡¯t actually change his capabilities in any way. None of his Unseen-granted strength or knowledge was removed, nor the aid of his mysteries. Perhaps the status was <em>read</em> from the blood, but existed somewhere else? It was an interesting line of thought.


    But not why Tyron was here.


    ¡°You can have a few here and there,¡± he warned the skeleton, ¡°but I need the bulk of the experience for myself.¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course. I¡¯m not some greedy little rat, begging for more scraps than they deserve,¡± Dove said indignantly. ¡°I¡¯ll behave, you¡¯ll see.¡±


    Tyron grunted, unconvinced, but didn¡¯t waste more time with the former Summoner. He was finally here, with a chance to fight, experiment and gain experience, an opportunity that had taken <em>years</em> for him to create. He refused to waste it.


    ¡°Hopefully, the kin have started filtering through again after we cleared them from the other side,¡± Tyron mused.


    ¡°Of course they will,¡± Dove assured him, ¡°rifts will always draw in kin, especially if there are not many hanging around it. All they want in life is to jump through and kill shit.¡±


    ¡°Why is it that everything not living in this realm wants to take a chunk out of it?¡± Tyron said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous. The realms that have fallen to the rifts attack others without rhyme or reason, but the fact that they exist at all speaks to the existence of worlds beyond this one. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s gajillions of worlds out there, probably in the same boat as us, fighting off the kin and trying to preserve what¡¯s left for their people.¡±


    ¡°Then why haven¡¯t we ever found any? You¡¯d think after thousands of years of fighting the rifts, we would have found a way to contact another world, cooperate with them against amon enemy.¡±


    Dove shrugged his bony shoulders.


    ¡°Fucked if I know. Dimensional magick has found ways to contact all sorts of ces, such as the Astral Sea, or the Abyss, and a bunch more nobody gives a fuck about, but not other realms such as our own.¡±


    ¡°I have,¡± Tyron mused.


    ¡°You what?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve contacted another realm like ours¡­ sort of.¡±


    The skeleton stared at him.


    ¡°You¡¯re talking about the Scarlet Court, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Tyron nodded.


    ¡°From what we¡¯ve been told by Yor, it¡¯s a realm that was taken over by the vampires and turned into a¡­ blood and darkness paradise for their kind. Who¡¯s to say that it wasn¡¯t once a world like ours?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ actually really interesting,¡± Dove stroked his bony chin. ¡°Something to think about another time. For now, let¡¯s go kill shit! That¡¯s what we came here for.¡±


    ¡°Right you are.¡±


    There were too many interesting thoughts bubbling away in Tyron¡¯s mind. He¡¯d need time to sort through them, but for now, he directed his minions forward. After six hours of fighting, he would retreat back to a familiar cave for the night.


    ~~~


    Against the frost boars and ice-walkers that Tyron had first battled against four years ago, his minions proved more than up to the task. Watching his massed ranks of skeletons tear the kin apart filled Tyron with satisfaction. This was the potential his ss had held from the beginning. A Necromancer was a powerful weapon against the rifts and he was now the proof. His shield minions formed a solid wall, absorbing the force of the boar charge, stabbing back with icy-calm while his archers fired and longsword skeletons nked.


    With the overwhelming numbers he brought to the fight, very little damage was suffered by his undead during the fighting. The roaming packs of boars, even when supported by the stronger ice-kin, were simply not enough to match his minions, even with minimal spell support.


    As night fell, he arrayed his minions around the cave that had been his resting ce once, four years before. Better prepared this time, Tyronid out his supplies, creating a cosy and secure environment. A padded bedrolly on the ttest ground, which he covered in leaves. A crackling fire was quickly lit in his enchanted firepit, with added temperature control. In a move that left Dove speechless, he even revealed a foldable table and chair, which he quickly arranged, unfolded his notes and began to scribble away in.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t exactly roughing it, are you?¡± the skeleton said, incredulous.


    Tyron continued to make notes.


    ¡°I don¡¯t see any reason why I should. I have the ability to purchase, or make, better equipment, so I did.¡±


    ¡°Did Magnin and Beory travel with all this luxury? I always assumed they enjoyed slumming it like the rest of us.¡±


    The young mage hesitated, his memories causing the pain to spike in his chest.


    ¡°They travelled pretty light,¡± he said roughly, then coughed to clear his throat. ¡°Ahem. At their level¡­ there wasn¡¯t much they couldn¡¯t do for themselves. Magnin was so physically durable he could sleep on the point of a spear, and Beory could heat or cool a tent, start the fire, conjure water, whatever was needed.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought. Shame to see their child living in such frivolousfort.¡±


    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t have cared. They¡¯d be more likely to praise me for nning ahead, something they always struggled to do.¡±


    ¡°Well, enough of this pointless sentimental garbage. I killed three kin today, let me have some paper so I can perform the status ritual!¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes, but handed over a sheet of paper nheless. He didn¡¯t bother telling the skeleton he was unlikely to have sess without being able to bleed, but he also didn¡¯t tell him about his suspicion about the power of the Unseen. He had too much on his te to worry about without the skeleton pestering him for more favours.


    ¡°Come to Dove, you wordy prick!¡± the mage cackled, holding the paper in his hand as he danced his odd skeletal dance.


    Trying to ignore him, Tyron turned his attention to his own matters. On the page in front of him he had a short list of things he needed to resolve regarding his own build, sooner rather thanter.


    They were:<ul><li>Sub-ss</li><li>General Feats and Skills</li><li>Necromancer progression</li></ul>


    Despite thinking on it for some time, he was no closer to selecting a sub-ss to pursue. As a human, he had ess to a third, and he didn¡¯t want to waste it, especially since Anathema had taken a precious slot. Alchemy was a viable path, another source of ie that may unlock more ways to strengthen his skeletons, but Tyron had reached a point where he could simply pay an alchemist to perform that service, or at least, provide the materials.


    Some sort of general or leadership ss? Would such a thing even work on the undead? And how would he go about receiving it? Unlikely Lukas Almsfield would be able to sign up for a military or militia.


    There were many different mage sses that tempted him. Summoner, Elementalist, Dimension mage, Curse mage, all of them seemed viable.


    Irritated, he turned his attention to the next line item. He had general feats and skills that he needed to select. Not as powerful as those stemming from sses, they were still extremely useful and deserved careful thought before selection. Tyron had so little time to devote to such matters recently, but he was determined to make his choices before leaving the mountain.


    Third and finally, he needed to map out his progression as a Necromancer as best he could. Synthesising what he knew about the ss, he wanted to try and visualise a path for him to reach his goals. Thinking about what he wanted from the ss had helped him select Lord of the Ossuary when he¡¯d ascended, and Tyron hade to see the rity that focusing on his purpose gave him as an asset.


    Speaking of which, it was about time he performed the status ritual once more.


    After raising so many undead and fighting through the rift, he was sure to have earned some levels. Probably not as many as he hoped. Progress slowed to a crawl once reaching silver, it was famous for it. There was a good reason so many yers, the majority of them, were stuck between level forty and sixty. Either they died, stopped pushing themselves to break through to gold, or retired.


    Not something his parents had ever worried about. The two of them had breezed through silver, or so he¡¯d heard. They¡¯d done it long before he was born.


    Grasping a sheet of paper, Tyron enacted the ritual, looking forward eagerly as his blood took shape on the page before him.


    Numerous messages rting to his Skills, and a good number of improvements to his core abilities appeared, which was of course very wee.


    Bone animus, forging and the Raise Dead ritual had all increased, which was gratifying. His hard work raising his minions had been rewarded by the Unseen.


    Anathema, oddly enough, hadn¡¯t moved, though the message he received from the dark patrons was generally positive. Tyron¡¯s eyes glided over the text rting to the Abyss. He wasn¡¯t ready to think about that yet.


    Then came the notification about his primary ss. Three levels. Three very wee levels. It was honestly more than he¡¯d expected. Many yers grinded hard in difficult rifts for <em>years</em> in order to reach gold. Tyron wasn¡¯t so naive as to think he would be able to breeze through in a matter of weeks or months.


    But, three levels was enough to earn him a new ability, the first from his new ss. His eyes quickly scanned down the page, eager to see what his new ss was going to offer him. The first selection for a ss was often a powerful one, key to how it would grow over the twenty levels.


    When his eyesnded on the text, he hesitated, surprised.


    <em>Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 42, select from the following Spells:</em>


    <em>Summon the Ossuary.</em>


    Aaaaaand¡­ nothing.


    Tyron leaned forward, confused. He picked up the page and turned it over, wondering if the words continued on the other side for some reason. They didn¡¯t.


    ¡°Select from what?¡± he muttered. ¡°There¡¯s only one.¡±


    As far as he knew, he should have been offered a second ability. There was <em>always </em>a second ability. Perhaps this was something different that only started happening at silver and higher. A little disappointed, Tyron leaned forward and ced his mark.


    ¡°At least I can¡¯t make the wrong choice,¡± he said to himself, and ended the ritual.


    Immediately, his eyes rolled back in his head as a flood of information was rammed into his brain. In five seconds, it was over, and Tyron lurched forwards, catching himself on his table at thest second.


    ¡°Holy¡­ holy shit,¡± he gasped.


    Mind still a jumble, he steadied himself, wondering what the Unseen had just done to him. He took deep breaths, steadying himself until the dizzy feeling went away.


    When his head was no longer swimming, he began to prod at his own mind, trying to tease out details of what he had just learned. So soon after the ritual, all he could get were hints, but what he learned was enough to make his eyes widen with shock.


    ¡°This¡­ this is¡­¡± he stammered.


    A pause.


    ¡°Holy shit.¡±

 Chapter B3C46 - Ritual Magick

    Chapter B3C46 - Ritual Magick


    ¡°Fucking¡­ shit!¡±


    No matter what he tried, Dove was unable to get the Unseen to acknowledge him. He performed the status ritual over and over again, but nothing happened.


    He pressed his hand, his skeletal hand, to the paper and enacted the ritual, but where once he would have felt the blood flow from his finger and onto the page, now he felt nothing. He didn''t have blood, that much was understood. He was as dry as a yer''s balls two hours back from a rift.


    Strictly speaking, not a single part of his current body was, or had been at any time, organic. He was a statue carved in the likeness of a skeleton, not actual bones, so even the potential for blood had never existed in him.


    It was difficult to exin, having something that had been an intrinsic part of him just¡­ <em>not work</em>, was maddening. It hadn¡¯t bothered him as much when he was just a skull, but now that he could move, could cast magick, he wanted it back.


    He wanted it back so badly it was like a dog gnawing on what was left of his abused soul.


    The onyx skeleton gripped the paper tight, ripping it along the edges.


    ¡°Haven¡¯t I done enough for you, fucking son of a bitch!¡± he growled. ¡°I fought the kin, isn¡¯t that what you want? Isn¡¯t that why you came to this fucking world? HELP ME!¡±


    Of course, it didn¡¯t answer him. The people of the empire hadn¡¯t called it ¡®the Unseen¡¯ for thousands of years because it had a habit of making itself known.


    Filled with disgust, he threw the sheet down to the forest floor. An all too familiar despair welled up in him, like an old friende to smother him once again. Dove chuckled bitterly. Feeling sorry for himself had be a favourite pastime of his over thest few years, it was almost his natural state of being. Unlike the past, he refused to let it take hold of him anymore. Wallowing in pity wasn¡¯t his style. Wallowing in other things¡­ definitely. Just not pity. If he was forced to exist in this gods-riddled world, then he would find a way to fucking <em>thrive</em>. Dove was not some vampire¡¯s ything.


    There had to be a way. <em>There had to be</em>.


    But what was it? The status ritual had existed in its current form for¡­ who knew how fucking long? Kids learned it at the age of three, all that was needed was some words and a smidge of finger dexterity. The most basic piece of magick, so trivial it didn¡¯t even appear on the status sheet it created.


    That ritual wouldn¡¯t work for him, he knew that now. Communicating the information of the Unseen through blood couldn¡¯t work, he had no blood, so he needed a <em>new</em> medium.


    In the distance, he could hear skeletons fighting in the dark and briefly considered going to help. The small container of magick he contained was refilled now, and his undead vision was equally as mediocre during the night as the day, but he didn¡¯t bother.


    If he couldn¡¯t summon the Unseen, get a ss and levels, then there wasn¡¯t much point in killing the kin.


    ¡°How am I supposed toe up with a new status ritual out of the blue. How? With what?¡± he spat into the frozen night air.


    Tyron could probably do it. The fucking kid was a once-in-a-generation genius, the likes of which Dove had never seen. He piled up mysteries like other people piled up hangovers. No matter how much magick he managed to pull out of his backside, there always seemed to be more in there.


    If anyone could figure out how to recreate literally the oldest ritual known to man, it was that smug prick, but Dove didn¡¯t want to ask him. He was done going begging, cap in hand, to Tyron and hoping the Necromancer could fix his problems for him.


    Except¡­ no matter how hard he tried, he couldn¡¯te with even a way to <em>begin</em> trying to construct a status ritual. Dove was a good mage, possibly even an excellent one, but there was an enormous difference between proficient rule-following and creating new rules from nothing. Give him aplete set of sigils, and Dove could perform the spell, break down the meaning of the individualponents, even suggest improvements or modifications, but creating something from scratch?


    It was an entirely different matter.


    ¡°FUCK!¡±


    Frustrated, he kicked a loose rock, sending the stone flying out into the darkness, then growled in frustration when he noticed he¡¯d cracked his own toe. Just¡­ perfect.


    Irritated, angry, frustrated and gloomy, Dove turned his back on the night and trudged towards Tyron¡¯s cosy little cave, wishing he had some pockets he could shove his hands into. One couldn¡¯t satisfactorily trudge while swinging their hands like a farmer in a fucking field at festival time.


    He brushed aside the heavy nket covering the opening, light and presumably warmth washing over him as he did so.


    ¡°Hey, kid,¡± he began a little awkwardly, then stilled.


    Tyron looked¡­ utterly insane. Hunched over that ridiculous table, eyes half bulging out his head, he was scribbling away in his book at a furious pace, whispering and muttering to himself, eyes zed over and almost drooling.


    ¡°Fucking hell!¡± Dove eximed, wondering what had possessed him, but it didn¡¯t take long to realise what was going on. Inspiration had struck once again and the Necromancer was lost in his own mind.


    Despite the outburst, Tyron didn¡¯t flinch, if anything, he only grew <em>more</em> feverish as the moments ticked by.


    Dove sighed. Without physically tackling him to the ground, it was unlikely he¡¯d get any help from his erstwhile protege for the time being. Instead of forcing the issue, he decided to fold his bony legs, pull out his own notes, and try to work on a resolution to his status problem.


    With a little luck, some of the genius aura sparkling around the fucking kid would trickle his way.


    ~~~


    By the time he realised time had passed, it was already morning. Tyron blinked wearily, his entire body aching as he stretched and groaned. Being hunched over the table for ten hours straight hadn¡¯t been kind to his muscles. Thank the Abyss he was as durable as he was, or it would have been far, far worse.


    Hands trembling slightly, he reached out to the pages in front of him, flicking through them as his eyes quickly scanned the sigils and patterns scrawled on each. The longer he looked, the more confident he became. It could work. It <em>would</em> work.


    A broad grin split his face as he stood, the pages still clutched in his hands. A ritual on this scale¡­ it was mind boggling, far beyond anything he¡¯d attempted before. He couldn¡¯t wait to make the attempt.


    ¡°Slow your roll, dickhead,¡± a dry voice echoed through the small cave.


    Tyron turned to see Dove curled up into a little ball of bones leaning against a rock wall, his own book open across his knees, pen in hand.


    ¡°Blood and Bone! I didn¡¯t see you there.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sneaky. But aside from that, you¡¯d better hold your horses for a second and take a few breaths.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Tyron frowned.


    ¡°<em>What do you mean?</em>¡± Dove mocked him. ¡°I can see it in as day, it''s written all over your face. You¡¯ve worked out some stupid bullshit, and now you want to run out and try it immediately.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not stupid¡ªand I got it from levelling up, I didn¡¯t figure it out myself.¡±


    The skeleton leaned to the side and cupped its cheek on one hand, again, a disturbingly human gesture.


    ¡°Interesting¡­ So it must be some kind of spell or ritual. A big one.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s eyes brightened.


    ¡°It¡¯s a ritual,¡± he enthused, ¡°and it¡¯s <em>insane</em>. Have a look at these sigil patterns and tell me if you¡¯ve ever seen anything like it.¡±


    As he rushed forward with the book extended, the skeleton held up a hand to stop him in his tracks.


    ¡°No. Go wash. Eat something. Drink some water and put on some clean fucking clothes. What would your mother say if you tried to cast aplex ritual for the first time in this kind of state?¡±


    She¡¯d be appalled. Tyron took a deep breath then nodded begrudgingly.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he muttered, then turned to leave.


    ¡°Put the book down,¡± Dove called.


    The young mage looked down to see the book of notes still clutched tightly to his chest. With extreme reluctance, he ced it down on the table, each finger lingering on the cover as if bound there with glue.


    With a final, monumental effort of will, he dragged himself away, almost throwing himself outside of the cave as he brushed aside the nket covering.


    He blinked.


    What were all these people doing here? Not many, perhaps a dozen. They looked up at him, gathered in a small cluster, about twenty metres down the hill. He looked down at them, suddenly wondering if he still had drool on his chin.


    ¡°H-hello?¡± he said, hesitantly.


    The vigers, which is what he presumed they were, pped their hands together and bowed at the waist towards him. Were they followers of the Old Gods? That made the most sense. Suddenly wary, Tyron watched them, cautious of what they may do or say. Would they demand protection of him, as their gods had promised?


    Apparently not. Rather than say anything at all, the group turned on their heels and left, filing back down the mountain towards Cragwhistle in silence, leaving Tyron wondering just what had happened. He shook himself.


    He didn¡¯t have time for this! There was magick to be about! As quickly as he could, he washed himself using the soap and water enchanted core he¡¯d purchased for the trip, before putting on fresh clothes, ripping into a breakfast of bread, cheese and a little fruit, before he staggered back into the cave, still choking down thest of the loaf.


    ¡°Gruvv!¡± he eximed through a mouthful of food.


    ¡°You fucking idiot.¡±


    ¡°Dove!¡± he tried again, after swallowing. ¡°Come on, look at this, you won¡¯t believe it!¡±


    Almost against his will, the skeleton allowed himself to be pulled to the table where Tyron began to flick through the pages, excitedly exining the sigils and patterns within. Despite himself, Dove felt himself being drawn in. It <em>was</em> interesting.


    ¡°This is dimensional magick,¡± he muttered, reaching out a finger to trace across the page. ¡°This section here¡­ this is forging a connection with another realm.¡±


    ¡°Not just creating a connection,¡± Tyron enthused, ¡°look here. What do you make of <em>this</em>?¡±


    If Dove was capable of frowning, he would.


    ¡°This¡­¡± he trailed off.


    This was something different.


    He himself was quite capable at dimension magick, considering his former ss had involved bringing sentient beings from the Astral Sea to this realm, it was to be expected. But these sigils¡­ this was a type of magick he hadn¡¯t seen before.


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe these sigils are forming connections¡­ I know how to identify a destination and reach for it. This is¡­ more like¡­ creation?¡±


    Tyron pped a hand down on the table exuberantly.


    ¡°That¡¯s right! If I¡¯m not mistaken, and I don¡¯t think I am, this ritual <em>creates </em>and <em>connects</em> to a location.¡±


    The amount of magick required to do something like that would be¡­ absurd.


    ¡°Making a¡­ a what? Out of what? Where would you be making it?¡± Dove asked some very reasonable questions.


    ¡°An Ossuary, out of magick, somewhere,¡± came the replies.


    ¡°A¡­ a what?! What in the name of fuck is an Ossuary?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a resting ce of human remains, usually a building. We don¡¯t see them much these days, but I¡¯m told worshippers of Rot used to store their dead in Ossuaries, letting the flesh, well, rot, until only the bones remained. Supposedly, there are thousands and thousands of skeletons stored in them,¡± the Necromancer sighed, wistful. ¡°Sadly, nobody knows where they are.¡±


    Dove poked him in the arm.


    ¡°How are you an expert of these ces all of a sudden?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the name of my new ss. Didn¡¯t I tell you? Lord of the Ossuary.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you did, I¡¯m not sure. Must be a hell of a ss to start with a ritual like this,¡± he tapped his finger on the page. ¡°I¡¯m assuming this was level forty-two?¡±


    Tyron nodded confirmation and Dove tried to whistle before remembering he couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°Fuck. Well, if you¡¯re going to do this thing, close to the rift like we are here is a good spot. Plenty of ambient magick to soak up, but I¡¯d make sure your ritual site is carefully prepared and your mediums are well in ce before you utter a single word.¡±


    Tyron struggled not to roll his eyes, but he couldn¡¯t argue with any of the advice. With a slight smile, he turned to his packs and began to rummage through them, emerging with a long staff that he held gently in both hands.


    ¡°What in the name of shit?!¡± Dove eximed. ¡°That¡¯s beautiful! Where did you get that from?¡±


    Tyron ran his hands along the intricately carved wood.


    ¡°It was a gift from my mother. She nned to give it to me after my Awakening. My father got me a sword as well. He was always an optimist.¡±


    Dove approached and cooed over the fine construction of the mage staff.


    ¡°Hole¨Cee¨Cshit. That¡¯s nice, that is. Look at the enchanting work done on it! What did they put into this thing? It practically shines with magick¡­ I can see it even with my ass-backwards skeleton eyes.¡±


    Mages would often mock the martial sses for their obsession with weapons. Swordsmen and women never shut up about their des, would sleep with the damn things if they had half a chance. But, truth was, mages were just as bad when it came to two things: ritual foci, and staves.


    A good staff was a magick amplifier, a ritual focus <em>and</em> a handy stick to whack things with all at the same time. Everything the aspiring mage needed. However, getting a good one was¡­ more expensive than most practitioners of the craft could justify.


    What Tyron held in his hands was top-shelf. In fact, it was more than that. This wasn¡¯t something you could buy off the shelf. A staff like this would only be made onmission, and only if you supplied the materials yourself, because you couldn¡¯t buy what wasn¡¯t on the market.


    ¡°They bought you this¡­ for your Awakening?¡± Dove choked out. ¡°That¡¯s absurd! If Beory herself had a staff any better than this, I¡¯ll eat my own femur.¡±


    Tyron shrugged and didn¡¯t reply. That was what they were like. Grand gestures weren¡¯t umon from his parents, but they typically weren¡¯t <em>this</em> grand.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been looking for an excuse to use it, this seems like a great time.¡±


    He grasped hold of the staff firmly, a bright light sparking in his eyes.


    ¡°Time to do some magick.¡±

 Chapter B3C47 - Lord of the Ossuary

    Chapter B3C47 - Lord of the Ossuary


    Tyron didn¡¯t need Dove¡¯s prodding to ensure he was fully prepared to cast this absurdlyplex ritual, but that didn¡¯t seem to stop the skeleton-trapped soul. He nitpicked about everything, questioning the young mage three times about every little detail. Was the circle correct? Was it <em>actually</em> correct? How stable were theponents used to draw it? Did he realise that drawing the circle with your finger in dust is a fucking stupid idea? Had he double checked his notes and ironed out all the wrinkles? What focus was he using? Was it suitable? Had he <em>checked</em> it was suitable?


    And on, and on, and on.


    It was incredibly frustrating. Tyron didn¡¯t particrly want to say it, but he knew he was a better mage than Dove, yet he allowed himself to be drawn into arguments over and over again, defending his choices, proving his work and covering each little detail to his mentor¡¯s satisfaction.


    Dove managed to drag the process out so long, it was <em>two days</em> after their first conversation in the cave when he was <em>finally</em> prepared to cast the ritual. Which was entirely the point. The former Summoner had dyed as much as he could, forced Tyron to rethink each aspect of the ritual, until the version he was about to cast was vastly superior to what he¡¯d held in his hands two days ago.


    In all that time, Tyron¡¯s undead had continued to intercept and destroy the rift-kin descending the mountain, collecting their cores and depositing them just outside the cave. They also kept away the vigers who, for some reason, continued to emerge from Cragwhistle to catch a glimpse of the Necromancer, bowing to him if they happened to see him, bowing to the skeletons if they didn¡¯t.


    Which, thanks to minion sight, Tyron also frequently saw.


    Standing over the wide, t rock Tyron had engraved his circle on, he sighed with satisfaction. It was perfect. Each line, loop and whorl, every symbol of arcane power, was without w. Which they needed to be if he didn¡¯t want to have the entire thing blow up and kill him. This ritual demanded so much magick, so much <em>power</em>, even the slightest mistake would cause it to backfire with spectacr results.


    ¡°Dove,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯ve wanted to kill you so many times over thest few days, but, as much as it pains me to say it, thanks. You¡¯ve helped a lot.¡±


    The skeleton shrugged his onyx shoulder bones and chattered his teeth, an annoying habit he¡¯d picked up.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got one major w when ites to magick, kid. You¡¯re too damn good. Sometimes, you don¡¯t seem to believe it''s even <em>possible </em>for you to make a mistake.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t,¡± Tyron pointed out defensively. ¡°All of my work was correct.¡±


    ¡°But it wasn¡¯t <emplete</em>. You were rushing and you know it. Casting Raise Dead the day after you learned it is fucking crazy enough. A ritual of <em>this</em> size? That¡¯s straight up insane asylum material, and I would know.¡±


    ¡°Why are you making me argue with you? I was in the process of thanking you.¡±


    ¡°I have an argumentative personality.¡±


    ¡°Well shut the fuck up. I¡¯m ready to begin.¡±


    ¡°As you say.¡±


    ¡°And when I¡¯m done, I¡¯ll work on developing a status ritual for you.¡±


    The skeleton stood still, dumbstruck, for once.


    ¡°Y-you will? Do you have a lead on one?¡±


    Tyron nodded, a sly grin crossing his face.


    ¡°What? You don¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°Eat a sack of dicks.¡±


    ¡°Ah, if you keep talking, I might change my mind.¡±


    Dove mimed locking up his jaw, then dropping the key into his imaginary trousers.


    ¡°If you can help keep the vigers away, though, that would be great. I have skeletons positioned along the path, but not that many.¡±


    The vast bulk of his forces were on the mountain, with the rest positioned around the ritual site for protection. At all times, at least twenty skeletons and two of his revenants remained with him, but he was much morefortable when that number was close to fifty. If the yers in town teamed up to attack, he had to have at least that many. Thanks to Ortan, he knew that, at this moment in time, such an attack wasn¡¯t very likely.


    Unable to talk, thanks to the locking mechanism he¡¯d put in ce, Dove gave him a double thumbs up before he turned on his heel and bounced his way down the mountain path, almost skipping.


    Tyron shook his head and turned back to his circle, steadying his breathing. For the final time, he checked to ensure he had everything he needed. In his right hand, he gripped the staff his mother had prepared for him. It was still too powerful for him to handle in battle, but as a ritual focus, it would serve him well. On his left hip rested a pouch, the string pulled to reveal the five shards of mage candy contained inside.


    At his current constitution and tolerance, five was pushing his limits, and hopefully he wouldn¡¯t need them all. There were several charged cores sewn into his robes, power arrays that he could draw magick from, but each one contained less than a fifth of the energy in a single piece of candy. Satisfied that everything was as ready as it could be, Tyron nted the staff in the groove he had prepared in front of him, raised his hands, and began to speak.


    Mage tongue, the words of power, mmed into the air, each syble a hammerblow that Tyron used to shape reality itself. At his current level of mastery, with the backing of his mysteries, his ability to draw out the full strength of each word was at its peak. Magick flowed out of him, through the staff, which began to resonate with power, then out and into the circle.


    Tyron¡¯s hands wove through graceful and deliberate motions, unhurried, forming one sigil, then the next, as he moved through the opening phase of the ritual.


    It wasn¡¯tplicated, this part, all he had to do was gather power, but he needed <em>so much</em>. The circle drank in every drop of magick he could give it, the lines slowly emitting a soft glow that grew stronger with each passing moment, but it still wasn¡¯t enough. <em>More</em>. With his words, Tyron continued to pull in more magick, then force it out into the circle. He drained the reserves in his cloak within the first five minutes, choosing to take them early while he still had the attention to spare. Shortly after, he popped the first of his mage candy under his tongue, letting the arcane energy flow into him and fuel his magick.


    After fifteen minutes, the circle zed with power. Ominous, dark purple light, the colour of Death magick, blinded him, but Tyron didn¡¯t need to see to continue the ritual. To him, nothing existed outside of the circle. Not the world, not the rifts, not his vengeance, nothing. There was only the ritual.


    Arms spread wide, Tyron brought them down, then up again as he moved to the next phase.


    Five sybles, five cracks in the dimensional weave. He heard them, even if there was nothing to see, as the fabric that held the realm together began to break in the air above the ritual circle. Now came the difficult part.


    Sweat began to drip from his forehead as Tyron used all his power and control to take hold of those cracks, to mould and shape them. For what came next, they needed to be stable, needed to be mended, without being closed.


    To an experienced Dimension Mage, this was their bread and butter, though perhaps not on the same scale, but to Tyron, this was close to uncharted territory. His throat already began to feel raw, his voice strained under the pressure, but he didn¡¯t falter, he had to continue.


    The second piece of mage candy went under his tongue as he let the crumbling remains of the first drop to his feet. His forehead was creased in concentration, his words and hands never ceasing their movement. This was a test of his control. If he took too long to stabilise the breaks, he would lose momentum and power, wasting the precious magick he had gathered before the real work had even begun.


    Twenty minutester, he was finally satisfied. Darkness had crept in at the edges of his vision, but he wasn¡¯t sure if that was the fault of his eyes, or if the ritual itself were blurring the edges of reality. In this space, above the circle, the boundary between this realm and others was now not only weakened, but punctured. The cracks had been reformed, shaped into something that vaguely resembled an arch, or perhaps a door.


    <em>Here we go</em>.


    The power had been gathered, the way had been opened, now it was time to move to the most important and most demanding step. Now it was time to create.


    ¡°<em>Los</em>,¡± Tyron said, his hands pushing outward from his chest.


    The ritual circle ignited, sending a shaft of purple light zing into the sky. Like a dam breaking, a torrent of arcane power roared into the sky, the strength of it enough to vibrate the air. Tyron nearly staggered, almost driven to his knees by the strength of it, but steadied himself at thest moment. Sweat flowed freely now, running in rivulets down his face and into his eyes. To prevent distraction, he shut them. He had to <em>focus</em>.


    Once again, he began to speak, rapidly now, words and sigils shing from one to the next as he sought to dig out a channel to guide the raging waters just a few steps in front of the frothing, crashing waves. All of that power, all of that energy, was gathered, directed and led straight into the arch, and then pushed, <em>forced</em> beyond.


    The staff, standing before him, glowed bright with arcane light as it acted to enforce his will. An amplifier and defender all at once, it shielded him from the ravages of the gathered magick even as it aided him to enforce his will upon it.


    From down the mountain, Dove looked back over his shoulder as his soul quivered in response to the eruption of power. Through the trees, he could see it, a column of purple light that extended hundreds of metres into the air.


    ¡°By the melons!¡± he gasped.


    He¡¯d known the ritual demanded a great deal of power, but he¡¯d never expected the kid to try and pull in <em>this</em> much. Was he trying to get himself killed?!


    For a moment, he hesitated, then growled and continued his journey down the path with increased haste. There was no point going back now. What could he do? The ritual had begun and Tyron would either see it through or die in the attempt.


    Sure as shit there would be a heck of a lot of attention from Cragwhistle, though. He had to make sure some idiot kid didn¡¯t run up and throw a rock at the Necromancer¡¯s stupid head.


    In town, Ortan gaped at the light which had erupted up the mountain. Even during the day, the light seemed to darken around the edges, as if being pushed away from that column of light.


    ¡°Orthriss defend me,¡± he muttered absently, eyes still wide with shock.


    Around him, people rushed into the streets, pointing, murmuring, whispering.


    What had Tyron done? What was he <em>doing</em>? Wasn¡¯t he trying toy low?


    From the corner of his eye, he saw the yers gathering outside the barracks, faces grim as they talked amongst themselves. He couldn¡¯t read their bodynguage. Were they fearful? Angry? What would they make of this? No matter what, Ortan feared it wouldn¡¯t be good.


    Within the ritual circle, Tyron danced on the edge of oblivion, funnelling the power through the rapidly forming arch and into the space beyond. As he did so, he formed it, shaped it, building even though he didn¡¯t truly understand what he was making. In this, he was guided by the ritual, directed by the Unseen. The pace continued to be high, words and sigils forming rapidly, words tripping from his tongue as his hands flickered from one precise gesture to the next.


    Was he on his third shard of candy? Or the fourth? He couldn¡¯t remember. The ritual demanded more power, so more power he gave.


    This was the final phase, and Tyron raced toplete it, not wanting to waste a single drop of the magick he had gathered. From within the ritual circle, energy continued to thunder out and into the arch, taking shape on the other side as Tyron managed multiple processes at once.


    On and on it went, until his throat was red and raw, his entire body ached and his spirit was gasping, almost squeezed dry of thest of its magick. Even Tyron, with all of his endurance and fortitude, felt himself begin to waver as the ritual went on, well past an hour, and into the second.


    When finally it was done, he spoke thest word, formed thest sigil, and copsed to his knees, hands shaking as he atst relinquished his iron control.


    Exhaustion crushed him as the light faded from the circle, yet still, a small, satisfied smile creased his lips.


    Before him stood a doorway, wedged in a frame of bones.

 Chapter B3C48 - The World Beyond

    Chapter B3C48 - The World Beyond


    In the aftermath of the ritual, Tyron focused on recovering his breath as he massaged his aching hands. His throat felt raw, and his reserves of magick almostpletely drained. The bitter tang of arcane crystal would linger on his tongue for a day or two, he¡¯d definitely taken too much. He leaned to the side and spat thest of the mage candy onto the ground. There¡¯d be a lot of painter, but Tyron was confident he¡¯d erred on the right side of his limitations.


    Before him, the crack in reality persisted, an arch of bone framing a ck door. An Ossuary. He was excited to learn what it was, but¡­ he didn¡¯t think he could get off his knees just yet. A few more minutes and he¡¯d have recovered a little magick and perhaps gathered the strength to fetch some water from his pack.


    ¡°By the divine teats! What the fuck was that, kid?¡± Dove yelled as he ran up the slope. ¡°I was expecting a big ritual, but that was fucking ridiculous, I could see it all the way down the slope. You bet your ballsack they could see it in the vige as well. If they weren¡¯t too intimidated, then I expect someone is going toe poking their nose into your business.¡±


    The onyx skeleton stood looking at the arch that stood in the centre of the ritual circle.


    ¡°Oh nice. You made a door.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ an Ossuary,¡± he huffed, between breaths.


    ¡°So you said, but you and I both know you haven¡¯t the foggiest idea what it <em>does</em>. The Unseen is notoriously stingy with details, and you don¡¯t have a ss manual. It could bepletely useless!¡±


    Tyron grimaced as he forced himself to his feet. Despite a little waver, he managed not to fall and began to stagger to his nearby pack.


    ¡°Even if it¡¯s useless now, this is the first ability I gained with my ss. I don¡¯t doubt there are feats and other spells, possibly even more rituals, that I can learn to develop it further.¡±


    ¡°Then shouldn¡¯t you have waited before rushing ahead to cast this?¡± Dove pointed out.


    The Necromancer allowed himself a slight smile.


    ¡°I probably should have,¡± he admitted after taking a cautious sip from his waterskin.


    Blood and bone, his throat was sore.


    ¡°I just couldn¡¯t bring myself to resist.¡±


    The lure of new magick was too strong for him, he could admit that, especially such an intricate and interesting ritual as this one. Perhaps he¡¯d cut off his own toe, rushing into it so quickly, without fully understanding how the ss was going to develop, but Tyron was satisfied after everything he¡¯d put into it. His ritual would be useful down the line, no matter what.


    ¡°How long is it going to stay there?¡± Dove wondered, staring at the door. ¡°Is it permanent?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Tyron scoffed. ¡°It¡¯ll vanish once the circle is disrupted or runs out of power. It¡¯s barely pulling in enough to keep the entrance manifested.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m assuming you can also dismiss it?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    The skeleton circled around the arch, humming in appreciation as he went.


    ¡°I saw a gate into the Astral Sea once, you know,¡± he called as he reached the far side. ¡°It looked a shitload more impressive than this. Bigger, and much more colourful. This thing is depressing.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t the Astral Sea impossible to traverse?¡± Tyron asked. ¡°Why would anyone want a gate that goes there?¡±


    ¡°It might be impossible to traverse for weak pieces of shit like you and me, but that doesn¡¯t mean that¡¯s the case for everyone.¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡±


    After another minute of rest, Tyron finally felt well enough to approach the entrance, nerves beginning to stir now that the rush ofpleting the spell had faded. He hoped Dove wasn¡¯t right. It would feel like such a waste if he¡¯d gone to all this effort and created something he couldn¡¯t even use.


    Directly above the door, dead centre of the arch, a human skull sat, looking down on him as he approached. An interesting detail, he didn¡¯t think he saw any other skulls as part of the myriad bones that made up the arch. After considering it for a moment, Tyron stepped forward and pushed open the door.


    There was a hint of resistance, and then the ck wood swung soundlessly, cold, still air wafting through the opening.


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s creepy as shit.¡±


    ¡°Dove. Can you shut up for a minute?¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    It was dark on the other side, but Tyron could make out a stone floor, grooves carved into the surface trailing away into the shadows.


    With a gesture, he conjured a globe of light and held it in his palm, wincing as even this insignificant draw of magick taxed his body. With the softly glowing sphere in hand, he stepped through the door and into the other side.


    Dove shouted a warning which cut off suddenly, causing Tyron to spin and see the door close soundlessly behind him. Just like that, the mountain was gone, and he was here on his own.


    ¡°I can open it again. Probably,¡± he reassured himself.


    The arch was present on this side as well, but instead of appearing from thin air, it was set into the stone wall. Tyron raised his gaze, holding the globe up over his head until he caught sight of the vaulted ceiling overhead.


    To think that his magick had <em>created</em> all this¡­.


    Did Tyron know how to turn arcane energy into stone? No, he didn¡¯t, but the ritual itself contained the pattern of this space¡¯s creation. He¡¯d been required to gather the power, supply it and follow the intended design, but even so, the act of creation left him speechless.


    There were a few things he could tell about the Ossuary already. The air inside was thick with death magick. Drenched in it. Yet there didn¡¯t appear to be any source for it. With his left hand on the wall, he began to walk around the edge of the room until he came to the corner. The wall in front of him was different from that to his left. Instead of t stone, it was filled with recesses, longer than they were high.


    A depressingly short amount of time passed before he realised they were for holding remains. Perhaps a normal person would have taken longer, but he could judge the length of a skeleton by eye quite easily at this point.


    Tracing along this new wall, he counted how many of these recessed areas there were. They were organised in columns of four, the lowest to the ground starting around ankle height, the highest starting at eye level. The room was long, surprisingly long, and he counted twenty five columns before he reached the back wall.


    There was room for a hundred skeletons on that wall. He quickly strode over and confirmed the wall on the other side was the same. Only the front and back walls were t and unadorned.


    So there was room for two hundred skeletons within the Ossuary, but what did that mean? Did these spaces provide some sort of benefit to the remains ced within? Could they empower the Raise Dead ritual in some way?


    Instinctually, Tyron could tell they did <em>something</em>. The air was too thick with magick for it to be otherwise. Given a little time, remains ced in here would get up and start wandering about on their own. Inspection of the side wallspleted, Tyron began to wander down the middle, or as close to it as he could tell, his light didn¡¯t quite reach both sides.


    The room was ten¡­ maybe fifteen metres wide, and more than double that in length. Certainly arge area to have conjured out of thin air. Another question that came to mind was, where was this ce? Neither Tyron nor Dove werepetent enough Dimension mages to precisely identify the target of the ritual, but Tyron had a suspicion he knew roughly where it was.


    The clues he¡¯d been given by the Abyss hinted as much, though he tried not to think of it. That was a price he had yet to pay.


    Distracted, he almost walked into the altar before he stopped at thest second, one hand extended forward to catch himself against the stone edge. Waist high, t and undecorated, it was simr in dimensions to the recesses on the walls. Large enough toy a body atop its surface, with room to spare.


    The altar itself wasn¡¯t what caught his attention, though; what was beneath the altar was far more interesting.


    Tyron crouched down and brought the light close to the stone base. There was a gap, just wide enough to poke a finger into, between the base of the altar and the floor of the Ossuary. Too narrow and too deep to see into, Tyron circled around, tracing the gap with one hand until hepleted a full circle of the altar. It went all the way around. Was the altar itself even connected to the rest of the room?


    Hard to tell. What was more concerning, was that now he had identified the source of the Death magick. Dense and rich, it rose up through that little gap like a miasma before dissipating around the room. Tyron¡¯s head thudded in his chest and licked his dry lips as he gazed down at the floor.


    The death aligned energy was rising into this room from somewhere below. What was down there? What could possibly be the source of such thick Death magick? Did he really want to find out?


    The whispers of the Abyss echoed in his mind once more, and Tyron wasn¡¯t sure if he hoped they were wrong, or they were right.


    ~~~


    Trenan clenched his jaw and stared Brigette straight in the eye while she stared back at him, defiant.


    ¡°You know damn well we don¡¯t stand a chance if we go up against that Necromancer,¡± he tried to reason with her. ¡°Last time, you didn¡¯t even get to swing your damn sword. Now is not the time to go haring up the mountain.¡±


    Reasoning with Brigette never went well. She was stubborn as a mule once an idea popped into her head. He thought it might be because her head was usually empty that, when it did finally have any thoughts, it held onto theme hell or high water.


    ¡°The vigers are terrified. Someone should go and make sure that the mountain is safe. For all we know, the Necromancer just died in¡­ whatever <em>that</em> was, and the rift is undefended. If the kine rampaging down here in an hour, hacking and killing, do you really want that on your conscience?¡±


    Trenan¡¯s instinct was to retort, but he had to bite his tongue as he considered what she said. Fucking idiot actually had a point.


    ¡°I swear by the gods, Brigette, the only time you say anything smart, it¡¯s to get yourself <em>into</em> danger, not <em>out</em> of it.¡±


    She grinned at him.


    ¡°So we¡¯re going then?¡±


    In one bound, she leapt to the side table where she kept her gear and began to buckle on her scabbard and leather armour.


    ¡°You want me to get the others?¡± she said over her shoulder as she wrestled with the straps.


    ¡°No,¡± he replied shortly. ¡°It¡¯ll just be you and me. If it¡¯s just kin up there, the two of us can make it back safe. If we piss off the Necromancer, at least you and I will be the only ones serving an eternity in death.¡±


    The very thought of it chilled his heart, but Trenan took his duty seriously. He was on this mountain to kill kin and keep people safe.


    ¡°Good point,¡± the swordswoman replied. ¡°Are you going to get ready?¡±


    Her team leader pulled his coat open to reveal he was wearing his armour underneath.


    ¡°I¡¯m always ready.¡±


    They were spotted on the way out, because of course they were, Brigette made enough noise for a parade when she wanted to. Turns out it didn¡¯t matter much, none of the other teams were all that keen to join them. Gramble had apparently gone running to see the Magister once the magick had lit up the sky. If he¡¯d been there, Trenan would have told him not to bother. He¡¯d tried talking to the man the day before. It hadn¡¯t gone well.


    <em>Don¡¯t think about it, idiot. If you start to think your own mind is going to get messed with, you¡¯ll never make it up the slope.</em>


    For her part, Brigette seemed unusually determined. Once they were out of the gate, she strode up the mountain, her expression and shoulders set. Whatever the reason, Trenan was d to see a rare glimpse of her taking the job seriously. She coasted on her talent far too much for his liking.


    ¡°Stay sharp,¡± he reminded her. ¡°There could be kin anywhere. If we run into a big group, we run back to the vige, not fight a stupid battle. Got it?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± she said.


    After they continued to trek up the slope, they eventually came to a group of skeletons standing astride the path. Silent and still, they watched the two yers approach with purple me burning in their eyes. Only six of them, an unusually small number, though he supposed it made sense. The mage wasn¡¯t worried about being attacked from this direction.


    He heard Brigette''s knuckles crack as she tightened her grip around the hilt of her sword. In one bound, he was by her side, hand pressing firmly down on the pommel.


    ¡°Brigette,¡± he murmured softly. ¡°Are you trying to get yourself fucking killed? Because if you are, you didn¡¯t need to convince me toe along to die alongside you, right?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s only six of them,¡± she hissed back, ring at the undead.


    ¡°There are hundreds more and you fucking <em>know</em> that. Get your hands off your damn weapon.¡±


    Thest was forced through gritted teeth as he tried to force some sense into his teammate. To his relief, she finally rxed and withdrew her hand.


    ¡°Now stand behind me and don¡¯t do anything stupid,¡± he warned her, then stepped forward, hands raised towards the skeletons.


    The undead hadn¡¯t moved during their exchange and remained as they had been, watching.


    ¡°I¡¯d¡­ uh¡­ like to talk to the Necromancer? Presuming he¡¯s still alive.¡±


    He must be, if the undead were still fine, he supposed. Why was he talking to the damn bones anyway? Could they even speak back? One of them had, but Trenan felt that particr skeleton was¡­ unique.


    Silently, the skeletons parted, seemingly giving permission for the two yers to pass through. Nervous, Trenan led the way, ring back at Brigette every few steps just to make sure she wasn¡¯t being stupid.


    When they came to a rtively t clearing, they saw him. Trenan caught a glimpse of something, a doorway of some kind, fading to nothing, before the mage turned to face them, eyes narrowed.


    ¡°My first guests in a while,¡± the mage rasped, then coughed. ¡°I presume you have questions?¡±

 Chapter B3C49 - Talking Death

    Chapter B3C49 - Talking Death


    Trenan tried not to feel intimidated in the presence of the Necromancer. Without his armour, he didn¡¯t look nearly asrge, but with so many undead, watching silently, it was unnerving being in his presence.


    ¡°W¡ªwe wanted to see what was happening after the¡­ the spell.¡±


    <em>Fucking hell. Don¡¯t stumble over your words like a damned weakling.</em>


    If the mage noticed, he didn¡¯t say anything, rather, he nodded his head in understanding.


    ¡°I was told the ritual was visible for quite a ways. It¡¯s not surprising people would want to know what was going on.¡±


    As he spoke, the mage rubbed at his throat, clearly ufortable. There was a rough quality to his voice, as if he¡¯d been shouting.


    ¡°Come and sit,¡± he said and walked a little unsteadily toward a nearby rock.


    Trenan tensed. Was he weak? Perhaps the spell had taken a lot out of him, leaving him worn and drained. Without looking, he reached behind and grabbed hold of Brigette¡¯s wrist before she could do something stupid.


    ¡°You two sit over there,¡± the Necromancer indicated, ¡°no need to let you get too close now, is there?¡±


    ¡°I suppose not,¡± Trenan said evenly, nudging his swordswoman unsubtly toward a stone.


    For some reason, the mage found this amusing, a slight smile creasing his lips.


    ¡°I am weakened,¡± he admitted openly, watching the pair of bronze yers with dark eyes. ¡°The ritual drained almost all of my magick, and will leave me sickened for several days. But each moment that passes, I gain a little more strength.¡±


    Thel leaders of the Hooligans tried not to react, though he heard Brigette grunt.


    ¡°Why would you admit that to us?¡± she snapped, unable to contain the outburst. ¡°It¡¯s like you¡¯re trying to bait us into attacking you.¡±


    The Necromancer grinned, but there was little humour in it.


    ¡°That might well be the case. I have created a new toy, but to properly y with it, I need the correct materials. I was wondering if you two were going to volunteer.¡±


    Trenan firmly crossed his arms over his chest, making no move to reach for his weapons.


    ¡°If she wants to be turned into a fucking skeleton, she¡¯s more than wee to it. I¡¯ll be fine right here.¡±


    Those cold eyes turned towards Brigette.


    ¡°Well?¡± he asked.


    She grit her teeth and sat down next to her team leader, hands clenched into fists by her side.


    For his part, the mage simply shrugged, then epted a wrapped parcel handed to him by a skeleton. After opening it, he reached in and picked out some dried fruit which he popped into his mouth.


    ¡°Rehydrating after a long ritual is key, I¡¯ve found,¡± he said around the mouthful. ¡°Keeping your energy up and preventing damage to the throat. Even as tough as I am, it can still get caught out by it.¡±


    ¡°Sounds rough,¡± Trennan spoke evenly, wondering to himself why this man would be speaking to them at all. What was he getting out of it?


    ¡°We wanted to confirm you were still in a right state to hold off the kin,¡± he asked directly. ¡°If you need help holding off the rift, my team, and the others, can cover for a few days.¡±


    ¡°Already craving a little more experience?¡±


    ¡°I was focused on the safety of the people in the vige.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you seem like you actually mean that,¡± the Necromancer sounded surprised. ¡°An old-school yer. Keep the peace, protect the realm, defend the people. There aren¡¯t many around like that anymore.¡±


    ¡°What would you know about yers?¡± Brigette ground out, still ring up at the mage. ¡°You aren¡¯t anything like us.¡±


    ¡°Not that I ever really had a chance to be,¡± the Necromancer returned mildly, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. He watched the swordswoman for a long moment, noting the anger on her face, the tension in her posture, her clenched fists.


    ¡°You really don¡¯t like me,¡± he said, finally, ¡°which is understandable, to a point. I defeated you in our first encounter, which can create a grudge, I¡¯m sure. My ss is illegal, which is another thing you can hold against me, but I feel like that would piss off someone like <em>him</em>,¡± he indicated Trenan with a thumb, ¡°more than it would you. I¡¯m monopolising the rift, which is irritating, sure, but only temporarily. I¡¯m no threat to the vige, as I¡¯m certain you¡¯ve gathered by now.¡±


    He paused and chewed thoughtfully.


    ¡°No. I don¡¯t think any of those are the issue, not on their own. Why are you so angry with me? Is it the grave robbing?¡±


    Brigette didn¡¯t reply, only sat in stony silence, quivering with suppressed emotion. Trenan couldn¡¯t help but ask a question.


    ¡°You actually rob graves?¡± he asked distastefully.


    ¡°Not if I can help it. The vast majority of my minions were not sourced from cemeteries. I can say that much at least.¡±


    ¡°So you object to desecrating graveyards?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± the mage scowled. ¡°Who gives a shit what happens to your body after you¡¯ve died? Ridiculous notion. No, I avoid it because disturbed graves will make any viger with half an Intelligence point scream ¡®Necromancer¡¯ at the top of their lungs.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ interesting.¡±


    He¡¯d wanted to say ¡®disgusting¡¯, but managed to hold it in. The Necromancer smiled, indicating he knew full well how Trenan felt about him.


    ¡°You should be in a position, more than most, to understand the value of my ss,¡± he said, pointing a finger in Trenan¡¯s direction. ¡°Look around you. A single person is holding off all the kin from this rift, easily. How many of you are there in town? Ten? The only thing that needs to be sacrificed is the remains of the dead. Isn¡¯t that a worthy trade?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s difficult to argue that it¡¯s not,¡± Trenan shrugged, ¡°but I don¡¯t think Necromancers are illegal because of how ineffective they are. The opposite, more like.¡±


    ¡°A single person able to control an army of undead.¡±


    The mage nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°You might have a point there. Certainly, there have been several examples throughout history of Necromancers who¡¯ve gotten out of control. Murdering innocent viges, raising the bodies and marching on the next.¡±


    He shrugged.


    ¡°You know as well as I do that any yer could do the same.¡±


    ¡°But we don¡¯t get stronger for doing it,¡± Trennan growled. ¡°We have to fight the kin.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t get experience for killing non-kin? First I¡¯ve heard of it. There¡¯s another reason why the yers don¡¯t harm innocent people, and we both know what it is.¡±


    Trenan shifted ufortably, Brigette maintained her re.


    ¡°You know about the brand?¡± he asked hesitantly.


    ¡°I knew about it from a young age, more than most, to be honest. My family was in the business.¡± He shook his head as he chewed on another piece of fruit. ¡°Terrible thing, what it can do. Even the strongest yers can be brought down to their knees by that thing. The pain is unimaginable, as I understand it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll never have to find out,¡± Trenan said evenly. ¡°There¡¯s no reason for me to raise my weapon against an innocent.¡±


    ¡°Not yet,¡± the mage said. ¡°What do you think would happen if you tried to attack me?¡±


    Both Trenan and Brigette stiffened.


    <em>Fuck! I hadn¡¯t thought of that, </em>he cursed himself, suddenly unsure.


    What <em>would</em> happen if he tried to cut down the man in front of him?


    The Necromancerughed.


    ¡°You hadn¡¯t even thought about it. I can tell you haven¡¯t been branded long. You think because I¡¯m a ¡®bad guy¡¯, or evil in your eyes, that the brand can tell the difference? It¡¯s not asplex a tool as that. If you cut a single hair on my head, you¡¯d be on the ground screaming without me having to lift a finger. Same thing goes if you wanted to attack a thief, or a bandit, a murderer or rapist. You¡¯re only allowed to be a deadly weapon because you can¡¯t direct it against anyone who isn¡¯t rift-kin. Not even to defend yourself¡­ with a few exceptions.¡±


    He chewed thoughtfully as the two young yers sat in silence.


    ¡°You ever wonder why the yers live so separate from most people? They stay in the keeps, for the most part, when they aren¡¯t on expeditions. When they get too powerful and the magisters want to keep them close, they get shepherded into the golden quarter, a gilded cage. Why is that?¡±


    Those cold eyes watched them carefully as he spoke.


    ¡°It¡¯s for protection. Most people think the people are being protected from the yers, but the brand does that. No, it¡¯s to protect the yers from the people. There are sick people out there. Crazy fucking people, who¡¯ll do unspeakable things to someone who can¡¯t fight back, someone powerful.¡±


    He gave a short, harshugh.


    ¡°And then they wonder why yers keep going rogue. Blowing up and murdering people, cutting down their own teammates in their sleep, carving through the popce until they can¡¯t push through the brand any longer or they get cut down. Did they talk about that in your academy? The number of yers who lose their minds?¡±


    Trenan felt his mouth was suddenly dry. He¡¯d never heard anything like this.


    ¡°That¡¯s not true,¡± he managed to force out, though he wished he sounded more convincing.


    The Necromancer nodded sympathetically, which only pissed Trenan off.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got no reason to take my word for it. Ask a silver ranked yer some time. They¡¯ve had their brand upgraded and seen a few things around the traps. Once you¡¯ve been at this for five or more years, if you¡¯re still alive, you¡¯ll be in that boat.¡±


    So saying, the mage pushed himself to his feet with a sigh.


    ¡°Well, thank you foring, I appreciate your concern for the people of the vige. As you can see, things are under control. My skeletons are up the mountain as we speak, dealing with the kin. There shouldn¡¯t be any need for me to rely on your services.¡±


    He paused.


    ¡°Though I¡¯ll keep you in mind should something dire arise.¡±


    That was as clear a dismissal as Trenan had ever heard. d it was over without his soul being ripped out of his body, he stood, and was pleased when Brigette stood up beside him.


    He was less pleased when she opened her mouth.


    ¡°I should apologise,¡± she said. ¡°My hero died because of a Necromancer. But that wasn¡¯t you, so I shouldn¡¯t be showing up with this attitude.¡±


    Trenan turned to stare at his old friend, wide-eyed. Brigette apologised? What was this character growth? Some sort of breakthrough? And did it have to happen right <em>fucking</em> now, in front of this mage?


    If that was shocking, the Necromancer throwing back his head andughing was the icing on the cake. For the first time, Trenan thought there was genuine mirth in the man.


    ¡°Ah, shit. That took me by surprise,¡± the Necromancer sighed. ¡°It¡¯s been so long since Iughed like that.¡±


    Brigette was staring at him, murder written all over her face, and he quickly raised his hands.


    ¡°I don¡¯t mean any offence. Of course not. It¡¯s just the circumstances are a little unique. You''re a swordswoman, correct?¡±


    ¡°I am,¡± Brigette confirmed, face still tight with anger.


    ¡°So I¡¯m guessing your hero was Magnin Sterm? tinum ranked yer, strongest of the eastern province?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    The Necromancer grinned.


    ¡°In which case, there is no need for you to apologise. My father did indeed die because of me. You have the right man.¡±


    He gave a short, polite bow.


    ¡°Allow me to introduce myself. Tyron Sterm, at your service.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°Was that really a good idea, kid?¡± Dove asked after the two yers had left. ¡°ording to the magisters, you¡¯re good and dead. Why give someone your name?¡±


    Tyron snorted as he walked back towards the cave, still a little ginger.


    ¡°They¡¯re stuck up this mountain for years. Who are they going to tell? Even if they spread it around, who is going to believe them? The people in the damn vige will deny everything if I ask them to, and once I¡¯m done up here, what sign of me is going to remain?¡±


    He really was weak. That ritual had taken more out of him than he¡¯d thought, or perhaps the side effects of the mage candy were kicking in early. Had he really taken so much just after he¡¯d Awakened? It was a miracle he¡¯d survived. The next few days were going to be awful.


    ¡°But why take the risk at all? You could have just said, ¡®yeah, it sucks what that Tyron dickhead did. He¡¯s a stupid bitch who walks around with his head deep within his own arsehole. An incredible piece of shit. If I ever met him, I would spit on his face for a good half hour¡¯, and then gotten on with your day.¡±


    Tyron looked sideways at the onyx skeleton.


    ¡°I could have said all that, huh?¡±


    ¡°I can give you more.¡±


    ¡°No thanks.¡±


    Dove was right, he didn¡¯t have to reveal himself at all, could have given them any fake name he wanted. Even now it wasn¡¯t toote. He could erase their memory of this meeting, overwrite it with something different, but he knew he wouldn¡¯t.


    ¡°Ultimately, I think it¡¯s because I want the yers on my side,¡± Tyron sighed. ¡°People like Trenan are the only thing that holds this ce together, the only thing holding back the rifts from swallowing it all up. Magnin and Beory would have liked him. Someone like that, I want them on my side.¡±


    ¡°Well, they arent. If anything, you were deliberately making that girl angrier. Did you see the look on her face when she left? If looks could kill, I would be¡­ still dead.¡±


    ¡°But she¡¯ll be back. They both will. Eventually, they are going to want the full story, and if I give it to them, there¡¯s a chance they might be on my side. For that chance, I¡¯m willing to risk a lot.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°For revenge,¡± Tyron said simply. ¡°Why else? No matter how powerful I get, having help, people on the inside, who can work against the magisters, will be invaluable.¡±


    He brushed aside the nket and held it so Dove could follow him into the cave.


    ¡°Now there¡¯s so much I need to think about. Developments with my ss, advancing my abilities, everything I learned from Poranus. There¡¯s so much. Good thing I¡¯m stuck here for a few more weeks.¡±

 Chapter B3C50 - Slayer Talk

    Chapter B3C50 - yer Talk


    There were many things that Gramble didn¡¯t understand in life. His mother, for one. The woman was a contradiction in terms. Low born, but with the confidence and arrogance of a thrice-blessed noble. Perhaps it was that attitude that enabled her to snag his father, a retired silver yer looking to settle down and churn out potions for the rest of his days.


    After yelling, kicking, screaming and begging, he had finally been able to speak to the magister, granted a mere <em>five minutes</em> in his presence, and the change that had ovee the man beggared belief. From the moment Poranus arrived in Cragwhistle, he¡¯d been a nightmare. For everyone. He ran Gramble and every other yer ragged, filling in paperwork, counting, checking, double-checking, <em>triple-</em>checking. Interrogations were an almost weekly urrence, where the grizzled mage would corner members of every team, hounding them with vague, cryptic threats and asking leading questions.


    Instead of that demon, the man behind the desk had been¡­ passive?


    Not that Poranus was inactive, far from it. For the entire duration of the meeting, the magister had been furiously filling out paperwork, his hands never stilling, blotches of ink on his face and sleeves evidence of the furious pace he worked at. It was as if he was filing reports for the entire mountain, by himself, without any input from anyone else. With a chill, he¡¯d eventually realised that was exactly what was happening. The Necromancer had ensured that there would be no gap in the ceaseless reports that Poranus had sent back to the capital. The ro-w, vicious, beaked bastards that they were, continued to fly back and forth in a steady stream.


    As he¡¯d tried to bring up the Necromancer, tried to get a word in edgewise about him, Poranus had nearly exploded with rage, screaming, ranting and bellowing, his eyes bulging out of his head. He mmed his fist on the table and demanded Gramble stop wasting his time, threatening to throw him bodily from the room if he ¡°didn¡¯t get his fat ass out the door in four seconds¡±.


    The whole meeting was incredibly unnerving, leaving the mage wide-eyed and trembling, fearing what that cursed Necromancer would do if he ever decided to mess with his mind. If the magister couldn¡¯t resist, what chance did <em>he</em> have? None at all! Miserable and afraid, he¡¯d slumped his way back to the barracks, only to find Brigette and Trenan returning at the same time.


    A good man, and a good leader, Trenan would have been a natural representative for every team if he wasn¡¯t as rigid as a rigour-mortis ridden rat with a pole wedged up its arse. If the phrase ¡®by the book¡¯ became sentient, lifted itself from the page and began walking around in human flesh, it would be Trenan¡¯s father.


    Thankfully, Brigette didn¡¯t take ying that seriously. Problem was, she didn¡¯t take <em>anything</em> seriously. Not even Gramble¡¯s marriage proposal. He¡¯d mostly been joking. Mostly.


    He eyed her tight fitting armour and curves, before he remembered himself and flicked his eyes up to her face. Only then did he realise she was <em>furious</em>.


    ¡°Uh, hey there, Hooligans. What¡¯s going on? Trenan?¡±


    The two didn¡¯t acknowledge his presence, throwing open the door and stomping into the barracks without a nce in his direction. Gramble set his jaw. They might be angry, but that was no excuse to be <em>rude</em>.


    He followed after them, irritated, and found his own team members waiting for him inside the door.


    ¡°How did it go?¡± Petri asked, anxiety written all over his face. ¡°Did the magister listen to you?¡±


    ¡°Are we going to be able to kill this fucker?¡± Christoff growled.


    Gramble blinked, then scowled.


    ¡°No,¡± he said shortly. ¡°I <em>was</em> able to speak to him, but the magister has either gone mad, or it¡¯s exactly as we were told. He didn¡¯t listen to a word I had to say and damn near ripped my head off when I tried to tell him about the Necromancer.¡±


    His fellow members of team Weaver were just as pleased as he was at this turn of events. Christoff seemed mightily peeved while Petri despaired. Gramble rubbed at his right temple and exhaled explosively.


    ¡°I need a drink,¡± he muttered to himself.


    He walked forward and turned toward his room, hoping to sink into the bottle he had sitting on his shelf. Locally brewed, the stuff tasted like pickled toes, but hit like a hammerman on festival day. Perfect for a low ranked yer. His hand was extended, reaching for his door handle, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.


    Brigette and Trenan, still looking like they¡¯d been chewing on gallstones, had rounded up Chol and Arthur, the other two members of their team, and were now engaged in a furious, whispered conversation. Brigette in particr seemed extremely animated, shoving fingers in peoples faces and generally appeared ready to bite someone¡¯s nose off.


    ¡°What in the empire are they doing?¡± Gramble wondered aloud.


    In fact, where had theye from? He¡¯d walked to the barracks from the city, and those two hade from the opposite direction, which meant they¡¯de from the gate. He frowned, suspicious.


    Did they know something he didn¡¯t? Something to do with the rifts?


    Ever since he¡¯d arrived, there had been the expected jockeying for position between the yer teams, friendlypetition for resources, cores, experience, the usual stuff. If those bastards were keeping secrets now, when their lives were on the line¡­ Gramble wasn¡¯t having it.


    Anger bubbling up in his chest, he walked over to the table the Hooligans were sat around, pulled over a chair for himself, and sat down heavily.


    Trenan shot him an irritated nce.


    ¡°Do you mind?¡± he growled. ¡°We¡¯re having a team meeting.¡±


    ¡°Under normal circumstances, I wouldn¡¯t dare intrude,¡± Gramble said, cing a hand on his chest, ¡°but these are far from normal circumstances. It¡¯s in our best interest to share information, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡±


    Stony silence met him and he smiled into the void.


    ¡°For example, I just returned from my meeting with magister Poranus. I don¡¯t mind telling you it was a disaster. If the man hasn¡¯t been affected by mind-magick, then he¡¯s surely gone insane.¡±


    Trenan grunted.


    ¡°I told you that was the case two days ago.¡±


    ¡°You told me I¡¯d be wasting my time, but you didn¡¯t tell me <em>why</em>.¡±


    That earned him a re from the normally stoic team leader.


    ¡°Gramble, I want you off this fucking table, now.¡±


    ¡°Tell me where you and Brigette went.¡±


    Trenan stood, a murderous gleam in his eye.


    ¡°I¡¯m not in the mood for your bullshit, Gramble. This isn¡¯t the time to be ying stupid fucking games.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m the one ying games?¡± he retorted hotly. ¡°I¡¯m not the one keeping secrets during a crisis. Where did you go? I¡¯m sure team Starfire would like to know what¡¯s been going on up the mountain. In fact, why don¡¯t I get them? Won¡¯t take a second.¡±


    He leapt from his chair and began knocking on doors down the corridor as Trenan continued to re at his back, slowly grinding his teeth. It didn¡¯t take long for faces to start poking out of rooms, including that of Samantha, the third team leader in Cragwhistle.


    When she saw who was causing the disturbance, she wasn¡¯t pleased.


    ¡°Gramble,¡± she said in a t tone of voice, ¡°why in the name of the divines are you bashing on my door? This had <em>better</em> be good.¡±


    The mage smiled confidently and gestured toward themon room where Trenan and the others sat.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you ask the Hooligans? They¡¯re the ones who¡¯ve been calling meetings.¡±


    Unimpressed, Samantha red at the pudgy magick-flinger, arms folded across her chest.


    ¡°What is he on about, Trenan?¡±


    ¡°Beats me.¡±


    ¡°They know something,¡± Gramble said through a forced smile, ¡°and they aren¡¯t sharing. Trenan and Brigette went up the mountain.¡±


    Despite being no fan of the man in front of her, this was enough to pique Samantha¡¯s interest. She leaned forward.


    ¡°Is that right?¡± she said, emerging from her room atst. ¡°Did you learn anything about that freaky light we saw?¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re curious, you can always go up and ask the Necromancer yourself,¡± Trenan ground out. ¡°Door¡¯s that way, Sam, Gramble.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯ve already gone and spoken to him, it would be redundant for me to do the same,¡± Gramble said, ¡°and I¡¯m sure you would never keep important information from your fellow yers.¡±


    Through all of this, Brigette sat in stony silence, visibly fuming, her hands clenched into fists on the tabletop. Something had seriously upset her, which was unusual. Gramble felt more confident than ever there was <em>something </em>here. Something important.


    ¡°Throw us a bone, Trenan,¡± Samantha said, atst. ¡°I don¡¯t want to go up there and risk my team¡¯s lives on a fact finding expedition, but if you did go up and speak to that¡­ man¡­ you must have learned something.¡±


    Trenan grunted.


    ¡°Do you really believe I¡¯d hold back critical information? If I had something useful, I¡¯d tell you, even that prick,¡± he said, gesturing toward Gramble who grinned and sat back in his chair.


    ¡°Any little thing could be critical at the moment,¡± Samantha reasoned, ¡°even the tiniest detail. I¡¯ve been having nightmares of being turned undead these past nights, and I know I¡¯m not the only one. If something doesn¡¯t change soon, I¡¯m worried one of us is going to snap and do something they¡¯ll regret.¡±


    Trenan and Brigette shared a quick nce.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he sighed. ¡°I can say a little.¡±


    By this time, themon room was almost full, as every yer still in the barracks had squeezed in, wanting to know just what was going on.


    ¡°Brigette and I went up the mountain to see what had happened after that light we¡¯d seen went out. If the Necromancer was dead, we needed to know so we could prepare to fight off the kin.¡±


    ¡°Praiseworthy dedication to your duty.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you, Gramble.¡±


    ¡°Really. I was simply¨C¡±


    ¡°Shut the fuck up, Gramble,¡± Samantha cut him off. ¡°Go on.¡±


    Trenan sighed.


    ¡°We went up there and spoke to the man. Had a nice chat.¡±


    ¡°You spoke to him?¡± Samantha asked, brow raised.


    ¡°Yes. Didn¡¯t have much choice once the skeletons had spotted us, did we? To summarise, he¡¯d cast some sort of big fucking ritual, he wasn¡¯t dead, but weakened, the rift was fine, his skeletons were fine, end of story.¡±


    ¡°He was <em>weakened</em>?¡± Gramble shouted. ¡°How weak? We could sortie up the mountain and attack him right now!¡±


    The Hooligan team leader stared at him evenly.


    ¡°You go for it. I wish you and team Weave the best of luck, my team will sit tight right here.¡±


    ¡°Coward,¡± Gramble spat, only to slide back in his chair as Trenan leapt to his feet, glowering.


    ¡°Say that again, you fucking hog. <em>Say it again</em>.¡±


    ¡°Trenan, cool it,¡± Samantha snapped, standing and putting a hand on his chest. ¡°We don¡¯t want a fight amongst ourselves. Not now.¡±


    For a tense few moments, nobody spoke, until Trenan finally sat, still breathing heavily, his face tight with anger.


    ¡°If you want to die, go up the mountain and fight,¡± he said with finality. ¡°I won¡¯t push my team members to their own deaths. Weakened or not, that¡­ man¡­ is more than we can handle.¡±


    He sighed.


    ¡°At least he seems amenable. Vigers have been going up to see him every day, apparently. I don¡¯t fucking know why, but the guards at the gate told me, and I believe them. He doesn¡¯t kill them, doesn¡¯t even talk to them. For whatever reason, he spoke to us, and I think he would again if we went up.¡±


    The hammerman shrugged.


    ¡°If you want to learn more about him, go and speak to him. I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll get yourself killed, but I could be wrong and it¡¯s all some borate game he¡¯s ying.¡±


    Silence fell once more as each yer considered what he¡¯d said. None were particrly eager to speak to a Necromancer. They weren¡¯t afraid of death, certainly feared it less than most people, but dying was the least of their concerns on this mountain.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going to tell them?¡± Brigette said finally, a bubbling heat in her voice.


    Trenan set his jaw.


    ¡°No. I¡¯m not going to tell them.¡±


    Gramble leapt on this opportunity.


    ¡°You <em>were</em> keeping something from us after all!¡± he crowed. ¡°Never would have expected it from <em>honest</em> Trenan. What is it? What did you learn?¡±


    Brigette flicked a nce at her team leader, whose mouth remained resolutely shut. She sucked in a breath and looked up at the rest of them.


    ¡°He told us his name. Tyron Sterm.¡±


    This pronouncement was met with dead silence. Then a babble of mixed voices broke out at once.


    ¡°Bullshit,¡± Samantha breathed.


    ¡°Worthless nonsense,¡± Gramble slumped. He¡¯d hoped for something better than the lies of a madman.


    yers discussed animatedly around the room, one talking over the other as they expressed a mix of disbelief, shock, derision and fear.


    ¡°He said he killed Magnin and Beory!¡± Brigette shouted, pounding a fist on the table. ¡°He confessed right in front of us!¡±


    ¡°Brigette!¡± Trenan roared, and she flinched. ¡°He did no such thing,¡± he rified to the suddenly quiet audience. ¡°He said, and I fucking quote, ¡®my parents died because of me¡¯. Isn¡¯t that right?¡±


    The swordswoman set her jaw, but nodded.


    ¡°Make of that what you will, I don¡¯t fucking care. If you think he¡¯s legitimate, or insane, or just joking, I don¡¯t fucking care. Go and talk to him yourselves. I¡¯m getting a damn drink.¡±


    So saying, he turned and stormed toward the exit, only stopping to nt a foot in Gramble¡¯s chest, causing the mage to yelp as his chair tipped backwards and he thudded hard into the floor.


    Brigette sat with her hands still clenched on the table in front of her.


    ¡°You alright, Bridge?¡± Chol asked quietly, putting a hand on her friend''s shoulder.


    ¡°No,¡± the swordswoman scowled. ¡°I¡¯m not alright. But I will be.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t do anything stupid, Bridge,¡± Arthur advised her as Gramble was helped up from the ground by his teammates, cursing.


    Sheughed bitterly.


    ¡°I know I don¡¯t stand a chance against that prick. I¡¯m not that eager to die. I was mainly talking about getting pissed. I¡¯m going to find whatever hole Trenan is crawling into and join him. You want toe?¡±


    Arthur and Chol shared a nce. The former shrugged, thetter smiled.


    ¡°Why not? We¡¯ll make it a team session.¡±

 Chapter B3C51 - The Cold of Winter

    Chapter B3C51 - The Cold of Winter


    Huddled in his cave, Tyron continued to scribble away in his book of notes, face a mask of concentration. There were so many things for him to work on, it was difficult for him to focus on a single thing at a time.


    He¡¯d promised Dove he would work on a new Status ritual, and he would, but when was he going to find the time? The depths of his new space, the Ossuary, beckoned him constantly and required study, but he was reluctant to explore it too soon. Until he better understood what it was he had created, he wanted to tread lightly, lest he make a terrible mistake.


    Another thought had bubbled up in his head, the idea that his minions could remain behind on the mountain after he left and continue to fight against the kin. As far as he knew, such a thing was impossible. No matter how skillfully, how perfectly he formed the conduit between himself and his minions, it would never stretch far enough to move his magick from one side of the province to the other.


    Even if it did, gaps and holes would appear along the way, meaning not a single drop of energy, no matter how much he fed into it, would reach the other side. Was there a solution? Maybe. A construct, formed of bone, to soak up the ambient magick spewing out of the rift and feed it into his minions would <em>theoretically </em>be able to feed them the power they needed, but he had a feeling it wouldn¡¯t be that easy.


    For starters, the minions would still be connected to him via a conduit, which would attempt to pull magick from him the second this new source wasn¡¯t sufficient. If enough minions tried to draw from him at once, and if his body could actually attempt to supply it from such a range, it was possible he would die. All the magick would be ripped out of him in a second, and he¡¯d hit the floor before he¡¯d even realised what had happened. Possibly.


    Then there was the issue of control. The skeletons were semi-autonomous, able to make simple, routine decisions for themselves, minor things that helped themplete the tasks he gave them, but anything moreplex waspletely out of their reach. Since instructions were transmitted through the conduit¡­ there was no way he couldmunicate with the skeletons over such a distance.


    Despite all the issues, <em>none</em> of which he had a solution for, he still felt there was something there¡­ a possibility that might enable him to continue reaping experience viabatting the rift, while living in Kenmor.


    On the page in front of him, a rudimentary design for arge, bull-sized construct formed of human bones was taking shape. Scribbled notes, some crossed out, some circled, spirals of runes in various configurations, and dot points borating on the questions overhanging the design surrounded the image.


    There was a rustling at the cave entrance and Tyron scowled at his broken concentration.


    ¡°Are they back again?¡±


    ¡°Hey, don¡¯t get pissed at <em>me</em>. You¡¯re the one who asked me to tell you.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Tyron sighed. ¡°I appreciate it. How¡¯s it been going with your kin-killing?¡±


    As he spoke, he pushed himself to his feet and stepped out of the cave to find Dove waiting for him by the exit.


    ¡°Is it having the effect I would have liked to see? No.¡± The skeleton shrugged his bony shoulders. ¡°But I must say, it¡¯s been nice to be killing the kin again. Cathartic.¡±


    Tyron raised his brows. Anything that was good for the former-Summoner¡¯s state of mind was ultimately a good thing. For too long, he¡¯d feared Dove was dangling over a cliff¡¯s edge. Or had already jumped off.


    ¡°That¡¯s good. I haven¡¯t forgotten about what I promised you either. I¡¯ll have your armour ready in the next few days, and I¡¯m still thinking on the ritual. Don¡¯t worry.¡±


    Dove made a disgusted noise.


    ¡°Imagine being able to fight the kin while sitting on your backside inside a cave studying magick. Holy fucking shit, that is the dream.¡±


    The Necromancer winked at him.


    ¡°Still confident Summoner is the better ss?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    His mentor tried to sound firm in his answer, but Tyron could sense him wavering. He chuckled as he began to make his way down the mountain.


    ¡°Usual ce?¡±


    ¡°The usual ce.¡±


    ¡°If you want to, feel free to take a look at my notes. I¡¯m trying to design a bone-construct and could use your feedback.¡±


    The onyx-skeleton froze in ce.


    ¡°Is that?!¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not a dick!¡±


    ¡°You really know how to kick a man when he¡¯s down,¡± Dove groaned, his shoulders slumping.


    Tyron turned his back in disgust and continued walking, muttering under his breath as he went. Of all the things he could be devoting time to, creating an artificial manhood for a dead person seemed by far the most ludicrous. The further down the slope he got, the more his ire began to shift to the people he knew were waiting for him.


    Why in the name of the dark gods did they keeping? He was no saviour to them, no matter what the three said. Yet, no matter how he tried tomunicate that, delegations from the vige continued to climb the mountain. In fact, they were getting worse.


    Now they were bringing tribute, and they wouldn¡¯t leave until he epted it.


    ¡°It was a mistake to take it the first time,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°It only encouraged them.¡±


    He thought they were just being polite, and ufortable about it as he was, he¡¯d thought it would be rude not to take it. Now he had to trudge several hundred metres down the mountain every day to collect what they offered him. It¡¯s not like he needed it! These people were dirt poor! Refugees who¡¯d left everything they had behind, what little they still possessed should be going into helping them build their new lives.


    He¡¯d tried to say as much, but they wouldn¡¯t listen.


    Skeleton body guards in ce around him, Tyron came into the rtively t ground of the clearing to find nearly a dozen people in attendance. He sighed.


    Ragged clothing, faces lined with years of struggle, grim expressions, these were worshippers of the three alright. Like they were carved out of old tree roots, these people were tough, he gave them that much.


    At the head of the group, an old woman stood, leaning heavily on the cane she held in her right hand.


    <em>Would she sit down if I asked her to?</em> Tyron wondered to himself, then grimaced. <em>Not a chance.</em>


    ¡°I told thest group, and I¡¯ll tell you the same. I don¡¯t require tribute or donations,¡± he said shortly as he approached the group, stopping five metres away. ¡°What possessions and currency you possess is far better spent on yourselves than it is on me.¡±


    Wordlessly, the old woman at the front nodded, then bowed and held out a sack in front, her arms trembling with the weight of it. He knew she¡¯d hold it until she copsed if he didn¡¯t take it, these people were <em>stubborn</em>, so he instructed a skeleton to collect it.


    The minion took the roughly sewn leather sack and brought it back, opening it close to Tyron so he could inspect what was inside. If it was money, he¡¯d have to find a way to slip it to Ortan again.


    Instead, his eyes widened slightly, and the old woman smiled to see it. Inside the sack, he found a jumble of assorted bones, possibly enough for a full skeleton.


    ¡°Did thesee from one set of remains?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    With a voice as rough as bark and eyes as cold as winter, the old woman answered him for the group. Tyron made a snap decision.


    ¡°If you insist on giving me things, though <em>again</em> I ask you not to... I am no servant¡­¡± he trailed off. ¡°I am <em>technically</em> no servant of your gods, and I do not believe I am anyone¡¯s salvation. However, if you insist on ignoring me, then this is the only thing I will ept from now on,¡± he took the bag from the skeleton and held it up.


    ¡°Bones,¡± he said. ¡°Human bones. Or horse. Full skeletons are much preferred.¡±


    He tried to keep the hunger from his voice, though it was difficult. The supply of remains he¡¯d brought with him had dwindled almost to nothing. Repairing the skeletons as they fought, various experiments, materials for moulding armour, all took a little bone here and there.


    ¡°Be careful. Any ce with too many bodies and thick death magick will result in wild undead, which can be extremely dangerous. If you intend to do this for me, then I¡¯d prefer you didn¡¯te to harm.¡±


    He paused, then narrowed his eyes.


    ¡°And please don¡¯t kill anyone for their bones¡­.¡±


    Hopefully, he didn¡¯t have to specify that. The old woman narrowed her eyes and looked a little offended, so they probably wouldn¡¯t.


    Finally, he said, ¡°If you find a good source of remains but need help securing them, let me know. I will send skeletons, or assist myself.¡±


    The old woman bowed, turned and began to leave, the others trailing in her wake. When he thought the audience was over, Tyron considered what had transpired for a moment, before he shrugged and made to leave, only to find one young woman had remained behind. He regarded her as she took several steps forward, arms folded across her chest. This was a yer.


    At a mentalmand, the skeletons around him drew closer and he cursed himself for not wearing his armour.


    <em>Too incautious. Just because the vigers haven¡¯t wanted to harm me, doesn¡¯t mean someone else won¡¯t try</em>.


    He strove to keep his anger from his face as the yer approached. Dark haired, with a long sleeved coat and her hair bound back, she looked mature for a bronze ranked yer, certainly for one fresh out of the academy.


    ¡°That¡¯s close enough,¡± he said, ensuring there were two ranks of shielded minions between them. Just to be safe, he began to form the mind domination spell, his hands flickering out the sigils discreetly, hidden from view. ¡°If you have something to say, please speak your mind.¡±


    Calcting brown eyes watched him, with no sign of fear in them, though he may have detected the slightest trembling in her fingers.


    ¡°My name is Samantha Ingthorn,¡± she said. ¡°Leader of team Starlight.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Tyron nodded. ¡°The all female team? I¡¯ve heard of you.¡±


    ¡°Is there an issue with an all female team?¡± she asked, her voice hardening a fraction.


    ¡°No. It¡¯s simply unusual.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s response was t and direct, and the yer seemed to be satisfied.


    ¡°I apologise if I seem defensive. Some people don¡¯t approve.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no matter. Though I assume you didn¡¯te here, at the potential risk of your soul, to discuss prejudice. I have many things that upy my time, and would be grateful if you woulde to the point.¡±


    Samantha nodded, seeming to have expected as much. She continued to watch him, assessing.


    ¡°I wanted to meet you,¡± she said finally. ¡°Trenan and Brigette spoke to you and returned alive, along with so many townsfolk. It seemed to me that if I was going to ce my trust, and the lives of my team, in your hands, I should at the very least meet you.¡±


    ¡°People are still worried I¡¯m going to murder everyone in town?¡± Tyron asked, a hint of amusement creeping through.


    ¡°You told those vigers yourself that you needed bones.¡±


    ¡°I do,¡± he said, ¡°desperately.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s an obvious and easy way for you to get them,¡± she shrugged.


    ¡°If you thinkmitting mass murder is obvious and easy, then perhaps you are more dangerous than I am,¡± Tyron chuckled. ¡°To date, there are very few among my minions that I have killed myself.¡±


    ¡°So there are some?¡±


    ¡°Of course. yers included.¡±


    ¡°Is there a reason I shouldn¡¯t fear bing one of them? What makes us so different than those you¡¯ve already killed?¡±


    The question was asked in a casual manner, though he could see how intent she was on getting an answer. She was a leader, wanting to ascertain just how safe her people were. He respected that.


    ¡°They tried to kill me, instead they were killed, and now they serve in death,¡± he said simply. ¡°If you choose to attack me, then that will also be your fate.¡±


    Samantha absorbed that, then Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°Of course, you have no way to determine if what I have said is the truth. I¡¯m fully aware I have put you and your team in a no-win situation, but that is the fate of the weak in this realm, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    ¡°Even your parents?¡±


    A surge of anger erupted in his chest at the question, his eyes turned blisteringly cold.


    ¡°<em>Especially</em> my parents,¡± he replied. ¡°The difference is that Magnin and Beory did everything they could to scratch and w their way to power. They burned themselves trying to break free. They failed at the final hurdle. I will not.¡±


    Those dark eyes continued to regard him.


    ¡°Can you tell me how they died?¡± she asked.


    Tyron red.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    She wilted a fraction under the weight of that stare, but she didn¡¯t retreat.


    ¡°I wanted to hear it. If the magisters lied to us, then I want to know the truth.¡±


    For a full minute, Tyron considered in silence, until atst he answered.


    ¡°Very well. Let me tell you of two yers who defied the gods.¡±

 Chapter B3C52 - Born To Rule

    Chapter B3C52 - Born To Rule


    The ceiling of the Grand Cathedral was a remarkable piece of magick engineering, and Lady Recillia Erryn couldn¡¯t help but feel a stir in her heart every time she saw it.


    Held up by massive pirs, each weighing thousands of tons, the peak of the arches reached over a hundred metres from the ground. That vast empty space was filled with enchanted illusions of clouds, streaks of sunlight, angels, and, perhaps, a glimpse of the gods themselves. There was a shimmer to enchanted marble that no other substance could quite replicate; it seemed to glow in the sunlight, reflecting a radiant glory that seemed holy to all who beheld it.


    Perhaps that was why the material was restricted to the temples.


    Seated in her alcove beneath a breathtaking painting of the first martyr, Dimitri, who had given his life in the service of the newborn gods in the first crusade, she heard the priest approaching well before he reached her. No matter how they muffled the floor with thick rugs, or covered the walls with borate tapestries, even the softest footstep seemed to echo within the hall.


    When Father Chirn stepped into the alcove, he found the Lady Erryn already staring at him, her piercing ice-blue eyes seeming to look straight through him.


    A formidable woman, she hadn¡¯t made it to her current position through luck. It was always worth watching those who rose so quickly. They would either be snuffed out after a ze of glory, or sustain their rise all the way to the top. The trick was trying to work out which was which.


    ¡°The Bishop is ready to receive you now, Lady Erryn.¡±


    ¡°My thanks, Lord Chirn.¡±


    He smiled thinly.


    ¡°Please refer to me as Father Chirn. All ims I had to my noble house were relinquished when I donned the cloth.¡±


    ¡°That <em>is</em> the tradition, yes.¡±


    Unhurried, the diminutive noble brushed down her immacte skirt before she rose, posture perfect, eyes steady. Father Chirn mastered himself enough to keep the sneer from his face. There was no arena in which the noble houses wouldn¡¯t squabble with each other, even within the church. As she had subtly pointed out, it was tradition for those of high birth who joined the church to sever ties with their families, but in practice, they seldom did.


    From the main hall, down a broad, spacious hallway, the pair arrived outside arge, polished oak door. The Priest knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a response, then stepped aside to allow Lady Erryn to step through. She walked past him without a nce and entered an office that put her own within the Magisters¡¯ tower to shame. Opulence dripped from every wall, every inch of floor. Statues, carvings, paintings, even the ceremonial robes disyed in the centre of the room gleamed with enchanted gems, cores and gold thread.


    The Bishop stood as she entered, a reserved smile on his face. Hands sped behind his back, he walked out from behind his desk and approached the entrance.


    ¡°Thank you, Father Chirn, that will be all.¡±


    ¡°As you will, Bishop.¡±


    The priest closed the heavy door behind him, leaving the two alone in the room. If the Bishop¡¯s expression softened in front of his daughter, she couldn¡¯t detect it. She imagined, briefly, what moremon families would do at times like this. Embrace? Exchange pleasantries? She couldn¡¯t imagine it. There wasn¡¯t time for such things, not when the game was on and the stakes were so high.


    And the game was <em>always </em>on.


    ¡°Daughter,¡± The Bishop Erryn greeted her, rings gleaming on his fingers as he folded his hands atop each other. ¡°What news do you bring?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps a drink and a seat, Father? If I must make my way through the city to the cathedral to satisfy your curiosity, you should offer refreshment at the very least.¡±


    He grunted, half amused, half irritated before he invited her to sit and made his way to the decanter at the side of the room, filled with ruby-red wine.


    ¡°How do you keep all the names straight,¡± she asked as he poured sses for the two of them, ¡°considering more than two thirds of the clergye from the same five families?¡±


    He was ¡®Bishop Erryn¡¯, but was hardly the only member of the family serving within this one cathedral, let alone in the church as a whole across the province. There may have been dozens of ¡®Father Chirns¡¯. Probably were, considering how useless they were. Promotion was unlikely for the rabble of that house.


    ¡°Here, drink,¡± the Bishop said, a touch ungraciously, offering the ss to his daughter. She epted it with magnanimity.


    ¡°You are acting a touch impatient recently,¡± Lady Erryn observed. ¡°Perhaps there is movement amongst the clergy?¡±


    ¡°When is there not?¡± her father grunted as he sat opposite her.


    The chairs were luxurious, and as she always did, the Lady surreptitiously slid a hand along the fur. She would have to get some, if not for her office, then her residence. Which kin did ite from?


    ¡°The arch-bishops have been jumpytely. Or, perhaps more urately, they are <em>still</em> jumpy. The break at Woodsedge seemed to set them off, which is to be expected, but they haven¡¯t calmed down since.¡±


    The Lady took a sip of her wine. Delicious. Her father refused to drink anything that hadn¡¯t been aged at least five decades. The depth of vour, the perfect sour notes. She swirled her ss. Truly an excellent wine.


    ¡°Do we still have no leads as to the source of their¡­ unease?¡± she asked, and her father scowled.


    He was off bnce, normally he wouldn¡¯t show this much emotion. Tensions within the clergy must be running high.


    ¡°Am I reporting to you, or you to me?¡± he asked evenly.


    She raised a brow.


    ¡°This is a mutual and fair exchange of information, Father. We must support those with the closest blood ties within the family, after all.¡±


    Left unsaid, was the difference in their positions. She was second in line to be head of the house, behind her cousin, whereas her uncle, the current head, had shipped his brother to the church upon his ascension. Lady Erryn was in a position of strength within the house, her father was not.


    ¡°I have given you information. What do you have for me?¡±


    She pursed her lips as she eyed him steadily. He¡¯d given her nothing they hadn¡¯t discussed a hundred times before. Nevertheless, she yielded.


    ¡°There is something amiss with the Magisters,¡± she said, trying to keep her distaste from her voice. Her role was an important one, granted by the Baron himself, yet she couldn¡¯t bring herself to like it. Where she had expected polished professionalism and clear-eyed stewards of the province¡¯s yers, she had instead found bickering children,fortable andzy.


    ¡°What is it this time?¡±


    ¡°The reports. Every keep, every rift, every kin, all activity regarding them is documented and collected in the tower for examination. I review as much of it as I possibly can personally, to ensure the mages are doing their jobs.¡±


    ¡°And? Have reports been going missing?¡±


    She shook her head.


    ¡°The opposite.¡±


    Her father blinked.


    ¡°The reports are¡­ arriving more frequently?¡±


    ¡°Precisely.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure if I share your concern over this¡­ promptly filed paperwork.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s significant,¡± she insisted. ¡°A change in behaviour, a shift in the normal patterns <em>always</em> signifies something underlying. The Magisters have beenx for decades. yers hate filing their documents and the mages are getting less and less inclined to make them. If the reports areing in more regrly, then¡­¡± she trailed off allowing her father to fill in the nks.


    ¡°Either the Magisters have developed a work ethic¡­¡± his tone left no doubt how unlikely he thought <em>that</em> might be. ¡°... Or the yers have discovered a taste for documentation.¡±


    Equally unlikely.


    ¡°That <em>is</em> interesting,¡± he father noted. ¡°Any idea as to what may be the cause?¡±


    ¡°Not yet, but I am investigating.¡±


    ¡°How have the Magisters responded?¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t seem to have noticed the difference.¡±


    ¡°Have they really be sox at their duties?¡±


    Her father showed a hint, a bare whisper, of true dismay as he said this, and Lady Erryn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Some nobles, her father among them, apparently, seemed very reluctant to acknowledge that others may be as mired in intrigue and idleness as they themselves. Those blessed with the Divine Right were different, determined, touched by the gods themselves, but others?


    Her lip curled despite her best efforts.


    Unable to see the wood for the trees, they seemed to believe that their own corruption and ipetence were somehow an isted urrence, as opposed to a more universal mise. The gods saw all, and a reckoning was past due.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t that they arezy, as such,¡± she answered the Bishop¡¯s question, ¡°but rather they focus on some parts of their duties above others. Rigorous record keeping has fallen by the wayside, it¡¯s true, but they are¡­ zealous, when ites to meeting out punishment upon the yers.¡±


    ¡°As well they should,¡± her father mused, ¡°another yer uprising is thest thing we need.¡±


    As if brutalising them would lead to anything else.


    ¡°Quite so,¡± she demurred. ¡°Now, I have shared something of value, it is time for you to do the same.¡±


    Again, that hint of a frown, the tightening around the eyes. The old man was slipping.


    ¡°I am somewhat reluctant to share this,¡± he said slowly, ¡°because it is difficult to verify.¡±


    ¡°Rumour, or hearsay?¡±


    ¡°Neither. Rather¡­ rumblings.¡±


    ¡°An interesting choice of phrase.¡±


    The Bishop leaned forward and sped his hands together, watching her over his intertwined fingers.


    ¡°You know of the oracles?¡±


    Lady Erryn nodded, eyes calcting.


    ¡°Everyone knows <em>of</em> the oracles.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true, but most of what they know is nonsense. Most of us never so much as see them, <em>I¡¯ve</em> never seen them.¡±


    Anything that touched on them was a closely guarded secret. Only the Archbishops were able toe into contact with them.


    ¡°There are rumours that space is being made within theirpound. Furniture is being brought in. Carpenters and the like have been hired. I¡¯ve seen the ounting books myself.¡±


    The nobledy¡¯s mind raced. Why would they be making space? Increasing the number of residents within thepound? Why would they need to increase the number of residents? As far as she was aware, the number of oracles kept in the province was more or less constant, they were only reced when they died. In which case, there would be no need to make more room.


    ¡°They¡¯re bringing in oracles from outside?¡± she murmured.


    The Bishop nodded gravely.


    ¡°So I suspect.¡±


    If they were doing that¡­ then where would theye from? It wouldn¡¯t make sense for them toe from the North or South, which meant¡­.


    ¡°They¡¯reing from the central province? From the capital?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s difficult to say. I can¡¯t prove any of this,¡± her father cautioned, but Recillia¡¯s mind was already leaps ahead.


    If they were bringing in oracles from the central province, that meant there was an issue, a <em>serious</em> issue. The Archbishops were unsettled, acting erratically. Was there an issue with the oracles themselves? Something they couldn¡¯t see? In which case, the call had been made to summon the high oracles from the central province, perhaps to divine what had been hidden?


    The oraclesmuned directly with the gods themselves¡­. What could possibly escape their sight?


    Suddenly uneasy, Lady Erryn rose from her seat.


    ¡°Thank you, Father. I believe this will prove to be useful information.¡±


    He rose along with her.


    ¡°Thank you for the visit, Daughter. If you learn anything more, be sure to let me know. Any advantage we can gain within the clergy is worth it.¡±


    If she was right, then manoeuvring for the next Archbishop¡¯s seat was the least of his concerns. After making her goodbyes, she left her father¡¯s office, then made her way out of the temple, mind abuzz. Repeatedly, she had to caution herself not to jump to conclusions. If she made the wrong decisions at this early stage, it could prove devastating.


    When the oracles moved, it was a sign the divines themselves were moving. And they wereing <em>here</em>, to the western province. Something momentous was on the horizon. Distant still, but it wasing.


    She <em>had</em> to find out what.

 Chapter B3C53 - Change Is In The Air

    Chapter B3C53 - Change Is In The Air


    Tyron stepped through the rift, back onto the mountain, still shivering as he shook the rime from his cloak. No matter how manyyers he put on, the realm these kin belonged to was beyond freezing.


    Around him, his skeletons emerged, as well as Dove, who jauntily swaggered onto the trail.


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem? Flesh getting you down?¡± he asked, mockingly.


    ¡°Yes, yes. You don¡¯t feel the cold. Very funny.¡±


    Despite being halfway up a mountain, surrounded by frost-covered trees and nts, with a chilling wind trying to creep inside his cloak, he rxed. Compared to the never ending storm of ice and snow on the other side, the climate around Cragwhistle was luxurious. If he didn¡¯t have the skeletons to wade through the snow drifts and make a path for him, getting anywhere over there would be a gigantic pain in the backside.


    ¡°Well, at least it was a sessful trip. You got what you needed, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    Tyron clutched at the bag tied to his belt, feeling therge cores scrape against each other within.


    ¡°Hopefully, yes. If it isn¡¯t enough, we¡¯ll just have to go back again in a few days.¡±


    ¡°Maybe by then the blood flow will have returned to your extremities,¡± the skeleton said, chattering his onyx jaw in a somehow suggestive manner.


    Ignoring the genital rted idiocy, the Necromancer began to trudge his way down the slope, arranging his undead in a wide protective ring around him. They moved so lightly, the skeletons, due to their low weight. With all the improvements he¡¯d made, they were well bnced, and seemed able to traverse the rocky terrain with ease. He himself was not nearly so graceful.


    ¡°With everything we gathered, I should have enough cores to make some armour for you as well. There¡¯s only so much I can do with chips, no matter how well I can arrange them. To give you a more significant pool of magick to work with, somethingrger is required.¡±


    Dove seemed pleased with the news.


    ¡°There¡¯s not much I can do with it at this point, but I¡¯ll never say no to a bit more magick. A shame those damn mammoths don¡¯t have fourth grade cores. From the size of them, you¡¯d think they would.¡±


    ¡°If they were strong enough to hold cores of that quality, we¡¯d be getting ttened by them,¡± Tyron remarked dryly. ¡°I didn¡¯t get a good look, but I think we collected at least one third-grade, which I¡¯ll use for your armour. If Ibine the rest, that should be enough to power my construct.¡±


    So far, they hadn¡¯t encountered any monsters stronger than the mammoths, even on the other side of the rift. That wasn¡¯t to say they didn¡¯t exist, but perhaps the rift was still too small to attract more dangerous creatures, unable to fit themselves through. Or perhaps the frozen wastnd was a recently fallen realm, without enough time to be fully corrupted by wild magick.


    Either way, he was grateful. Even with his army of skeletons, he wouldn¡¯t be willing to fight on the other side of nearly any other rift in the province, certainly not alone.


    When they arrived down the mountain, Tyron found a crowd of vigers waiting beneath his cave and sighed. At least in the rift, he hadn¡¯t needed to cater to these visitors. Then he spied a familiar-looking old woman at the fore of the group. It had been a week since he¡¯d tasked a group with finding him more skeletons, and she was certainly the person he¡¯d spoken to at that time.


    If they had bones, this was a different matter entirely. With a spring in his step, Tyron made his way down the trail, eyes alight with anticipation.


    ¡°Wee back,¡± he greeted them. ¡°I¡¯m hoping you have something for me?¡±


    He tried to keep the eagerness from his voice, but struggled.


    A woman of few words, the apparent leader of the group nodded and indicated for some of the others to step forward, which they did. Bulging sacks on their shoulders, six young men approached, straining against the apparent weight before they gently eased their burdens onto the ground. At his direction, the undead stepped forward and inspected each, reaching inside and withdrawing what were clearly bones that had been dug up recently.


    ¡°There¡¯s thirty full skeletons there,¡± the old woman finally spoke, her voice thin, but with a hint of iron in it. ¡°At least, as near as we can tell.¡±


    ¡°Where did you get them?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°Mass graves,¡± she replied, simply. ¡°Some ces had too many dead, so they dropped ¡®em all in a hole. They were barely covered in dirt. These came from near Underhill, if you¡¯ve heard of it.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t. There were hundreds, if not thousands of viges and farmingmunities who¡¯d been overrun by the kin following the break. Tyron could name maybe five of those.


    ¡°If so many dead were piled in a heap, some of them should have risen on their own. Did you see any wild undead there?¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t,¡± came the reply, ¡°though we was sure to check.¡±


    That was¡­ odd. He doubted the people who¡¯d buried the bodies had been sensitive enough to find areas with low ambient magick, or devoid of death magick. In fact, given so many had been buried so carelessly, there should be roving packs of zombies and skeletons popping up all over the ce. Something didn¡¯t make sense.


    ¡°You¡¯ve done extremely well,¡± he said. ¡°Wait a moment.¡±


    He ducked into the cave and rummaged for a bit before emerging with a small pouch of coin.


    ¡°Here¡¯s some payment for your efforts, I know you went to great lengths to get these for me. There¡¯s a gold worth of silver in there.¡±


    He tossed the pouch to the olddy, who snatched it out of the air with a hand like a starved python. At the mention of how much he was paying them, wide eyed looks and muttering broke out amongst the small crowd.


    ¡°If you make another trip, I¡¯ll pay the same again. As many times as you¡¯re willing to do it. Although I might have to start paying you in cores,¡± he finished, realising he hadn¡¯t brought <em>that</em> much coin with him.


    No matter, he had agents in Foxbridge who purchased cores for his shop. He could fill the vigers¡¯ pockets with chips and low-grade cores, then they could sell them to his supplier, who would then on-sell back to him.


    His skeletons brought the bags full of remains toward him and he gleefully reached inside, examining what they¡¯d brought him. Immediately, he began to tut.


    ¡°If you are going to make another trip,e and see me before you leave,¡± he said to the group who were beginning to leave. ¡°I¡¯ll show you how to treat these a little better.¡±


    Most of the remains were in poor condition, and there were several children¡¯s skeletons mixed in, which he separated and buried as best he could. When all was said and done, there were twenty-two sets of remains he could work with, with misceneous bones left to the side.


    ¡°You look way too happy for a man ying with human remains,¡± Dove observed from the side. ¡°This ss is not healthy for your social life. Anyone who sees you grinning like a fool over a dead person''s ribs is not going to be your friend.¡±


    Such useless chatter wasn¡¯t worth dignifying with a response. Instead, Tyron held up one of said ribs.


    ¡°These are exactly what I need for crafting my bone construct. Of course I¡¯m excited.¡±


    He¡¯d hoped that the vigers mighte through with some bones, but he really hadn¡¯t expected it to actually happen. Now that he had materials to work with, there were so many things he could test and try he was almost dizzy with the possibilities. Runes and spellforms swam through his head as he instructed his undead to gather all the bones and separate them into piles.


    Of course, the first thing he wanted to do was summon the door to the Ossuary and see what would happen if he installed some of these skeletons into the sconces along the walls, but he hesitated to do so. He simply didn¡¯t know enough about that space and would rather investigate it a little more on his own before using it with his undead. Despite knowing it was sure to be useful, he kept putting off exploring it in more detail. For some reason, it unnerved him, and he had several suspicions that not all was as it seemed within that space.


    Perhaps a few more levels in his new ss would help borate on what was possible within the Ossuary, and surely thistest trip would be enough to tip him over to level forty-four. If not, he would just have to keep grinding.


    In the meantime, he had something else he wanted to work on.


    Despite having just returned from a difficult expedition beyond the rift, Tyron barely took the time to eat, drink and change his clothes before he threw himself back into his work.


    He¡¯d carefully designed the arrays he would need, now it was simply time to take out his tools and put them to work, as well as create a vessel in which to hold them.


    Despite his confidence, he took his time working with his tools, hunched over the table inside the cave, a makeshift ss held in front of his face by a skeleton. These weren¡¯t ideal working conditions, but they were good enough. After two hours, the first of the mammoth cores was ready, and he smiled to himself as he carefully examined it.


    The theory was simple, the issue was doing it as efficiently as possible. He already knew how to use a core to absorb ambient magick, that was simple, the basics of the basics. He also knew how to convert that non-attributed energy into Death magick. This was a lot moreplicated, but nothing too difficult. He also knew how to take that energy and feed it into themunal pool that linked his minion squads.


    In effect, he wasn¡¯t producing anything new, his ¡®feeder¡¯ skeletons already did this. The difference was the scale. Just because something worked on a small or even medium scale didn¡¯t mean it would function the same when the volume of energy was muchrger. In fact, it wouldn¡¯t. If his calctions were correct, this construct would be pulling in almost twenty times the amount of energy a single feeder skeleton drew in.


    If it proved sessful, then he could use the design as the basis for creating evenrger constructs. The singlergest limiting factor of the Necromancer ss remained the magick requirements. He intended to leverage all of his enchanting expertise to ovee that burden.


    If he soon learned how to create ever more powerful undead, then his need for more magick would only grow more acute.


    When the four mammoth cores were done, he turned his attention to creating a housing for them. He did this by taking twoplete rib cages, fusing them together and moulding them until they were roughly spherical with a ttened base. Taking the skulls from both of the skeletons he¡¯d already leveraged, he fused these together back to back, then mounted them atop the sphere.


    Flipping it over, he opened a hole in the bottom and got to work mounting his cores, then inscribing sigils and runes around them, binding them together. When this was done, he reached into his growing supply of chips and began to form them into arrays, which he mounted around the major cores, taking care to perfectly form and space every part of his work.


    When he was finally satisfied, he was surprised to realise he¡¯d been hunched over his table for over a day. Blinking the dryness from his eyes, he sat back with an exhausted sigh, letting his tools fall to the table.


    ¡°Finally done, huh?¡± Dove asked from the cave entrance.


    Tyron turned to regard the onyx skeleton before he nodded.


    ¡°I think so. Hopefully it works as intended. The more magick I can provide to my minions through external means, the more undead I can support.¡±


    Of course, there was more to it than just that. More magick avable to his skeletons also made them stronger. They could move faster and hit harder with more energy being supplied to them.


    With some difficulty, the Necromancer gathered up his ghoulish creation and took it outside, where he performed the final tuning. To feed energy into the pool his minions made use of, he bound it to four different feeder skeletons, by cing a new enchantment array within each that would form the conduit from their end.


    If it all worked as intended, these skeletons would be pulling vastly more energy than they did before, then supplying it to the twenty undead they were linked with.


    ¡°Let¡¯s see how it goes,¡± he said, rubbing his hands together.


    With a touch, he activated the runes, and watched carefully as his construct came to life. Almost immediately, it began to draw on the ambient magick, the cores dragging it in. With his spell-enhanced eyes, he could see the flow of power, and was delighted to see Death magick being produced in the heart of the construct, energy that then began to feed out to the skeletons through newly formed conduits.


    Tyron pped his hands together. Now he had to test it inbat! He scurried back into the cave to fetch his notes and a pen. Exhaustive trials would be necessary to see how effective histest innovation could be!

 Chapter B3C54 - Explore Beyond

    Chapter B3C54 - Explore Beyond


    ¡°I have to admit, the look is growing on me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not really meant for aesthetics. It¡¯s for protection, and to increase your magick supply.¡±


    Dove struck a pose, ring his skeletal arms wide as his hollow sockets gazed meaningfully into the distance.


    ¡°No matter how hard you try to eliminate the drama, when you¡¯re working with bones and ck magick, things are just going to look badass, no matter what.¡±


    Unlike Tyron¡¯s armour, which wasrgely formed of smoothed, condensed bone ting, Dove had insisted on¡­ a few modifications to his own. Spikes here and there, a cape, for some reason, pauldrons far wider than they needed to be.


    All these changes did was reduce the utility of the armour, but the former yer didn¡¯t care. In order to add all of the absurdponents, Tyron had been forced to hollow out almost all of the armour, thinning the bone to the point it was hardly more resistant to damage than normal bones. He had to keep the weight down, though. Heavy armour would only drain his limited magick all the faster, since he needed it to move.


    In truth, the only part of Dove¡¯s body that actually needed to be protected was his skull. Within therey the engravings that bound his soul to this realm, and only if they were destroyed would he be freed from his onyx body.


    ¡°Are you fluttering that cape yourself?¡±


    ¡°It adds to the effect.¡±


    The cape in question was made from a spare nket, so it perhapscked the dignity a normal, ceremonial cape of office may hold. Tyron sighed. Ultimately, he didn¡¯t care how ridiculous the skeleton appeared, so long as he was happy with the work.


    ¡°So you¡¯re satisfied with it? No moreints? No more modifications?¡±


    ¡°I am extremely pleased. You¡¯ve outdone yourself.¡±


    Another dynamic pose.


    ¡°I feel so powerful! Haiyah!¡±


    With a loud exmation, Dove thrust forward a bony palm and unleashed a sizzling bolt of dark magick that shot through the air and impacted a tree with a sharp <em>crack</em>.


    ¡°Do you mind?¡± Tyron frowned. ¡°There¡¯s no need to pollute the mountain with stray Death Magick.¡±


    Dove turned to him, ire zing in his undead eyes.


    ¡°Are you fucking <em>kidding</em> me? You¡¯ve got hundreds of minions running around, and you¡¯ve been casting rituals, shaping bones and doing all sorts of shady shit! I¡¯ve been pissing drops of Death magick while you¡¯ve been firing off like a fucking hose!¡±


    ¡°But I clean up after myself,¡± Tyron insisted, ¡°and removing traces of death energy from living things, <em>like trees</em>, is a lot harder than scrubbing it from the ambient magick. You <em>know</em> that!¡±


    The Necromancer had gone to great lengths to try and keep the signs of his temporary inhabitance on the mountain to a minimum. On the same day he¡¯d arrived, he''d ced arrays to passively filter out the arcane energy that radiated from his undead, rituals and spells. Of course, when he did something like create the Ossuary, those hadn¡¯t been enough, and he¡¯d had to step in himself.


    Dove flipped him a rude gesture.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he harrumphed. ¡°I do have a lot more energy than I did before, I can feel the flow.¡±


    ¡°You can?¡±


    That was interesting. Tyron himself contained hundreds of times more than Dove could contain, but it was always difficult to <em>perceive</em> just how much he held, or how quickly it wasing in. Human senses weren¡¯t designed to work with magick, not even when it was inside the body.


    ¡°Of course I can. Can¡¯t feel much else, really. Pretty much every sense has been lost, but for whatever reason, undead seem to be more sensitive to magick. I swear I can see it sometimes.¡±


    Another intriguing lead. There were so many piling up in Tyron¡¯s head he was sure he was going to go mad if he didn¡¯t get them down onto a page in time. With great effort, he pushed away this curious thought so he could turn back to his current project. With Dove¡¯s armour out of the way, hopefully he¡¯d stop interrupting his work.


    ¡°So. Any luck on that ritual?¡± Dove asked before Tyron had taken a second step away.


    The Necromancer ground his teeth and turned back to his friend and mentor.


    ¡°Obviously not. When would I have had time to do that? You do realise that if I were to actually manage to concoct a new status ritual that interfaced the Unseen directly with a soul, I would almost certainly be rewarded with a mystery, right? This isn¡¯t going to happen overnight!¡±


    ¡°Hey, I was just asking,¡± Dove shrugged. ¡°Of course its going to be fucking hard, but you¡¯re the only genius I can rely on. I <em>need</em> that ritual, kid. Not having the touch of the Unseen, my ss and Skills. It¡¯s eating me up, and the more magick I get, the worse I feel.¡±


    For a moment, there was real, genuine pain in his voice, and Tyron couldn¡¯t help but sympathise.


    ¡°I know, and I haven¡¯t forgotten. Unlocking this secret will be immensely useful for me as well, but at this point, everything is theoretical. I¡¯ll need weeks, maybe months of work to break through on this. In the meantime, I have a million things I need to work on.¡±


    ¡°Like your skull ball.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a skull ball. It¡¯s a Necromantic construct.¡±


    Dove stepped closer and ced a hand sympathetically on Tyron¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Kid, it¡¯s two skulls fused at the ass and glued to a ball. It looks fucking creepy, and quite ridiculous.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t help it if spheres are the mostmon shape for enchantment work. They have good, even surface area.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s also a reason that after designs get nailed down, they change away from that shape as soon as possible. It looks dumb.¡±


    ¡°Well, at least it works. That¡¯s all I care about.¡±


    ¡°Sure, it¡¯s effective, but unless you want your enemies questioning your taste, you¡¯re going to have toe up with a better design.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, Dove.¡±


    The construct <em>had</em> worked, very well. In fact, it¡¯d worked so well that now Tyron was running into a brand new problem. The conduits between his minions weren¡¯t sufficient to contain the amount of power he was feeding into them. A good problem to have, all things considered, but it meant he needed to go back to the drawing board and restructure the conduitwork between his undead from the ground up.


    It was frustrating, but he had never expected he would be pushing anything like this volume of arcane energy to his undead, so bolstering the magickal connections between them would have been a waste of time and resources.


    ¡°So you¡¯re going to try and fatten up the conduits? Make ¡®em thick and powerful?¡± Dove observed, peering at the construct.


    ¡°Not sure I¡¯d phrase it that way, but yes. With more magick, the skeletons are stronger, faster, so if I can supply more energy, I need them to be able to handle more. It¡¯s going to take a long time, so it¡¯ll have to wait until we get back.¡±


    Before he could work on the skeletons, he would need to finalise a new design. That meant drafting, testing and experimenting to find the exact ratios he wanted.


    ¡°Ah. Time to move onto another project then? I can suggest one, if you need any ideas,¡± Dove leered suggestively.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯ll need to move on. Luckily, I have a long list of things that are demanding my attention. Next on my list: the Ossuary.¡±


    The skeleton slumped.


    ¡°Prick,¡± he muttered.


    Tyron rolled his eyes, not taking the bait. The Ossuary was the key to his new ss and he fully intended to draw out all of its secrets, but he needed to be cautious. Making use of the new space without understanding it could leave him vulnerable to cmity.


    The first order of business was to once again summon the door. Thankfully, this wouldn¡¯t require nearly as much effort as creating the Ossuary had. After all, the space had already been created, all he needed to do was manifest it.


    A little food, some water, and a quick ssh of cold water on his face was all Tyron needed to feel rejuvenated. The more he grew, the more his Constitution improved, the more absurd his physical endurance became. He may not be strong, he may not be dextrous, but he could walk up and down this mountain for days on end without suffering much fatigue. The mental burden of working, calcting, casting magick and directing his minions was far more draining to him than his physical exertions at this point, but thankfully he had always felt strong within his own mind.


    Before he could cast the ritual, he felt his minions engage in battle and took a moment to direct them from where he stood. Repeated casts of Minion Sight allowed him to follow the fighting from different angles and coordinate his undead appropriately. Thankfully, his army of skeletons still heavily outnumbered the packs of kin that flooded from the rift and were able to leverage their numbers for rtively easy victories.


    Releasing a breath, he came back to himself and smiled. Killing rift-kin this easily still felt ridiculous to him. He was barely approaching a fraction of the power his parents had held, what had it felt like for them, battling against monsters all this time? Oftentimes, they¡¯d been sent into dangerous situations, into breaks, into rifts through which new, more powerful monsters had been seen. However, a lot of the time they were sent to kill ordinary kin when the local yers had been overwhelmed. Already, Tyron could kill hundreds of low-levelled kin with only a small exertion of effort. For Magnin and Beory? They could hold a rift like the one at Cragwhistle, quite literally in their sleep.


    He shook off the thought. Disturbing his mind with emotional thoughts before casting a ritual was a foolish mistake he refused to make. Spending any amount of time dwelling on Magnin and Beory was like asking for the rage inside him to boil up and consume him. To work with magick, he needed to be in control.


    Once he was certain he had centred himself, Tyron made his way to the ritual circle, raised his hands, and began to cast. As the words of power thundered into the air, he concentrated. Dimensional magick was extremely difficult, and he was far from an expert, but all he had to do was follow the guidelines the Unseen had given him. The door to the Ossuary had already been made, it existed half within his own realm, and half within whatever ce that room had been created.


    Reaching it was rtively easy.


    After ten minutes, he was done. The door once again rested upon the circle as it exuded an unearthly purple light from within its arch of bones. Tyron lowered his hands and rolled his neck before he took a deep breath, then another. When he was ready, he strode forward, opened the door, and stepped inside.


    Or at least, he tried to.


    ¡°Move over, I want to take a look,¡± Dove said, pushing in front of him.


    ¡°Dove¡­ what the heck?¡±


    But it was toote. The former yer had pranced through the entrance and into the Ossuary, vanishing into the darkness within. Tyron followed close behind.


    ¡°Light,¡± he growled, cing several globes around the room and flooding it with magickal radiance.


    The first time he¡¯d been inside, he hadn¡¯t had the power to spend illuminating it, but now he could finally take a good look at it.


    If anything, it looked like a crypt, or mausoleum. Except, inside the Ossuary, there was no dust, or cobwebs, or any of the detritus one might expect to see in such a ce. It was spotless, the unfurnished stone clean-cut and without blemish. Some nk and sterile, the only defining features of the space were the recesses along the walls, and the altar in the middle.


    The altar from which a constant and steady flow of almost absurdly dense and pure death energy continued to flow.


    ¡°Holy mammaries. This ce positively <em>reeks</em> of Death Magick!¡± Dove eximed, peering about with his ghostly vision. ¡°It¡¯s insane. I can feel it trickling into me. I feel¡­ stronger.¡±


    ¡°Which is why I didn¡¯t want you in here,¡± Tyron said tly, and the skeleton whirled on him.


    ¡°So I wouldn¡¯t get stronger?¡± he eximed, filled with outrage.


    ¡°Because I don¡¯t know what it will do to you,¡± the Necromancer rebutted. ¡°Am I the only one who remembers a particr Summoner who insisted on caution and proper testing before ying around with hitherto unknown or unexplored magick?¡±


    ¡°What the fuck? I <em>am</em> that guy!¡±


    ¡°The fuck you are!¡± Tyron red. ¡°<em>That</em> Dove wouldn¡¯t be striding into this room without having the faintest idea what would happen to him. You don¡¯t even know where this is!¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡± Dove challenged him, stalking forward to poke Tyron in the chest with one bony finger.


    Tyron brushed his hand aside.


    ¡°No, I fucking don¡¯t. That¡¯s why I¡¯m being <em>cautious</em>. Now are you going to leave on your own or am I going to kick you out?¡±


    ¡°You want me to leave? This ce is amazing, something is happening here, Tyron. There¡¯s no way in hell I¡¯m leaving!¡±


    The Necromancer narrowed his eyes.


    ¡°You had a choice.¡±


    In his weakened state, there was no chance for Dove to resist him in a battle of wills, and Tyron quickly Suppressed him before he picked the skeleton up and threw him out the door.


    He released his hold just as Dove started toe back to himself, scrambling around to re as Tyron was shutting the door on him.


    ¡°Oh you mother fuc¡ª¡±


    <em>Thud!</em>


    Unbelievable. To think that the man had lost this much of his sense of self preservation. Soaking in all this death magick might empower his soul, it would certainly flood the cores Tyron had ced on him, but it may also be destructive. Was it possible for a spirit to take in more energy than it contained? Could it hold a corrupting influence? More importantly, <em>where was iting from</em>?


    Limitless, free magick was not a thing, and yet here he had a seemingly inexhaustible supply streaming into this cross-dimensional space. It wasing from <em>somewhere</em>. Only extensive research and testing would help him learn what that was. Shaking his head, he forgot about Dove. That idiot would have to cool his heel-bones outside for a while.


    Once again, Tyron inspected every inch of the space, only this time he was in a better state of mind. Leaving no stone unturned, he went slowly and carefully through each recess, each segment of floor, then carefully examined every line and curve of the altar itself. Sadly, this didn¡¯t reveal anything new. As it stood, the Ossuary was a fairly straightforward ce. The only way to gain new information would be to put it to use.


    He opened the door and stepped outside to find Dove standing with arms folded across his ribs, tapping his foot impatiently.


    ¡°¡ªker!¡± he yelled triumphantly, then sighed in relief. ¡°I hate leaving a curse half-spoken.¡±


    Ignoring him, Tyron went and collected some bones, as well as ordering a skeleton to apany him while Dove walked alongside, heckling him with questions.


    ¡°Hey, are you going to apologise for that shit? You can¡¯t just knock me out! Are you going to let me back in there?¡±


    By the time he¡¯d made it back to the door, Tyron had run out of patience.


    ¡°Shut <em>up</em>, Dove! No, I won¡¯t apologise. No, I won¡¯t let you back in. And NO! I am never making you a dick! Go away and let me work so I can try and understand this space!¡±


    So saying, he yanked open the door, shoved his chosen skeleton through the entrance, then mmed it shut. Once he was alone on the other side, he slumped and sighed. He¡¯d probably been too hard on Dove, but the former-Summoner¡¯s increasingck of care for his own existence was a worrying trend that Tyron wouldn¡¯t allow to endanger his work. Vengeance was a project of far greater importance than the feelings of an undead-yer, even if it was his friend and mentor.


    He ordered the skeleton to wait by the door, as far from the altar as it could get, before he took the collection of bones he had gathered and began to ce them inside the recess.


    What would happen when they were all in ce? He was excited to find out.

 Chapter B3C55 - A Place of my Own

    Chapter B3C55 - A ce of my Own


    As it turned out, nothing happened. Tyron haphazardly piled the bones into the recess and nothing at all urred. He even utilised the magick-eye spell to see if there were any change in the energy, but there was nothing. Curiously, the bones didn¡¯t appear to be taking in the ambient Death Magick either, which they definitely should have been.


    Curious, Tyron took the time to purge the bones of any built up magick using a mat he had designed for this purpose. Even when the bones were totally free from arcane energy, they <em>still </em>refused to take anything in. Curious.


    Interested to see the difference, he turned to his existing minion waiting by the door and carefully examined it. It turned out this undead <em>was</em> taking in energy; a steady flow of Death Magick infused its bones, joining the already abundant energy contained within. The conduit ced within its ribcage seemed to act as a doorway or opening, allowing even more of the magick to seep inside, infusing the enchantments woven into the minion, then infusing into the bones and weaving that made up the creature¡¯s body.


    Was it helping or hurting the minion? Perhaps neither? As far as he understood, there was a saturation limit for undead flesh and bone, a point beyond which they wouldn¡¯t take in any more energy. Each of his minions should have reached that point, especially now, after such a long time connected to the conduitwork, drawing in a steady flow of death energy.


    Perhaps something different was happening here? Or was it a consequence of the purity and density of this arcane energy? Again, as far as he understood, energy was just energy. The richness¡­ or abundance¡­ or <em>quality</em>, shouldn¡¯t matter. Quality wasn¡¯t even a property of magickal energy! Yet¡­ his skeleton was absorbing energy.


    For three hours, he watched and documented the changes as more and more energy umted inside the bones of the skeleton, beyond the point he had previously considered ¡®fully saturated¡¯. Eventually, after about two and half hours, the skeleton no longer took in more Death Magick. It stood, as it would on the outside, not consuming energy, or taking any in. Its cores were full, its bones were full.


    Once he was sure nothing more wasing in, and that the skeleton appeared to be stable, he ordered it to runps around the chamber. It seemed faintly ridiculous, watching a skeleton run in circles. The rtively faint <em>tak tak tak</em> of the bones against the stone resonated against the walls as the undead mindlessly and repetitively ran.


    He was attempting to drain the creature of its energy, but as time wore on, he realised he couldn¡¯t. The array,bined with what was flowing into the bones, was simply too much energy. His minion was drawing in more than it was using.


    Tyron frowned.


    Interested to see what would happen, he took the minion outside of the Ossuary and back to the mountain. Standing still, the undead began to <em>lose</em> energy, leaking it out into the air as the bones began to seek a new equilibrium.


    This was a stunning development. Several things had now urred in session that the young Necromancer had no exnation for. Far from being discouraged, he was ted. Whenever he encountered something for which his current understanding couldn¡¯t exin, it was a sign that something fundamental in his model was broken. He had to shatter it, and build it up again from the ground up.


    Moments like this were what he lived for. Fully unaware of the slight smile that creased his lips or the faintly zed expression that blossomed in his eyes, Tyron turned back into the Ossuary, mind already abuzz.


    Already, so many questions. An energy tolerance level of bones. The capacity to retain the energy absorbed. The behaviour of the energy within the Ossuary. Even if he could solve each of those mysteries, the greatest question of all remained: when those solutions were applied, was there a way to make his undead more powerful?


    All his knowledge needed to be bent to that end.


    Eager to explore more of the Ossuary¡¯s capacities, he turned his attention back to the inert bones he had left within a recess on the wall.


    They remained as he had left them, devoid of any magick at all, resting in a loose pile. Obviously, the Ossuary itself was interfering somehow, since it made no sense that the bones wouldn¡¯t absorb energy. Even in the wild, bones would begin to take in ambient magick, slowly turning it into death energy and sharing it with other remains. Here, in this preposterously rich environment, the bones wouldn¡¯t take in any energy? It was absurd.


    The recesses were clearly intended to house a full human skeletonid out, so that is what he did. Starting with the feet, he carefully sorted the bones and began to put them in their ce, moving up the skeleton until atst he put down the skull. The bones were nowid out in the manner he would ce them before beginning to work on the threading.


    As soon as the skull was in position, Tyron noted a change. Carefully, he stepped back from the recess and cast the magick-eye spell, watching the flow of energy like a hawk. The influx of death magick was immediate. In abundance, it flowed from the altar in the centre of the room, or more urately, the gap around the base of it, and into the bones.


    Now this was another interesting development. If things continued at this pace, the bones would be fully saturated in a matter of hours. That wasn¡¯t necessarily a good thing, since it would mean the remains would then begin to form into a wild undead. He frowned. Surely the Ossuary was more than just a ce he could efficiently infuse remains with energy. He was already doing that a long time ago. All of his current minions had been infused with death magick and gone as close to full saturation as was possible before they were raised. If this was all these recesses did, then it was a slight time saver, at best.


    Determined to learn what the end result would be, he took out his notebook and began to scribble away, trying to get some of the ideas in his head down and onto the page. All the while, he closely monitored the energy flowing into the bones held within the recess.


    Hours passed and Tyron lost himself to the flow of ideas. Pages became filled with notes, theories, tests, possible solutions and many collections of sigils as he sought to use what he was sure of to plumb the unknown he was grasping for.


    Ultimately, it took much longer for the remains to saturate than he¡¯d expected, over four hours, but like the minion he¡¯d brought in before, they continued to absorb energy well beyond what he had thought possible. When atst he detected that no more energy was being absorbed by the bones, he tensed. Any second now. Or perhaps now? Or perhaps¡­ not?


    Tilting his head to the side, Tyron beheld something that should not be. The bones had absorbed more death energy than they should have reasonably held. Even by the standards of this ce, they were full, they weren¡¯t taking in any more. Yet¡­ the process of forming a wild undead did not take ce.


    The strands of magick that formed the sinew and muscle didn¡¯t form. No light began to glow within the hollow sockets of the skull. Each individual bone remained as it was, not even twitching.


    Fascinated, Tyron crept closer, still believing that <em>something</em> should happen. Yet, no matter how long he waited, it did not.


    For a time, he paced back and forth. He examined the recess again. There were no enchantments, cores or anything that might exin what was happening. For whatever reason, a wild undead¡­ refused to form.


    Tyron ran outside, collected his nket, threw the bones into them and waited.


    Still nothing.


    He took the bones outside the Ossuary andy the nket out on the ground. Immediately, two things began to happen. The bones began to leak energy, and they began to pull themselves into position, tendrils of magickal thread beginning to form between them.


    ¡°How?¡± he said, dumbfounded.


    Regardless of how, he had his answer. Within the Ossuary, wild undead would not form. Before the bones could be wasted, he gathered up the nket and ran back into his new, confusing dimensional space. Once they were inside, the remains once again became inert.


    Brow furrowed, Tyron tried to make sense of it. As far as he understood it, the recesses within the Ossuary were able to hold remains in a state of perpetual saturation, without the risk of going wild. That <em>was</em> helpful, significantly helpful.


    However, that only led him to the next mystery. Within the Ossuary, the bones were reaching a point where they held more energy than they could sustain on the outside. Something in here was allowing them to take in more than they normally could. If he were able to somehow increase the tolerance level of the remains he worked with¡­ then perhaps they would be able to retain this energy? More death aligned energy was, from what he¡¯d learned so far, always a good thing.


    There was an interesting wrinkle, though. When he infused bones to use with his bone-forging, they took in a huge amount of energy without leaking it. What was the difference? Was there a qualitative change that urred when he was forging? If he was required to invest that much energy into each and every minion¡­ the process would be far too inefficient. There was no guarantee the supply he had ess to here would be bottomless.


    Frustrated, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and began to pace back and forth once more, hands folded behind his back. There were so many questions. Each step forward only opened more possibilities, each of which would need to be explored if he was going to be thorough. He needed to test how robust the supply of death magick within the Ossuary was. That was, perhaps, simple enough. He already had tools that gathered death magick and purified it. All he needed to do was alter them to store it, so that none went to waste. For that, he would need cores. Many, many cores. Thankfully, the supply of kin through the rift was functionally endless. In enough time, he would have the cores he needed.


    Next, he needed to determine the difference between forged bone and regr bone, especially pertaining to their saturation levels. What would happen if he brought forged bone into the Ossuary? Another test for him to conduct¡­.


    Of course, he had to try and raise minions within the space as well. There may be a difference between those raised within and those raised without. There was only one way to find out.


    If only the Unseen were a little more verbose in its descriptions. It wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯d had this thought, and he was sure it wouldn¡¯t be thest. Although¡­ he might be able to learn more when he reached level forty five. With ess to another ability selection and the full list of feats, he may be able to shed some light on the capabilities of the Ossuary. He wouldn¡¯t get much, he knew that, but something was better than nothing.


    Filled with ideas, he left the bones where theyy on the floor and stepped out of the door. ced above the ritual circle, a constant drain of power was required to keep the entrance in ce, but he made sure to keep it topped up, he had no fear of it vanishing before he was ready.


    Dove intercepted him by the cave.


    ¡°Worked out what¡¯s going on in there?¡± he said shortly.


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°Not even remotely. You aren¡¯t the only undead who can absorb more energy in there, but it starts to leak out of my skeletons the moment they leave. For whatever reason, they can¡¯t retain the power.¡±


    Dove ced his hands on his bony hips.


    ¡°The same thing happened to me. Whatever extra juice I pulled in was lost when I came out.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ interesting. The additional energy my skeletons took in was stored in their bones, which are a natural repository of that energy, but you don¡¯t have any bones. The only part of you which is undead, is your soul. Which would mean¡­¡±


    ¡°What? That my soul can act as a container for magick?¡± Dove asked.


    The skeleton grew still.


    ¡°My soul can be a container for magick,¡± he said slowly.


    Tyron nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted. There was only so much inspiration a mage could take.


    Excited, Dove grabbed hold of his shoulders and shook him.


    ¡°Do you know what this means?! You get it, right? You fucking get it?!¡±


    The Necromancer endured this exuberant treatment.


    ¡°Yes. Yes, I get it.¡±


    ¡°If there¡¯s <em>magick</em> mixing with the soul¡­ then¡­ then¡­!¡±


    ¡°Then a status ritual should be possible. Stop shaking me please.¡±


    Filled with energy, Dove leapt away, dancing an absurd little dance as he flung his bony limbs about, cackling like a madman.


    Tyron only sighed, then grinned. An irrepressible urgency was building in the back of his mind and he¡¯d felt it enough times now to recognise it for what it was. It wouldn¡¯t be long now until he lost all sense of time as he threw himself into the work, reaching that obsessive state which had led to his best and greatest breakthroughs. With so many paths in front of him, who knew what he woulde up with by the time he was done?

 Chapter B3C56 - Disturbance

    Chapter B3C56 - Disturbance


    Gramble Tillis was running out of patience.


    ¡°You okay, boss?¡± his teammate Christoff asked him. ¡°You¡¯re looking¡­ tense.¡±


    The two were sat in the Split Granite, the newer of the two pubs in Cragwhistle. The tables were cleaner, the beer was¡­ essentially the same watered down piss and the spirits were hard enough to scrape coal off a miner.


    ¡°What day is it, Christoff?¡± Gramble said, blinking into his cup.


    ¡°Hamarsday.¡±


    ¡°A drink to the God of Games!¡± Petri, the third team member slurred before he tossed back his drink and winced as it burned down his throat.


    For a moment, Gramble looked as if he had something to say, then he shrugged and also emptied his cup. Christoff decided to join them.


    ¡°Anish! Another round for the table,¡± Gramble called, waving a hand vaguely over his head.


    Soon after, a tan-skinned woman wandered over, a hand on her hip and a bottle gripped firmly in the other. She was smiling, yet her eyes were cautious as she approached.


    ¡°Have you boys not had enough yet? As my father, Dinesh, used to say, ¡®a man must hold their water, not project it on their friend¡¯.¡±


    She pantomimed a sickly customer, staggering and leaning, hands pping widely before vomiting hugely over the table. It was a skillful performance, the expression of revulsion on her face as she pretended to spit out thest of the sick was enough to turn Gramble¡¯s stomach.


    ¡°Maybe just the one more round,¡± he muttered, a hand resting on his belly as if to discern its current level of integrity.


    ¡°Of course. You are here to drink, no?¡± Anish said as she leaned over and poured each of them a half-cup. ¡°Although I am reluctant to speak of it, my mother, Shiswa, would curse me from the heavens if I left the table without asking you to settle your bill. An unbelievable miser, my mother. She would have shaved rats to weave our clothes if she hadn¡¯t feared disease.¡±


    After a moment of owlish blinking, Gramble figured out what she was saying and fumbled in his pocket until he felt some coins clinking together. He withdrew his fist, squinted at the currency until he figured out which coin was which, and passed a few over.


    ¡°I believe that will cover the tab,¡± he said, with some dignity.


    ¡°It will,¡± Anish replied, whisking away from the table so quickly Gramble looked back to his palm, wondering if he¡¯d confused copper with gold.


    Not that he had much gold. Not at the moment.


    ¡°Stupid Necromancer,¡± he grumbled and his two teammates whipped around and shushed him.


    ¡°Not in town,¡± Christoff hissed. ¡°These people are crazy. They¡¯ll beat us over the head with clubs if we disparage that prick.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, sorry,¡± Gramble groaned as he leaned back in his chair, eyes wandering up to the wooden ts in the ceiling above. ¡°Stupid Necromantic prick,¡± he said.


    ¡°I think we should get out of here,¡± Christoff said rising from his seat.


    Gramble stared at him vacantly for a second, then the light of understanding dawned in his eyes.


    ¡°Oh! Sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine, let¡¯s just get back to the barracks. I¡¯ve got some wine from home left over in my room. If we want to keep drinking, we can finish that off.¡±


    ¡°Wine? You¡¯ve still got some wine? That¡¯s a hell of a lot better than this swill,¡± Gramble dered, perhaps a little too loudly.


    Christoff managed to ignore the flinty stares he was getting from the other patrons of the pub long enough to gather up his two teammates and get them swaying back toward the barracks.


    The next morning, as Gramble emerged from his room, his tongue as dry as the southern sands and head pounding like an anvil at harvest time, he found Samantha, of all people, reading in themon area. Under normal circumstances he felt like he got along fairly well with his fellow team leader. Better than he and Trenan did, anyway. However, he¡¯d soured on all of the yers on this gods forsaken mountain since that Necromancer had arrived. If any of them had courage, they¡¯d have worked together to kill the bastard the day he¡¯d arrived.


    Doing his best to preserve his image, he straightened and walked straight for the water cask. With great focus, he gathered a cup, turned the spigot and watched as it filled. A moment before he could raise it to his lips and take a sip, a voice spoke out from behind him.


    ¡°A little worse for wear this morning?¡± Samantha asked with wry humour.


    Gramble¡¯s hands tremoured at the interruption, but he felt a surge of triumph that he didn¡¯t spill. He savoured the victory, he took a long slow mouthful of water before he turned around and opened his mouth to speak.


    ¡°Holy shit, your eyes are red. How much did you drinkst night?¡±


    If he was honest, far too much.


    ¡°A bit,¡± he admitted, voice a touch on the raw side.


    ¡°Right,¡± she said, as she closed her book with a snap.


    Samantha was older than the other yers on the mountain. The only one who wasn¡¯t fresh out of academy. A higher level, though not yet a silver, she was most definitely the strongest of them also. He suspected she¡¯d been in a team before bing the leader of Starfire. What happened to that previous group, he couldn¡¯t guess.


    ¡°The walls here aren¡¯t all that thin, Gramble.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± the sentence didn¡¯t seem to make sense to his still underpowered mind.


    ¡°The walls. They¡¯re thin.¡±


    He looked at the exterior wall, which was formed out of thick cut stone. A momentter, it dawned on him. The walls between rooms <em>were</em> a lot thinner.


    He groaned.


    ¡°What did I say?¡± he said, walking slowly forward and sinking into a chair.


    ¡°You spent almost the entire night pissing and moaning about Tyron.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°The Necromancer,¡± she rolled her eyes.


    No way was Gramble going to ept that¡­ <em>person</em> was the son of Battle Mage Beory. Even the mention of it was enough to stoke his irritation.


    ¡°So? I canin all I want here in the barracks, since the townsfolk have all decided to go insane,¡± he grumped, folding his arms across his chest. ¡°Or have you gone off the deep end with them? You actually believe that¡¯s his real name?¡±


    She hesitated, and in that moment, he knew she was lost.


    ¡°I might,¡± she finally hedged. ¡°He had a lot to say that was very convincing. Certainly, it doesn¡¯t seem to benefit him to lie.¡±


    Anger bubbled up in the mage¡¯s chest.


    ¡°And you believe him about the Sterms as well? That Magnin and Beory just killed themselves so their child could live? That they were tortured by the Magisters for refusing to kill their own kid?¡±


    Samantha held his gaze coolly.


    ¡°It appears you don¡¯t,¡± she said.


    ¡°Of course I don¡¯t! I¡¯m not an idiot!¡±


    Rather than be offended, she simply raised a brow.


    ¡°You really believe the magisters wouldn¡¯t do something like that?¡± she said, slightly incredulous.


    ¡°Absolutely they would. Just not to <em>them</em>.¡±


    ¡°You think the magisters cared about the Sterms? Really?¡±


    ¡°Magnin and Beory were heroes, and probably far too strong for the brand to have any effect on them anyway. We¡¯re talking about the two strongest yers in the entire western province. They were above gold rank, for goodness¡¯ sake. Thest line of defence on the frontier, they prevented disaster how many times? We¡¯re meant to believe they were thrown away like that?¡± he scoffed, then flinched at a spike of pain in his head.


    She listened to his rant with an expression almost like pitying over her face.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said simply. ¡°They absolutely would do that. There¡¯s nothing they won¡¯t throw away to maintain control, and you¡¯re lucky to have not been put in a position where you¡¯ve been made to understand that.¡±


    Suddenly angry, she stood, ring down at him.


    ¡°You¡¯re the only team leader who hasn¡¯t gone up there and spoken to him. Do that, at least, if you can muster the courage. Rather than stewing in ignorance, you may as well go and see for yourself.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to meet a madman to know he¡¯s mad,¡± Gramble sneered, waving her away. ¡°Everything he¡¯s said is all the proof I¡¯ll ever need.¡±


    Samantha leaned forward and flicked him, right between the eyes, and the mage¡¯s headache exploded as if a fireball had gone off inside his skull. He lunged back in his chair, clutching at his head.


    ¡°Oh, you¡­ <em>bitch</em>,¡± he groaned.


    ¡°Go up there, coward.¡±


    He heard her leave, each step in rhythm with the pounding pain behind his eyes. When it finally began to subside, he opened his eyes and found himself alone inside themon area.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a coward,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°I¡¯m just the only sensible person on this preposterous mountain.¡±


    Six hourster, he found himself climbing the steep path toward the rift.


    <em>How dare she call me a coward. I¡¯ve been battling kin on this mountain just as much as she has. More even. I was here first!</em>


    Wrapped in his warmest robe, with a tight woollen hat pulled over his head and a scarf coiled around his neck, Gramble was as warm as he could be. A cold breeze blew down the slope, carrying the promise of ice and frostbite. He shivered and tucked his hands further up his sleeves.


    It was difficult to cast magick with gloves on. In fact, Gramble found it <em>impossible</em> to cast magick with gloves on. The weight and range of movement feltpletely off whenever he tried it. When even a miniscule shift in angle or position could throw a sigil off, wearing gloves was the same as strapping an anvil to each digit. They simply wouldn¡¯t move properly.


    Which meant, if he wanted to be able to cast magick, he had to keep his hands nimble. That meant, no gloves when trekking up the frigid mountain.


    He <em>hated</em> this ce.


    Not for the first time, he wondered why he was even here. His pride wasn¡¯t so tender that being called a coward was enough for him to foolishly stick his neck out. So why? Perhaps it was the ridiculous persistence of Samantha and others on believing that this madman was who he said he was. Gramble wasn¡¯t sure how he was supposed to disprove it. The Necromancer could say he was the ghost of Tel¡¯anan if he felt like it, what sort of proof could anyone offer to the contrary?


    Picking a fight with the Necromancer certainly wasn¡¯t on the agenda. There were some battles that simply weren¡¯t worth losing. No, if there was to be a fight, then Gramble would much rather have the advantage of numbers on his side.


    Perhaps he simply needed to prove it to himself. He would meet this imposter, go back down the mountain, and tell Samantha to her face she was wrong. That was all there was to it.


    The fact that so many yers and vigers hade up and made it back down alive certainly didn¡¯t hurt his confidence either.


    Step by step, he continued to climb the slope, making sure he didn¡¯t slip on the rocks or frosted ground. Every now and again, he reached out to grasp a tree or take hold of a branch, using the ice-tinged timber to pull himself forward. Thunder rumbled in the distance, indicating a brewing storm higher up. He cursed. If he was caught in the rain, it would be hell getting back down the mountain.


    Perhaps it would have been a better idea to wait until he was in better condition before charging up the mountain. Now that he was already here, he felt he wasmitted.


    At the minimum, he should have brought the rest of his team along with him¡­.


    Feeling somewhat exposed, Gramble grit his teeth and powered onward, shivering inside his cloak. Eventually, he came across what he had been expecting to see. A line of five skeletons stood astride the path, unmoving and indifferent to the wind. Seeing the bones standing upright, weapons gripped tight in their skeletal fingers, sent a shiver running down his spine, totally independent of the temperature.


    Eyes glowing with an unnatural purple light, the undead beheld him as Gramble nervously pulled himself up.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to speak to your master,¡± he said, somewhat pompously.


    They didn¡¯t react. In fact, they didn¡¯t move, not even a twitch. Unsure what to do, Gramble waited for some sort of response. He nced between the skeletons, huddled with his arms wrapped around himself, growing increasingly impatient.


    Supposedly, the Necromancer was able to see through the eyes of his minions, so what was the hold up? Was he being ignored? Before his ire could rise too high, he considered that there may be other possibilities. Perhaps the Necromancer was otherwise upied. Or¡­ weakened?


    For a moment, Gramble considered his options, before he walked sidewise off the path. When he¡¯d picked his way across the slope around ten metres, he turned back and saw there had been no reaction from the skeletons. They stood as before, staring straight down the path, unmoving.


    Clearly, their creator was distracted. Moving cautiously, he began to ascend up the mountain, joining back up to the path once he passed the skeletal watchers. With renewed vigour, he began to ascend once more, eager to see what was happening further up. He wondered what might be happening to keep this illegal mage so upied.


    Once he felt he was close to where the Necromancer¡¯s camp must be, he began to move quietly. If he was able to arrive unnoticed, he¡¯d have a chance to assess what he saw before taking a course of action. After all, who knew what he might find? If the mage was engaged in a ritual, distracted, unable to utilise his magick in his own defence¡­


    For a brief moment, Gramble allowed himself to imagine it. A moment of triumph, returning to the town a conquering hero,ughing in the faces of the people who¡¯d spurned him after ying their hero. Of course, it wouldn¡¯t be that easy. He hadn¡¯t graduated and fought as a yer without gaining a healthy sense of self preservation. The fact he was even here, alone, on the mountain, was out of character.


    If he hadn¡¯t been provoked¡­


    Not for the first time, he cursed Samantha in his mind. Still ranting about the cold-faced yer in his mind, he stumbled past a tree and into a clearing.


    The Necromancer stood in the centre of his ritual circle side-on to Gramble¡¯s position, power zing around him. Gramble¡¯s eyes boggled as he saw the mage snapping out sigils with unbelievable speed and precision. When he opened his mouth and spoke, each syble was like thunder, cracking into the air with incredible force.


    <em>This</em> was the storm he¡¯d heard? It wasn¡¯t lightning, it was this man casting magick!


    By the side of the Necromancer, a pitch ck skeleton stood, looking on. Gramble had heard of this one, a freakish, foul-mouthed undead. Whoever¡¯s soul was stuck inside it, it sounded like he¡¯d earned his fate.


    Almost against his will, Gramble felt his eyes drawn back to the Necromancer as he continued to enact his ritual. The movement, the flow of power, the wless pronunciation. Everything was textbook, an extreme disy of precision that put even his own instructors to shame.


    It was¡­ beautiful.


    He shook his head. The Necromancer was vulnerable, just as he had hoped! No matter how excellent a mage he was, there was nothing he could do to defend himself in the middle of casting a ritual!


    Gramble raised his hands and began to form his magick, a fireball, with as much power as he could pack into it. The moment it was prepared, a burning, roiling sphere of power in his hand, he flung it forward with a roar of triumph.


    So what if he was silver rank? No mage could survive a direct hit from a spell like this!


    What happened next, defied belief. No matter how many times he reyed the sequence of events in the future, he refused to ept it was real.


    Without pausing the flow of words from his mouth, the Necromancer separated his hands and began to cast <em>independently</em>. The right hand picked up the ck, flicking out abbreviated ¡®half¡¯ sigils at double speed, while the other flicked out a series in less than a second.


    Gramble¡¯s fireball hadn¡¯t covered half the ground between them before it was pierced through the middle by a bolt of pure darkness, unbncing the magick and causing it to detonate early. Gramble fell back as a wave of heat washed over him, mind frozen in shock. It wasn¡¯t¡­ it wasn¡¯t possible!


    That simply¡­ it wasn¡¯t human.


    ¡°You piece of fucking shiiiiiit!¡±


    It was the ck skeleton, screeching at the top of its voice as it sprinted towards him. It pulled back a fist, then struck down, and Gramble knew no more.


    Outside the gates of Cragwhistle, Trenan could only sigh as he looked down at what the skeletons had left behind. When the vigers had called, he hadn¡¯t wanted to believe it, but here he was.


    In front of him, staring up with tears in his eyes, Grambley, tied up with a series of borate knots, including one through his mouth, preventing him from speaking.


    ¡°Errrnph!!¡± he grunted.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I¡¯ll get you out.¡±


    Attached to the chest of the yer, held in ce with one strand of rope, was a bit of paper. Leaning down, Trenan pulled it loose, and read it, feeling a little confused. He looked down at Gramble.


    ¡°You are a fucking lucky idiot,¡± he said, turning the note around and showing it to the trussed up yer.


    <em>I¡¯m busy, </em>was all it said.

 Chapter B3C57 - It Takes a Little Madness

    Chapter B3C57 - It Takes a Little Madness


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe it. I can¡¯t <em>fucking </em>believe it,¡± Dove breathed.


    Tyron swayed on his feet and blinked owlishly. Now that the goal was close, the fric energy that had possessed him for the past week was beginning to fade. Already, he could feel a headache blooming in his temples, and the dryness of his mouth and eyes was gradually bing a major issue.


    ¡°Souls are¡­ weird,¡± he said slowly, before he turned and began to rummage through his pack. He needed food, water and roughly eighteen hours of sleep.


    Doveughed, an ufortable, fric edge to the sound.


    ¡°You just outdid yourself in terms of genius bullshit, and <em>that¡¯s</em> your offering? Souls are weird?!¡±


    ¡°Well they are,¡± Tyron muttered before shoving a wedge of cheese into his mouth.


    Quickly, he spat it out. It was going rancid. He rinsed out his mouth, then took a long drink from his waterskin. The fluid was brackish, and far from fresh, but to his parched throat it was like the tears of the goddess.


    Spirits, souls and ghosts were his weakest subjects, as it were, when it came to Necromancy. He¡¯d spent almost all of his time studying bones, artificial mental constructs, death magick, he¡¯d had almost no reason or interest to investigate the souls of the living. Outside of his revenants, he didn¡¯t even have any ghosts in his entourage currently. Yet, when it came to this particr problem, an intricate and detailed knowledge of the soul had been necessary to seed.


    So the majority of the week had been spent finding and then examining ghosts. Even possessed by the spirit of inspiration as he had been, Tyron had found that the rules governing the souls of the dead were¡­ weird.


    Dove was dancing, wiggling his bony hips in obscene motions and giggling like a young maid.


    ¡°Of all the stupid bullshit you¡¯ve pulled off, this is <em>by far</em> the stupidest, and most bullshitden of them all. Where the fuck do you get off figuring this stuff out? It¡¯s nonsense! I was here to watch you do it and I <em>still</em> don¡¯t know how you did it.¡±


    The Necromancer waved a hand carelessly as he continued to drink and eat. The negative effects of such a long stint of ceaseless work continued to build, but he hoped to ward them off before they grew too severe.


    ¡°We aren¡¯t even sure if it¡¯s going to work,¡± he stated, his throat still raw.


    Seated in the cave in the dead of night, the wind rustling in the trees was their onlypanion. A small fire crackled near the entrance, providing some warmth, and several globes of magickal light gave all the illumination they required.


    Tyron¡¯s small table was covered in loose sheets of paper, each filled with a dense, almost illegible scrawl. With a groan, he picked himself up and felt every muscle in his body protest at the motion. Damn it all, it wasn¡¯t easy for his muscles to get stiff and sore like this. Even at his level of endurance, an entire week of casting spells and sitting hunched over his notes was enough.


    In moments like this, being a Lich didn¡¯t seem like all that bad of an idea. No need to sleep, eat or drink. He could work for months on end without any need for a break. Efficiency-wise, it would be a real time saver. Certainly better than being a vampire, at least. For starters, sleeping half the time was an enormous waste, secondly, every vampire he¡¯d seen was often¡­ diverted, with other concerns, rather than focused on their goals.


    If the Dark Ones got their way, he certainly wouldn¡¯t remain a human for long, judging by the feats they¡¯d offered him. Something to worry about another time. There was no way he was going to get any sleep until Dove had attempted the new ritual, so he may as well let him have his fun.


    ¡°Let me talk you through it one more time, then we can make an attempt, alright?¡± he croaked before taking another swig of water.


    ¡°It¡¯s not thatplicated, kid. I could do this with one hand up my ass.¡±


    For good measure, the skeleton reached around and inserted his hand into his pelvis from the back, wiggling his fingers.


    ¡°If something goes wrong and you rip your soul apart, at least you can¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn you of the risks,¡± he insisted, ignoring Dove¡¯s antics. ¡°Sit your bony backside down and I¡¯ll walk you through it.¡±


    So saying, he pulled out the chair and indicated for Dove to sit, then began to rifle through the sheets of paper, trying to create some semnce of order so he could present it.


    ¡°Starting from the beginning,¡± he coughed.


    ¡°Oh shit, really?¡±


    ¡°Shut up. Starting from the beginning. So the status ritual, we know <em>essentially</em> what it does. It takes the Unseen¡¯s¡­ <em>assessment</em> of you, then codifies it. The information is contained within the blood, so it isn¡¯t even <em>extracted</em>. We use the medium of blood to manifest the information contained inside it. So all the ritual has to do is ask the Unseen to reveal itself, which it willingly does.¡±


    He paused for a minute to take a drink and work up some more moisture in his mouth while Dove bounced in his seat impatiently.


    ¡°In many respects, the current ritual we use is performing the task in the simplest possible way. Which is why any idiot can cast it. Your situation¡­ is a little different.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I¡¯m dead. Therefore, no blood. I think I got that part, is it really necessary to exin it?¡±


    ¡°If you talk less and listen more, this goes faster. Do you want it to go faster?¡±


    If Dove could roll his eyes, he certainly would at this moment.


    ¡°Yes, professor Sterm.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re insufferable.¡±


    ¡°Now, at <em>this</em> point, you¡¯re going to say that?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve always been insufferable. Now shut up. Without blood to work as a universal medium for the Unseen to encode information into, we were pretty stuck. We determined there was magick <em>inside</em> your soul, which was a breakthrough, but that didn¡¯t mean there was information contained inside. So we had to find a way to examine the magickal¡­ contents of the soul, so to speak.¡±


    This process had been a great deal more difficult than Tyron made it seem. He had limited ways to examine <em>souls</em>. Eventually, he¡¯d been able to cobble something together using cannibalised parts of the Commune with Spirits spell and the Repository ritual. Effectively, he¡¯d substantiated a soul and then selected a medium to deposit the magickal information from the soul into. Most of the time, he¡¯d used his own blood.


    ¡°Luckily, the Unseen is thorough in its work,¡± Dove remarked, somewhat sarcastically. ¡°It infects everything equally.¡±


    Tyron hesitated, but didn¡¯t say anything. Was the Unseen a saviour or a curse? That question would haunt the people of this realm long after he was dead, just as it had for millennia before he was born. Wherever there was magick, the Unseen was present, and after thousands of years of the realm being saturated with arcane power from the rifts, magick was in <em>everything</em>.


    Including, apparently, souls.


    ¡°So this section of the ritual is there to¡­ provide a shell through which the ritual can ess your soul, I guess.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s kind of clumsy phrasing.¡±


    ¡°I agree, but I don¡¯t have better terminology I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    ¡°It opens a Soul Hole.¡±


    ¡°I hate you. Never say that in my presence again. This construct acts as a receptacle through which we can ess the magick within the soul, then this section <em>mimics</em> that magick, effectively creating a copy, then we encode that information into our medium of choice.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve lost a lot of blood this week. Have you even got any juice left?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. At that point, my own information <em>should</em> be overwritten and the final part of the ritual will work much the same as the traditional one.¡±


    ¡°Great.¡±


    ¡°The risk is, your soul actually ruptures when we try to open it, or the magick contained within won¡¯t resonate with the copy we¡¯ve made, so any choices you make during the status ritual won¡¯t take effect.¡±


    ¡°Nobody¡¯s ever worked out how that shit works, the Unseen pretty much does all of that itself.¡±


    ¡°Which is why I have no idea if this ritual will actually work or not.¡±


    ¡°Whatever! I¡¯m still willing to give it a try. It¡¯s not like I have a lot to live for, so is this even really a risk?¡±


    ¡°Well, if your soul explodes, you won¡¯t get to go to¡­ wherever souls go when a person dies.¡±


    ¡°I reserved a spot on Selene¡¯s left tit.¡±


    ¡°Sure you did. There, you have the method, you know the risks.¡±


    Tyron pulled a knife from his belt and pricked the tip of finger. The blood was slow toe, so he pushed and squeezed until a healthy number of drops had fallen and stained the clean sheet of paper on the table.


    ¡°When you¡¯re ready,¡± he said, withdrawing his hand.


    Dove, as a spirit inhabiting what was effectively a cunningly carved statue, did not need to breathe in any way, yet, in this moment, he made the sound of a long slow inhtion as he readied himself. Perhaps it was simply a habit he wasn¡¯t rid of. Taking a steadying breath was something people did all the time. Or perhaps Dove was simply trying to settle himself as a rare flutter of emotion perturbed his cold spirit.


    Regardless, a beatter, he began to speak, his hands flicking out the familiar gestures with practised ease. Throughout the process, Tyron held his breath, gripped by a heady mix of fatigue and anticipation. Had he failed Dove at the final hurdle? Had he made magickal history by inventing brand new magick?


    With the addedponents, this was a much longer and moreplex ritual than the standard one, but Dove breezed through it,pleting the process in under five minutes. The instant hepleted the ritual, several things happened at once.


    Dove leaned forward eagerly, his hollow, glowing eyes staring down at the page in front of him.


    The blood, ever so slowly, began to move.


    Tyron¡¯s eyes rolled up in his head as he became gripped by a sudden vision.


    ~~~


    As soon as he began to awaken, the details of what he saw began to fade. He¡¯d been¡­ <em>somewhere</em>¡­ somewhere else. Intangible presences, like ribbons of mist had twined themselves around him¡­ whispering¡­ begging. What they¡¯d said¡­ was important. <em>Very</em> important. But he just¡­ couldn¡¯t¡­ remember. The harder he tried to reach out and grasp the memories, the faster they slipped away from him, until he was left grasping nothing, and his eyes opened.


    ¡°Hrrrr,¡± he slurred, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth.


    His head was pounding. His vision was blurry. How long had he been out? A vision. He¡¯d experienced a vision. That must mean he¡¯d unlocked a new mystery, which meant¡­ he must have been sessful¡­ hadn¡¯t he? What had happened when the ritual ended?


    ¡°Finally awake? Wee back, kid.¡±


    Tyron swivelled his head and saw Dove in front of him, his eyes finally deciding to focus. Then, he realised a few other things.


    ¡°Dove,¡± he rasped, ¡°why am I tied to the chair?¡±


    The skeleton stood tall, wearing his armour, hands resting on his bony hips.


    ¡°I¡¯m not going back, kid,¡± he said seriously. ¡°I know you have to leave soon, and there is no fucking way I¡¯m going back to Yor. Not now that I finally have a reason to¡­ continue existing, I guess.¡±


    It took a few moments for what was being said to sink in, but Tyron seized on the key point.


    ¡°It worked?¡± he breathed, a grin blossoming on his face. ¡°I was right?¡±


    Dove leaned forward, his head tilted to one side.


    ¡°You just got a fucking mystery didn¡¯t you? <em>Another</em> mystery, I should say, you fucking prick.¡±


    Tyron shrugged defensively, which was difficult with his arms tied behind his back.


    ¡°I could have made a breakthrough that was sufficient to be granted a vision, but not enough for the ritual to work as intended. I didn¡¯t see what happened, how was I supposed to know?¡±


    He tested his bonds. Dove had done a suspiciously expert job tying him up.


    ¡°I know what you¡¯re thinking. I¡¯ve got rope-tying at level ten.¡±


    And now he had ess to those Skills again?


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you when you¡¯re older,¡± Dove said, and it appeared as though he attempted to wink. He wasn¡¯t sessful.


    ¡°Was it really necessary to tie me up?¡± Tyron grumbled. ¡°You could have just run away when I went to sleep.¡±


    ¡°This is way more fun. That¡­ and I wasn¡¯t sure if you would let me go?¡±


    Tyron raised a brow at him questioningly and Dove pped his arms in a defensive motion.


    ¡°I know you made a deal with Yor to bring me out here. I don¡¯t know what the terms are, but you¡¯ll get kicked in the balls if I don¡¯te back, I¡¯m sure of that. Generally, you¡¯ve tried to do the right thing by me, but¡­.¡± he trailed off.


    ¡°But you were worried I wouldn¡¯t be willing to pay that price and that I¡¯d drag you back against your will,¡± the Necromancer finished for him.


    Maybe he would have. Maybe he still would.


    After wrestling with the idea for a few moments, he slumped in his seat.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he muttered. ¡°You can go. This is thest time I¡¯m going to do you a favour like this, alright? As unfortunate as your situation is, I¡¯ve got a few things I need to deal with as a matter of urgency.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I fucking get it. I hate the magisters <em>to death</em>, and they didn¡¯t torture-murder my fucking family. I support the mission, one-hundred percent. I just don¡¯t want to spend another second as some vampire-addicted idiot¡¯s ball-bag. If Yor was pissed at what I said? Fine. I¡¯ve done my time. Now I can level again. Now I have ess to everything that I¡¯d lost. I refuse to lose this opportunity.¡±


    There was an intensity to his voice, a manic, possessed energy that perhaps only someone who¡¯d gone through life and death the way that Dove had could truly understand. Tyron didn¡¯t grasp it, but he felt the power of it.


    ¡°What¡¯s your n, then? Are you going to hang around the mountain? Hunting kin here in order to get levels?¡±


    ¡°I think¡­¡± Dove mused, as he tapped a finger to his chin, ¡°that I¡¯m better off not saying, just in case Yor demands the truth out of you. I¡¯ll be somewhere, doing something. How about that?¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Fine. Leave a message in Cragwhistle if you want to get in touch with me. Just don¡¯t be doing any massacres or zombie uprisings. If you ruin my revenge, don¡¯t think you¡¯ll get away lightly.¡±


    Thest was said withplete sincerity and Dove hastened to reassure him.


    ¡°Not a problem, I get it.¡±


    ¡°What ss did you get, anyway?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s on the table if you want to look, you pervert.¡±


    ¡°Says the guy with rope-tying ten. Will you let me out of here now?¡±


    ¡°No. So long, kid, until the next time I see your brooding mug.¡±


    ¡°Take care of yourself, Dove. If you want to stay alive¡­ I suppose.¡±


    ¡°I wonder.¡±


    Finally, the skeleton turned to leave. Then turned back.


    ¡°I used to think you were a once in a century genius, you know? Then I thought you were a once in a millennium genius. Now¡­ I¡¯m not certain this realm has ever seen anything like you before. Don¡¯t fuck up, Tyron, you could tip this entire realm over if you y your cards right.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the general idea,¡± Tyron smiled fiercely.


    Then Dove turned, and he was gone.

 Chapter B3C58 - A Temporary Reprieve

    Chapter B3C58 - A Temporary Reprieve


    It wasn¡¯t too difficult for Tyron to extricate himself. Although, technically speaking, he didn¡¯t. His closest minions weren¡¯t far away and were more than capable of severing the rope for him. Perhaps that <em>did</em> count as doing it himself¡­ a consideration for another time.


    Experiencing a vision from the Unseen was <em>not</em> the same thing as resting, so Tyron remained utterly exhausted. Once he was free, he decided to wash himself, drink water and eat before he retired for an extended nap. For security, he pulled the majority of his minions closer to the cave, ensuring his revenants were on the frontlines to hold off the worst of the kin while he slept.


    There was still so much that remained for him to do. He wanted to see Dove¡¯s status sheet, he wanted to perform the ritual himself and see what he¡¯d gained, but for now, he allowed himself to put it all from his mind, and rest.


    Well, he used a spell to force it from his mind so he could rest.


    Tyron awoke feeling sore and as dry as a bone. A week of effort and deprivation wouldn¡¯t be so easy to ovee, even for him. Thankfully, his head felt clearer. After sshing his face with icy water and tending to his hunger, he felt¡­ somewhat better. By the end of the day, he¡¯d be back to normal, but for now, he was able to function just fine.


    With a sigh, Tyron released the iron grip he¡¯d ced on his curiosity and raced back to the cave where he snatched up the sheet of paper on the table, still smeared in his dried blood.


    <em>Dahved Levan. Through death, you have returned to continue the struggle. Duty is the chain that binds you, anger is the fuel that drives you. Power over the Arcane has always been your goal, and through it, you will exert your will once more.</em>


    <em>You have gained the ss: Spectral Summoner.</em>


    <em>Conjure forth others to fight on your behalf. The creatures of the Astral Sea will reject a being such as yourself, but those who dwell in the Realm of the Dead will answer your call. To increase your proficiency, contract with the denizens of that dread ce and summon them to battle on your behalf.</em>


    <em>ss Attributes per level:</em>


    <em>Intelligence +1;</em>


    <em>Wisdom +1;</em>


    <em>Maniption +3</em>


    <em>Skills granted level 1: </em>


    <em>Dead Sight</em>


    <em>Spells granted level 1:</em>


    <em>Spirit Contract</em>


    <em>Appeal to the Dead</em>


    ¡°I knew Dove wasn¡¯t his real name, the prick,¡± Tyron muttered.


    It appeared Dove had been reset to Level 1 with his rather dramatic change in lifestyle. His general Skills still applied, and they were quite varied, as well as being well-trained. It seemed the former Summoner had expended some Feats to raise the cap on some of his general Skills, though there were some questionable choices.


    Although those remained, nothing else did. All the stats he would have gained from his Summoner and sub-ss levels were gone. Even his race levels as a human were gone, as his species had changed to <em>Spirit Construct</em>.


    Goodness knows what the advantages of <em>that</em> were. Hopefully, Dove would figure it out before long.


    He was still in a weakened position, stripped of almost all of his power, but at least now he could do something about it. It was unfortunate, but none of the kin he¡¯d managed to defeat had counted as experience, since he hadn¡¯t possessed a ss at the time. At least from this point forward, he could progress. Although¡­ he¡¯d need to find another source of blood¡­.


    That wasn¡¯t Tyron¡¯s problem. Dove had struck out on his own and frankly, it was a load off his mind. Now he had more time and attention to spend on the things he needed to focus on. Namely, getting more powerful.


    The past week of distraction hadn¡¯t been kind to Tyron¡¯s minions. He burned Dove¡¯s status sheet and brushed the nket protecting the entrance to the cave aside as he went to assess the damage. With his focus elsewhere, he hadn¡¯t paid as much attention to the rift-kin assaults, which meant his skeletons had been more or less left to fend for themselves. This was, obviously, sub-optimal. He¡¯d lost two dozen minions, and many others were heavily damaged.


    As he ordered his skeletons and tsked over the losses, inspecting each squad in turn, he realised it would be necessary to conduct rather extensive repairs on at least fifty skeletons before they could leave. If he took such weakened minions into the rift on the journey back to Kenmor, the risk they wouldn¡¯t survive the journey would rise precipitously. Tyron wasn¡¯t so enamoured with the process of creating undead he would risk <em>fifty</em> minions. If he worked without pause, it would take him ten hours of gruelling work to repair all the damage.


    With a growl, he set his revenants, who had thankfully been protected by their now-battered armour, and his healthiest squads to guard the mountain trail while he set up a work area and set to his task.


    ~~~


    Trennan was not having a good day. yers were not the most disciplined of people when they weren¡¯t in the field. He knew that. Everyone knew that.


    But it turns out that when they weren¡¯t able to massacre rift-kin to blow off steam, they became positively unruly.


    ¡°Arthur, Chol,¡± he said, infinite weariness audible in his voice. ¡°I¡¯m sorry you got bored of fucking. For the love of the divines, I don¡¯t know why you told me this information, and I <em>do not</em> want to know. I¡¯m having a hard enough time stopping Brigette from chopping down someone in the street, if I have to worry about you two as well, I might just lose my fucking mind.¡±


    Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°We are bored,¡± Chol said, her arms folded across her chest. ¡°There is nothing to do, and I am even starting to grow tired of my precious Arthur¡¯spany. I never thought I would say that.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s hurtful, but urate,¡± Arthur concurred. The man had a slightly zed expression, as if he were staring into the world he would rather inhabit. ¡°We¡¯re crammed into these barracks and people are getting fractious. The Weavers are so pissy they¡¯ll screech at you if you drop a pin.¡±


    ¡°What do you want me to do about it?¡± Trenan growled. ¡°You think you¡¯ve got it rough? Imagine being one of the people responsible for keeping this ship afloat. Rent hotel rooms on the opposite side of town and take up a hobby. Knit or something, I don¡¯t fucking care.¡±


    He stood, looming over the two mages.


    ¡°The Necromancer should be leaving soon, and then we can get back to doing what we do best: killing kin. Until then, the <em>only thing</em> I ask is that you stay out of fucking trouble. It¡¯s not that hard.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been good,¡± Arthur snapped. ¡°It¡¯s been a month, Trennan. A <em>month</em>.¡±


    As much as it annoyed him, Arthur made a point. He and Chol had, much as they¡¯d said, spent most of their time shacked up drinking and shagging. Pretty much all the yers had, but even that wasn¡¯t able to hold their interest indefinitely. yers were people who literally grew stronger from killing monsters. If they weren¡¯t progressing toward their next milestone, or grinding their Skills and Abilities, then they tended to get antsy.


    Especially low-ranked yers like the ones on this mountain. The whole barracks was a powder keg on the verge of exploding. He only hoped nobody did anything stupid and got all of them killed.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± he said to Arthur, ¡°I just don¡¯t have a lot of patience right now. Samantha and I have been taking turns keeping watch over the gate at night to make sure nobody tries to attack the Necromancer again. I¡¯m a little sleep deprived.¡±


    The two mages appeared surprised to learn this.


    ¡°Has anyone¡­ had a go?¡± Chol asked.


    ¡°Not since Gramble, thank fuck.¡±


    It was only a matter of time, though. Just as he was contemting how much he hated his life right now, he felt a tap at his shoulder. Shoving his irritation down, Trennan turned and saw a nervous-looking townsman, a regr who served on the wall.


    ¡°Phillip, what can I do for you?¡± he said, somewhat politely.


    ¡°Uh, someone is at the gate, to see you.¡±


    Trennan immediately focused.


    ¡°When you say ''someone''¡­?¡± he trailed off.


    The clearly frightened man managed a shaky nod. That was all he needed to hear. Trennan set off at a run and found Ortan already waiting for him. Extending a hand, he shook the man''s hand briefly before the two of them stepped through the narrow opening in the gate.


    On the other side, they found the Necromancer, apanied by what appeared to be his entire cohort of skeletons. Lined up in neat ranks, they were like an army, each wielding their dread weapons of bone and headed by the terrifying revenants.


    Covered in his dark robe and skeletal armour, the mage was an intimidating sight. He stepped forward, moving to the front of his undead, but not leaving their protective ring entirely.


    ¡°Trennan, Ortan, nice to see the two of you again.¡±


    ¡°Tyron,¡± Ortan said, which caused one of Trennan¡¯s brows to twitch. ¡°I¡¯m going to assume you called us here for a reason?¡±


    There was obvious fear in his tone, and it took a second for the yer leader to realise why.


    He thought the Necromancer was about to wipe out the town.


    With a chill, Trennan realised he could do it¡­ easily, if he wanted to. Against this many skeletons, not to mention the powerful mage who controlled them, they wouldn¡¯t stand a chance.


    As if sensing their fear, the man held up his hands, palm outwards.


    ¡°Ie in peace,¡± he chided therge townsman. ¡°Ortan, you really think I¡¯m going to murder everyone at this point? Come on.¡±


    ¡°I was a little worried when I saw all the skeletons,¡± Ortan forced a chuckle.


    ¡°I figured if I came unprotected I¡¯d likely be jumped by a dozen pissed off yers,¡± the mage replied, casting a nce at Trennan, who shrugged.


    ¡°Tempers are getting short,¡± he stated.


    ¡°And fair enough too. I just wanted to let you know that I¡¯m leaving. I¡¯ll be traversing the rift, which should put a damper on the number of kin leaking through for about half a day, but you¡¯ll be back in business after that.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ good news,¡± Trenna said, a little surprised. Deep down, he wasn¡¯t sure if he¡¯d really believed they would all get out of this alive.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back, of course,¡± the Necromancer grinned, immediately dampening his spirits again, ¡°but you¡¯ll have a couple of months to yourselves before I return.¡±


    Well, that was <em>something</em> at least.


    ¡°If anyone advises you to set up a trap for me, maybe try and persuade them to abandon the idea,¡± the mage suggested. ¡°Things worked out amicably this time, I¡¯d like to keep it that way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not in control,¡± Trennan told him honestly. ¡°I¡¯m not able to prevent anything.¡±


    ¡°Well, give it a go. You should also think about the things I said. Carefully.¡±


    ¡°About rebellion, or about your origins?¡±


    ¡°The rebellion, mostly,¡± the Necromancer said. ¡°It¡¯s only going to grow over the next year, and you¡¯ll be caught up in it by the time I get back. If you want some advice, start training up a few promising vigers; Ortan can rmend some people. They aren¡¯t restricted by the brand, and so long as Poranus is in charge, you¡¯ll be covered by false paperwork.¡±


    Trennan felt distinctly ufortable.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have any love for the magisters,¡± he said, which was true, ¡°but I¡¯m not sure if a rebellion is really a good idea.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what you think, it¡¯s happening.¡±


    ¡°So <em>you</em> say.¡±


    The man nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°That¡¯s true. You don¡¯t really have much evidence other than my word for it. I can only tell you that is going to change, and soon. People are going toe, yers, volunteers, that sort of thing. Cragwhistle is as far from the empire''s control as it is possible to get, and it has a shiny new rift to train unbranded soldiers with. It won¡¯t be long until you have to pick a side, Trennan, and I hope you pick correctly. It¡¯d be a shame for you to die so young.¡±


    With a wave, the mage turned to leave, but Trennan called out before he got far.


    ¡°Show me your status sheet,¡± he said. ¡°Show me that, and I¡¯ll believe you.¡±


    The Necromancer turned back, a frown on his face. He appeared to consider for a time before he responded.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he said, ¡°when I get back, I¡¯ll show you.¡±


    ¡°Why not now?¡± Trennan challenged.


    ¡°Because I¡¯ll have choices to consider, and I want to make sure I hit my next threshold before I conduct the ritual,¡± came the irritated reply.


    That was fair. Nobody wanted others looking over their shoulder, or worse, potentially sabotaging the ritual and costing them precious ss selections.


    ¡°See you in a bit.¡±


    The skeletons silently turned on their heels and began to march away, the mage in their midst. Soon, they were lost amongst the trees, no longer able to be seen.


    Trennan and Ortan shared a nce before both released a long breath.


    ¡°I don¡¯t really want to do this again,¡± Ortan groaned.


    Trennan turned to head back to the barracks; he had good news to share.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem like we get a choice.¡±

 Chapter B3C59 - Return

    Chapter B3C59 - Return


    The journey through the rift was as brutal as Tyron recalled. Freezing cold temperatures, a seemingly permanent hail of ice and snow, along with the endless roaming packs of kin, savaging the remnants of their fallen world.


    It was difficult not to consider what that ce might have been, before the rifts had ovee it. A thought that naturally led to another: what would his own world be like, when naught but monsters were left to inhabit it? Such a day appeared closer than ever, given how little the administration that held up the empire seemed to care about preventing it.


    A rift break was a permanent increase in the amount of magick flowing into the realm, yet the magisters had allowed one to ur with such callous ease. The lives lost in the tragedy were one thing, but the permanent risk to the stability of their world was another.


    Tyron was forced to consider the possibility that he had less time than he might have assumed to enact his revenge. A part of him had wondered if he might focus his attention on bing a lich, freeing himself from a human lifespan and spending a hundred years quietly mustering his strength. Now, he dismissed the idea. Given how ipetent they were, a real chance existed that the Western Province would fall to ruin within that span of time.


    Through the ice, he travelled, until he came upon the point he had originally emerged from the Abyss. With enormous difficulty, he conducted the ritual once more, piercing the veil and creating a bridge into that void realm.


    Whispers teased and taunted him, prying at the edges of his sanity every second he remained in that ce, and Tyron was visibly shaking when he finally emerged. The remote building remained just as he had left it, and the hundreds of skeletons filed through the opening suspended across his ritual circle without incident. When every minion and all supplies had been ounted for, he allowed himself, atst, to rx. The journey was done, he had seeded in his aims.


    It was night on the Ortan estate, something he was grateful for. Under cover of darkness he marched along with his horde of undead back to the main building, before he was forced to leave them by the fence, which he had to climb, to knock on the door and ask for someone to open the cer. He was received with all the grace he might have expected.


    ¡°Back again, are you?¡± Rita Ortan sniffed, looking him up and down.


    Tyron stared back tly.


    ¡°You¡¯d rather I¡¯d died?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t say that, did I?¡± the old woman muttered, though she certainly didn¡¯t deny it.


    ¡°You seem to me me for your gods¡¯ interest in my fate,¡± he observed, ¡°though I suppose you can¡¯t really me <em>them</em>, even if you should.¡±


    She scowled at him.


    ¡°That disrespect is exactly why I don¡¯t like you,¡± she snapped. ¡°Some things are sacred.¡±


    ¡°Not to me. I need to open the cer.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    Filled with ire, she turned to fetch the key before throwing it at him through the open door. He caught it, barely, before nodding his thanks.


    ¡°If you¡¯re hungry you can have whatever is left in the pot,¡± she called after him. ¡°I won¡¯t be bothering the staff thiste.¡±


    It took a little time to store his skeletons and revenants away, they needed to be packed fairly tight in order to fit. Only after he¡¯d closed and locked the door did he stop to wonder how Rufus, Laurel and the others must feel, being shut away in the darkness, unable to control their own limbs without his permission. Perhaps he was growing callous, to not even think of it.


    He wouldn¡¯t go so far as to say they deserved their fate, perhaps nobody deserved to live as an undead, but he did not waste timementing it either.


    The stew was still warm, wonder of wonders, and he dly drank it down before finding a cot in a spare room. After he woke, feeling refreshed for the first time in what felt like weeks, he stepped out of his room, still half asleep, trying to head outside to relieve his dder.


    Once he¡¯d found his relief and woken up a little, he realised what the strange looks he¡¯d been given on the way out meant. He hadn¡¯t been disguising his face. The realisation struck so hard he stopped dead in his tracks, a hand rising to obscure his features. After just a month without it, he¡¯d grown sox? A disturbing thought. He¡¯d worn it more or less constantly, for years, and now he walked around showing his features openly, so close to Kenmor?


    Cursing himself as foolish, he immediately formed it again, the false mask bringing with it a sense offort and control. When he found Rita Ortan in her office, she blinked, taking a moment to process who he was now his face had changed.


    ¡°And here I thought you may have made a permanent switch,¡± she said, pushing her paperwork to one side.


    ¡°I¡¯m half-surprised you recognised mest night. How long has it been since you saw my real face?¡±


    ¡°I do my best to remember the people I¡¯ve met. It¡¯s a courtesy,¡± she emphasised thetter part more than was necessary. ¡°Perhaps you could seek to emte this sort of behaviour.¡±


    Tyron didn¡¯t care to argue with her.


    ¡°I need a carriage back to the city. The sooner the better.¡±


    ¡°The Venerable wishes to speak with you.¡±


    The Necromancer¡¯s brow twitched with irritation.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I ask that same question.¡±


    Why did that old man want to waste his time <em>now</em>? There were better things to be doing than conversing with a fossil. Hadn¡¯t he done enough to please those godstely? Were they punishing him somehow?


    ¡°Where is he?¡± Tyron growled. ¡°I don¡¯t have time to waste.¡±


    ¡°Speaking with the Venerable is <em>never</em> a waste of your time,¡± Mrs Ortan said, eyes zing. ¡°He is holy, and I¡¯ve no idea why he deigns to speak to you at all, but he does. Show him some <em>respect</em>.¡±


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    With effort, Tyron took hold of his irritation. There was no benefit in going out of his way to be obstinate. His parents were buried on this family¡¯snds.


    He offered a short bow.


    ¡°I will show due deference,¡± he promised. ¡°Where may I speak with the Venerable?¡±


    Though she looked entirely sceptical of his change in attitude, Mrs Ortan, mistress of the estate, directed him to a gazebo near the hill, the east facing side of which housed the vineyard. There he found the Venerable, impossibly ancient looking man that he was, wrapped in a nket, warming himself with the rising sun.


    ¡°Heard your trip went well,¡± he wheezed in his thin voice.


    ¡°A divine messenger then? I only just got back,¡± Tyron replied, sitting opposite across from a low, round table.


    ¡°Oh, the gods rarely speak to anyone directly,¡± the old man chuckled. ¡°I wonder what it¡¯s like to be them, sometimes. Are they like us, looking down on ants? Are they even able to tell us apart, from that great height?¡±


    ¡°I think they can, but are unlikely to be bothered,¡± Tyron replied after considering for a moment.


    In his experience, the Dark Gods could achieve many things, but seldom exerted the effort. It was almost their defining feature.


    ¡°You may be right,¡± the Venerable mused, rubbing at his chin with one gnarled hand. ¡°How often do you spend time trying to name the ants you see? You either step on them, or step over them, as you go about your day. Imagine how strange it must have been, when five of these ants get big, bigger than any ant has ever been before, and they crawl up to these three humans and demand they be human too.¡±


    He shook his head.


    ¡°The Three must haveughed like they never had before.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not certain they¡¯reughing now,¡± Tyron said. ¡°Considering the effort they¡¯re having to exert marshalling their ¡®ants¡¯ to oust the gods they created.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve no doubt this is another game to them, a diversion, but that doesn¡¯t mean it isn¡¯t to our benefit.¡±


    The Venerable leaned forward, staring into Tyron¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Do you ever wonder why, when the entire empire is gripped in the hands of the divines, why things are still so <em>shit</em>? The realm is shrinking, not growing, incursions of magick get stronger every year. It¡¯s been five millennia since the divines were raised to their post. The empire they forged is holding together, <em>barely</em>, and their descendants still rule the roost, but our <em>world</em> is dying.¡±


    After speaking with such intensity, the old man ran out of breath and slumped back in his cheer, wheezing. Tyron gave him a minute to collect himself.


    ¡°Our world had a name, once. Do you know it? I almost never hear it spoken anymore,¡± the Venerable sighed.


    Tyron blinked.


    ¡°No,¡± he said, ¡°no, I don¡¯t believe I do.¡±


    How could that be? All the time he¡¯d spent reading, learning history. History of the empire, he realised, the empire and its neighbours. To Tyron, there had never been any world beyond that.


    ¡°They try very hard to make sure people don¡¯t realise what they¡¯ve lost,¡± the Venerable nodded shrewdly. ¡°The circle grows smaller every year. Granin fell and now the west is blocked by the ¡®Barrier mountains¡¯, as if we never used to cross them. As if there wasn¡¯t trade and exchange for centuries, millennia! To the south is an ocean we haven¡¯t crossed in a thousand years. To the north? Two thousand since we ventured beyond the barren wilds. We don¡¯t have a world anymore, we have an empire. One by one, the outer provinces will fall, until only the centre remains.¡±


    Brow furrowed, the Venerable red out across the fields as if they personally had offended him.


    ¡°I believe the Old Gods are taking steps for one simple reason. The fate of this world was always supposed to be in the hands of those who live here, but that power has been stolen from us. The divines have crippled us and set us on a path of slow decline. When they are overthrown, the people will be able to fight, to <em>really</em> fight. Then we might be able to save something after all.¡±


    It was possible. The Old Gods were consistent in their belief that people help themselves, after all. It was supposed to be within each individual''s power to fix their circumstances. Of course, that wasn¡¯t always true, sometimes it <em>wasn¡¯t</em> within a person¡¯s power, and the Old Gods loved to tip that bnce back the other way. In this case, they themselves had tipped the scales, against every living thing in the realm, though perhaps they hadn¡¯t realised it at the time.


    Now, perhaps they were finally moved to correct their mistake.


    ¡°I heard there was quite the gathering of followers over in Cragwhistle,¡± the Venerable said. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll have to head over there and show my face.¡±


    He grinned, his leathery skin pulling back into a thousand wrinkles.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell Mrs Ortan it was my idea, she¡¯ll murder me in my sleep.¡±


    ¡°Would I do a thing like that?¡± the old man chuckled, a twinkle in his eye.


    ~~~


    Two days by carriage and truthfully, Tyron slept most of the way. Should he have been theorising, writing and scheming? Probably, yes. But there would be plenty of time for that once he returned to his shop. If anything, a little rest would fortify him for the time toe, and so, he allowed himself to eat, drink and doze the days away until he was startled from his rest one day and found the great walls of Kenmor rising in the distance.


    After settling ounts with the coach driver, he made his way into Shadetown, and soon enough, he walked through the door of Almsfield Enchantments. For a moment, he felt a strong sense of cognitive dissonance, as if the store he stood in belonged to a stranger, as well as himself.


    Tyron recognised the sensation for what it was. After finally throwing off the identity of Lukas Almsfield, it was slower toe back than he¡¯d expected. How much had he secretly yearned to be Tyron Sterm again? To be open and honest about the rage and hate that bubbled away in the core of him?


    When Cerry jumped around the counter and bounced up to him, a broad smile on her face, the feeling began to fade, and the persona of Lukas slipped around him like a cloak.


    ¡°Master Almsfield! Wee back!¡± she cheered, loud enough to draw Flynn from the backroom.


    The apprentice poked his nose around the corner, looking equal parts relieved and nervous as he saw his employer had returned.


    ¡°It¡¯s nice to be back,¡± he said, and somehow, he honestly meant it. This was a good ce. Flynn and Cerry were good people. Somehow, it almost didn¡¯t feel real. In the store, things like rifts, rebellions, yers and monsters seemed so far away.


    ¡°Master Almsfield. I h-hope you¡¯ll find everything has been done to your satisfaction while you were away,¡± Flynn stammered, twisting his hands together.


    Tyron wiped the scowl off his face before the young man could realise it was there.


    ¡°Rx, Flynn. I only just got back. I¡¯ll take a day or two to inspect the books and go through the inventory. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve done an excellent job.¡±


    He could practically <em>feel</em> magick leaking from less than wless conduits in the enchanted goods around him.


    <em>Don¡¯t let it bother you. He did the best he could</em>.


    For a few hours, he busied himself with the matters of the shop. He and Cerry went through the ounts line by line, and there were pleasingly few errors in the calctions. Business had continued to be strong, the appetite for his cheap but effective enchantments had grown, if anything.


    ¡°Well done, Cerry,¡± he congratted her, and she grinned.


    Following that, he and a still-nervous Flynn went through the inventory, item by item, as he inspected the engraving on each and every one. All in all, his apprentice had done better than he¡¯d expected. Clearly, there had been a breakthrough in his Skills for such an improvement to be evident. It was a cause for celebration.


    ¡°You¡¯vee a long way, Flynn,¡± Tyron didn¡¯t hesitate to praise the young man. ¡°You¡¯ll be receiving a bonus for your work this past month.¡±


    ¡°Master Almsfield, that¡¯s¡­ not necessary.¡±


    Practically glowing with pride, Flynn tried to refuse but Tyron insisted. Good work deserved reward. By the end of the day, everything was in order and he retired to his chambers, throwing himself, finally, into his own,fortable bed. He didn¡¯t even need to cast the spell; sleep rose to take him of its own volition for once, the incessant buzzing of his mind not strong enough to resist its pull.


    In the morning, it would start again. The study in the cer needed his attention. He had learned so much, tested his ideas, gained a great deal of knowledge and uncovered new avenues of enquiry. It was also time for the status ritual to be performed once more. Time to tally up the full ount of what he had gained.

 Chapter B3C60 - What Was Gained Other Than Questions?

    Chapter B3C60 - What Was Gained Other Than Questions?


    It wouldn¡¯t do to disappear into the cer for an extended period immediately after he arrived, so Tyron forced himself to postpone. Instead, he got to work ensuring the store was well stocked and supplied.


    Which meant he had to take the time needed to go through Flynn¡¯s work and correct his mistakes.


    ¡°You haven¡¯t properly ounted for the shape of the core,¡± he said, indicating the malformed rune. ¡°As a consequence, the matrix isn¡¯t functioning properly; there¡¯s leakage.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Master Almsfield.¡±


    His apprentice wore a hangdog expression, as if he were being scolded.


    ¡°I am not criticising, this is instruction. This is the only store in the province which makes such extensive use of low grade cores, and I¡¯m perfectly aware just how difficult it is.¡±


    Engraving sigils onto the uneven surface of only partially formed cores added ayer of difficulty to an alreadyplex process. It was a skill Tyron had cultivated over thousands of hours of practice, but not one most high-end Arcanists would ever make use of. If a core wasn¡¯t a well-formed sphere, they would reject them out of hand.


    ¡°If you can do this well, you can purchase cores rejected by other enchanting workshops at a massive discount, even though they¡¯re only a few percent less effective.¡±


    ¡°You always think about the bottom line, Master Almsfield.¡±


    That made him sound like he was some sort of penny pincher.


    ¡°It¡¯s about being efficient,¡± he frowned. ¡°There is no reason to use a core anyrger than is necessary for the work.¡±


    This was something Master Willhem lectured his students on frequently. Although the Master <em>was</em> a penny pincher who hated wasting good cores on bad students, Tyron had taken the lesson to heart. His personal focus had been achieving close to lossless conduits to squeeze every drop of power he could out of himself and the cores he used to fuel more and better minions, so there was ovep.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Flynn hastened to agree.


    ¡°Even with higher grade cores, Arcanists will reject any that are too uneven. Cores naturally form a spherical shape, but you¡¯ll pay ten times the price for a perfectly smooth one.¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°You¡¯ll never see one of those cores in this shop, I assure you. Working around uneven surfaces is a necessary skill.¡±


    He took apart much of the merchandise on the shop floor, reworking the cores and correcting the ws, or throwing them out and enchanting new ones from scratch. By the time it was done, Flynn looked as though he¡¯d been dragged over hot coals, but Tyron didn¡¯t really understand why. As far as he was concerned, he¡¯d delivered a thorough and detail-rich lesson that his apprentice sorely needed. After all, the time to consolidate the basics was after every qualitative leap in Skill.


    Basics, basics, basics. It was the mantra of Master Willhem and Tyron saw no reason to disagree with the man. It resonated heavily with how Magnin and Beory had approached their professions.


    When all was said and done, it waste afternoon and he sent his apprentice home early, asked Cerry to handle the store closing with Wansa, who remained on duty by the door, then slipped into the spare room. He undid his enchantments, went through the hidden passage and down the stairs before he found himself safely ensconced once again within his study.


    He took a deep breath of the stagnant air before a soft smile settled on his lips as he began to unpack his things. Ordering his books, sorting through his notes, making neater copies of the mad scrawl he¡¯d generated, all of it would take days and nights toplete. For now, he created several neat stacks for himself to look overter before he found a clean, nk sheet of paper and ced it carefully in the centre of the table.


    ¡°I¡¯d better be level forty-five at least,¡± he murmured.


    He knew that levelling speed dove off a cliff once a yer reached silver rank, and somehow found <em>another</em> cliff to dive off at gold, but after all that he¡¯d done, surely he had enough. The real limiting factor was the weak kin which emerged from the Cragwhistle rift. It wasmon knowledge that stronger kin meant greater reward, not just financially in the form of cores, but from the Unseen. This was the reason Magnin and Beory had been able to continue fighting despite being banned from growing any further. Without passing through the most dangerous rifts and battling the terrors only found on the other side, there was nothing they could fight which would allow them to progress.


    It must have been so galling for them¡­.


    ¡°Enough stalling, Tyron. It is what it is.¡±


    Pushing all the distractions from his mind, he sliced a small cut in the meat of his thumb and pressed it to the page. He spoke the ritual and watched as the red letters formed, staining the white paper with a record of his achievements.


    His proficiency had increased in a long list of Skills, Spells and Rituals, but he only glossed over those. The real meat came with the ss notifications.


    <em>You have raised skeletons and they have fought on your behalf. Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 45. You have received +6 Strength, +9 Constitution, +9 Intelligence, +6 Wisdom, +6 Willpower, +6 Maniption and +9 Poise. </em>


    <em>You grow close to the point your patrons will be able to call in their debts. Soon, you will be useful to them. Make ready, and await the call. Forbidden One has reached Level 27. You have received +2 Maniption, +4 Constitution, +4 Intelligence, +4 Willpower and +2 Poise.</em>


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 23


    Race: Human (Level 20)


    ss:


    Lord of the Ossuary (Level 45)


    Sub-sses:<ul><li>Forbidden One (Level 27) </li><li>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</li><li>None </li></ul>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    Feat Selections Avable: 2


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    72


    Dexterity:


    129


    Constitution:


    171


    Intelligence:


    293


    Wisdom:


    196


    Willpower:


    150


    Charisma:


    66


    Maniption:


    96


    Poise:


    105


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


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    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 4)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Engraving (Level 5)(Max)


    Skill Selections Avable: 5


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 20)(Max)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Death Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    <strong>Enhanced Minion Commander (Level 11)</strong>


    <strong>Undead Control (Level 10)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Minion Modification (Level 9)</strong>


    Bone-Soul Melding (Level 10)


    Death Infusion (Level 4)


    <strong>Bone Forging (Level 12)</strong>


    <strong>Anathema Skills:</strong>


    Abyss Tongue (Level 4)


    Spell Concealment (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Arcanist Skills:</strong>


    Expert Magick Scripting (Level 30)(Max)


    Channelling (Level 10)(Max)


    Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 16)</strong>


    Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 16)</strong>


    <strong>Expert Network Formation (Level 27)</strong>


    Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    <strong>Advanced Core Sense (Level 16)</strong>


    Expert Power Control (Level 26)


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    <strong>Raise Dead (Level 33)</strong>


    <strong>Bone Animus (Level 25)</strong>


    <strong>Commune with Spirits (Level 10)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Shivering Curse (Level 8)</strong>


    <strong>Death des (Level 8)</strong>


    <strong>Empowered Bone Armour (Level 6)</strong>


    <strong>Minion Sight (Level 10)(Max)</strong>


    Spirit Binding (Level 10)(Max)


    Death¡¯s Grasp (Level 5)


    <strong>Anoint Dead (Level 5)</strong>


    <strong>ck Miasma (Level 3)</strong>


    <strong>Death Bolt (Level 6)</strong>


    <strong>Summon the Ossuary (Level 2)</strong>


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    <strong>Pierce the Veil (Level 8)</strong>


    Appeal to the Court (Level 4)


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    <strong>Advanced Suppress Mind (Level 19)</strong>


    <strong>Repository (Level 8)</strong>


    Fear (Level 3)


    mour (Level 10)(Max)


    Invasive Persuasion (Level 10)(Max)


    Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 5)


    Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Feats:</strong>


    Skeleton Focus III


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery


    Spirit Mastery


    Undead Specialist


    <strong>Anathema Feats:</strong>


    Repository


    Wall of Thought II


    Drain Life


    Stormwise


    <strong>Arcanist Feats</strong>


    Magick Thread Control II


    Compact Sigils II


    Conduit Seal II


    Core Networking II


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Advanced): WIS +20 CHA +20


    Essence of Death (Initial): INT +3 WILL +3


    Soul Magick (Initial): WIS+3 CHA +3


    <strong><em>Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 45. Choose an Additional Feat:</em></strong>


    <em>Ossuary Extraction I - Increase the amount of Death Magick avable to the Ossuary.</em>


    <em>Ossuary Expansion I - Increase the size of the Ossuary.</em>


    <em>Ossuary Infusion I - Increase the efficacy of the bone receptacles.</em>


    <em>Awaken the Altar - Allow the Altar to be utilised in the creation of undead.</em>


    <em>ss Focus I - Choose two ss Skills or Spells and raise their cap by 10.</em>


    <em>Skeleton Focus IV - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.</em>


    <em>Bone Mastery II - Empower all Bone rted Skills, Spells and Minions.</em>


    <em>Half-Dead - Allow your own bones to be infused with Death Magick.</em>


    <em>Bone Sculptor - Improve your ability to mould and shape bone.</em>


    <em>Bone Animator - Empower your constructs.</em>


    <strong><em>Lord of the Ossuary has reached Level 44. Choose one additional Skill or Spell:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Bone Lance - Extend a spear of hardened bone.</em>


    <em>Skeletal Sacrifice - Detonante a skeleton to shower your foe in shards of bone.</em>


    <strong>Forbidden One has reached level 26. Choose an additional Skill or Spell:</strong>


    <strong>Skills:</strong>


    <em>Corrupting Presence - Subvert the Will to resist from those around you.</em>


    <strong>Spells:</strong>


    <em>Advanced Invasive Persuasion - Rece Invasive Persuasion and Increase the maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Advanced Bewitch - Rece Bewitch and increase the maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Blood Shield - Draw essence from your opponents to form a protective barrier. </em>


    <strong>You have qualified for a new sub-ss:</strong>


    <em>Death Mage.</em>


    <em>Do you ept?</em>


    There was much that pleased Tyron about his updated status. His control over his minions had substantially improved after a month of remotely directing battles on the mountain. He continued to make gains in his fundamental Skills, which was always a priority.


    He¡¯d even improved a few of his enchanting Skills, which was a nice surprise. Sometimes, working on something new was worth a hundred times the progression that grinding away on the same old patterns would provide.


    Other things, he was a little disappointed over. Despite everything, he¡¯d hoped to get more than just three levels after all the fighting he¡¯d done. It seemed, if he <em>really</em> wanted to progress using the Cragwhistle rift, he would need to spend more time through the rift hunting for powerful kin.


    At least he¡¯d reached his goal and gotten a look at the Feat list for Lord of the Ossuary. A few things caught his eye immediately. Three separate, multi-level feats that empowered the space itself, rather than him. This was¡­ unusual, but not unheard of. Even his father had possessed some abilities that strengthened whatever de he had in his hand. If he thought of the Ossuary as a tool, then it made a little more sense.


    A second level in Bone Mastery was beyond tempting. He used bones for everything at this point, and this feat caught all of that, giving another boost from the Unseen. The next level of skeleton focus had appeared, as he¡¯d suspected it might. Currently, he had Skeleton Focus III, and that number, odd, was displeasing in the extreme.


    ss Focus was not to be looked down on either. He could pick <em>any</em> of his ss abilities and raise the maximum level of two of them by ten. That was enormous, and could be a considerable boost if he were to make the right choices.


    Then there was the Altar¡­ that intrigued him greatly. Theck of information provided was extremely grating, as usual, but he was almost ovee with curiosity. He¡¯d inspected that altar minutely, using every trick at his disposal to determine if there was something he could do with it, and he¡¯de up with nothing.


    This feat would enable¡­ something. It would be a risk to choose it¡­ but could he afford to pass it up?


    Other feats rting to Bone Constructs were also intriguing, though one of them sparked a thought. Bone Sculptor? Tyron had experienced difficulty when shaping bone from the very beginning, and though he¡¯d gotten better, it was still hard. If sculpting would improve it¡­


    He had selections to burn anyway, so Tyron decided to use a general Skill slot and wrote ¡®Sculpting¡¯ in his own blood on the sheet. With any luck, proficiency with the general Skill would help him shape bone as well.


    The Spell and Skill selections were a little more straightforward; at least he¡¯d been offered two this time. Bone Spear was the clear favourite in Tyron¡¯s mind. Sure, there would doubtless be times when shattering one of his own minions would be the correct, tactical decision, but Tyron hated the thought of wasting his time and effort. His skeletons were to be masterworks, not cannon fodder!


    Masterwork cannon fodder, at the very least.


    After contemting, Tyron shook his head andmitted, cing a bloody thumbprint next to Awaken the Altar and Bone Lance.


    Turning his attention to the next set of abilities his sub-ss provided, Tyron could only grimace. Anathema and Forbidden One only seemed to offer him things that he found distasteful, even if theyter proved to be useful.


    Advanced Invasive Persuasion was the clear standout, in his opinion. He¡¯d never wanted to use the ability in the first ce, but now he was turning it against the Magisters themselves. He would need all the proficiency he could get.


    Then he came to thest, puzzling notification. He had qualified for a new sub-ss, seemingly by training himself. This was¡­ unusual, though not unheard of. Normally, one gained proficiency by working with an expert, or someone who already possessed the ss. With that guidance, it was much easier to reach a level of skill or ability that the Unseen was prepared to acknowledge.


    It had taken Tyron a few weeks working under Master Willhem before he¡¯d been able to ept the Enchanter sub-ss. Though that had been more than a month faster than any of the other apprentices who¡¯d joined at the same time.


    Apparently, he¡¯d now worked enough Death Magick spells that the Unseen considered him qualified to take up the mantle of Death Mage, and Tyron wasn¡¯t sure how he felt about it. He¡¯d never made a firm decision as to what his final sub-ss would be, and now one had been thrown at him out of the blue.


    In reality, there wasn¡¯t really any reason to refuse it, he could abandon the ss at any time if he wanted to take up another, so he marked his eptance with a trace of reluctance.


    The status ritual wasplete, and the moment Tyron ended it, his eyes rolled back as a wave of information pounded into his brain.


    <em>You have received the Sub-ss: Death Mage.</em>


    <em>Just as there is energy and power in life, the same exists within Death. You have taken steps along this path and shall now reap the benefit. Use your abilities to spread death, and reap your harvest.</em>


    <em>ss Attributes per level:</em>


    <em>Constitution +1;</em>


    <em>Willpower +1;</em>


    <em>Poise +1</em>


    <em>Skills granted level one:</em>


    <em>None.</em>


    <em>Spells granted level one:</em>


    <em>None.</em>

 Chapter B3C61 - Pay

    Chapter B3C61 - Pay


    A new sub-ss¡­ this was an interesting and unexpected development. Tyron had agonised over what he should choose for himself for months, considering one option after another. Something to help in battle? Another crafting Skill that might improve his undead even further? Perhaps he should just choose something which would provide attributes that covered his weaknesses?


    Gaining a sub-ss was not an easy undertaking. To increase your chance of earning the ss, and elerate your learning, it was normal to contract a teacher, and the good ones were <em>not</em> cheap. The good teachers, who both possessed and were willing to teach rare sses, were <em>very </em>not cheap.


    Yet now one had fallen into hisp. It obviously wasn¡¯t one he¡¯d considered, since it was likely just as illegal as Necromancer itself, and it wasn¡¯t one he could have acquired via training either, for the same reason. Now that he had it, there was no reason not to try and level it to see what it would provide.


    The ss message was¡­ ominous, to say the least. To advance, he needed to ¡®spread death¡¯? Did that literally mean ¡®kill people¡¯, or did it mean spread death energy? Tyron was manufacturing bucket loads of the second every hour, or at least he was when his minions were active. They sucked in ambient energy and converted it constantly.


    If hepleted his design for the constructs he was nning to build, then that process would be elerated even further. If that counted to progress his new sub-ss, then he would rise very quickly indeed.


    Interestingly, the stats given were exceptionally defensive.


    ¡°Even more constitution,¡± he muttered to himself, ¡°I¡¯ll be hardier than a Shieldsworn if this keeps up.¡±


    As curious as he was about this new ss, he was <em>more</em> interested in what he¡¯d gained in his main one. More than anything, he yearned to tear open the doorway to the Ossuary and inspect the altar, but he forced himself to be patient. Summoning the entrance in itself would destabilise the dimensional weave in this area, something the many, <em>many</em>, powerful mages within the city would be certain to notice.


    Opening the door would also unleash a thick miasma of death aligned energy into his study. Although he¡¯d worked hard to suppress any hint of the magick from leaking out, his countermeasures weren¡¯t designed to handle such¡­ rich energy.


    As much as he wanted to rush forward, no risks could be taken. If he were revealed now, he would lose much of what he had spent years wearing a false face to obtain.


    With a sigh, Tyron pushed himself up from his desk, gathering the bloodstained page of writing from the surface and running his eyes across it once more. Then he burned it, ensuring not a trace of his blood was spared from the fire.


    Turning to inspect the damp, stone walls of his study, Tyron grimaced. The time he¡¯d spent away had allowed the room to degrade, traces of sewer air sneaking in and contaminating his sanctuary. Mould and mildew had begun to build up, along with dust, cobwebs and other unwee critters. The war was on again. Just as it had been in his uncle¡¯s attic, so it would remain.


    <em>Death to the enemy</em>.


    It took a couple of hours for Tyron to finish his work. Weary, but satisfied, he took in the newly spotless study, his hands still dripping with soapy water. All trace of the hated spider-foe had been banished, along with the grime and mildew. He¡¯d even managed to <em>mostly</em> get rid of the bloodstains on the stone bs.


    With a clean workspace once more, he turned his attention to the next task he needed toplete.


    His gaze was automatically drawn to the arcane script engraved on the walls, particrly in the corners. Sigils he¡¯d carved himself, organised into neat arrays, drew in and dispersed the Death Magick he generated here, aiming to prevent the slightest trace from getting outside. Others were designed to prevent scrying, blocking those types of magick used to peek into other people¡¯s business. Master Willhem himself had taught Tyron those scripts, the very same ones he employed at his own store. The war waged between crafters was as fierce as the one fought by the yers and the kin. More than once, Master Willhem had been forced to act in order to preventpetitors from thieving his intellectual property.


    Tyron ran a hand over those sigils with a slight smile on his face. The upstairs workshop was protected by the very same array, something his Master had insisted on.


    <em>¡°They¡¯ll do anything to steal my methods, even spy on my students. You need to be careful, boy!¡±</em>


    The gruff voice of his teacher rang in his mind. Was it likely that thepetitors of the greatest Arcanist in the province would attempt to spy on one of his breakaway students? Perhaps there was a remote chance. In his opinion, the old man had simply been showing his care the best way he knew how.


    However, a new set of sigils would need to be carved now. Tyron was far from an expert in the dimensional weave, a dabbler at best. To get the knowledge he needed, another visit to his Master¡¯s library would be necessary, then further time and resources spent on research until he came up with a suitable design. Only then could he start working on the array itself, which would be further time invested. All in all, it would likely take a week before he was ready to enter his Ossuary again.


    With a groan, Tyron leaned forward and scrubbed at his forehead with the back of one hand. It was hard to be patient, much harder than usual. After fighting freely, wearing his own face, not caring about who knew what he was, it was difficult to put the mask back on, difficult to return to his creeping, safe pace.


    But he would.


    Once again, he shoved down his impatience. There was no time like the present to begin, he would visit his Master, difficult though such a meeting would be, then return and begin his work. Other concerns crowded his mind. He had Yor to think about, a meeting would need to be arranged, and soon. She wouldn¡¯t be pleased that Dove was gone, but he would pay her price. A final act of kindness for his friend.


    Filleta would want to speak to him also. He was eager to resume their business, he wanted to double the number of skeletons he had at hismand as soon as possible. Only with fresh materials could he begin to research and work on improving his abilities, and there was so much he needed to study.


    ~~~


    As it turned out, he didn¡¯t need to go and find Yor, she came to him. The meeting with Master Willhem had been as awkward as he¡¯d expected it to be, tension still hung thick in the air between them. However, they had been courteous, and the old man had been willing to guide him, giving advice and directing his attention to the best texts on which to base his research. All without asking why his former apprentice was looking into dimension enchanting at all.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    After returning to his workshop, Tyron had engrossed himself in the three volumes he had borrowed, taking copious notes as he began to piece together the knowledge that he needed toplete his work. For two days straight, he worked on it, only pausing when a timid knock resounded from his door.


    Irritated, the Necromancer nced up from the page in front of him, his face spattered in ink.


    ¡°Yes?¡± he called, trying to restrain his tetchy tone, and failing.


    ¡°Someone here to see you, Master Almsfield,¡± Cerry called from the other side. ¡°A friend of yours.¡±


    With a long, weary sigh, he mmed shut the massive, leather bound book in front of him. He <em>hated</em> getting distracted when he was working, especially to exchange niceties with people. Who would it be? Victor perhaps,e to invite him to another pointless gathering of the rich and powerful?


    ¡°Are they waiting downstairs?¡± he said as he pushed back his chair.


    ¡°Um¡­¡±


    ¡°They are not.¡±


    That voice, warm and sultry, hinting at everything, promising nothing, was specifically designed to send a shiver running down the spine of everyone who heard it. Or perhaps to get the blood pumping in their veins. She was here already. The time to pay the piper had arrived sooner than expected.


    He straightened his clothes a little, brushed his hair back, which only smudged the ink further across his face, then walked to the door and opened it.


    His store clerk looked quite embarrassed, not turning her head to look at the statuesque woman standing behind her, bedecked in a gown fit for a ball, silky ck hair rolling down her shoulders like waves.


    <em>Not a woman</em>.


    ¡°Thanks, Cerry,¡± he said. ¡°You head downstairs and I¡¯ll see our guest in my sitting room.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Master Almsfield,¡± she squeaked, before turning on her heels and rushing down the stairs.


    Yor watched her go, a half-smirk on her face.


    ¡°You won¡¯t be able to use her much longer. She¡¯s almost eighteen.¡±


    ¡°Cerry may Awaken a ss that doesn¡¯t impact her ability to work in the store.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a way she can stay seventeen. Unaging. From tonight until the end of this realm.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes, then froze.


    ¡°Wait. If you create a vampire before someone gets their ss Awakening¡­ do they <em>never</em> get one?¡±


    The normal case for gaining a ss was for it to happen at eighteen. It was the same all across the Empire. Put your hand on the crystal after your eighteenth birthday and bam, ss. Touching it before that date didn¡¯t do anything.


    That didn¡¯t mean kids didn¡¯t try. They <em>all</em> did.


    Yorughed at his curiosity.


    ¡°We did test it, and yes, they don¡¯t qualify, even after a full year has passed. Fortunately, there are other methods.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s take this conversation into my room,¡± he said, ushering the Vampire down the corridor toward his quarters.


    She smiled wickedly and allowed herself to be herded, lowering herself into a chair with familiar grace.


    ¡°Tea? I think I have some cake that Cerry picked up yesterday.¡±


    ¡°I must decline.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t mind if I¡­?¡±


    ¡°By all means.¡±


    As usual, he¡¯d allowed his diet to go to pot while focused on his work, so Tyron seized this opportunity to refresh himself. The heating array had the kettle singing merrily in no time and he poured a fresh cup and served himself a generous slice of cake while he was at it. Yor watched him ce hisrgesse on the table with a bemused expression.


    ¡°Do you miss it at all? Regr food?¡± he asked.


    She curled her lip in disgust.


    ¡°Not at all. The taste of mortal lifeblood¡­¡± she trailed off and shivered, ¡°it cannot bepared to anything you have experienced.¡±


    In his opinion, the cake was pretty damn good. Carrot cake. Not his usual favourite, but the cream had a hint of vani. Delicious.


    ¡°What do you want, Yor?¡± he asked after washing down a mouthful with tea. ¡°I don¡¯t like you visiting me here at the store, you <em>know</em> that.¡±


    She frowned, lines creasing her wless forehead.


    ¡°Who knows how long it would have taken you to reach out to us? I grew <em>impatient</em>.¡±


    ¡°You have one of your¡­ <em>creatures</em>¡­ standing at my front door every day. I find it hard to believe you weren¡¯t able to send a message.¡±


    ¡°Poor Wansa. She has had her intake reduced while you were away. The girl was <em>most</em> desperate for your return.¡±


    ¡°I bet.¡±


    Tyron took another mouthful and took his time chewing, watching Yor across the table from him with lidded eyes. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair.


    ¡°Dove didn¡¯te back with me. What do you want?¡±


    The Vampire smiled joylessly.


    ¡°So crass. Getting directly to the point has some merit, but I find itcks a certain <em>tension</em>.¡±


    ¡°Why do you keep doing that?¡± the Necromancer asked, irritated.


    She blinked, for once somewhat taken aback.


    ¡°Doing what?¡± she replied.


    ¡°That,¡± Tyron gestured at her, and the Vampire looked down at herself.


    She had posed herself provocatively, leaning forward to emphasise her ample chest, one finger trailing across her lips. After taking in herself, she looked back at him, smiling.


    ¡°Do you find it distracting?¡± she asked, ying coy.


    ¡°I find it annoying. It looks exhausting. All of these motions are designed to y on emotions I know you don¡¯t have. Drop the act for five minutes so we can have a conversation.¡±


    Yor appeared almost thoughtful for a moment, before she too leaned back in her seat. As if a mask had dropped off her face, all the yful teasing was gone, the smouldering heat in her gaze vanished. In its ce sat the cold, calcting monster that she truly was.


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you agreed,¡± Tyron said openly. ¡°I rarely get to see your real face.¡±


    ¡°They are all my real face,¡± she replied. ¡°My kind are undead, yet we continue to possess great appetite. What you consider to be a facade is my hunting self, how I act around the food.¡±


    ¡°Am I food?¡± Tyron asked, surprised.


    ¡°In a sense.¡±


    Tyron stirred his tea, thoughtfully. It was always difficult to know where one stood with the Vampires. Monsters in so many ways, they were still very human in others. Lies and intrigue were like bread and wine to them. Yor and her coven, at least, were still such social creatures.


    ¡°You wanted this all along, didn¡¯t you,¡± Tyron mused. ¡°A sin you could hang around my neck. Is this why you brought him back in the first ce?¡±


    If it were true, she gave no sign. Not a muscle in her entire, undead frame shifted so much as a millimetre.


    ¡°I figured out how to give him ess to the Unseen. Designed a new status ritual for him. He¡¯s off exploring, trying to level himself again. You won¡¯t go after him.¡±


    Thest was not a request.


    ¡°There is a price,¡± she said.


    ¡°There¡¯s always a price. What is it?¡±


    ¡°A meeting,¡± Yor said simply. ¡°That isn¡¯t so much to ask, is it?¡±


    ¡°Depends on who I¡¯m meeting. And where.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid, under the circumstances, I must insist.¡±


    It was like a vice closing around him, one he¡¯d put himself in.


    ¡°Who am I to have the pleasure of meeting?¡± he asked, trying to mask the sinking feeling in his chest.


    At this point, she smiled, revealing the twin fangs extending from her teeth.


    ¡°My mistress has longed for yourpany. Unfortunately, she is not able to travel to this realm.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡±


    ¡°It is.¡±


    ¡°Unfortunate.¡±


    ¡°I like to think of it as a cloud with a silver lining. After all, now you have a reason to visit my home. The Scarlet Court awaits.¡±

 Chapter B3C62 - The Red World

    Chapter B3C62 - The Red World


    The issue with epting help from patrons, was that they expected something back from him in turn. The Abyss had offered Tyron an incredible wealth of knowledge, secrets that would push his magick beyond his current capabilities, if only he were willing to pay a terrible price. What he <em>had</em> extracted from that blighted ce had been paid in literal human souls, a cost which haunted him.


    The Old Gods were more mysterious, more fickle. What exactly they did for him, Tyron wasnt sure. There was support in the form of Elsbeth and help from their mortal followers, but the gods themselves had not moved to assist him, that he was aware. However, he was still expected to perform certain duties. They wanted his assistance to throw down the empire of their enemies, a goal that aligned with his own.


    The Scarlet Court were the most transactional of the three. He had done favours for Yor and her coven and received assistance in turn. So far, nothing too onerous had been ced on his shoulders, but now Tyron was in a position he was being asked to do something he<em> really </em>didnt want to do.


    Could he say no? Was that even an option? If he refused, then the Vampires would threaten to withdraw their support, or ask forpensation even more painful than this. He did, in the end, owe them. Dove had been allowed to travel with him on the understanding that he would return the lost soul to Yor upon their return. He had broken the agreement, he had incurred a debt.


    No matter how he twisted the matter in his mind, he didnt see a way to refuse the request that wouldnt cost him even more. To achieve his goals, to satisfy his vengeance, he needed the support of his patrons, all of them. They were too powerful to throw them aside, and certainly too powerful to have them act against him.


    Despite his growing strength, Tyron was careful not to fool himself. Yor could turn him against his will at any time. It wasnt fear of him that held her in check.


    Which is why Tyron found himself outside the golden district once again, his cloak pulled tight against the rain, raucousughter drifting from the light of Veil Street.


    Papers, the guard said with a bone deep sense of boredom. The kind of boredom born from repeating this one, simple routine a thousand times a night over a period of years.


    Lucas Almsfield, Arcanist, Tyron said, sliding his identification over.


    Oh yeah? My uncles an Arcanist, got all the brains in the family. Whod you train under?


    Willhem.


    Oh shit.


    Tyron shrugged ufortably.


    Can I get through?


    Right. Everything seems fine. Have a good evening.


    He epted his paperwork back and moved through the checkpoint, only to repeat the process at the next. At least nobody at the second had a family member in the trade.


    Make sure you dont step on any toes. The gold ranks will rip your feet off and beat you to death with them, said the guard before he left.


    Tyron blinked.


    Is that something that really happens? he couldnt help asking.


    The guard, a middle aged, weary-looking man, stared back at him levelly.


    Im not creative enough to make this stuff up, sir. That happened <em>yesterday</em>. Guy was dead by the time the brand overwhelmed the yer. The golds seem jumpytely.


    As if being jumpy were enough to kill a person and submit yourself to excruciating torture. Eyes widening, Tyron nodded.


    Ill be careful.


    Good idea.


    Veil Street, adjacent to the Golden District without being part of it, nevertheless contained the only ce it was possible for the normal citizens of Kenmor to interact with these high-level yers. A ce of indulgence for the powerful and the wealthy.


    The Red Pavillion was around halfway down the street, and it wasnt short, so Tyron started walking. Making sure he stayed out of everyones way was easier said than done. Between the stumbling drunks, the oblivious, drugged-out customers and the beguiling workers, he had to be alert at all times, keeping his hands to himself and his steps firm. Everytime he stopped for more than a few seconds, someone would descend on him, male or female, and try to lure him into a nearby establishment.


    He issued so many polite apologies he was thoroughly tired of it by the time the red building loomed in the distance.


    Trepidation gripped him, but it wasnt as if he could turn back now. The two armoured guards by the door let him in without a word and he was immediately plunged into a smoky, dim world of hedonism and indulgence.


    Thankfully, he wasnt forced to explore thebyrinthine corridors, inhaling the intoxicating smoke with every breath until he found Yor. A familiar face greeted him just inside the door.


    The mistress is waiting for you below, the young man said, a trace of nervousness in his demeanour.


    Tyron looked at him with narrowed eyes, then realised who this was. He reached up and drew a finger down his own cheek, which caused the shirtless man to flinch.


    They healed you up nicely, Tyron remarked neutrally.


    His guide swallowed.


    I am most fortunate for the mistress''s favour. If youll follow me?


    Perhaps a little more rushed than was strictly appropriate, the young man turned and strode away, guiding Tyron to a hitherto unexplored part of the Red Pavillion. On his previous visits, Tyron had met with Yor upstairs, but this time he was led to the back of the ground floor, and then down.


    The smoke was even thicker here, hanging dense in the air as masked revellers and attendants moved between curtained rooms in various stages of undress.


    These were the higher ranked among the clientele, Tyron realised. Stronger smoke, more potent alcohol, all were required to ovee the higher resistance of such customers.


    Perhaps there was a minimum constitution score required to descend those stairs. If there was, Tyron was confident he cleared it. The lights grew ever more dim and smoke ever more thick as they moved deeper and deeper. Down another flight of steps, and the light was almost perfectly dark.


    Tyrons guide began to feel his way, a hand trailing along the wall. Unwilling to do the same, he conjured a ball of light with a simple gesture, driving back the shadows.


    Put it out, a male voice hissed from a nearby room.


    The Necromancer ignored him, gesturing for the guide to keep moving. The man nodded nervously and began to walk again, only to freeze in ce when the voice spoke out again.


    I <em>said</em>, put out the fucking light, a figure growled, stepping out into the corridor.


    Tyron frowned and turned, which caused the man to hiss as his eyes were exposed directly to the re. A vampire, one of Yors coven. She was very protective of these creatures, like a mother hen clucking over her chicks. Perhaps they were especially sensitive to light at an early stage of their condition? He was unsympathetic.


    Close your eyes, Ill be gone in a minute.


    You sure will be.


    Whoever he was, this nascent vampire was fast, but he simply wasnt fast enough. Tyron mmed his mind against his and crushed his will in an instant. For an undead, he was strangely pliant, with a weak and undeveloped will.


    Go to bed, Tyron told him, enforcing hismands with a flex of his mind.


    Like a puppet, the man turned and stumbled back behind the curtain, confused voices murmuring from the other side.


    Lets keep going, Tyron told his guide, and the man jerkily began to walk once more.


    Before long, they reached a thick, ck door, painted in sigils written in blood. The Necromancer curled his lip despite himself; it was all a bit overdramatic.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The mistress awaits you on the other side, the young man stammered, offering a short bow before he fled.


    With a rising sense of trepidation and anger, Tyron rapped his knuckles on the door.


    Come in, Yor called.


    Im not going to find a pool of blood in there, am I?


    Theres one way to find out, replied the muffled voice.


    There was nowhere to go now. He grasped the iron handle and turned it, revealing the contents of this inner sanctum.


    I knew it, Tyron said.


    Yor stood behind a depression in the floor which was, true to form, filled with red liquid, dressed all in ck.


    We are blood magick experts, she said frostily, you cant be surprised when we use it as a medium.


    Even for dimension magick?


    Some realms are more sympathetic to blood than others.


    That actually made sense. The realm upied by the Scarlet Court was absolutely dripping with the stuff, if even half of what Yor had told him about the ce was true. Perhaps using blood as a medium for the ritual would make it easier to form a gate.


    Lets get started then, he said.


    Yor didnt bother to reply, but raised her hands and began to cast. The moment she began to speak, the blood contained within the depression began to bubble and writhe, responding to her words and gestures.


    It was fascinating for Tyron to watch the process. Blood magick, as far as he was aware, was not something the people of the empire practised. An entirely different form of arcane maniption, using blood as a receptacle to channel power.


    As time passed, the room dimmed, until it was difficult for Tyron to see his hand in front of his face. The blood however, began to glow, emanating a crimson light that could be seen even through the unnatural darkness.


    As Yor continued to speak, her eyes matched that light, turning red as the vampiric words of power rolled from her tongue.


    The blood continued to shift and dance, tendrils rising up and binding around each other as the gateway between realms slowly took form.


    The room must have been enchanted heavily. There was no chance that the vampires could risk letting even the slightest trace of this energy leak. Considering just one floor above were gold ranked yers, some of them mages, it was a breathtaking show of confidence that Yor would conduct this ritual here at all.


    The blood twined up and around itself, hardening into a glowing crystal, like multi-faceted ss, as the final shape of the gate continued to take form. Of course, the gate would have to take an artful shape. He wondered if that was built into the ritual or if Yor had added these touches herself.


    When it was finally done, the blood contained in the floor had been consumed, and in its ce stood an arched doorway, from beyond which a cold wind blew. Yor lowered her hands and gazed on her creation with a critical eye.


    Not satisfied with the aesthetic? he asked.


    It is somewhatcking.


    Stepping closer, Tyron inspected it. If it werent for the colour and texture, the gate would almost look organic. The twisted ropes of blood were simr to vines, and in fact, small crystalline flowers peeked out from amongst the tendrils, adding to the effect.


    I think its fine, he said.


    To be honest, such wasteful flourishes seemed ridiculous to him, but he certainly wasnt going to say so, considering where he was going and how much he would rely on Yor when he got there.


    As if reading his mind, she smiled, the slow, eager smile of a predator.


    Lets step through together, shall we? she said, striding around the gate and taking hold of his arm.


    Am I escorting you, or are you worried Ill run away? he said, ufortable at the contact.


    She didnt reply, only stepping forward and pulling him along with her. He stepped down into the depression on the floor, then through the gate. There was a moment of disorientation as he stepped from one realm to another, but it quickly passed.


    On the other side, he found himself in a rtively small room. The gate had formed on a raised tform of stone, with two steps leading down to a red carpeted floor. Around the room glowed the telltale lights of enchantments, blood-red cores sunk into the stone at the centre of the arrays. Statues were spaced evenly around the room, each an example of the human form, but horribly distorted, twisted into horrific visages. Agonised, screaming faces with pleading eyes emerged from those nightmare shapes.


    Interesting taste in decoration, Tyron said, face twisted in disgust.


    We are in the rooms beneath my Mistress pce. She likes to make an impression on her guests. It also serves as a warning.


    Tyron frowned at her words, then turned back to examine the statues once more. It took a moment, but he saw one blink, then he swiftly shifted his gaze, stomach heaving.


    Interesting, he muttered.


    Yor paid his difort no mind, maintaining her grip on his arm.


    The Mistress awaits.


    She began to walk again, pulling him forward, though he didnt resist. From the gate-room, they entered a long, dim corridor with gaps carved into the stone at set intervals.


    He passed three before he sumbed to his curiosity. When he reached the fourth, he paused for a moment to look out, only to freeze at what he saw.


    He thought he would be in a basement, and in a sense, he was. Where he stood was below ground, but the space below was open, to the point he was suspended dozens of metres above the ground below.


    That space was filled with people. They sat in cages, silent, staring, weeping, as figures cloaked and armoured in ck moved between them. In the distance, at the edge of the cavern, he saw figures bound and chained to spiked tables, blood flowing freely and being collected in vessels that glowed with power.


    There were thousands of them. If he looked out the matching window on the other side, would he see more of the same? It was cruelty on a staggering scale.


    With difficulty, he mastered himself and resumed his walk.


    Another warning, I take it.


    Yor patted his arm and he struggled not to shake off her touch.


    My Mistress is fond of warnings. One of the many things you must keep in mind when you meet her.


    Yor began to lecture him on the seemingly endless rules that must be minded while standing before the ancient monster. Dont look her in the eyes. Dont speak unless spoken to. Make sure you dont bleed in her presence. Keep yournguage formal and courteous. Hands by your sides at all times. If there are cattle present, do not acknowledge them. If there are undead present, do not acknowledge them either.


    On and on it went. They reached the end of the corridor and entered a twisting maze of hallways. They passed other figures, but never stopped to interact with them. Yor continued to drag him, navigating the way unerringly until they stood before arge, wooden door.


    This is the Mistress lower chambers. Normally, I would present you in the throne room, but circumstances dont allow it, unfortunately. Remember what I said.


    Which things you said?


    <em>All the things I said.</em>


    She knocked with one, elegant hand, and immediately the door swung open soundlessly. The room beyond wasvish, to say the least. If he hadnt been told otherwise, Tyron would have assumed that <em>this</em> was the throne room. The ceiling was absurdly high,rge, intricate banners hung between columns formed of blood-coloured marble.


    There were so many more details. The rich furnishings. The tapestries. Paintings and sculptures along the walls. The kneeling figures, hands crossed across their chests and faces pressed into the floor. The huge figures in full-te armour, swords and shields resonating with incredible power.


    All of it faded in the presence of the woman on the throne.


    It was almost impossible to look at her. It was almost impossible to look away.


    She was majestic in appearance, her expression both regal and cruel. Hastily, Tyron tried to avert his gaze, lest he look into her eyes, but somehow, as if drawn by a ma, he could never fully direct his attention elsewhere.


    Seated on her golden throne, her posture perfect and dressed like an empress, she radiated power. The very air around her was tinged red, as if the blood within her were so strong it affected everything around it. Yor dragged him forward as he struggled to remember to breathe. The closer he got to that throne, the more his heart pounded painfully in his chest. He felt as if his blood were slowing to a crawl within his veins.


    When they were still twenty metres away, Yor pulled him down to the ground and he knelt, trying to master himself as she knelt beside him.


    Mistress, Yor intoned, her voice cold and formal, it brings me endless joy to kneel in your presence once more.


    So saying, she leaned forward and pressed her head to the floor, ring at Tyron from the corner of her eye until he did the same.


    Rise, child.


    The voice was indescribable. As the sound entered his ears, Tyron felt his veins tremble. More and more, he began to realise that this was not a ce, not a person whom a mortal should ever draw near.


    You have brought him as I asked. Well done.


    Tyron rose as Yor did, eyes squeezed shut as he attempted to control himself. What would it be like for someone with a weaker body to be here? Would they already be dead?


    He is a promising specimen. So much growth in one so young.


    As you say, Mistress. It has been difficult to remove him from the influence of the others.


    Yet now he is here.


    There was silence for a moment and Tyron finally felt as if he had steadied the trembling of his limbs. He opened his eyes again, only to find the ancient vampire regarding him directly.


    What is your name, mortal?


    The way she pronounced mortal was as if she spoke a profane or filthy word.


    Tyron Sterm, Mistress.


    Another pause.


    You have done well, to reach this point. Yet there is still so much you do notprehend. Youve never truly understood the nature of our alliance. The Dark Ones. The Abyss. Myself. For instance, you do not know that those Old Gods shield you from the sight of those who reced them.


    Though he was kneeling, he still twitched. He <em>hadnt</em> known that. Why hadnt Elsbeth told him?


    They also protect you from maniption. Yet here, in this realm, you have been stripped of such protections.


    Her mind overwhelmed his in less than an instant. Like a de of grass before a hurricane, all he could do was bend. His eyes rolled up his head as she seized his will without any discernible effort.


    What are you doing? he forced out.


    It was Yor who answered.


    A slight modification. Your desires do not always align with ours. That will change.


    I will remember this!


    It took all his effort to speak those words while the monster on the throne rifled through his mind like a lion ying a mouse. He red at Yor, who only looked amused.


    No, she said, you wont.

 Chapter B3C63 - Debt Upon Debt

    Chapter B3C63 - Debt Upon Debt


    Elsbeth couldnt help but feel anxious as the old man hobbled across the street toward her. Truth be told, old didnt nearly capture the sheer weight of time that seemed to hang on those reed-thin shoulders. Stooped over, limbs visibly trembling and skin as weathered as a salt-washed rock, the Venerable supported his weight on a walking stick of dark brown wood as he slowly made his way toward her.


    Would it be disrespectful of her to go and help him? He looked so fragile! There was a burly-looking man by his side, watching the crowd, eyes flicking from one person to the next, but he made no move to support the ancient human. Ultimately, her instincts overwhelmed the debate in her head and she rushed forward to support him, holding onto his elbow and walking alongside.


    I apologise if Im being rude, she said, I mean no disrespect.


    The old man chuckled as he let her take some of his weight.


    I left my useless pride behind over a hundred years ago, he said, wrinkled skin folding in on itself as he smiled wide, revealing the few teeth he retained. A little help on the walk wont do me any harm.


    Somewhat relieved, Elsbeth returned the smile as she fell into step, slowly making their way through Shadetown.


    Thank you foring on such short notice. I hope the journey wasnt too difficult for you.


    The Venerable pped his free hand vaguely as if to wave away her concerns.


    Bah! Im not as old as that he trailed off. On reflection, I probably am as old as that, he admitted, but I was nning to move anyway. This was a necessary stop on the journey. Helping a fool child out of the mess he put himself in shouldnt be too taxing.


    She wished she shared his confidence.


    From the market, they moved down one of the alleys until they stood before Almsfield Enchantments. Thiste in the afternoon, there werent many people about, most of the daysmerce having been done. Still, there were a few inside, visible through therge windows, browsing the many wares Tyron had on offer.


    She felt a spike of pride at how well her friend had done. Despite not even being his focus, Tyron had turned his enchanting business into a real sess, earning praise from almost everyone she spoke to in themunity. With an effort, she forced that appreciation down. She was still furious at him! Just bringing to mind the letter hed send her was enough to make her grind her teeth.


    <em>Greetings Elsbeth,</em>


    <em>Ill be travelling to visit the Scarlet Court within their domain. Id appreciate it if you could contact the Venerable, or perhaps another high-ranking cleric amongst your organisation to undo whatever suggestions they nt in my head.</em>


    <em>Regards.</em>


    Not even signed with a name, not that he had to, who else would be mad enough to do such a thing? Doing it <em>knowing</em> what was going to happen to him, no less!


    Even now, part of her wanted to let him stew in his own juices. This was <em>his</em> mess after all, but it was a petty impulse that she knew she would never indulge.


    Do you need help with the steps, Venerable? she asked, leaning down toward the old man.


    If youd be so kind, he replied, eyes crinkling.


    Dressed in a light cloak, shirt and pants, there hardly seemed to be anything of the man left, they hung so loosely on him. Shaking step by shaking step, the Venerable managed to mount the three stairs with some difficulty before he released a triumphant sigh at the top. Elsbeth let go of his arm just long enough to swing open the door and let him through, for which she received a grateful nod.


    Seemingly withoutmunicating, the burly, leather-armoured guard took up post outside the door, standing in a spot where he could watch the traffic and keep an eye on the store interior at the same time.


    Once inside, Tyrons bubbly young store attendant approached, professional smile on her face and curiosity burning in her eyes. From the corner of the room, a martial figure began to stride forward. This was Wansa, Elsbeth recalled, but before the formidable woman had taken two steps, she froze mid-stride and remained there, eyes wide, a rictus snarl on her face. Confused, Elsbeth looked down to the Venerable, only to see the old man smiling gently with his eyes shut. A momentter, Cerry had reached them.


    Ms Elsbeth, its nice to see you again. Is this your grandfather? Or great-grandfather? Or.


    Was she really going to go to great-great?!


    Lovely to see you as well, Cerry, she interrupted before the young woman offended the ancient priest. Were here to see Master Lukas. Hes expecting us.


    Cerry took it all in stride, shaking her head slightly.


    Im sorry, but Master Almsfield has specifically requested not to be disturbed today. I believe hes working upstairs in the workshop, but goodness knows on what, poor Flynn hasnt seen him in days.


    Which would mean hed been isting himself since he returned from his visit.


    As I said, hes expecting us, Elsbeth began to say, only for the Venerable to speak over her.


    Help me up the stairs, youngdy, he said to Cerry, but every quality of his voice had changed.


    Gone was the thin, quavering tone, reced by something deep and powerful. Cerrys smile didnt waver an inch as she smoothly stepped forward to take Elsbeths ce on his elbow.


    And how long have you been working here? the Venerable asked, every inch the doddering old man once more.


    Soon he and Cerry were engaged in conversation as she helped him to the second floor as if he were her own grandfather. Confused, and a little disturbed, Elsbeth trailed along in their wake, ascending only to find the door locked before them.


    Yes Master Almsfield <em>did</em> say he didnt want to be disturbed, Cerry muttered to herself, confused.


    Nonsense. Look, the door is open, the Venerable said as he tapped it with his cane.


    Cerry put a hand against it and tentatively pushed. The door swung open silently, the sounds of muttering and the scrape of metal tools now able to be heard from within.


    Yes Cerry stated. Well, Ill leave you to your business then, I need to get ready to close the store.


    Elsbeth waited a few moments for the attendant to head down the steps before she whispered to the Venerable.


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    Was that strictly necessary?


    He huffed.


    Its not as intrusive as most methods and saves us a lot of time and energy. I doubt Tyron would be grateful if we caused a scene within his store, and Im much too old to be fighting my way up the stairs.


    And what about Wansa? she asked.


    The old mans lip curled.


    Thrall, he almost spat. Little better than ves who put the cor on themselves. Shes lucky I didnt do more. Shell be free to move in a few minutes. Probably.


    Surprised by his vehemence, Elsbeth kept her silence and aided the Venerable as he took slow steps into Tyrons private chambers. The workshop was through an open door to the left, and from within she could hear him, working, muttering, almost growling to himself. The more she listened, the more disturbing it sounded. Half the sounds didnt even form words, just noise, as if it were an animal inside rather than a human.


    What is going on in there? she whispered.


    The Venerable cocked his ear and listened for a moment before he frowned. For a moment, his eyes, normally clouded and watery, sharpened. With two quick strides, the old man ced himself in the doorway to the workshop as Elsbeth hurried to keep up with him.


    Inside, she saw Tyron, or at least his back, as he sat hunched over his bench. Even from this angle, she could see how bedraggled he was, his clothes were creased and stained, hair matted to his head with sweat.


    Ty she began, only for him to whip around in his seat, causing her to break off with a startled cry.


    Pale, sunken flesh on his face. Eyes bloodshot and bulging in their sockets. Fingers twisted and knotted, clutching at his hair, his clothes, the air. There was blood on his teeth, and she saw with shock he had been gnawing on his own arm, had chewed straight through the cloth.


    Old gods, she whispered.


    Raven, behold your servant, the Venerable intoned.


    Tyron lunged from his seat, seemingly not caring that he stumbled and crashed into the floor, rising again to fling himself forward once more.


    The Venerable sped his hands together and bowed his head.


    From a great distance, Elsbeth heard the rush of wind beneath colossal wings, the snap of a titanic beak in anger.


    Tyron froze. Even locked in ce, his muscles spasmed as he tried to break the hold, strained to move forward.


    Extending a finger in front, the old man tapped him once between the eyes and all the life drained from that tortured frame. No longer conscious, Tyron dropped to the floor in a heap at the priests feet.


    Can you help roll him over please, Elsbeth? the Venerable sighed thinly. This is going to be difficult.


    Still horrified, she hesitated before she stepped around him to tend to the figure lying prone on the floor.


    What happened to him? she asked, aghast, as she tried to arrange Tyron with some dignity.


    The more she handled him, the more she became aware of just how damaged he was. Hed done this to himself in only a few days?


    Bloodsuckers did something to him, apulsion, memory modification perhaps something worse.


    Theres <em>worse</em>?


    Oh, girl. You are too young. <em>I </em>can do worse, and have, in the service of our gods.


    He peered at her with his open eye.


    Pray to Crone enough, and you will be able to do it too.


    She didnt want to contemte that, not even for a moment.


    But whats happened to Tyron? If they did something to his mind, what has happened to his body?


    The old man wheezed lightly as he nudged the Necromancers foot with his own.


    The boy has been fighting, trying to defeat something so much greater than himself. I dont know how he fortified his mind, or to what lengths he went to achieve that protection, but it seems like he went to great lengths. Great lengths indeed.


    He sighed.


    Theres a storm in his head. Painful one at that. All he could do was iste himself up here and try to weather it the best he could. In the end, he would win and the intrusive measures would be defeated


    The Venerables tone left her in no doubt he found that oue unlikely.


    ... Or he would lose and whatever they did to him would take hold. Or the fight would continue beyond his bodys ability to sustain it, and he would die.


    Elsbeth looked down on him, stricken. Shed arranged him as best she could, lying t on his back with his hands folded over his chest. Even so, he didnt appear at peace. His eyelids fluttered, as if his eyes were still rolling behind them, and his hands twitched, trying to sp onto something invisible before they fell to rest again.


    Are you able to help?


    Instead of answering, the old man simply bowed his head and sped his hands together once more. For several long moments he stood in that position, consulting with faraway gods, yet Elsbeth sensed nothing of their conversation. Finally, he opened his eyes, a trace of confusion on his face.


    A lot of effort for one boy, he muttered, prodding at Tyrons leg with his cane. I cant possibly see how he could be worth it.


    He saw the expression on Elsbeths face and hastened to reassure her.


    Ill help him child, dont worry. The gods favour him yet, though they wont reveal to me why. There is some grand design at work, or perhaps they are simply being whimsical. I need to stand at his head, can you help me step over him? Thank you, girl. Now just let me catch my breath a moment. Im not quite the same vessel as I used to be, so this will be unpleasant.


    Grimacing, the Venerable straightened himself as best he could and spread his arms wide, raising his face to look upwards, though there was nothing but a wooden ceiling over his head. For a time, nothing happened, and Elsbeth was about to ask what he was doing, but then, she felt it. Whisper quiet, a thin tendril of divinity extended from <em>somewhere else</em> and connected to the Venerable.


    In that moment, the old man ceased to be, his presence erased, and in his ce stood a woman, wizened beyond conception, her face both wise and cruel. Confronted with a god, Elsbeth felt her heart still in her chest and breath freeze in her lungs. For a second, their eyes met, and the Crone winked at her, before she closed her eyes and the Venerable returned, now infused with a sliver of the goddess divine power.


    The old man groaned in pain, almost falling to the side, but managed to catch himself at thest second. With shaking limbs, he lifted his cane and ced it on Tyrons forehead. Something surged between them, and though she couldnt see it, Elsbeth was still cognizant of the invisible struggle taking ce within the mind of her childhood friend.


    It went on for what felt like hours, days. Each second that passed, the Venerable grew visibly more weary. His trembling increased as his face grew more and more haggard, until finally, he fell forward with a cry, breaking the connection andnding directly on top of the prone Necromancer.


    Elsbeth rushed to assist him, helping him sit, his back propped against the wall as the impossibly ancient man drew deep, shuddering breaths.


    Im at least two hundred years too old for this, the old man wheezed, ring up at the ceiling. You <em>still</em> want to test me?


    A few more long, slow inhtions.


    They always want to test us, he murmured to Elsbeth. Its how they think. Im like a toy to them, I believe.


    He tapped himself on the chest.


    Because Ive <em>never</em> been found wanting.


    He grinned, exposing his gums, and Elsbeth couldnt help but admire the man, however, she had more pressing concerns.


    About Tyron is he?


    The Venerable harrumphed, but there was no energy behind it, only weary resignation.


    What they did to him ran deep. <em>Very </em>deep. Powerful and subtle beyond anything Ive ever seen.


    He saw Elsbeths look and shook his head.


    I think its pretty much gone. Anything left, the boy will have to deal with on his own. To be more thorough, I would have had to scour parts of his mind nk, and <em>they</em> asked me specifically not to do so.


    Relief washed over her, and Elsbeth felt her eyes tear up as a great weight lifted from her shoulders. The old man reached over with one gnarled hand and patted her on the head.


    Dont waste your tears, child. This one throws himself willingly into the fire, dont cry when he gets burned.


    I cant help it, she replied, I cant help but care.


    Its dangerous to care so much. But it can also be a strength. Now. Is there any chance you can help an old man? I need to get down those stairs, and hopefully we can find a ce to eat with a nice broth on the menu.


    Of course, Venerable. Thank you, for what youve done.


    The old man eyed her wearily.


    I serve at the gods whim, child. As do you.

 Chapter B3C64 - Upon the Altar

    Chapter B3C64 - Upon the Altar


    Tyron woke in great pain.


    Holy shit, he groaned. I think Im going to be sick.


    His stomach burned with acid, his head pounded, and every inch of his skin felt as if it had been scraped raw. What had <em>happened</em> to him? Trying to remember was too difficult. Trying to <em>think</em> was too difficult. He grit his teeth and forced himself to sit up.


    Sheets fell away and he realised he was in his bed, upstairs in the shop, yet he had no idea how he got there. The moment he straightened, his vision swam and he felt bile burning in the back of his throat. Had he not managed to catch hold of the bed head with one iling arm, he would have fallen.


    In all of his days, he didnt think hed ever felt so weak.


    Light stabbed into his eyes so he mped them shut, trying to create a moment in which he could think. Instead, a door opened and he heard soft footfalls as someone entered the roam. There was a gasp, then they approached quicker.


    Youre awake, Elsbeth said softly. You shouldnt try to sit up so soon. The Venerable thought it would take you several days to recover.


    The Venerable? Recover from what? Nothing seemed to settle into ce, but images rose unbidden in his mind. Hundreds of people, chained in cages. Blood draining into golden vessels. Statues of flesh and bone. Red, red eyes.


    Argh!


    An explosion of pain and light in his head caused him to cry out in pain and he slumped to the side. Elsbeth rushed forward and caught him, steadying his head as she held something to his lips.


    Drink this. It wont taste good, but it should help settle your head. A little, at least.


    As it was, Tyron felt like hed eat dung from a stable floor if it would relieve some of his pain. Blindly, he sipped at the tea, and it was indeed truly revolting. Bitter and pungent to an extreme he hadnt thought possible, his guts nearly rose in revolt as he forced himself to choke it down. After a few minutes, the storm in his head eased slightly, and he opened his eyes to see Elsbeth looking down at him, concern etched on her features.


    Elsbeth? he groaned. What happened to me?


    She didnt answer immediately, instead brushing his hair back from his forehead. He was sticky with sweat, and individual strands clung to his skin. With a frown, she reached down beside her and he could hear small sshes. A momentter, a cool cloth was pressed to his temples and he almost gasped in relief. Patiently, she wiped him down, and began to answer his question as she worked.


    You happened to you, she sniffed. Well, I would say that if I were being uncharitable.You incurred a debt to the Scarlet Court. They demanded you visit their realm as payment.


    shes of blood. So much blood.


    You sent me a letter before you left exining that you were going and expected them to do something to you while they had the chance. You wanted me to summon the Venerable to help cure you, which I did.


    Tyron frowned. Everything seemed fuzzy when he tried to recall what had happened. It was disconcerting, to say the least. He felt as if he had lost control of himself, like someone else had been piloting his body for an undetermined amount of time.


    ording to the Venerable, you had done your best to fortify your mind, but it hadnt been enough. Your protections and their maniptions went to war in your head. You nearly died.


    That would exin why he felt so weak. A twinge of pain on his left forearm drew his attention and he squinted down at it, then double checked when he realised what he was looking at.


    Are there bite marks on my arm? he whispered.


    Yes. Yes, there are.


    ... Why?


    Because you bit yourself.


    He blinked once, then twice, then three times as he tried to process that. Hed been gnawing on his own <em>arm</em>? Why?!


    It was Dove, wasnt it? I didnt bring him back like Id promised, so they demanded payment.


    I dont know, but that sounds possible. She hesitated. We arent sure the Venerable was able topletely undo whatever it was that theyd done to you. To ensure it was removed, he would have had to scour parts of your mind away.


    Each passing moment, Tyron gained a tiny bit of ground against the pain and his own mind. With difficulty, he pushed himself further back in the bed until he could prop himself up against the bedhead more firmly. Once stable, he leaned back and closed his eyes with a sigh.


    He couldnt remember much, but what Elsbeth said sounded true to him. He recalled returning to the city, sans Dove, and the conversation hed had with Yor. From the moment hed met with her at the Red Pavilion, things started to get hazy. The more he tried to recall those events, the more the pain returned, so he left them alone for the time being.


    Doubtless, that was as they intended, he said. I doubt the vampires expected their maniptions to go unchallenged, but as long as <em>something</em> remains, theyll be able to make use of it.


    By his bedside, his friend fell silent as she continued to tend to him. After wiping down his back and chest, she rinsed the cloth once more and rose to fetch him some water to drink. Each sip was like rain in the desert, soothing his parched throat and bringing relief to a thirst he hadnt been aware hed had.


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    Are are you still going to work with them? she eventually asked. After what theyve done to you?


    I doubt theyll give me a choice, he forced a chuckle, which came out more like a cough. If its any constion, I expect theyll be <em>very</em> generous for the next little while. After a stunt like this, itll take a lot of work to get back into my good graces.


    Will they? Get back in your good graces, I mean?


    Tyron stared at her tly.


    Of course not. Ill make them pay, one way or another, for what they did. Gods know how Ill pull that off, but Ill find a way, eventually.


    Elsbeth smiled at him, a touch sadly.


    One impossible revenge quest at a time, Tyron. Try to pace yourself.


    Yes, maam.


    ~~~


    Apparently, having ones own mind go to war on itself was bad for ones health. Who would have known? It took Tyron three days of bed rest before he was able to be up and about, and he was a terrible patient the entire time. Waspish, bored and frustrated, he snapped at everyone who came in to help take care of him, though Elsbeth took it with remarkable good grace. After the first day, she brought him some tools, his pliance and a few cores so he could at least work to pass the time, which helped.


    When he had finally recovered enough to care for himself, hed awkwardly thanked his childhood friend before shed left, unable to properly convey the depth of his gratitude. Something in her eyes told him she was aware of how he felt, but still he resolved to make it up to her as soon as he could. Without her intervention with the Old Gods, who knew how terrible of a state hed be in, with Vampiric nonsense running rampant in his brain.


    It had been an extraordinary effort, even by his standards, to recreate the mental fortification enchantments from the ring hed taken from Magister Poranus. Unable to raid his masters library for such sensitive sigils, it had been extremely difficult to learn the techniques in the short time he had avable, but hed managed it, somehow. Combined with some less than legal fortifications hed been able to procure through Filetta and her associates, hed done everything he could to improve his mental defences, but it hadnt been enough.


    Once he was able, he threw himself into his work, churning through the backlog of enchanting tasks needed for the store in one, forty-eight hour burst of activity. Flynn had staggered out of the store looking like a zombie when it was done, and Cerry had been less than pleased with Mr Almsfield. Tyron hadnt insisted his apprentice remain in the store as he worked, but the man had done it anyway. At least his endurance was improving. A good sign, in Tyrons eyes.


    Following that marathon, he retreated to his room to rest again, making sure he got all the sleep, water and food he needed, before he could no longer contain his impatience. Stepping into his study once again was a soothing balm for his soul, the light dust that covered the stone surfaces the first task that required his attention in this sanctuary.


    Once it had returned to its austere, spotless self, Tyron sat at his desk, hands t on the table as he pondered. cing enchantments and arrays around the room to prevent magickal scrying was essentially done, but he still needed to beef up the measures he had in ce to prevent Death Magick from leaking out of the room. One whiff of that energy detected by the Magisters would have this area under investigation before he could blink. If there was one thing they didnt want in a city of millions, it was the dead beginning to rise on their own.


    Getting that finished took several further days, after which he had to do more work for the store. By the time he was <em>finally</em> free to resume his studies, Tyron was practically shaking from having to maintain his patience.


    Summoning the gate within his study for the first time wasnt difficult, but it <em>was</em> nerve-wracking. Hed taken all the necessary precautions and created a permanent ritual circle on the stone floor, as well as used a high quality ritual focus to contain the energy of the spell. Even so, he was nervous.


    Fortunately, nothing went wrong, and Tyron stepped within the Ossuary for the first time since he levelled. Immediately, he could tell there was a difference. The Altar, inert and unmoving thest time he was here, now thrummed with energy, sigils glowing softly across its surface.


    Excited, Tyron rushed forward to study them, but was ultimately left disappointed. Much like the vampiric text that Yor had given him, these sigils were written in a form he didnt recognise. It would be possible to trante them, but only after a great deal of time and effort had been invested. Just another thing on his impossibly long list of tasks to investigate.


    Turning his attention to the surface of the Altar, it seemed as if whatever the arrays did, they would act upon whatever was ced on top of it. He still had several sets of bones within the Ossuary, which remained as they had before, perfectly saturated with death energy, yet inert, tucked away in their individual repositories.


    He grabbed one set of remains andid it out carefully on the altar, every bone in its proper ce, then stepped back to see if anything happened.


    Nothing did.


    Tapping his chin thoughtfully with a single finger, Tyron considered. It was likely that whatever the altar did would affect the undead created atop it. Hed need to go through the process of preparing these bones to be raised before he could see what would happen.


    Given they were already saturated, however, he wasnt willing to remove them from the Ossuary via the still-open door back into his study. If he did so, they would likely begin to form a wild undead the moment the bones were free of whatever influence was preventing them from doing so inside.


    It didnt sit well with Tyron to create an Undead that was anything less than as perfect as he could possibly make it, but he was dying to learn what the altar did, so he shrugged his reservations aside, raised his hands, and conjured the ghostly strings of magick he would use to form the flesh and sinews of histest minion.


    The moment he began to work, he felt the altare to life. Power thrummed through it, and Tyron stared eagerly, keen to see what would happen, only for it to fall silent the moment he stopped moving his hands.


    Slowly, he resumed his movements, weaving with the expert skill he had cultivated over hundreds of iterations, and the altar sprang to life once more. However something curious was happening. The power contained within didnt reach out to the bones sitting atop the altar, but toward the recesses in which those saturated sets of bones still remained.


    With a frown, Tyron continued to weave, unable to see what the altar was doing while he was concentrating on his hands. Once hedpleted one leg, he tied off the weave and stepped away, watching as the altar fell inert once again. Shaking his hands lightly, he stepped over to the closest recess that contained a skeleton and leaned down to study it.


    The bones themselves appeared unchanged. He ran his eyes over it carefully, trying to sense any change in the condition of the remains. As far he could tell, nothing had changed. The weaving on the leg appeared to be intact, no different from the skeleton on the altar.


    In one motion, he whipped his head to the altar, then back to the bones before him. There was no mistake, the weave on the right leg was identical, <em>exactly</em> identical to what hed just done to the skeleton on the altar.


    Eyes wide, he looked around the Ossuary, examining all of the recesses embedded into the walls.


    This this was going to save a <em>lot</em> of time.

 Chapter B3C65 - New Process

    Chapter B3C65 - New Process


    You want how many?


    Filetta raised her brows, looking mildly shocked, though he never knew if any show of emotion was genuine with her.


    Speaking honestly


    I wouldnt rmend it, she shed him a grin.


    ... Ill take as many as you are willing to give me, but I believe double our prior arrangement will be sufficient for my needs.


    That would be twenty full sets of remains every two weeks.


    And the additional loose bones as well, he added.


    Those were necessary for him to create the weapons and armour needed to outfit his minions.


    Just how many people do you think die in this city every week? she asked him, a hint of exasperation creeping through her facade.


    Thats the wrong question. It doesnt matter how many die, it only matters how many die, and leave essible remains.


    No matter how many wealthy store owners, high-level traders or yers died, none of their bones would wind up on a stone b in Tyrons study. They would be privately buried or cremated, without the opportunity for Filettas organisation to get their hands on them.


    Luckily for you, poor people die at a much faster rate than the rich. Even so, youre asking us to vanish hundreds of corpses a year. Doing so is one thing, doing so without arousing suspicion is another.


    Im only interested in whether you will do it, or if you wont. If the answer is yes, then we can discuss the price.


    Youre willing to renegotiate?


    It was Tyrons turn to frown.


    Isnt that what youve been angling for this entire conversation? Let us be direct with each other. I will increase the price by twenty percent per delivery. Is that satisfactory?


    Filetta chewed her lip as she watched him carefully.


    Thats eptable to us. However, there are other concerns, which need to be addressed.


    This was news to Tyron. After their initial agreement had been reached, her side of the arrangement had been quiet, to say the least. After bringing him hundreds of dead bodies, <em>now</em> they had concerns?


    It seems somewhatte to be raising any issues, he said.


    Betterte than never. We dont care what you do with the merchandise, only that they are disposed of in a manner that cant be traced back to us.


    The only way I can guarantee that, would be to show you what I do with them, which ispletely uneptable.


    Filetta appeared troubled.


    We are getting to the point where we have moved so many bodies that it''s straining credulity to think that you are able to dispose of them as thoroughly as we would like.


    There is risk, to you <em>and</em> to me, that is why I pay you so much. If the risk is uneptable, then cancel the deal and I will make other arrangements.


    The Necromancer had no patience for this, he couldnt even understand what they wanted from him. Guarantees? In an illegal trade?


    I cant imagine most of your clients are required to demonstrate this level ofpliance with most of the goods you move.


    Youd be surprised at what we demand of them, but you are correct, usually not this much. If it were just me, Elten, it would be fine, but the higher ups are getting a little nervous. There are some crimes that are more difficult to slip away from than others. If the marshals got word of what was happening here, they would hunt us to the end of the empire.


    What do you think they would do to me? Tyron asked, not expecting an answer.


    Eventually, he had to raise the price another twenty percent per delivery, an absurdly high fee, though who was to say what the going rate for anonymous corpses was? The entire meeting, conducted in the sewers in the depths of night, was a warning that he couldnt rely on Filetta or her criminal syndicate indefinitely. They were getting cold feet, and it was only a matter of time before they withdrew from the trade. With a little luck, theyd be happy to drop it there and wouldnt attempt to find more permanent ways to ensure his silence.


    Filetta had invited him to another tryst, but he had politely declined. There was too much to do and he couldnt afford the time or the distractions. Hed like to tter himself that she was genuinely disappointed at his refusal, but it was pointless to try and separate the truth from the facade with as practised a dissembler as her. Neither of them had seen the other''s true face, and likely never would.


    Still, the delivery had been made and now Tyron had twenty brand new sets of remains to work with.


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    From the depths of the sewer waters around him, undead rose. Caked in filth, they looked like a terrible cross between a skeleton and a zombie. With their help, he was able to move each of the corpses back to his study before he set his minions back to waiting within the sludge. Then he got to work.


    The rats were getting bigger, he was sure of it. Shovelling bucket loads of human offal into the tunnels wasnt exactly Tyrons idea of a good time, but it was a necessary part of the job. He had no use for the flesh he cut from the corpses that came into his possession, but apparently the local rodents had been making good use of the material he discarded.


    If fat rats were the only thing that came from dumping so much flesh into the sewers, then that was a good thing as far as he was concerned. He wondered how theyd managed while he was awaywell enough, from what he could see.


    Dont overeat, he warned them, then shook his head. Dont talk to the rats, you weirdo.


    Back in the study, things had changed slightly from how theyd been before. At present, the arch of bone with the heavy wooden door wedged in its centre was still there. In fact, Tyron hadnt dismissed it at all after the first summoning. Careful and meticulous checks had revealed that not a drop of mana was leaking through his protections, so he felt safe maintaining the doorway.


    Also, he no longer needed to create his undead in this space, only prepare them, which meant he had more room to work with.


    Once prepared, the bones were cleansed, purged of wild mana, hardened, then brought within the Ossuary and stored safely within their own recess.


    He was eager to experiment with the altar; the chance to speed up his process, creating as many as twenty undead at a time, was an exceptional boon. However, he needed to understand it in order to maximise its potential.


    So, a long process of trial and error began. First, he confirmed how many skeletons the altar would replicate his work on at a time. The answer: all of them. So long as aplete and saturated set of bones sat within a recess, the altar would mimic his work upon it. Which meant he could work on twenty-one skeletons at a time, including the one on the altar.


    However, he was also able to confirm some limitations. The altar did not contain unlimited power, able to mimic his magick endlessly. Instead, it drew power from his own reserves. When he attempted to work on ten skeletons at once, even just weaving, the draw on his arcane power was significant. Were he to engage in more demanding practices, he would need to be thoughtful about how many sets of remains he worked on at a time.


    The other main issue with the altar was a little more fundamental to the bones themselves. Not all people are alike, and thus, their skeletons can differ. One thing Tyron had been shocked to learn after bing a Necromancer was just howmon it was for a person to have legs of different lengths. Usually, they didnt differ by much, and he wondered if the people themselves had even realised that one leg was longer than the other.


    Considering that he would never find skeletons exactly the same, the work he did to the bones on the altar would be perfectly adjusted to <em>that</em> set of remains, but be wed on the others. Perhaps another practitioner of the dark arts would ept thispromise of less well-crafted minions, but made so much faster. Tyron, however, would not.


    After trying several methods of approach, he eventually settled on a multi-stage process. First, a general pass would do the bulk of the basic stitching required, sorting out the muscles and sinews, which he could then go to each skeleton individually and adjust. Then, he would perform the moreplex work around the joints, which required significantly more adjustment. The trick was in not trying to do a perfect job the first time. If he used the altar toy down a solid basis from which he could then perfect, it went much faster than if he tried toplete the job, then went to each skeleton and unpicked half of what hed done in order to fix it.


    Then came time to attempt to raise the skeletons. With one lying on the altar, and one stored away in a recess, Tyron attempted to cast Raise Dead.


    The moment he began, the first words dropping from his lips like thunder, he knew something was different. As anticipated, the altar took the magick he was applying to the bones in front of him, and then extended that same magick toward the skeleton he had stored in the recess. And, as expected, the altar drew on his power to fuel it. Raise Dead was a demanding and expensive ritual, particrly after the modifications hed made to it, but Tyron was nothing if he wasnt a magick battery.


    The reservoir of power he had at hismand continued to swell every time he progressed with the aid of the Unseen, and now it had be vast. A double cast of Raise Dead was not an issue. Twenty simultaneous casts would wring him dry in an instant.


    In this instance, he was able to raise two skeletons wlessly. Both minions climbed to their feet, one from the altar and one from a recess, ready and waiting to ept hismands. Tyron was satisfied. With this, he had managed to learn two of the ways in which the Ossuary could be useful to him. The altar would be a powerful force multiplier. If he were to work on ten skeletons at a time, it wouldnt reduce the work to a tenth, more like a quarter, or a fifth, but that was plenty.


    All he needed now was all the bones he could possibly get his hands on. Advances in his techniques and methods woulde, he had ideas, avenues to explore, but most of all, he wasnt close to hitting his capacity for minions. All the enchanting work hed done had paid off, along with his own growing reserve of energy. He estimated he could manage as many as three hundred skeletons, along with his small coterie of revenants, and perhaps a few ghosts in the mix.


    If he took such a force back to Cragwhistle, hed be able to totally dominate the rift, even crush the kin on the other side of the gate, provided nothing scarier showed up.


    With more time to develop his bone constructs, perhaps he could push that number even further. Although, he would need to bnce the growth of his skeletal horde by mixing in more powerful minions. He was able to create crude skeletal mages now, as well as raise horses to create undead cavalry. Who knows how expensive it would prove to maintain such minions? Only more experimentation would provide an answer.


    His questions answered, for the time being, at least, Tyron exited the Ossuary and moved to his desk. His book of notes now contained another dozen pages filled with scribbled sigilsand results regarding the altar. He sat down and flicked through the pages before he picked up his pen, dabbed it in ink and began to make a few corrections. This single volume contained the bulk of his writings since the moment he had purchased it in Woodsedge. From the first pages to thest, he hade on quite a journey. If he ever had time, it may be a good idea to create a more uncluttered collection of his lessons, but really, for whose benefit? He was unlikely to ever have an opportunity to pass his knowledge on, and his memory for magick was almost wless.


    Dismissing the thought, he closed the book and leaned back in his seat.


    The next period of time would be difficult. He needed so many bones, had so much to work on, and he needed to achieve all of it while remaining hidden right beneath the magisters noses. His next trip to Cragwhistle almost couldnte soon enough. His need to improve his power had never felt more desperate than it was right now. The patrons who gave him aid had proven to be just as dangerous as he had always believed they were.


    The thought of the vampires maniption sunk deep inside his head sparked anger in his chest and his hands tightened into fists. What could he do against ancient, god-like, immortal blood mages? Right now, nothing, but his time woulde. He would make sure of it.

 Chapter B3C66 - Birthright

    Chapter B3C66 - Birthright


    <em>In the year 5420, 31 years go.</em>


    Mind your bearing, young mistress.


    Head servant Indis bore his customary stern expression, further emphasised by the long grey moustache he wore. The old man fussed over the girl, inspecting every inch of her dress, a blue-sapphire gown her father hadmissioned, threaded with magick-infused stitching that caused the fabric to ripple and glow as she moved.


    Of course I will, she replied, trying not to sound snippy.


    A servant he may be, but Indis had served the Erryns loyally and faithfully for over forty years, and had earned the familys trust over that time. She couldnt simply dismiss him as she would another of the staff.


    Nearby, her own maids waited, expressionless, but some signs of their anxiety peaked through the cracks, such as Fillis incessant clutching at her skirts. The woman had no self control.


    Eventually, Indis nodded his approval.


    It will do, he said. Your uncle awaits in his study.


    He hasnt joined the celebration? she asked, concealing her surprise.


    My Lord has already been to the ballroom and recently returned to await your arrival. He wished to speak with you before you were presented to the nobles.


    A lump of apprehension rose in Recillias throat, but she mastered herself quickly. There was no room to be nervous. She was born for this moment.


    The mantra was helpful, but insufficient to fight off all the anxiety she felt. Eighteen years she had waited for this day. From the moment she was born, to this hour, this minute, this second, she had been preparing as if her life was on the line. Because it was.


    I am ready, she stated coolly. Take me to him.


    Her uncles study was closer to a library. Vast bookshelves each over ten metres tall lined the walls, and his desk wasrger than her own bed. Made from an impressive, gleaming wood found only beyond the rifts, in Jundilcarr, the desk itself had beenmissioned by her grandfather. Despite the size and opulence of the room, the man behind the deskmanded her attention, indeed, all attention. With the weight of his <em>authority</em>, Lord Erryn was impossible to dismiss. No matter how one tried to look away, they would always find their eyes drawn back to him.


    The approval of the Divines sat upon his shoulders like a mantle.


    He looked up as she entered and smiled slightly though it never touched his eyes. Ice blue, she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times shed seen any hint of warmth in that gaze. She drew closer until she stood on the opposite of the desk from him, then dropped into a deep curtsy. As she rose, she examined her father closely.


    stor Erryn was brown of eye, dark hair now peppered with grey as he advanced in years, and possessed of an athletic frame. Havinge into power as an Awakened Lord of a great house decades before, he was at the zenith of his power, and that confidence and Authority radiated from him like heat.


    For this grand event, he had chosen to dress simply, in the colours of the house, red and white. Lord Erryn needed no finery to impress, no impably tailored and enchanted clothing to attract attention. He alone was enough.


    It was a statement that only the truly powerful among the noble-born were able to make. He interrupted her musing, his voice, deep andmanding, rang in the air as he spoke.


    Your father has already arrived, he stated.


    Immediate anger red in Recillia, quickly smothered before it could express itself on her face.


    I am sure he will be eager to oversee the ritual, she stated. He has few children, as a man of the cloth.


    Indeed, she had two siblings, both older, having Awakened two, and five years earlier. Neither had earned the Noble ss, deemed unworthy by the gods, just as her father had been. No, the glory and power had fallen instead to stor. stor, who had eight children, from his various wives and concubines. Five of <em>them</em> had already Awakened, but none of them could seed.


    Thinking of her cousins awakened a storm in Recillias mind that she controlled with difficulty. Today would be the day where all the cards wereid on the table. Either she would rise above them, or be banished from this house. Either way, she would be free of them atst.


    Lord Erryn did not react, though her words could be construed as a slight against his children. The fact that the lord was displeased with his progeny was hardly a secret, it was open knowledge amongst the family. Now yet again, a niece or nephew would step to the stone, a chance for the inheritance to be ripped away from his direct line.


    She <em>would</em> take it.


    <em>You should have smothered me in the crib</em>, she thought, looking calmly at the brother of her father, <em>it was the only way you could have prevented me from reaching this moment.</em>


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    I suppose we have kept our guests waiting long enough, he said, striding around the desk and offering her his elbow. Your adoring crowd awaits.


    <em>Who cares about the crowd, let me touch the stone.</em>


    However, she knew it wasnt that easy. From the study, she was escorted to the ballroom, announced at the entrance, and strode inside under the burning gaze of hundreds of nobles. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and those unrted to her, each concealing their own blend of emotion. Some were envious, wishing they once again had the chance thaty in front of her. Others were fearful, wary of losing their positions, of a shift in the bnce of power with the family. Anger, sadness, wariness, calction, she saw all of it and more flickering across expressions and hidden behind the eyes of all who beheld her.


    The band yed, performers danced, light mages conjured, and Recillia was taken around the ballroom on her Uncles arm. After eighteen years of waiting, these final hours were the most torturous of her existence. Allied noble families, genuine well-wishers, distant rtive after distant rtive, she was required to shake their hand, listen to their prattle and smile endlessly through all of it, no matter how much she wanted to scream. Despite her iron will, she couldnt prevent her gaze from wandering to the chapel door at one end of the grand ballroom.


    It was <em>in there</em>, she was <em>so close</em>.


    She would be patient, she had no other choice.


    stor Erryn was in his element. These were his people, and none in the room could boast the same level of Authority as he possessed. Everyone wanted to please him, and he yed them against each other expertly, dropping hidden clues to one branch family, hinting at favour towards another. It was a masterful performance, and were she not so distracted, Recillia would have been eager to unpack his methods.


    In a quiet moment, her uncle turned to her, and she braced herself against the weight of that gaze.


    As the Lord of the Erryn family, I have many responsibilities, he said softly, for her ears only, but do you know what the most important is?


    Was this a test? Recillia schooled her features as she thought rapidly. Every Lord and Lady of the noble houses had innumerable responsibilities. Finances, the maintenance of the household,nds, the security of the empire against the Rifts, management of the magisters, taxes,ws, upholding the will of the Emperor, heeding the words of the Oracles.


    Thatst thought led her to another.


    To represent Divinity, she replied, eyes levelled at his own.


    If he approved, or did not, his face revealed nothing.


    Every noble house can trace their lineage back to the five divines. We are more than their representatives on this ne, we are their flesh and blood, stor said gravely. My Authorityes directly from their hands, and I must use it as they would have it used. I must act as they would have me act. More than any priest, any Bishop, <em>I </em>am an instrument of Divinity. This is our first and most important task.


    Lessons such as this one had been drilled into Recillia since she was child. Divine blood flowed through her veins.


    And the Oracles? Are you closer to the gods than they? she asked.


    Lord Erryns eyes flickered.


    The Oracles are the mouths of the gods. I am one of their hands.


    As hering of age celebration continued, Recillia pondered those words until the fateful moment arrived atst. The vast door set in the centre of the wall swung open, revealing the chapel within, her father in full robes, and a gleaming, bright Awakening stone.


    At the sight of it, the breath caught in her throat, and it filled her gaze. She was barely cognizant of anything else in the room.


    Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd and her uncle led her to the doors, followed by everyone else in attendance. They gathered in a broad arc as her father stepped forward.


    She was certain he spoke words of importance, dering the solemnity of the asion, but she didnt hear them, her eyes were on the stone. Finally, he ced a hand on her shoulder and walked her forward until they both stood within the holy ce, the great doors swinging shut behind them.


    Then he flicked her ear.


    Ow! she said, snapping back to awareness. "What was that for?


    There you are, he smiled humourlessly at her. I dont me you, I was exactly the same when my time came.


    He turned to gaze at the Awakening stone with aplicated expression on his face. This was where his life in the clergy had begun, and where the door to real power had been mmed in his face.


    Im supposed to do a shitload of ceremonial stuff, he said tly, but you know how it all goes already.


    He gestured to the dazzling stone before them. It gleamed like a diamond, but was a perfect sphere, sitting atop a crystal cushion, mounted on a pir in the centre of the room.


    We Erryns are descendants of the Goddess, Selene, and this Awakening stone was granted to our family over two thousand years ago, directly from her hands. When you ce your hands upon it, you will be judged by her.


    His hand tightened upon her shoulder.


    I dont need to tell you what it will mean if you seed, daughter.


    <em>Or if I fail</em>.


    He gave her a light push, and Recillia stumbled forward. Now that the moment had finally arrived, she was almost unsure what to do. Almost.


    Hesitation washed away as steely determination entered her gaze. Two steps forward, her skirts swishing around her ankles, then she reached out with two hands, closed her eyes, and nted them on the stone.


    Awareness fled. The Chapel was gone, the Erryn estate was gone. The <em>realm</em> was gone.


    Recillia floated in a space of pure, white light. From a vast distance, a voice spoke to her, iprehensibly beautiful, and utterly Divine.


    <em>Recillia Erryn. I see you, and judge you worthy. You will bear my mantle, and receive a portion of my divine Authority. Serve me well, as I know you will.</em>


    <em>You have received the ss: Noble.</em>


    <em>Children of the Gods and bearers of their blessings, Nobles are the administrators of the realm and the hands of the Divines. To increase in proficiency, you must tend your Authority and wield it in the service of the Five.</em>


    The moment she came back to herself, she turned, eyes wide, to see her father watching her closely.


    A grim smile spread across his face.


    Well. This makes things interesting, he said.


    Soon after, she emerged from the chapel, and the crowd took an involuntary step back. Because they felt the change in her. Although it was weak, barely formed, and could not be wielded intentionally, Authority blossomed from her, brushing against them.


    Her gaze met her uncles. His mouth was set in a thin, hard line.


    Congrattions, he said.

 Chapter B3C67 - Bindings

    Chapter B3C67 - Bindings


    <em>Present day</em>


    Recillia kept herself still and regal. Back straight, eyes steady, she projected confidence, her Authority restrained but ever present, held against her skin like armour. Over her left shoulder, her father was struggling to match herposure, muttering under his breath and shifting his weight.


    Without a change in expression, she lifted one leg and trod on his foot, driving the heel in painfully. He grunted and opened his mouth, but she turned her head ever so slightly and he wisely shut it again.


    <em>This is why you were deemed unworthy. Even in the face of the greatest beasts of the rift, you must not flinch.</em>


    Not that anything had evere from the rifts that were remotely as dangerous as the people in this room. Hopefully, her fathers signs of weakness had gonergely unseen.


    It was a foolish hope, and she tossed it away the moment she recognised it. The gathered Lords and Ladies of the great houses were masters of the game; they would be circling like sharks were it not for the protocol that kept them locked in ce.


    Movement to her left drew her attention, yet she did not shift her gaze, keeping it locked dead ahead. Five metres across thevish path, Nostas Jorlin, heir apparent of the house of Jorlin, met her eyes levelly. Did she detect a slight curve to his lip? Smiling? Here? He wouldnt dare. That coward had never taken a risk in his entire life. Hed never had to.


    With steely determination, she firmed her gaze until it was sharp enough to bore a hole in an enchanted diamond, daring him to match her will.


    <em>Youll never win. Youck hunger. Break, or I </em>will <em>break you.</em>


    Predictably, the Jorlin heir could not hold. A small surge of triumph was quickly suppressed as the lordling turned his eyes ever so slightly. A meaningless victory, there were more important things to fight for here.


    To her left and right, heads of houses were lined up along with their heirs, bishops behind each one, deep within the grand cathedral. Divine powery thick in the air, with so many of those chosen by the gods stood in one ce, but there were those for whom even they had to show respect.


    The great doors swung open soundlessly to reveal the Deacon, dressed in his full finery and holding the staff of his office. With great solemnity, he raised his staff and brought it down, sending a resounding boom echoing throughout the chamber. One, two, three, four five times the sound resonated, so deep Recillia could feel it in her belly.


    As thest vibrations ceased, each and every noble bowed deeply at the waist, lowering their eyes to the floor, where they froze. Slowly, the Deacon began to walk, his staff held before him with two hands, Divine light radiating from the holy symbol set at the tip. Behind him came those who were the true subject of this ceremony. There were five of them, all but one robed from head to toe, only their mouths uncovered. The other was dressed for mourning, in ck robes that covered them entirely.


    In single file they walked, shuffling along the path, the highest nobles of the western province bowing at their passage. As they approached, Recillia felt a pressure weighing down upon her and she firmed her resolve. When the Deacon became level with her, she was fighting to keep sweat from forming on her brow. Her Authority, powerful, irresistible under normal circumstances, now quaked under the light of an even greater power.


    When the robed figures themselves drew close, that feeling intensified, to the point of bing suffocating. With intense focus, she drew air in through her nose. Shallow breaths, gently, it was only the way to get air into her body.


    Thankfully, they didnt pause and continued their stately march. Once theyd passed, the pressure eased and she was able to breathe easily again. Nevertheless, Recillia found herself shaken by the experience. Never before had she felt so hopelessly outmatched in Divine Favour, not since her Ascension.


    It was one thing to know who these people were, a very different thing to experience it for herself.


    When he reached the end of the path, the Deacon raised his staff and repeated the ritual, bringing it down five times once again. As the reverberations faded, he lowered himself to his knees, ced the staff t before him, then pressed his face to the floor.


    Upon that dais, was a ce not even he, the most senior church official in the province, was allowed to set foot.


    The five figures approached, then ascended the steps, only pausing when they had taken their ce upon the dais.


    Now a new figure stepped into the light.


    The Baron strode down the path, ornate robes glittering with perhaps too much finery to be considered good taste.


    Ten steps before he would draw level, he paused, then knelt, crossing his hands across his chest.


    Kneel and receive the words of the Gods, he intoned.


    At his words, Recillia smoothly bent her knees and pressed her forehead to the floor. As unustomed as they were to being ced in such a position, not a single member of the nobility hesitated. Disobedience in a ce such as this was simply unthinkable. Who would defy the gods themselves?


    Thick silence descended upon the chamber as every individual, no matter how great or how lowly in the hierarchy, could scarcely bring themselves to breath.


    The Oracles were about to speak.


    She saw nothing except the woven carpet before her eyes, but Recillia listened intently, unwilling to let a syble go unheard.


    <em>There is a corruption within the Western Province, burrowed into the heart of this great city, like a worm coring an apple.</em>


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    She didnt know which of them spoke, she didnt want to know. Those words rippled through the air and drilled into her ears with an unnatural pressure. She clenched her teeth against the pain. To make a sound would shame her house for a generation. She would sooner bite off her tongue.


    Another spoke this time, a female speaker, yet the inexplicable weight of the words was the same.


    <em>Unholy practices have spread like wildfire across the empire. Long-dormant forces are stirring to disrupt our great works.</em>


    Her heart thudded in her chest and she thought she tasted blood, but Recillia would not break.


    <em>Our sight is clouded. The cause must be rooted out.</em>


    Recillias eyes bulged. A shocking admission from the Oracles. Their divine sight was <em>clouded</em>? How? Why?! She could feel the shock ripple through the gathered nobles, but none disturbed the ceremony.


    <em>As our hands, it is your ce to act. This province must be purified.</em>


    As thest words were spoken the pressure eased atst. She heard some crumpling sounds, as though several people had copsed to the ground. Who could it have been? Everyone was kneeling. Everyone except the Oracles themselves.


    Rise, the Baron said, his voice tense.


    As she stood, Recillia chanced a look toward the dias and saw four of the Oracles had copsed. The fifth member, dressed in all ck, tended to them,ying them outfortably.


    Bow, the Baronmanded.


    Again, the gathered nobility bowed at the waist.


    Depart in silence, their leader intoned.


    Minds buzzing with what they had heard, the nobles left, turning toward the distant entrance along with the partner across the path and moving quietly, not allowing their steps to echo through the stone hall.


    ~~~


    Uncle, what is <em>happening</em>?


    stor, Lord of house Erryn, frowned ever so slightly, but did not reprimand his niece for her words. A clear sign of his own unease.


    Something rare. Something unusual. We must tread carefully, my niece. There is great danger and great opportunity in this moment. We may rise or fall on these turbulent waters.


    All around, subdued conversations simr to her own were urring as shellshocked nobles consulted their most trusted rtives and allies.


    From the grand cathedral, the Baron had ordered all attendees to assemble in a nearby chamber. Nobody would be allowed to leave until decisions had been made on how to proceed.


    Recillia felt her heart elerate in her chest as she cast her eyes around the room. The most powerful people in the western province were gathered here, a rare asion in itself, but the tension in the air, the <em>unease</em>, was a new experience. Even her uncle, normally a rock of confidence and power, held himself still, as if afraid any movement couldpromise his position.


    Sweating and visibly nervous, her father made his way to them as the other Bishops, having finished their own rituals, began to filter into the room.


    Are the Oracles alright? she asked before he could say anything inane.


    He nced at her, irritated.


    Theyre fine. Communing with the gods and speaking on their behalf is draining. To qualify as an Oracle, they must be exceedingly durable against Divine influence.


    If what they went through was more painful than just listening to them speak, it was unsurprising they copsed.


    Itll be weeks until theyre well enough to do anything so difficult again, her father went on, but they will be cared for here at the Cathedral to the best of our ability. Now lets forget about the Oracles and focus on <em>what they fucking said</em>. Corruption? Blinded? What is going on here, stor?


    Calm yourself, Recillia snapped. We must project the proper air in a moment of crisis like this. Do you <em>want</em> the family to look weak?


    With some difficulty, the Bishop managed to master himself as his eyes darted around the room.


    I thought the politics of the Church was bad enough. This is suffocating.


    Youve been swimming with goldfish, brother. This is a pool of sharks, Lord Erryn said coldly. Try to be an asset, and control your reactions.


    Face darkening at the criticism, her father nevertheless drew himself up and snapped, Well, what can we expect to happen next?


    stor turned his gaze toward the Baron, who stood surrounded by six of his closest confidants. All senior members of his court, members of his own family or trusted advisors.


    The words of the Oracles could be interpreted in several ways, Lord Erryn began softly. Corruption in the city could refer to infiltrators, criminal enterprise, or even political malfeasance. Of all the people in this room, the one who is most damaged by these revtions is the Baron. He will be desperate to be seen as doing all he can to resolve this problem.


    I expect I will be called upon soon then, Recillia said.


    stor nodded.


    Your position among the Magisters will be crucial to keep the yers in line. If the Baron isnt a fool, and he usually isnt, then he will act swiftly to try and root out the cause of this corruption. Officers of thew will be appointed with sweeping powers. The church willunch a purge to hunt down unbelievers. There will be a crackdown of the yers. Even the nobility will not be spared. I hope your books are in order, brother.


    As clean as your own, Ive no doubt, her father sniped.


    Then you are in trouble, stor smiled grimly, his eyes locked on the huddle around the Baron. Luckily, I instructed the staff to straighten out the crooked edges when I heard the Oracles wereing.


    We need to choose a side, Recillia stated, and her uncle nodded while her father looked confused.


    The Baron is under pressure. If his response is deemed to be insufficient, then he is likely to be dismissed from his post and a new leader promoted in his ce. The Emperor is unlikely to tolerate ipetence in the face of such direct words from the gods.


    So if he seeds


    Then he will solidify his power and rise in the eyes of the court. But if he fails


    ... Then we need to be in position to rece him, her father finished the thought.


    Thanks to Recillias position, our family will be drawn into events regardless of what we do. Its likely the Baron will seek to rece you with someone more loyal eventually, but in the short term, such a decision would do more harm than good, stor observed. If we are careful, we can present ourselves aspetent, part of the solution, directly involved, yet not closely allied with the Baron. From there, we can seek advantage no matter what urs.


    I trust I will have the full support of the family then, uncle? Recillia asked.


    He smiled humorlessly.


    Of course. The reputation of the family will depend on your actions during this time.


    He broke off as the Baron stepped forward, grim-faced, into the centre of the room, raising his voice.


    My lords anddies, if I can have your attention, please. The Oracles have delivered us a troubling Divine statement. <em>As the hands of the Gods, it is our ce to act, </em>and act we shall. The heretics will be purged and the corruption will be annihted. Of that, there is no doubt. Can the following nobles please gather here to me so that we might discuss the immediate steps that need to be taken.


    He began to call names, and one by one, various officials and heads of houses made their way to him. When her own name was called, Recillia allowed no flicker of emotion to cross her face. Instead, she stepped smoothly and purposefully to the Baron.


    This was an opportunity, for the family, and for her. She would <em>not</em> fail.

 Chapter B3C68 - Beehive

    Chapter B3C68 - Beehive


    It took Tyron several weeks before he managed to fall into a steady equilibrium. Working on the enchantments necessary to keep his store running, teaching Flynn, reestablishing contacts with his suppliers and generally ensuring every aspect of his life as Lukas Almsfield was once again ticking along smoothly.


    It was shocking to him just how quickly the edges began to fray after so short a time out of the city. Then again, his connections here were rtively new. It took years to build trust, especially in an industry like enchanting. Picking up and leaving for an extended period so soon after establishing himself was an extraordinary thing to do in the eyes of the businessmunity, but here he was already nning his second trip.


    Over this time, Elsbeth kept in regr contact, keeping him in the loop regarding her fellow underground dark priests and their movements. More and more, they were extracting their people from farmingmunities, viges and cities around the province. Picking them up and moving them away from civilisation, heading further out west.


    It was likely that after another few months had passed, the poption of Cragwhistle would double <em>again</em>. Ortan would doubtless be pulling his hair out at the constant influx of new residents, but Tyron took no joy in the thought. He was ufortable with how those people looked at him, ufortable with how the Old Gods had made them regard him.


    He was no saviour and he didnt imagine for one second that he was. If he could achieve his vengeance by throwing those people into the line of fire, then he would. Perhaps that was even what Raven, Rot and Crone wanted, which gave him pause.


    The steadier and smoother life as Lukas Almsfield became, the more freedom he had to indulge in his true purpose, and Tyron threw himself into it with wild abandon.


    Only the frequent intervention of Elsbeth kept him to anything remotely like a schedule. Thanks to her incessant mothering, he managed to keep himself rested, fed and clean despite spending almost all of the night hours locked in his study, working on his minions.


    Interestingly, he found he made better progress when he was actually taking care of himself. Who could have foreseen such a thing?


    Tyron looked around the Ossuary, smiling with satisfaction. Twenty skeletons, each a product of his current and most advanced preparation methods, now soaking in pure and concentrated Death Magick. These would be his first skeleton mages, simple undead with the Death Bolt spell engraved on their minds. In preparation, he had gone to great lengths to ensure they were capable of power sharing on a level far beyond his regr minions.


    With a final check, he stepped through the door and into a different realm. His study was more spacious now that he no longer needed twenty bs toy the remains on, but that room had quickly been usurped by histest obsession: bone constructs.


    Using what hed learned from the Sand People, he was quicklying to understand that even with his current abilities, he was capable of creating much more than hed imagined. Closing the door behind him, he was quickly surrounded by piles of bones, half-formed, partially moulded skulls, scores of discarded cores and abandoned experimentalworks.


    I really need to clean up in here, he sighed, looking at the stray materials.


    Long nights had been spent crafting, theorising and tinkering. Now that preparing the remains took so much less time, he had much more free time to pursue his avenues of enquiry, and for now, all of that time was sunk into exploring the potential of these constructs.


    He looked from one discarded test to the next. This one hadnt drawn power efficiently enough. That one had proven to be too thin to support the power output he needed. He still hadnt discovered all the variables he needed to nail down. How dense should he make the bones? Which bones were best for which purpose? How could ambient mana be safely converted without burning out the channels in his arrays? How many arrays was optimal? Which cores should he use?


    These and a dozen other questions thundered through his head, and he was progressing on all of them, but it was slow going. Part of the problem was that he didnt know what was actually possible.


    As he sat down at his desk, letting out a long sigh, he pulled histest notes toward him. On one page, hed written a list of his greatest ambitions for his current enquiries. In the best case scenario, what would be possible?


    The list was popted with fanciful, wishful things that likely were impossible.


    <em>A mobile engine capable of providing power to a thousand skeletons.</em>


    <em>Bone giant.</em>


    <em>Bone-spearuncher.</em>


    <em>Darkness generator.</em>


    And more. Ideas for generating power, ideas for storing it, ideas for using it in powerful and destructive ways. All of it was possible, to some extent. He could probably fuse together multiple skeletons to create a bone construct twice the size of a person, but it would be hideously inefficient. To work out if it would be worth the expense in materials and the truly massive drain of Death Magick it would require to move, he would have to build one and test it. Several designs could be found already on the scattered pages around him, but which to use?


    It waste, and Tyron had be better at realising when he was starting to push further than was healthy. Before he could be tempted into picking up a pen, he pushed his chair back and rose again. His shoulders and arms cracked pleasantly as he stretched, before he ascended back up, out the secret door and then into his quarters.


    There would be more time to continue investigating his theories the next day, so he made sure to eat, drink, and wash himself before turning in to get a few hours of sleep before his staff would arrive in the morning.


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    However, the next day did not go as he had thought it would.


    The summons came shortly after breakfast, and Tyron barely had time to put his formal robes on before he found himself at the foot of the Magisters tower. This was his fifth visit to the dreaded red tower, but the security measures had only grown more strict, it appeared. Tyron was forced to produce his status four times, as well as strip down to small clothes to be carefully inspected by an altogether too thorough guard, before he was allowed to enter the tower itself.


    Inside, Tyron was greeted by the young lordling, Regis Shan, and a flurry of activity. Even here, on the ground floor, filled with maze-like corridors, it was clear things were not normal. The tower was like a kicked hos nest, buzzing with activity. Beyond the regr, red uniformed guards Tyron was used to seeing, he noticed other soldiers, dressed in the Barons livery, marching up and down the halls.


    As the young Magister Regis led him through the corridors, Tyron thought furiously, watching everything. Something had happened, something had changed, clearly. When he hade to the tower previously, there had been a faint feeling of mise, ofcency, but now they were stirred up. There was urgency in the hurried way young trainees rushed through the corridors, and there was tension in the faces of everyone he saw.


    His guide did not give him any opportunity to speak or ask questions, setting a brisk pace through the twists and turns, then up the stairs as they ascended to the next level. In short order, he found himself outside Lady Erryns office, a feeling of trepidation in his chest.


    Lord Shan he began.


    Dont talk, the young lord shook his head sharply. We dont have much time.


    <em>For what?</em>


    The question followed naturally, but Tyron didnt ask it, heeding the request to remain silent. Regis reached out and knocked firmly, then held himself still as he waited to be acknowledged. A voice called from within and he pushed open the door, indicating Tyron should enter.


    Once again, the Necromancer found himself faced with a real Noble, the Lady Recillia Shan, and her opulent office. Much like the rest of the tower, a change in tone had swept through this ce also.


    No longer did thedy sit alone behind her desk. Furniture and disys had been moved to make way for more desks, behind which administrators poured through documents. Lady Erryn herself appeared unruffled, yet her own work area wasden with documents, and several men and women stood waiting on her words.


    A quiet, feverish air hung heavy in this room, muttered conversations and whispered questions kept the volume low, but the pace remained high. The Lady murmured to this person and that, pointing at the pages in front of her here and there, asking questions, seeking rification. Several people were dismissed, and then Tyron stood at the front of the line.


    Please approach the desk, the Noble instructed, and Tyron stepped forward as close as he deemed appropriate.


    His expression was polite and expectant, his posture subservient and willing. To the outside observer, he was honoured to be here and eager to help in whatever way the tower deemed necessary.


    Within him was a storm of fury and rage. He felt as if the blood in his veins cried out for vengeance. This woman needed to be <em>dead</em>!


    How may I serve, Lady Erryn? he asked quietly, executing a reasonably elegant bow.


    As he rose, the sensation he had been dreading came once more. Like a needle driven hard into leather, an invisible force mmed into the mour that covered his features. There was no change in his expression, no shift in his breathing, yet Tyron sweated as he felt the magick bend under that pressure, stronger than it had been the first time.


    Yet it did not break.


    <em>Thank you, Dark Ones. Thank you, Elsbeth!</em>


    Had his false-face cracked here, there is no doubt he would be dead in seconds, or worse.


    Giving no sign anything had happened, Recillia leaned back in her chair for a moment, letting the pen drop from her hand for the first time since hed entered.


    Your reputation continues to grow within the Arcanistmunity, Master Lukas Almsfield. Master Willhem speaks highly of you, as do all of those for whom youve performedmission work. My own Magisters are pleased with what youve done for us, indeed, they marvel at your expertise.


    Tyron bowed low once more.


    Many thanks, Lady Erryn. My talents are narrowly focused, but in those areas in which I specialise, I believe I can im to be exceptional.


    Quite, the noblewoman said shortly. She reached out for a page and gathered it smoothly, holding it out to him in one motion. We foresee a significant rise in demand for enchanting work which will outstrip the capacity of our in-house Arcanists. Would you be willing to take on moremissions for the Magisters tower?


    A natural smile bloomed across the Necromancer''s face.


    I would be delighted.


    She nodded as he took the page from her. A quick scan revealed what they wanted him to do. Significant sections of the towers defences would be undergoing maintenance, upgrades, or being redone entirely. As a conduit expert, his list of tasks was extensive, having him hop from array to array to ensure they were as efficient and self-contained as possible.


    If you agree to undertake this work for us, I will require you to be bound by tighter restrictions than before. If you are willing, I will apply these restrictions now.


    Without hesitation, Tyron epted. Immediately, he was overwhelmed with Divine Authority. His blood pounded in his ears and his vision went fuzzy as the words spoken by the noble before him thundered within his brain.


    <strong>By my Authority. You will not speak on what you have learned here. You will not share what has been discussed, what you have seen or heard, through any means. You will work to the betterment of the Magisters and the Nobility,pleting themissioned work to the best of your ability. You will not betray this trust. Should you fail to heed thismand, your heart will cease to beat, and you shall die. Divines make it so.</strong>


    The words wrapped around him like invisible chains, tightening and binding him in ways he did not fully understand. When he came back to himself, he had managed to retain his bnce, though he had clutched at the Ladys desk to keep himself upright. With a muttered apology, he stepped back and straightened himself.


    You may go. Magister Regis Shan will be your point of contact going forward. He will let you know when you are required to attend the Tower, and be responsible for ensuring yourmissions are fulfilled.


    Just like that, he was dismissed. Tyron bowed low once more, then turned and made his exit. Outside, he found the lordling waiting, looking none too pleased.


    You epted the terms? he asked tly.


    I did. I take it you are to be my associate for the next while.


    The young man grunted, making it clear he didnt appreciate the connection. He turned to walk away, remarking over his shoulder as he went, You look happy about this turn of events.


    Indeed, it was difficult for Tyron to keep the grin off his face.


    Oh. I am always happy to serve.

 Chapter B3C69 - Labours of the Loyal

    Chapter B3C69 - Labours of the Loyal


    I didnt expect to see <em>you</em> here, of all people.


    Tyron leaned back from the lens he was looking through, putting his pliance down as he turned with a smile to greet the neer. Short, dressed in a humble-looking shirt and pants with an irritated scowl on her face, Master Willhems greatest apprentice looked much the same as she did thest time hed seen her.


    Back at you, Annita Halfshard scoffed. Have the Magisters really grown so desperate theyd bring in a barely qualified hack like you?


    Well, if Im good enough to fix <em>your</em> conduits, then I must be good enough to fix theirs.


    You didnt <em>fix</em> my conduits.


    I <em>improved </em>them, then.


    Fine.


    She rolled her eyes and approached his bench to look over his shoulder. The other Arcanists in the workshop had reacted strangely to her appearance, almost recoiling as she drew near.


    Master Halfshard did have a mixed reputation within the profession. An undoubtedly top ss expert, but irascible and prickly. There was no need to draw her ire if it wasnt necessary.


    And of course its transmission work, she chuckled, leaning closer to peer at his work through the lens. Oh, shit! Is that an error there? This <em>rah</em> glyph. Its misaligned.


    She smirked, pleased to have found an error. Tyron only shook his head.


    Im transmitting fire magick with this array.


    So?


    So, if the <em>rah</em> was ced any closer


    It would burn out. Damn you, Lukas Almsfield. Can you fuck up <em>one</em> time?


    At this? No. If I attempted to do any of the thousand things you can do better than me? Absolutely. Endlessly.


    Much like he did while working with his more advanced death magick constructs. There had been many, many mistakes, but also a great deal of progress. Failure was a teacher, as Master Willhem had often said.


    Well, get up off your backside, I need you for something.


    Tyron pushed his seat back and rose, ncing around until he found Regis Shan standing nearby, looking bored.


    Do you know anything about this, Magister Shan?


    It takes a second for the lordling to get his bearings, standing around watching Tyron work had been unspeakably dull, and some days he almost fell asleep on the job.


    Is this Master Halfshard?


    Yes. She wants me to go and work with her. I wanted to make sure I cleared it with you first.


    Annita rolled her eyes before jabbing a thumb at Tyron while she spoke to his handler.


    Ive been asked to go upstairs and work on some stuff. Without a capable assistant, she emphasised the word <em>assistant</em>, prodding Tyron in the chest, itll take twice as long. This guy is good enough that I trust him to handle transmission and conduits for me.


    Another magister hurried into the room, wheezing. It appeared as though Annita had rushed off, leaving the poor fellow, who appeared to be advanced in age gasping in her wake.


    Master Halfshard he gasped, we have just one moment.


    He gathered his breath, sweating heavily in his robes.


    We have arranged for our best Arcanists to assist you. There should be no need for extra help.


    Master Halfshard frowned.


    Did any of them graduate with a rmendation from Master Willhem? she asked forthrightly.


    It was a pointless question. Only two people had ever received Willhems blessing uponpleting their apprenticeship, and they were presently standing next to each other in this workshop.


    Well, no. They havent, the old man muttered, reddening in the face, but their skills should not be dismissed. These Magisters work on the most powerful and secretive enchantments in the empire.


    Tyrons heart slowed in his chest. He was talking about the brands. He <em>had</em> to be talking about the brands. Everyone suspected that they were controlled from somewhere within the Red Tower, but other than the Magisters themselves, who could confirm it?


    Obviously, they know things I dont, but its the level of <em>execution</em> I question. Ive beenmissioned to work on very specific things, none of which involve your particr duties as magisters, Annita pointed out with some distaste.


    She wasnt here to touch whatever the Magisters used to control the brands, there was no chance they would allow anyone, not even Master Willhem himself, to touch something so sensitive. That meant it was probably more trap work, or dampening, or energy gathering, or any of the other thousands of enchantments built into the stone around the Magisters tower.


    The senior mages in the tower hemmed and hawed for a while before they reluctantly agreed to ask even more senior mages, who also dyed. It wasnt until Annita started visibly fuming that they got their act together and granted permission for her to use him as an assistant for the work she had beenmissioned to do.


    Of course, it wasnt that simple, it never was with the Magisters. There were more checks, additional security, yet more supervision and scrutiny before either of them were allowed anywhere near a staircase. Yet, to his surprise, Master Halfshard got her way. That went to show just how highly she was regarded, only a half-step lower than Willhem himself. If the magisters were willing to bend this far to amodate her wishes, then they were serious indeed about securing the best possible talent.


    Do you have any idea whats brought on this flurry of work here in the tower? Tyron murmured as they marched up the steps. Ive asked a few questions, but nobody seems willing to give any answers.


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    I dont know, and I dont care, she replied, eyes hard. The only reason I agreed to amission with the Red Tower is because I was getting bored pumping out high-end toys for rich children who dont deserve them. My skills arent improving, so I need new challenges. Thats it.


    Tyron had, of course, been doing a lot more digging, and he didnt like what hed found. The Magisters were active in a way they hadnt been for decades, but that wasnt all. Marshalls were being recalled, imperial soldiers had been seen outside the castle, even the <em>priests</em> were acting suspicious.


    There was a shakeuping, a big one. Perhaps someone had gotten wind of the fomenting rebellion and were looking to crack down? It was usible. Which would mean his maniptions of Magister Poranus were dramatically less likely to slip under the radar. Another problem on his list.


    Finally, the small group crested the end of the stairwell and found themselves in an open, rtively sparse part of the tower. Tyron had never been this high up before, this had to be almost halfway to the top. Strange fluctuations and magicks could be felt thrumming in the air around him, and excitement coiled in his belly. Who knew what secrets he might glimpse up here? What he might be able to get his nimble fingers on?


    Shall we get to work, then? he suggested, smiling at the dour-faced, red-robed magisters standing around them.


    A workshop has been prepared, the old man wheezed, gesturing for Annita and Lukas to follow him.


    Now that she had a chance to do some enchanting, a change came over Annita, one he had seen before. It was almostical how much she resembled their Master. Surly and irascible almost all the time, but almost childlike in their enthusiasm for the Arcanists art.


    Tyron himself felt like he was bashing his head against a wall with his current projects; he simply didnt have enough experience handling the levels of power he needed. Not to mention fitting so much magick, performing so many different functions, into such a confined space without interfering with each other. His speciality was maximising trickles of power,bining them, preventing loss, until they formed a stable flow.


    What his current ideas required were <em>rivers</em> of arcane energy. Wrangling such rich streams of magick into arrays was exactly the kind of high-end enchanting he had avoided.


    He was making progress, but it was <em>slow</em>. Too slow.


    He eyed Annita sideways as she strode toward the workshop, a slight grin on her face.


    She was looking for a new challenge, was she? Perhaps


    ~~~


    Yor.


    Tyron, a pleasure as always. What brings you to my <em>humble </em>abode today?


    As if there was anything humble about the Red Pavillion. Hed deliberately made sure to arrive as close to dawn as possible, to avoid the worst of the crowds, and ensure his host wouldnt be at her most energetic.


    Hed never actually seen where she went during the day, had neverid eyes on her at rest. Quite a deliberate choice on her part. Given the current mood between them, were he to find a sleeping Yor, she would be likely to wake up in the middle of a bonfire.


    The Necromancer red at her, openly hostile, not caring to conceal his anger. For her part, dressed in an alluring red dress with her midnight ck hair pulled back to reveal her neck and shoulders, the monster appeared as ravishing as always. Seeing his anger, she merely smiled.


    Why, thats quite a <em>passionate</em> look you are sending my way, Tyron. I dont <em>recall</em> doing anything to deserve such ire.


    The way she stressed the word <em>recall</em>, openly mocking him for being unable to remember what had been done to him. It was infuriating. It was also bait.


    I remember Im fucking pissed, Yor, that suffices for me.


    Such a shame. I felt we had developed a <em>special</em> bond.


    I didnt, and you proved me correct. Can we move beyond this posturing? Whatever you managed to leave in my head is there until I figure out a way to get rid of it, and in return, you have earned my enmity. It is what it is.


    The vampire hesitated for the briefest possible moment, perhaps taken by surprise he was willing to be this forthright.


    I have to admit, she said slowly, I didnt expect to see you quite so soon.


    So soon after <em>what</em>? Yor?


    She smiled thinly.


    What brings you to my door, then, Tyron? More blood tablets? I hear they are bleeding you dry over at the Magisters tower. So <em>many</em> status checks. Whatever could they be up to?


    Information, Tyron said. I know youve snaked your fingers into every crevice you can reach in Kenmor. You know a lot more about whats going on than I do.


    Yor blinked, then sat back in her seat, the colour of her eyes shifting from a lighter ruby into a deeper red, like carmine.


    A trade, then? What are you proposing?


    Once again, she did him the courtesy of letting the mask slip, setting free the unfeeling monster who sat behind the facade. It was chilling, sitting across from her. There was no emotion in this creature, nothing real. Except, perhaps, her thirst.


    Theres something big going on in the city. The Magisters are acting like a hive poked with a stick. Security is bordering on paranoid around every secure area in Kemor. Something has spooked everyone from the nobles down. I dont know what it is, and I dont know what they intend to do. You can fix that.


    She smiled, revealing her fangs.


    I can.


    I presume there is a price.


    She narrowed her eyes.


    Its rather bold of you toe in here, into myir, with such a contemptuous air about you, Tyron. I would have thought your recent experience would have taught you a little <em>fear</em>.


    Tyron grinned humorlessly in her face.


    Ive seen what dealing with you respectfully will get me. No thanks.


    If you thought that was bad, you are mistaken. It can be <em>so. Much. Worse.</em>


    Tyron pressed his hands to the table and stood, sighing.


    Clearly, this was a waste of time. If you arent interested in giving me the information I seek, then I will have to find it elsewhere.


    Now, Yor allowed herself a slight smirk.


    You think youll find someone as adept as <em>vampires</em> at hunting down secrets? I know everything that goes on in this city. Everything.


    The Necromancer turned to leave.


    Oh, I agree with you, vampires are certainly unparalleled at ferreting out secrets from mortals.


    He would never forget just how easily the creature in front of him had woven the nobles around her fingers.


    I just need to bargain with another coven, he finished, smiling over his shoulder. After all, you arent the only bloodsuckers in town.


    The atmosphere around Yor changed instantly. No longer icy cold, she became <em>furious</em>.


    There is no chance you have found them, she snarled, rising from her seat.


    Tyron turned back to face her.


    Oh? he said, brow raised. I take that to mean you havent located them yet? How odd.


    Think very carefully before you take this step, Tyron Sterm, she said. Getting between two factions of the Scarlet Court is far more dangerous than you can possibly imagine.


    Oh, so I should remain loyal to your faction? After all the care and consideration youve shown me? Dont be ridiculous.


    She watched him warily, like a beast assessing its prey.


    Have you really found another coven? If you have, then Im willing to trade information. I will tell you what you want to know in exchange for the location.


    In truth, he hadnt located them, not exactly. However, a few things hed noticed had clicked together. The rats in the sewers around his study had continued to grow, an anomaly which eventually led him to investigate one. The whiff of blood magick had been oh so faint, but it had been present.


    As his explorations of the nearby tunnels had widened, he found other clues. Small rodents, exsanguinated and left to rot in the putrid sludge had been a major find. Who else could be bleeding rats dry in the sewers beneath the city? Or employing blood magick against the rodents?


    Tyron grinned.


    Im not sure youre going to like the answer, but I ept the terms.

 Chapter B3C70 - A Dizzying Pace

    Chapter B3C70 - A Dizzying Pace


    Tyron looked down at the squirming rat in his hands. The thing was huge, as rats went, easily three or four times bigger than it should have been. By far thergest specimen hede across in his sojourns into the sewers.


    It reeked of blood magick. A dangerous amount.


    Whoever these bloodsuckers were, they appeared to be growing careless. This much might be enough to be detected on the street above. Any more, and someone was bound to get a sniff of it. Someone other than him, who spent too much time wandering through these septic tunnels.


    <strong>They know</strong>


    It wasnt easy to shave a message into the side of a squirming, giant mutant rat, but hed done the best he could. With a grunt, he tossed the creature away.


    Squeaking furiously, the rodent tumbled through the air before crashing into the narrow stone grating, righting itself and scurrying away. It wasnt much of an introduction, but it would have to suffice. He wasnt foolish enough to try and track down these vampires himself. Here, in the dark sewers, at night? Hed be food before he even saw them.


    Despite selling out their location to an unfriendly, rival coven, he hoped to maintain some level of cooperation with this new group. Anything to gain leverage over Yor and her Mistress.


    Despite how much he hated working with them, thistest deal had proved yet again how valuable the undead beings were. Perhaps he could have learned the same things from the Abyss, but he was still unwilling to pay their prices. Or maybe the Dark Ones could have informed him, but he was already so deeply in their debt that he feared what might happen when the bill came due.


    No time to dwell on it now. Theres a lot to do, he muttered to himself, turning his back on the dank tunnels.


    Back in his study, the proof of hisboursy everywhere. Bones, papers and half-formed constructs littered the ground in unceremonious piles, some dropped right next to the arch of bone that still stood proudly atop the ritual circle in the centre of the open space. Sheets of paper filled with diagrams, roughly sketched arrays and sigils were adhered to the walls in ces, and he ran his eyes across them as he emerged again into the light.


    That was wrong, hed checked it two days ago. This one would fail, he saw it now, the design wasnt capable of handling the energy needed. <em>That</em> one was the worst of all. Overdesigned, borate, missing the elegance and simplicity all truly brilliant solutions required. Would it work? Maybe, but it wasnt enough for Tyron to cobble together something that merely functioned. It had to function <em>well</em>.


    With a sigh, he tore down all of the scraps and crushed them to a ball in his hands. With a toss of his wrist, these too joined the growing pile of refuse in the corner of the room.


    <em>This ce is a mess</em>. <em>I cant work like this</em>.


    Splitting his focus in too many directions at once had caused him to be a little sloppy. Half of his time was taken by the Red Tower, working with Annita toplete her tasks, as well as dutifully fulfilling his own. The effort required was not small; the magisters worked him like a dog. When he wasnt being dragged from one ce to another, making corrections, giving advice, or grinding away at cores, he was being grilled by their own Arcanists. Expected to exin every stage in his craft, detail his decision-making process, point out the ws in their designs, they were attempting to wring him dry of knowledge as well as sweat.


    Coming back to the shop, he had to keep up appearances, fill the shelves, engage with his customers and continue to build a backlog of supplies so he could leave again.


    When <em>that</em> was done and night finally fell, into the study he went. Filetta had been able to uphold her end of the bargain, despite the misgivings of her superiors, and the bones had continued to flow. Crafting weapons and armour upied a portion of his time, creating new minions took another, but experimentation with bone constructs took the majority of it by far.


    Before he returned to Cragwhistle, he was determined to unlock at least a portion of the potential he sensed within them. His initial attempt, rudimentary, almost childish in his eyes now, had already been far surpassed, but more needed to be done.


    Although he didnt like to say it, asking Annita Halfshard for advice had doubled his progress. Of course, he couldnt just <em>show</em> her what he was working on, but change a few sigils here and there, and a gathering array for death magick suddenly didnt look quite so illegal. Even just asking her for tips with some of the issues he was running into in general terms was enough for her to point him in the right direction.


    Whatever had happened between her and Willhem must have been serious, because Master Halfshard was clearly the sessor he had longed for all along. She was insightful, possessed a vast knowledge of sigils and their applications, and had razor-sharp instincts for finding the correct solution on the first try. Versatile in ways Tyron could never be, she was a staggering paragon of the Arcanists art.


    If she were to sit in his study for an hour, Tyron was confident he could resolve most of the difficulties he was having. More likely, it would get him arrested and killed, but the thought was nice.


    Reluctantly, he turned away from his desk, and the current iterations of his designs. He would need at least four hours of sleep tonight, and the room was bing cluttered enough that it would soon begin to impede his progress. As he began to gather bones, cores and various other detritus, he cast his mind back to what Yor had revealed to him the previous day.


    <em>Someone kicked the hos nest alright, she grinned. The gods themselves, your Five Divines.</em>


    <em>What? How?</em>


    <em>They have ways and means ofmunicating with their servants here in the mortal realm, much as the Dark Ones do. I havent been able to learn exactly what was said, but the reaction was immediate. Every noble house has been put on alert, every resource avable to the state has been mobilised. They are nning to initiate a city-wide purge. Rooting out corruption, hunting down the evil within their midst.</em>


    Stolen story; please report.


    <em>You dont seem concerned, he observed. Isnt this a risk for your kind as well?</em>


    <em>Her smile deepened.</em>


    <em>We have already taken steps to protect ourselves, with more to follow. As for the filth spreading in the sewers, she grimaced with distaste, perhaps they will be taken care of without my coven having to intervene at all.</em>


    <em>From how vicious she seemed to feel toward other vampires, he rather doubted she would hold herself back.</em>


    <em>I dont suppose youve been able to find out when this might be happening? How much time is left?</em>


    <em>The timetable is being kept in strict confidence by the baron, but you yourself have weaselled your way into the Red Tower, have you not? Surely, you can discern something on your own.</em>


    Unfortunately, he hadnt been able to learn much of anything from the Magisters. They were extremely tight lipped around any of the outsiders working within the tower, and he didnt possess the necessary skill to try and elicit anything from them.


    What this did mean, is that his timetable was much shorter than hed anticipated. Once the Baron initiated his purge, even working within his study, shielded and protected from prying as it was, would no longer be safe. In what time he had remaining, Tyron needed toplete his current projects, bolster his forces, and prepare for his next journey out to Cragwhistle.


    It would only get harder to gain levels as time passed, he had to scramble for everything he could <em>right now</em>. First thing first. He had to finish dealing with this mess.


    ~~~


    You look <em>awful</em>. Have you been taking care of yourself properly?


    Geez, Elsbeth. Nice to see you too.


    The two had met in a nearby tavern, one with a good reputation for serving a decent stew. Though now, as Tyron looked down on it, he thought he detected the faintest trace of what might be blood magick within.


    <em>No wonder this ce is so cheap, if </em>thats<em> where they source the meat.</em>


    Lets skip the stew today, Im not that hungry, he lied.


    Elsbeth frowned.


    You need to eat. I know what you''re like when you get busy.


    I know, I know. Ive been good, I swear. Ill eatter, just not just not this.


    Fine, she pushed her own bowl away before grabbing a bread roll and nibbling on it. You really do look rough, though. Are you <em>sure</em> youre taking care of yourself?


    Youre worse than my aunt. <em>Yes</em>, Ive been sleeping every night and eating at least two meals a day. Ive just been <em>extremely</em> busy. Now, lets not worry about what my schedule looks like and talk about why youve asked me to talk?


    Fine, she pouted slightly. Although it could have been the case that I just wanted to see you. Its been weeks since we spoke.


    But we both know thats not true. Theres a lot happening right now and we <em>both</em> have a lot on our tes.


    His old friend sighed and nodded.


    I <em>would</em> have liked to catch up earlier, but it''s just like you said.


    Elsbeth grew more serious.


    I wanted to tell you that Im leaving Kenmor. Its getting less and less safe for my people here.


    Tyron nodded.


    Ive been wanting to tell you about that, but I suppose you have your own means of finding things out.


    You probably know more than I do, she shook her head, but thats fine. The Venerable has summoned us to his side. My people are leaving their homes all over the province, heading west. Ill be joining them. Which means you are going to be here on your own from now on. Will you be alright?


    The Necromancer blinked in surprise. She was worried about <em>him?</em>


    Ill be fine. This is a dangerous moment, but theres also great opportunity. Ill be in the city for another few weeks, then Ill be heading to Cragwhistle again for training. Who knows? I might actually beat you there if you travel slowly.


    Id rather take my time than use your particr route, she shivered. I dont know which is worse, that I suggested it, or that you actually did it.


    Travelling through the Abyss was not something Tyron would describe as pleasant, or safe, yet the time saved was too valuable to pass up. The deal he had struck with the creature within would still hold, for a time, so at least he wasnt required to provide more sustenance.


    Things are beginning to elerate now, Tyron told her seriously. Its only going to get more difficult and dangerous for you and your people. Make sure youre as careful as you can be. I dont have any doubt arge reason for theing trouble is because of the increased activity of your patrons. Theyll be hunting for people like you.


    His old friend nodded slowly.


    Ive heard stories from the others. This kind of thing has happened before, many times. We go underground, we hide, we run, and we wait it out. Some make it, others dont.


    Her eyes hardened.


    But that was in the past. Things are different this time. <em>They</em> havent been so active at reaching out to their people for nobody knows how long. Theres a chance theyll protect us, shelter us from danger.


    Theres also a good chance they wont, Tyron pointed out. I wouldnt feelfortable leaving my fate to their whims.


    Theyve taken good care of you so far, without asking for much in return, Elsbeth said tartly. Or have you forgotten?


    It was true. Tyron hadnt even realised the extent to which the three had been acting on his behalf. Now that he knew, he wasntforted by that fact. There would be a price.


    They help me because they want something. Not everyone is in a simr position, thats all Im saying.


    The two fell silent for a moment, contemting the strange ce that they found themselves in. Elsbeth had many things on her mind, hadmitted herself to many people, all of whom she hoped to keep safe. Tyron had devoted himself to one thing, and one thing only: vengeance. Even now, the hatred he felt burned steadily in his chest. It was always there, an ever-present fire, threatening to rise like bile up his throat ande pouring out of him.


    That was the fuel that kept him pushing forward.


    I should thank you for all the help youve given me, Elsbeth. Without you, I would be in a terrible state at this point. Thank you.


    She brushed her golden hair back and smiled at him.


    What are friends for? she replied. Things may not have turned out the way we had nned as kids, but I, at least, was always a true friend to you TyLukas.


    In a way, Elsbeth had gotten what she always wanted, to help people, to serve amunity on behalf of those they worshipped. It wasnt the goddess shed expected to serve, nor themunity, but here she was, sacrificing and helping.


    I know that, Tyron said softly. I always knew that.


    He breathed out, then stood up, extending a hand across the table.


    Travel safely, Elsbeth. Ill see you in the West.

 Chapter B3C71 - Breakings pt 1

    Chapter B3C71 - Breakings pt 1


    Filetta eyed the slimy, dripping walls of the sewer with open disgust. She didnt like it down here, yet such a convenientwork of unpatrolled paths was simply too useful to be ignored. Tonight, she felt especially resentful, though that might have been residual distaste from her task for the night.


    Carefully, she pushed that thought to the back of her mind. It wouldnt do to be distracted, not when undertaking important business on behalf of the Guild. Out of habit, she examined her surroundings, eyes scanning for abnormalities, odd behaviour amongst her crew, even without real conscious thought. A habit that had been beaten into her over years on the job.


    One didnt survive long in this line of work without developing keen senses.


    Two more lefts, boss, Halfhand told her, his gruff voice echoing off the damp stone despite his attempt to speak softly.


    He was nervous. She didnt need directions, but hed feltpelled to break the silence, try and relieve some of his tension. Normally, she would smack him down for this, but tonight, she allowed it to pass with only a stern look.


    Its a normal night, gentlemen, she murmured. Shoulder your burdens, and lets get this over with quickly.


    She met each of their eyes one by one, ensuring that they were steady, that their nerves werent too frayed. When she was satisfied, Filetta turned and began to walk once more, treading softly on the narrow walkway beside the flowing muck.


    Everyone had been on edgetely. The marshals had been active, much more active than usual. Just yesterday, the guild had lost a warehouse filled with contraband, the whole thing burned to the ground, six enforcers dead. The higher ups were furious, not only because of the lost profits, which were catastrophic, but because they couldnt identify the leak.


    The entire organisation was rattled. Even the goons like Halfhand had noticed. That didnt fill Filetta with a lot of confidence. When the most thuggish and simpleminded of them were getting cold feet, that meant everyone else was too.


    It was raining this night, the constant drumming of water on stone, and the dull roar of the flow draining down into the tunnels were unwee background noise for the business of the evening. Luckily, it wasnt too heavy; some of the tunnels were known to flood during a heavy downpour. If the river rose up, half thework would be underwater, but that wouldnt happen for a few days, at least.


    As the group rounded thest bend, the thief turned once more to check on her men. They appeared to have calmed, which was good. She didnt want anyone doing anything she didnt expect. Surprises were nobodys friend on a night like this.


    Waiting for them ahead of time, as always, was Elten, cowled as was his custom, his face a mask of shadows in the darkness. She paused for a moment when she noticed something new, something unexpected, beside him.


    It looked to berge, like a cauldron, but covered in ck cloth. Even through the cover, she could see irregr lumps poking into the sheet. What in the realm was that?


    Have you brought a gift for me, Elten? she purred, stepping forward and swaying her hips seductively. I thought you werent interested in maintaining our private rtionship any further.


    The man frowned, and she almostughed at his reaction. She knew hed enjoyed their time together, knew it for a <em>fact</em>, yet still he appeared nothing more than <em>annoyed</em> when she propositioned him. It was such an odd reaction as to beical.


    I havent time, he replied simply.


    Should I be jealous? the thief pouted. Have you found someone else to satisfy you?


    Im working a great deal. Were I to wager, I would bet that you are too. Dreadful fire down on the dock, did you hear?


    She frowned yfully.


    Did you have something to do with any of that?


    Elten raised a silent brow and she chuckled. Of course he hadnt, and if he had, why would he ever admit it?


    He turned his head left and right, as if checking the tunnels on either side. As always, they had met at a crossroad, water sloshing and churning beneath the thick metal grating they stood upon. Filetta kept her face still, the warm smile still stretching her lips.


    The mages shoulders slumped slightly, for he must be some sort of mage, no matter his extraordinary constitution.


    Lets get this over with quickly then, he said, gesturing Filetta toe forward. Things have been getting tense in the city over thest few weeks.


    Not so fast, <em>partner</em>. What is it that you have brought us under that cloth? I don''t want my boys stepping into some sort of magickal trap.


    The mage nced down at the covered object by his side. It wasrge, almosting up to his waist.


    So frightened of a cauldron, Filetta? Think Ill throw stew at you? Here.


    He lifted the cloth to reveal whaty beneath and she leaned forward slightly, her eyes seeing everything through the gloom.


    Smooth, in steel met her eyes, t at the bottom, curved along the sides. It was exactly as it had appeared.


    Why do you have a cauldron in the <em>sewer</em>? she asked, revolted.


    I had to collect it tonight in another part of the city and didnt have time to stow it safely, he muttered, irritation in on his face.


    So why the cloth?


    Im trying to keep the thing clean!


    He covered it once more, but Filetta was satisfied, there shouldnt be any risk to their business. She stepped forward to meet with Elten, standing not two metres apart.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the vition.


    I presume you have payment?


    Of course.


    He withdrew a clinking pouch from his sleeve and tossed it to her. She snagged it deftly from the air before pulling the drawstring and inspecting the contents.


    This is sufficient.


    When have I ever attempted to cheat you? Elten said stiffly.


    Compared to the other clients she had dealt with, he had been a remarkable partner. Never attempted to skimp on payment, or dy, or im to have been cheated. As long as the Guild had delivered what he asked, the man had paid. Exactly the sort of people they liked to work with.


    Unfortunately, all good things had toe to an end.


    Im afraid this is going to be ourst transaction, Elten, Filetta sighed, stepping back and gesturing her men forward. Things are getting too hot in the city right now, so we are nning to lie low for the next while. Things will die down eventually, then we can look to resume our mutually beneficial arrangement.


    He grunted.


    I had a feeling something like this wasing. Theres tension all over the city. Even a recluse like me is hearing things, whispers of trouble brewing in the noble houses.


    Her boys slung down the bags they had carried on their shoulders, deposing them on the grating and stepping back until they had arranged themselves behind their leader.


    Are you going to inspect the goods? Filetta asked, smirking.


    I wont touch anything until you leave, as always, he sighed, not moving from his position.


    Very well. Its been good doing business with you, Elten. I hope I can see you again sometime soon.


    No emotion crossed his hooded face. Eyes t and cold, he replied, Be well.


    With a careless shrug, Filetta turned and led her crew back down the path they hade.


    Except she did not continue.


    With a silent gesture, she directed her boys to keep moving. Halfhand gave her a nod, taking control of the group as she silently padded back along the stone walkway.


    Effortlessly, she melded into the shadows, her feet making no sound as she tread lightly back toward the intersection. Hidden, with all hints of her presence pulled in tight, she watched.


    Elten was listening, head tilted, as he waited for the ten man group to leave. When he was satisfied, he nodded to himself and stepped forward, approaching the nondescript brown sacks.


    Shed always wondered what he did with them, but she had never asked, for obvious reasons, nor would she learn tonight. Elten was never going to collect these bodies. Tonight, he was going to be one.


    She tensed the muscles in her legs, ready to spring, as the mage approached the first sack. Eyes wide, she saw everything in the dim light, her ss abilities perfectly adapting her to these low light conditions. Even the wet stone was not a concern for her; with the grace and dexterity of a cat, she had no chance of slipping.


    As Elten reached down to touch the first bag, she leapt into action, From crouched and still, sheunched into a full sprint in less than a second, keeping her body low and her steps soundless, she drew her de.


    Just like the knife which shed out from the bag, cutting through the thick canvas effortlessly, poisoned steel plunging toward the mages leg.


    Filetta saw only shes of what happened next, it urred so quickly. Instead of falling, clutching at his leg as expected, the mage spun, ripping the cloth from the top of his cauldron, except what he revealed was very different from what she had seen before.


    There was no cold, grey metal, no smooth, curved edges. Shed <em>known</em> it wasnt smooth, so why had she thought it was?


    Grinning skulls, dozens of them, each one moulded into those next to it, gleamed in the cold light, but only for a second. Before she had crossed half of the distance to her target, ck smoke boiled out of the skulls, pouring from their eye sockets, the gap for their nose, even from between their teeth.


    It boiled outwards with unnatural speed, filling the intersection in an instant, and suddenly Filetta couldnt see a thing.


    Damn mages and their tricks! She should have been <em>way </em>more suspicious of the fucking couldron. Was she going senile?


    Even if that first knife hadnt found its mark, she could hear more of her people cutting their way free from the bags, climbing to their feet, daggers at the ready.


    As long as she could close in on him, Elten stood no chance of survival. Blinding her like this was a nice trick, but it wouldnt save him from her knife skills. Growling softly, she rushed forward, eager to catch a glimpse of him.


    <em>He must be running</em>.


    Thats what anyone with half a brain would do, though it wasnt a good choice. Once the Guild decided he needed to die, he was dead; it was that simple.


    Elten wasnt his real identity, but that didnt matter. There were ways and means. He would be found, and ended.


    Not wanting him to escape, she sprinted forward, heedless of whatever obstacles mighte her way. For a moment, she felt as if something had tried to snatch at her foot, a brief moment of resistance, and she frowned before dismissing it.


    That didnt matter. She had to find the mage.


    Snarling, she burst through the edge of the ck cloud, her eyes adjusting instantly to the change in lighting, and once again she saw the sewer as it had been. Shed expected to see Elten running, robes pping as he attempted to get away. What she saw instead made her blood run cold.


    From the running waters of the sewer emerged clutching hands of bone,tching onto the stone and pulling themselves up. Elten stood, not ten metres away, hands raised, soft words rolling from his tongue.


    He was casting! SHIT!


    Her instincts told her to move forward, to close the distance before the spell could bepleted, but thats when the first scream rang out from behind her. For a brief moment, she wavered, head whipping back to stare into the darkness, unsure of what was happening there.


    Then it was toote.


    More skeletons pulled themselves out of the water. A dozen. Two dozen.


    Some held weapons, swords and shields, others raised their hands and began to conjure balls of dark light.


    Each had the same dark purple light burning in their empty sockets.


    You really were a Necromancer? she called, somewhat uselessly.


    Elten merely smiled and brought his hands down,pleting the spell.


    Cold air washed over Filetta. No, it wasnt right to merely call it cold, it was <em>freezing</em>, unnaturally so. Blood seemed to congeal in her veins, muscles locked tight, and her teeth began to chatter in an instant as the frigid air invaded her lungs like a knife.


    <em>Dont stay still; stop moving and youre dead.</em>


    Skeletons thrust their hands forward,unching their spells, but Filetta was moving. She spun like a dancer,unching herself into a handspring that carried her back into the cloud of darkness. She couldnt see in here, but perhaps they couldnt either?


    More screams, sounds of scuffles, men and women swearing, anger and fear hung thick in the air.


    Get out of the dark cloud! Filetta yelled, no longer caring if anyone above could hear her. We cant fight in this! Be careful of the water below!


    Something hardtched around her ankle and Filetta looked down in horror. A skeleton had reached up through the grating and grasped her leg! She stifled a scream and moved to stamp down on the bones with her free foot. She couldnt afford to stay still!


    A spear of bone mmed into her side, punching straight through her leather gear and biting deep. The impact spun her slightly, a stunned expression on her face, which is when the second took her directly in the gut.


    Unbnced, with a skeleton still locked onto her ankle, she fell, gasping.

 Chapter B3C72 - Breakings pt 2

    Chapter B3C72 - Breakings pt 2


    Tyron stood, grim-faced, as his skeletons went about their work. With the Shivering Curse applied, and the cloud of darkness constantly flowing from his cauldron, the field of battle was firmly to the advantage of his undead, and it showed.


    Men and women were crying out, screaming and cursing, cut down by skeletal soldiers they couldnt even see. A part of him burned with cold anger at this betrayal. He hadnt deserved this. At every opportunity, he had dealt straight with Filetta and her Guild, even paying their extortionate prices.


    Still, he shouldnt be surprised.


    When finally the fighting died down and the screams had ceased, he walked forward, several undead around him in case he needed protection. Surprisingly, Filetta was still alive, despite the two bone spears hed hit her with. Without much practice with the new spell, it appeared he was still inurate, since hed failed to hit anything vital.


    With a gesture, he deactivated the script within the cauldron, and the construct cut off its seemingly boundless spread of darkness. Within a minute, the magick had dissipated, and Tyron looked down on his former coborator as she slowly bled to death.


    They wanted to tie up loose ends? he asked.


    She grinned with bloodied teeth and nodded.


    Didnt turn out quite like how Id expected, she choked out.


    Despite her failing condition, he didnt get too close. Underestimating opponents was an excellent way to get himself killed. The proofy on the grating right in front of him.


    I suppose this gives me an opportunity to do the same, he mused. With the crackdowning, I dont want any sign of the guilds dealings with me to surface. If they sniffed out the slightest <em>hint</em> of a Necromancer, they wouldnt stop until I was found.


    Groaning with pain, the thief rolled herself onto her side and red up at him.


    Do you really think you can kill the guild? You dont know anything about us.


    Tyron frowned.


    Theres not really a good way to say this, Filetta, but Ill soon know everything about the Guild that <em>you</em> know.


    Ill never talk, she spat. Ill be dead in a few minutes anyway.


    Yes, he said, thats the point.


    Perhaps it was the shock, or maybe the pain, but at hisst statement, the truth began to sink in. She paled, her eyes going wide.


    You wouldnt.


    The Necromancer stared at her levelly.


    I will.


    He turned his gaze to the dead lying amongst the now empty sacks, their blood slowly dripping into the churning water below.


    I suppose I should thank you for this final shipment. Along with the ten men in your crew, its a good delivery.


    Filetta slowly closed her eyes.


    You got them too? she groaned.


    Of course. No loose ends.


    No loose ends, she repeated.


    Then, she died.


    Tyron gazed around the scene of the fight. Two dozen of his skeletons stood at attention, ready and waiting.


    This is going to take a long time, he sighed. May as well make a start.


    With a mentalmand, his minions began to move, collecting the bodies, dragging them into a line, cleaning up the scene. From the tunnel in front came another ten skeletons, each dragging a corpse along behind them. As hed said, not one of Filettas people had escaped.


    He walked over to the cauldron and reached inside, withdrawing severalrge cores, each heavily engraved and bound in a darkting formed of finger bones. There were four in total and he ced them equidistant around the intersection, activating each with a touch as he ced them down.


    The constructs began to function immediately, soaking up the ambient mana and feeding any death magick they dragged in back to the cauldron itself. It wouldnt be able to remove all traces of what had happened here, but it would remove enough. Only a dedicated search would turn up any results, and there was little reason for anyone to go walking the sewers or streets, hunting for death magick specifically.


    As his undead stripped the bodies of their clothes and valuables, anything at all that might be bespelled, Tyron stood over Filettas remains and raised his hands.


    He was much more proficient working with spirits than he had been in the past, so the spell formed smoothly. Soon he stood before the familiar pir of mist, a spectre staring balefully from within.


    <em>Dont do this to me, Elten.</em>


    Filetta had possessed a pleasant voice, rough around the edges, perhaps, but clean and clear. It was now a horrific rasp, a terriblebination of a whisper and a scream that echoed across the divide between the living and the dead.


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    Thats not my name, Filetta. Im Tyron Sterm.


    He executed a short bow.


    Nice to meet you. I presume Filetta was not your real name either?


    A moment of silence. Then.


    <em>My thieves name was Filetta. I was born Miriam. Release me. I beg you.</em>


    Theres always begging, <em>after</em> the attempted killing has failed. Who started this mess? Certainly not me. However, theres a chance I can release your spirit, allow you the dignity of a true death, <em>if</em> you cooperate with me. Or, I can squeeze your ghost like a sponge and force everything I need to know out of you.


    He held out a fist and clenched it slowly for emphasis.


    If you dont want that, then cooperate. When every member of the Guild who knew of our deal is dead, I will reassess the ultimate fate of your soul.


    <em>Give me a guarantee. You KILLED me!</em>


    You will get nothing of the sort, he replied coldly. Now, are you going to talk, or am I going to make you?


    ~~~


    Where in the realm is Stacks?! a voice bellowed. That FUCKER better not be dead!


    Shut the FUCK up, Dag! Stacks growled. We are being <em>hunted</em>, in case you didnt <em>fucking</em> notice!


    Homing in on the sound of his voice, the burly man headed towards him, smoothly moving around the boxes strewn about the warehouse, despite the near total darkness.


    There you are, the knifeman said, relief thick in his voice. I was worried you were gone too.


    What do you mean, <em>too</em>? Who else is gone?


    Dags took in a shaky breath, and Stacks resisted the irrational urge to p him. This man was one of the finest knife fighters hed ever seen, how was he <em>this</em> rattled?


    You havent heard? Filetta is missing


    I know about Filetta.


    and Matron is gone. My boys picked up a runner from her stockpile in the tunnels. Its all gone, everyone dead. He was the only one to make it out.


    FUCK!


    Stacks mmed a fist into the wall, no longer able to contain the anger boiling in his chest. He felt he was choking on it, rage and indignation so profound it constricted his neck like a vise.


    Who was doing this? Those Salt Bay fuckers? They didnt have the balls. It wasnt the Marshalls, they didnt operate this way. The Shade Town rats? There was no way they had enough muscle.


    So who? WHO?


    Boss. We need to move. I dont think its safe here.


    Where the fuck is safe? Dags? Do you know?!


    The wiry man reached down and tapped the two sheathed daggers at his waist.


    I can protect you from a lot, but not if I dont know what Im fighting. It might be better if we hit the streets, try to blend in with the crowd.


    Stacks hunched his shoulders and pulled his hand up to his mouth, nibbling on his thumbnail out of habit as he thought. Disappearing into the crowd was good and all, but what about the organisation? If the leadership couldnt be reached, how was he supposed to hold it all together?


    Hed built this enterprise from nothing but a group of kids running the streets, into a proper gang, into a recognised group with their own turf. Hed be <em>damned</em> if he was going to let it all burn over the course of a few nights.


    We need to get a crew together and get some eyes on whoever is doing this to us, he said, jabbing a finger hard into the knifemans chest. Weve lost two warehouses, the stockpile and a workshop just <em>this week</em>, and we have no <em>fucking</em> idea whos done any of it!


    He gestured to the stacked crates around them.


    I dont care if all the shit burns, but we need to find out who is doing this to us. You understand me? If we dont know, we cant <em>fucking</em> kill them. So I need you to round up everyone you can find. Contra. Mole. Eggtop. Anyone we can trust with some fucking <em>levels</em>. Thene back here. Go.


    Dags looked as if he wanted to argue, but he wisely held his tongue, turned and moved off into the shadows. Once again, Stacks was left alone. Briefly, he considered moving back upstairs, heading to his office, but decided against it. If this ce was hit, he didnt want to be trapped up there without a way out. All of the secret entrances and exits were on the ground floor. Instead, he found a good vantage point near one of the corners and hunkered down, keeping his eyes and ears open.


    With the advantage of his feats, seeing and moving in the depth of night wasnt an issue for the thief. From his position, he could see everything that happened on the floor of the warehouse, but none would be able to notice him.


    Not to mention, he was conveniently positioned close to a tunnel entrance that linked to the sewerwork. Should things get out of hand, he could easily leave.


    Mind buzzing and chest pulsing with anger, Stacks watched, silent and still, while he tried to make sense of events. Things were simply moving too fast, he wasnt able to get his feet under him. Who could be responsible? He had a list of enemies as long as his arm, who didnt? The Guild had slit many a throat over the years, but this was toorge to be simple revenge. This was organised.


    <em>Who the FUCK is it?!</em>


    His thoughts wound in twisted circles, considering a possibility, then discarding it just as quickly and moving to the next. Eventually, he would loop back to the first suspect and begin the whole process again. Nothing was making <em>sense</em>.


    <em>Stacks</em>.


    A sound, like a whisper, but from where? His head jerked up and his eyes flicked around the warehouse.


    Nothing. No movement at all. Had he imagined it?


    <em>Stacks</em>.


    He recognised that voice.


    Filetta? he whispered. Where are you?


    She was alive? Finally some good news. After he thrashed her for disappearing over thest two days, maybe she could shine some fucking light on this situation.


    <em>Stacks</em>.


    That whisper came again, and this time he was finally able to settle on a direction. The sound hade through the false wall to his left. She was in the tunnel. Why didnt she open it herself? Was she injured?


    You better have a fucking good exnation for where youve been, Filetta, he growled.


    Turning to his right, his hand sought and found the hiddentch, flicking it open with a dextrous motion of his fingers. A small panel, no higher than his knees, swung open soundlessly and he crouched down to see.


    Are you there? Come through, he breathed.


    <em>Stacks</em>.


    Fucking. Really?


    She couldnt make it to the entrance? If she was too injured that would exin her absence. Grumbling to himself, he slid down to the floor and shimmied through the narrow entrance and into the wider tunnel beyond. Before long, he was able to drop down into the sewer below.


    Landing in a crouch, he scanned the tunnel, hands held at the ready.


    Where was she?


    And why was it so cold?

 Chapter B3C73 - The Wight Which Rises

    Chapter B3C73 - The Wight Which Rises


    Youre looking tired, Master Almsfield.


    Tyron blinked, then turned to look at his apprentice questioningly.


    More than usual, I mean, Flynn hurriedly added. I mean, you always look tired, but right now Im not trying to be rude, Im merely observing


    His master did nothing but maintain that steady stare until the younger man wilted entirely.


    Im sorry, Master Almsfield. I spoke out of turn.


    Finally, Tyron relented.


    Its fine. I <em>am</em> fatigued. The past few weeks have been extremely busy, and Ive found my nights to be filled with work and study. More so than usual. Im hoping to return to a more normal schedule soon, before I have to leave again.


    Flynn chuckled nervously, visibly pleased to be let off the hook for his impolite observations.


    That work ethic is what made you into what you are today. Even Master Willhem has acknowledged your dedication and skill, and he was famous for his single-minded pursuit of the Arcanists art.


    At the mention of his own Master, Tyron could only smile wearily.


    My own passion for enchanting is like a candlepared to Master Willhems roaring bonfire. Perhaps there is such a thing as being <em>too</em> dedicated. He lives for nothing else. Despite all the money and fame he has umted, he still burns to perfect his art and nothing else can satisfy him.


    I rmend you work hard, study hard, especially now in your youth, but if you wish to be happy, then do not seek to emte my, or my Masters example. When you have achieved sess, stop pushing, and cultivate other aspects of your life. You want to get married sometime, dont you?


    His apprentice froze and blushed. How could anyone be this transparent?


    I do, Flynn squeeked, then coughed and repeated himself in a lower tone, <em>ahem</em> I do, yes.


    Tyron nodded.


    You cant be married to enchanting and Cerri at the same time. As an example.


    A flustered Flynn, began to try and deflect, but Tyron just waved his bluster away.


    Focus. I want us to finish this batch of cores before we close for the night.


    R-right. Sorry.


    The two fell back to work, each scraping away at the cores before them with their pliance, engraving the sigils that would enable them to function for their intended purpose. These particr cores were intended for water-condensing implements, enchanted to draw in water from the air, which was cheaper, magickally, than turning raw magick into a drinkable liquid.


    For another two hours, they worked, Tyron keeping a close eye on his apprentice, catching mistakes as they happened and providing instruction. For his part, Flynn was extremely grateful for the attention of his Master.


    Despite his somewhat weak personality, Tyron was pleased with Flynn. The young man was a good student, a hard worker, when pushed, and had a genuine affinity for the art of enchanting. As the sun dipped over the horizon and the noise downstairs began to die down, they wrapped up, cleaning down their benches, putting away the tools, and settling the cores they had finished into a neat tray, ready to be set the following day.


    With a pat on the shoulder and a slight nod, Tyron sent his apprentice on his way and farewelled the rest of his staff before he locked the front door and turned back to his now empty shop.


    He <em>was</em> exhausted. Eyes that felt like hed rubbed them down with sand. A slight trembling in his limbs. Pain in his joints. A permanent sense of fuzz, hovering around the edges of his awareness. All the signs were there, and he knew it well. Right here, in this moment, he should choose to rest.


    However, thats not what he did. Rather than going upstairs for food and sleep, he went into the storeroom, uncovered the secret stairs, and made his way down into his study.


    Even in his deprived state, Tyron was self-aware enough to give a wry chuckle at his own choices. It was unfortunate, but he and Master Willhem were simr in more ways than one. Willhem had dedicated himself to enchanting and cut almost everything else from his life. The acim he received was merely evidence of his mastery, and served no other purpose.


    Tyron loved magick, in all its forms, but he was fascinated by Necromancy. Unlike any other form of the magickal arts, it was a puzzle he had to assemble himself, without guidance, without reference. In fact, theplexity was a level above cobbling together a simple puzzle. Tyron was trying to fit the pieces together in the dark, unable to even see their shape, or gain a clue as to what the final picture was meant to be. Everytime the Unseen granted him knowledge, it was like a tiny sh of light, giving him a glimpse of the possibilities, then he was plunged back into the darkness, left to feel his way forward once again.


    Were he to meet another person who had been given the Necromancer ss, its entirely possible the fundamentals of their spells would be totally different, even though they produced simr results.


    Of course, Tyron was convinced that his version would prove to be superior.


    With a sigh, Tyron turned his chair around, facing it away from the desk, and sat, chin propped up on one hand as he beheld whaty before him.


    Usually he didnt allow skeletons to remain in the study once they were animated, there were several nooks and crannies within the sewer in which he could leave them, but these specimens were somewhat different.


    A new batch of revenants, thetest amongst his collection. Several of the so-called guild had been of a sufficient level and ability that Tyron had felt it would be worth binding them to their remains. After all, a Revenant was able to call upon the Skills they had cultivated in life, though they were usually diminished, and required a prohibitive cost in magick.


    For example, Dags. Supposedly, he had earned his nickname for the two daggers he wielded in battle. The man must have been prolific with them, almost reaching level forty in his Cutthroat ss. In life, Dags had been able to execute moves with staggering speed and uracy. His body, enhanced by the Unseen, was faster, stronger and his ability to control it more finely tuned than would be possible for an unlevelled person.


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    As a Revenant, that body was gone, only the bones remained. Those muscles and tissues, strengthened by his levels, was reced by Tyrons own threads. He was proud of his work, extremely proud, but even he would admit that the weave he produced was not at the same level as what nature and the Unseen could produce.


    When his new Revenant attempted to use his abilities, they simply werent as good, and the cost for that exertion was not paid by the body, but by Tyrons avable magick.


    Come here, Dags, he said out loud.


    The Revenant turned towards him and walked over, two daggers formed of darkened bone held fast in its hands. Still sat in his chair, Tyron looked up at his minion, stared into its burning, purple eyes. Resentment thrashed there, a raging fire of loathing, anger and fear. The Necromancer could <em>feel</em> it, a scream that filled a frequency right on the edge of his hearing.


    This was normal for new Revenants. Some reacted with horror more than anger, some were the reverse. Eventually, they would fall to a numb eptance, but that would take time. Time in which they would rail against the magick that bound them and fail to even bend it.


    Show me again, Tyron ordered, gesturing toward the wooden block hed set atop one of the stone bs.


    Without a word, for he could not speak, the former thief turned, readied himself, then lunged forward.


    Fast. Faster even than what hed seen from the swordsmen he had turned into Revenants. The skeleton shed across the intervening space, des snapping out to strike against the already marked wood so quickly he could barely see them.


    The drain on his power was considerable. Dags was pushing his undead body to its limit, drawing on all the magick he could push through the threads that bound his frame.


    Tyron carefully inspected the Revenant, using every observational tool at his disposal, until finally he ced them down with a sigh.


    Just like I thought, he muttered to himself. The weave simply isnt up to the task.


    For weeks, Tyron had hunted down the remnants of the Guild, dismantling the organisation and killing everyone with links to the leadership. Everyone who might have known about his dealings with the thieves should be dead.


    But that was only part of why he was so exhausted. Following that burst of nighttime activity, hed, of course, processed the remains and used them to create new minions. What a waste it would have been to do otherwise!


    However, the real reason he was so tired was because of this particr Revenant. Dags had brought into sharp relief the area Tyron was now mostcking, the single greatest w in his Necromantic art.


    His threading.


    Now, Tyron was confident hed done all he could think of to improve his weaves. Hed tested every variation of the established patterns he could think of, carefully assessed each iteration, before cutting the threads and starting over. Every muscle, every joint, he had exhaustively experimented upon. His current design, by far the best hed ever made, was a marvelpared to the horrific mess hed created when starting out.


    His skeletons could now move fluidly, more efficiently, properly able to articte every joint, every finger.


    But, as Dags had so amply demonstrated, it simply wasnt good enough. There was a limit to how much power his current weave could withstand, and even someone as rtively weak as Dags had run into it.


    For nights upon nights, Tyron had been trying to find a solution, but so far, he hadnt been able to do more than slight improvements. He was missing something fundamental, something that would be key to his advancement in the Necromantic arts.


    As it stood, even if he were to capture a powerful yer and turn them into a Revenant, they wouldnt be able to exert even a fraction of their former strength. The problem was eating away at him, but no matter what he did, he got no closer to a solution.


    With a frustrated grunt, Tyron slumped in his chair, rubbing at his eyes with his palms. He was exhausted, drained, there was almost no way he would make a breakthrough in this condition. It was time to go to bed.


    However, there was one thing he needed to do first.


    His fingers danced in the air and words flowed from his lips as he bent his magick, bent the world itself, to a shape that was more pleasing.


    Once again, the pir of mist took shape, the baleful shade of Filetta contained within.


    <em>Release me</em>, she demanded. <em>I have done as you wished. Answered all of your questions. Release me!</em>


    Tyron nodded slowly.


    Its true, he said, youve cooperated to the best of your ability, as far as Im aware. All of your former partners have been dealt with. You have my thanks.


    Of course, Tyron had done his best to verify her words with every other member hed captured, just to ensure she didnt omit anything crucial. Despite his efforts, nothing had shaken loose. Filetta, it appeared, had dealt straight with him.


    Its almost strange how quickly the docks settled. Afterwards, I mean. A powerful group like the Guild, built up over years, vanished overnight. Youd think thered be more of a disturbance, but life goes on, apparently. All of the territories and businesses you had your fingers in has been snapped up by others. Things are running so smoothly that I wonder if the Marshalls even noticed a change.


    <em>I dont care</em>, the spectre rasped at him, <em>I am dead. Set me free.</em>


    Tyron leaned back in his chair.


    I always wonder about this, so I might ask the question, if youll forgive me. Why are you spectres so eager to move on to your next destination? Do you really believe it''s going to be better than where you are now?


    Even if I released you, no longer called upon your spirit, where do you think youre going to go? I know for a <em>fact</em> your spirit will remain here, in this realm, for some time, before it finally slips away. So whether I summon you or not, youre stuck here for the time being, Filetta.


    The spectre hissed angrily at him.


    <em>Your call strengthens my bond to this realm. I can feel it. Every time we speak, you dy my eventual departure. I no longer want to be here, Tyron. I dont care where I go, it has to be better than this.</em>


    As he understood it, ghosts lived a fairly miserable existence. Every time he looked through the eyes of his own spirit minions, he caught a glimpse of it. Drifting through that mist-filled wastnd, unable to interact with the material world at all. It was little wonder they were so hateful toward the living.


    When you leave this ce, you will only find yourself within the realm of the dead, Tyron said softly. There will be no warm embrace of the Goddess for you, Filetta. I dont know much about that ce, not yet, but I dont think its any better than what you are going through now.


    <em>Ill take my chances</em>.


    Tyron nodded, slowly. Then paused.


    There is an alternative. Not a solution, but a way to lengthen your existence, dy your eventual fall to the realm of death.


    <em>Like them?</em> The spectre hissed, gesturing toward Dags and the like. <em>Bound to your will like a ve? No thanks, Tyron. I have been bound before, and I swore I wouldnt be again.</em>


    Not like them, Tyron corrected her. Those are Revenants, and as you say, they are subservient to my will. They cant even <em>think</em> about opposing me. That is their fate. However, there is another form of undead. A Wight. Youll have a greater degree of independence. And I think I can give you ess to the Unseen again. Youll be able to gain a ss and level, though it wont be the same as what you had before.


    Filetta, or at least, her ghost, hesitated for a moment.


    <em>What would be the point? For what reason would I exist? I have already lived my life and died. I have no great purpose left unfulfilled.</em>


    I do, Tyron said quietly.


    His true obsession, the endless <em>hunger</em> for vengeance, to see the Magisters <em>dead</em>, burned as bright within him now as it had five years ago above Cragwhistle.


    Let me tell you a little story, he said, about my real name, and what we might be able to do together.

 Chapter B3C74 - New Beginnings

    Chapter B3C74 - New Beginnings


    How long had it been, since he hadstid eyes on these mountains?


    The Venerable shifted ufortably as he gazed up at the many crags and peaks that stretched from the left horizon to the right. The barrier mountains, a now-impassable obstacle that marked the edge of the Western Province, towered high in the distance.


    A cold wind blew, cutting straight through his cloak. The chill prated deep into his impossibly frail body, digging into bones where it settled, coiled around his joints. For a brief moment, he wondered if the gods would see fit to free him of his aches as he undertook this final task for them, but then dismissed the thought with a sneer.


    He was going soft. Not for a single second had they ever lifted their burdens from his shoulders, and he had never asked them to. He was convinced this was the reason he got along so well with the Three. They liked him, liked to watch him survive and push onward despite the suffering he endured, waiting for him to crack and beg them to take back their blessings.


    But he never did.


    Are you alright, Venerable?


    The young girl, Elsbeth walked alongside him, reaching out a hand to steady his shoulder.


    Youre freezing, she gasped, here, take my cloak.


    The old man shed her a gap-toothed grin.


    Not to worry, girl, he wheezed, theres no way to stop the cold seeping into these old bones.


    But


    But nothing. The Gods have seen me through this far, Im sure they can take me thest little way.


    He raised his walking stick and pointed ahead.


    Thats the ce were headed, isnt it? Not so far to go.


    Elsbeth peered ahead, and yes indeed, the outer wall of Cragwhistle could be seen in the distance, barely visible through the morning mist. Frost coated the ground and clung to the hardy, tall mountain grasses that grew along the sides of the road, giving a white tint to everything in view. Combined with the light fog that hung in the air, it almost seemed as though they walked an ethereal path, stepping on a road that led to a ce beyond the mortal realm.


    Maybe it did, the Venerable mused to himself, chuckling.


    He turned around to view the long train of people behind him.


    Almost there, he called in his thin voice. If you want to stop being stupid, you could be there in a few minutes.


    As expected, all he got back were t stares and slowly shaken heads.


    You really think the Three give a rats buttock if you walk in front of me? he railed, shaking his stick at them, but they wouldnt budge. He turned forward with a huff.


    They are trying to show you respect Elsbeth began.


    I dont need their <em>respect</em>, the old man spat. Im just an old man. Youre supposed to see the gods work through me, and respect <em>them</em>.


    The gods favour you.


    The Venerable snorted forcefully and almost fell over, catching himself at thest second.


    There is precious little difference between their favour and their anger, as well you know. Besides, they arent as petty as the Five ponces. The Three dont care if people dont respect something just because they happen to favour it. In fact, oveing someone who has attained their blessings was one of the best ways to attract their benediction, back in the day.


    The old man leered as he cast his mind back to a simpler, bloodier time.


    Those were the days, he sighed.


    Elsbeth, wisely, kept her tongue. Which of course led the Venerable into a wide-ranging tale of the extreme and oppressive violence he witnessed amongst the remote tribes in which hed been born, some of which might have even been true.


    Nevertheless, the poor girl was a visible shade of green by the time they arrived at the gates of the town. A simple construction, no more than three metres tall, made of logs bound together on the inside, it was clear where the majority of the locals effort had gone: to the mountain-facing side, as it should.


    Their column had been seen approaching for hours, and a wee party had emerged from within the gate, standing straight, trying not to appear nervous. It was at this point that the Venerable began to hear it, that special sound only he could hear.


    Was it one of the many gifts the gods had bestowed upon him, or was it something he had simply learned to recognise, over the centuries? Whichever was the case, he had long ago realised he could hear it when the gods were paying attention.


    There was a shift, ever so slight. The wind breathed. The ground sighed. The trees whispered. They were here, Crone, Raven and Rot. All throughout his shrivelled and trembling frame, he felt it, a tingling pressure.


    Old Gods, hard to please, impossible to satisfy, who craved amusement, were anticipating something, something from <em>him</em>. In his experience, the oue of such events was never in his favour. Nevertheless, he continued to stride forward. Hed never backed down in the face of the Three, and he wasnt about to start now.


    The young priestess, Elsbeth, stepped forward along with him, as they led the column straight up to meet the delegation waiting for them.


    Elsbeth, nice to see you again, arge man said, standing in the midst of the gathering.


    Ortan, she smiled up at him, its nice to be back.


    Doubtful. Its freezing.


    The Venerable shuffled forward and jabbed this Ortan in the leg with his stick.


    Which is why we shouldnt be leaving old men standing about in the cold. Open up the gates and let us in, he demanded.


    Ortans eyes widened as he looked down on this impossibly shrivelled man.


    Hold on there, father time, we wont take long. Youll have your heels up by the hearth in no time.


    One of the women standing behind the huge viger twitched, and the Venerable nced towards her. Ah, another member of the faith, no doubt. He recognised their touch upon her. He gestured for her not to bother stepping forward. When did the rest of the priesthood start being so protective of him? Hed indulged them for far too long, allowing bad habits to build.


    There are eight thousand of us, he wheezed, along with cattle and sheep, numbering near five thousand. What else do you need to know?


    Eight? Ortan nched, eyes going wide. That many?


    People are fleeing all over the province, Elsbeth told him sadly. The church and the marshalls are beginning to crack down everywhere. People are disappearing in the night, never to be seen again. Members of the faith can see the writing on the wall, and this is theirst refuge.


    There will be even more behind us, the Venerable chuckled thinly, another group this size will arrive in perhaps two weeks.


    He nced up at the big man, eyes dancing with mirth.


    I hope youre ready for it.


    It appeared as though he wasnt. Ortan and the gathered men and women behind fell to muttering amongst themselves, whispered arguments and furtive gestures flying between them. The woman hed noticed earlier stepped around them and approached.


    It is nice to see you, Venerable, she said.


    He peered at her.


    Munhilde? Is that you?


    It is, the priestess smiled.


    He shook his stick at her.


    Prayed to the Crone, did you? Too vain, that was always your weakness.


    Are you going to judge me for preserving myself through prayer? You? the woman replied, a little reproachful.


    Bah. I havent lived this long because I wanted to. By Their Will.


    By Their Will, she echoed.


    When they were done, Elsbeth stepped forward and enfolded the other priestess in her arms.


    Its good to see you again, Munhilde, she beamed. When did you arrive?


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    A few weeks ago, her teacher replied, returning her embrace with a soft smile. Its nice to see you as well, Elsbeth.


    How long are those idiots going to argue amongst themselves before they let us in? the Venerable grumbled. Surely they thought to count how many people they could seeing?


    They thought it was five thousand, Munhilde told them. Apparently, there was a miscount.


    Only followers of the Three could be <em>that</em> bad at counting, the Venerable said.


    The rocks were listening. Carefully, he avoided ncing towards them, but he could tell. That slight creak, as if each stone had shifted a hundredth of a millimetre in its ce.


    What would they ask of him? Anticipation was beginning to build in what was left of his belly.


    Something interesting is going to happen today, he said, and Munhilde snapped her gaze toward him.


    Are you sure? she asked.


    Elsbeth was confused by her teachers tone. Looking between the old man and the priestess in confusion, she hesitated to speak.


    I am, the Venerable confirmed, but Im not sure what.


    Legs trembling, he walked forward once again, leaning heavily on his walking stick, until he stood before the group of arguing officials.


    Times up, he dered in his thin, wavering voice. Open up the gates and lets get this show on the road. What will be will be.


    Frustrated with both the old man and the people he was arguing with, Ortan turned around.


    Im sorry, grandfather, but its going to take a little time for us to work out how to house and feed everyone.


    They will be provided for, the Venerable waved a dismissive hand. Hasnt that always been the case before? Dont tell me you believed it was your administration skills that kept this ce running all this time?


    At his words, Ortan fell quiet for a moment.


    No, he said quietly, I dont believe that.


    The Venerable gave him a surprisingly understanding look.


    The gods have been knocking at the door for some time, young one. But my gods are impatient creatures. They will only knock for so long before they take it upon themselves to open the way.


    With apparent effort, the old man lifted his stick off the ground, then brought it down again.


    There came a slight thud, as the hardened tip of the stick met the packed dirt on which he stood, then came the rumbling, followed by the shaking.


    When it was done, the gate, and only the gate, had copsed, the logs rolling out of the way and leaving the way into the town open.


    Oh look, the Venerable wheezed, its open.


    Before anyone could stop him, he began to shuffle forward, Elsbeth and Munhilde falling in beside him, and the entire column following from behind. A stunned silence gripped the gathered administrators just long enough for them to enter Cragwhistle itself before they caught up with him, shouting and yelling, waving their arms, demanding he exin. Munhilde and Elsbeth tried to calm them, to exin who he was, to warn them, but they didnt want to listen.


    Only Ortan hung back, looking troubled.


    Smart young man, the Venerable thought to himself. He learned quickly.


    Without stopping his slow, staggered walk, the Venerable reached up with one hand, as if grasping hold of the air, then clenched his fist.


    Silence immediately fell, as the men and women around him continued to open their mouths, only for no sound toe out. Shock quickly turned to anger, then to fear, which wasnt respect, but lived next door. It was close enough for him.


    He barely paid those people any mind. The Gods were calling him forward. Somewhere in this town was the ce they wanted him to go. Not far now.


    That sense of destiny was intoxicating. It chased away the cold which had dug deep into his marrow. Chased away the pain in his limbs he hadnt been able to escape for hundreds of years. Eyes alight with a mad glee, he hobbled forward, senses alive to what the Gods had to say.


    <em>Challenge me again, you bastards. I dare you</em>.


    Venerable, are you alright? There are ces you can rest not far from here, Elsbeth said,ying a hand on his shoulder.


    He shrugged her off.


    No need. No need! The Three are calling. Cant you hear them?


    Themotion at the gate had drawn people out of their homes, some staring in confusion at this old man making his slow way down the main street, others bowing in respect at the two priestesses beside him. Still more turned their eyes to the voiceless people who helped run the town, people they trusted, following behind the old man, desperate to draw close to him but too afraid to do so.


    The second hey eyes on the town well, he knew it was where he needed to go. It made sense. Right in the centre of the town, it had be the hub around which this growing settlement revolved. At this hour, early in the morning, there was plenty of foot traffic here, people shopping, going about their day. All of it came to a stop as the Venerable drew near, a terrible sense of purpose urging him forward.


    As if possessed, he picked up speed, eager to confront this new challenge. Elsbeth reached out to support him, worried he would fall, but Munhilde stopped her.


    He is inmunion with the Gods, she warned her former apprentice. Something is going to happen here.


    More people filed into Cragwhistle with each passing moment, the thousands of refugees, pleased that their long journey was finished atst, pressed forward, squeezing through the destroyed gate. They followed at the Venerables heels, and filed into the open circle in the centre of town by the hundreds.


    As soon as he reached the low stone wall of the well, the Venerable grew still, and closed his eyes.


    Caw!


    He looked up. A raven flew down from the sky and alighted upon the wooden beam around which the rope was wound, staring at him with storm-filled eyes.


    Squeak!


    A rat, lean and patchy, climbed up from the depths of the well, jumped down from the stone and came to rest at his feet. It looked up at him, eyes filled with unending hunger.


    From within the crowd, he felt Her gaze upon him. In a moment, he found her, an old woman, as wizened as he himself, watching him with a thousand pairs of eyes set in a thousand different faces.


    A fierce grin bloomed on the Venerables face as he was confronted by his gods once more.


    <em>What are you waiting for? Youve never held back before!</em>


    The raven fluttered its wings, the rat chittered, and the old womanughed.


    With a smirk, the Venerable brought his hands together and lowered his head, showing proper respect.


    As the Venerable bowed in prayer, Elsbeth watched from nearby, fearful, as she and Munhilde clung to each other. To the two priestesses, the air around the well was as heavy as a nket, the oppressive weight of the Three gods pressing down on them to the point they could barely stand.


    How the old man endured it, Elsbeth couldnt begin to imagine. Even to those who werent as sensitive, they could tell something was different, something was wrong.


    No matter how they tried to suppress their presence, the Three were Old Gods, tied to the realm from the moment of its creation. In their presence, the air, thend and the water turned to listen. As the Venerable prayed, and as more refugees gathered around, they fell to their knees and sped their hands together, sensing the holiness of this moment.


    Elsbeth too, lowered herself to the ground, Munhilde following with her, and began to earnestly pray. She did not know what was about to happen, but she asked that the Venerable, a loyal servant all his life, be cared for and uplifted in this moment.


    As she repeated the prayer, surprisingly, she felt an impossibly ancient voice whisper in her ear.


    The Venerable raised his head, hand clenched tight around the shaft of his walking stick, a drip of sweat rolling down his frozen, withered forehead.


    <em>Thats what you want, eh? Saved the worst forst.</em>


    They gave him a choice, of course they did. They gave him the choice knowing he would reject it. He had never stepped back from their demands, not once in over a thousand years.


    Slowly, he raised his head, and opened his eyes.


    No longer were they the eyes of an aged man, filled with rheum and fog. Now, they crackled with lightning, and his voice boomed like thunder.


    Gathered servants of Crone, Raven and Rot! Kneel, and hear my words!


    His words rolled across the entire town and boomed against the mountains themselves. In an instant, every eye was fixed upon the tiny old man before the well, who in this moment appeared as mighty as any heroic yer of legend. People stumbled from their houses, rushing toward the voice, or fell to their knees in their homes, certain in the knowledge that their gods were at work amongst them.


    For more than a thousand years, I have served the Three. In all my days, I have lived in a world ruled by the usurpers and their insipid followers, while my own godsy still and silent, waiting, watching.


    He paused for a moment, watching the crowd.


    THEY WAIT NO LONGER! he boomed. It has been over five thousand years since the false ones took their unearned power and changed the face of the realm to suit themselves. Five thousand years of torment and suffering for those who kept to the old faith. The <em>true</em> faith. At longst, our patience has been rewarded. Our endurance has been tested, and we have not been found wanting.


    As one, the gathered faithful pressed their faces to the ground. Some were openly weeping, others trembling with deep emotions. These were the words they had longed to hear, that their grandparents had longed to hear, but died without ever getting a chance.


    Crone, Raven and Rot walk among the faithful once more. Their eyes are upon you. Our realm has been pushed to the brink of copse, and now the Three have roused to save it. This is thest chance, the final roll of the dice. Either the faithful will rise together in triumph, or the empire will fall to ruin, and the realm will be corrupted shortly after.


    A dire warning, spoken directly to the fear that resided in the heart of every citizen from the moment they were old enough to understand the reality of where they lived.


    Of course, there can be no boon from the Gods without suffering. No blessing untempered by pain. Strength and sacrifice are what they demand from their followers. Watch now, and remember me, as I demonstrate the standard.


    The old man raised his hands, frenzied glee burning in his crackling eyes.


    I offer myself, he dered to the sky, voice booming over the gathered crowd. Take me and use me to make a new way for your people.


    A moment of pure silence descended, of perfect stillness. Noone moved, except for Elsbeth. She had listened to the voice that whispered in her ear, and she had epted.


    Now, she stepped forward, avoiding Munhildes frantic attempt to grab her skirts.


    I offer myself in your ce, she whispered to the Venerable, head kept low.


    By her foot, the rat watched her, head tilted to the side.


    They have epted me, she said, then swallowed, unable to keep the trembling from her voice.


    The Venerable watched her for a moment, then shook his head, sadly.


    Fool girl, he wheezed. So keen to take up the burdens of others. If you arent careful, youll end up just like me. They will pile those burdens upon you, just to see if you will break.


    With a gentle push of his hand, he sent the priestess flying back to crash into the arms of her teacher, metres away.


    I <em>never</em> broke, the Venerable dered, then lowered his head.


    Lightning struck. And again. <em>Again</em>.


    Power surged, light shed, thunder crashed and the air itself howled in pain as reality itself began to <em>twist</em>. People cried out in terror, recoiled away from the well, which they could not look at, but their voices were stolen away by the torrent of light and sound that only grew more intense.


    Until, suddenly, it was over.


    When it cleared, the raven, the rat and the crone were gone. The Venerable was gone. The well itself was gone.


    In its ce, stood a simple stone tform, circr, with a gleaming gem mounted upon a plinth rising in the centre.


    To the people of the empire, it was obvious what they were looking at, a familiar sight to them all, something they had witnessed every year from the time they were old enough to walk.


    An Awakening Stone.


    But, if one looked closely, it was possible to see the shape of this one was not even, not like the ones they had seen before. No, if one gazed upon it in the right light, from the right direction, it almost appeared like a small, hunched old man,ughing.

 Chapter B3C75 - Gathering Storm

    Chapter B3C75 - Gathering Storm


    Theres a strange atmosphere in the market today.


    Im sure its nothing, Madam Geller.


    Dont try and cate me, Cerry, Im worried. The Marshalls arrested three people just yesterday! I knew Mr Wisten from when I was little, hes a pir of themunity. They rolled in and took him away without a word to anyone. His poor wife is much too old to be taking care of herself.


    If there arent any charges, then I hope hell be released soon.


    Hes not the only one! Madam Geller said, shaking her little fist at noone in particr. You be careful out there, Cerry. Something strange is happeningtely, and I dont like it one bit.


    Th-thank you for your concern. Im sure everything is going to be fine.


    Silly girl! You need to be careful!


    Tyron stepped out from behind the counter and spoke, not raising his voice, but being firm.


    Thank you for your concern, Madam Geller. We appreciate it.


    Oh, Master Almsfield. I didnt realise you were there. I-I apologise if I was too loud.


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    Not at all. Now, I trust you are satisfied that your order has been filled.


    The little old woman looked down at the parcel she held in her hands. Bed warmers, good to ward off the chill. With winter approaching, they were selling well.


    Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you. Ill be on my way, then.


    He walked her to the door despite her protestations and waved to her from the doorstep before turning back into the shop.


    Sorry, Master Almsfield, Cerry said mournfully, I wasnt sure how to respond.


    Cerry was an amazing sales clerk, but if she had one weakness, it was the more wealthy matrons who came in and mothered her. She appeared to have a face that reminded every old biddy of their daughters.


    Its fine. And I agree with some of what the Madam had to say. There <em>is</em> an addedyer of danger in Shadetown these days. I rmend you step with extra careing to and from work.


    The girl hesitated for a moment before speaking up.


    Y-you dont think theylle here, then? she asked timidly.


    What, and arrest me? Tyron pretended to smile wide. I run an honest business here, Cerry.


    I know that.


    Unless youve been skimming money off the top?


    I would never!


    Tyron justughed, though he felt no amusement himself.


    I know that. Now lets discuss more pleasant things. Your Awakening ising up soon, isnt it? Whens it happening? Next week?


    The young woman pouted at him, put out.


    Im sure not even you are so distracted by work that you forgot when Awakening day is happening. Its next Tnans day.


    Ah, of course.


    In truth, he <em>had</em> forgotten. For something like this to have slipped his mind was a definite sign hed been working too much. He needed to pull back.


    Im sorry I wont be here for it, Cerry, but Im confident everything is going to be fine. Dont forget, you are wee to stay on at the store afterwards, no matter what ss you get.


    She looked down, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.


    Thank you, Master Almsfield. Thats very reassuring.


    She excused herself in a hurry, leaving Tyron wondering if hed been that emotional in the leadup to his Awakening. Pretty much everyone had been unstable in that final week. Crying, fighting, unable to sleep, isting themselves, hed seen every type of reaction amongst the people hed grown up with, and among the young folk whod travelled from out of town. Looking back, it wasnt hard to work out where hed fallen on that spectrum. As much as hed tried to hide it, the pressure and anticipation had driven him into seclusion, working on his uncles ounts and studying books.


    Well, it had all turned out well in the end, hadnt it?


    Tyron chuckled humourlessly, and turned to catch the eye of Wansa, then gestured for her to join him in one of the back rooms. The thrall appeared reluctant, but didnt have any choice but to ede to his request.


    What is it? she asked warily once the door was shut behind her.


    He eyed her. Since his falling out with her mistress, Wansa had been even more standoffish than shed been before, if such a thing were possible, but had continued to perform her role faithfully. He might think the methods Yor used to control her creatures were detestable, but they were certainly effective.


    Now, however, things were different.


    Youre close to a liability in the current environment, he told her bluntly. If Yor and her coven are sniffed out during the purge, then youll provide a trail straight to my shop.


    Ive been working here for months, she replied smoothly. Even if you get rid of me now, youll still be under suspicion. In fact, you may look even more suspicious, as if you knew something and sacked me once you realised the officials were investigating.


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the vition.


    Yor was obviously still squeezing her if she was this eager to keep her post. Clearly the former yer had spent some time anticipating his concerns. She wasnt wrong, firing her could be seen as suspicious, but there were other ways.


    You could just disappear, Tyron said, his tone t and emotionless, vanish, no trace of you ever found. No one would ever connect your disappearance with a little Arcanists shop, and as they say, dead thralls tell no tales.


    Wansas eyes narrowed. She tried to disguise it, but she was clearly nervous. Her gaze flicked to the door.


    My mistress would be most displeased if harm were to befall me. She would demand a price.


    She would, Tyron agreed, and that is the only reason you are alive. Return to your mistress once the store is closed tonight and tell her your time of employment here hase to an end. If you are here in the morning, you will be an undead before the sun goes down. Am I clear?


    The former silver ranked yer swallowed nervously.


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    Crystal, she replied.


    Good.


    With a flick of his fingers, he indicated she should leave, which she did, expeditiously. Another loose end tied up. With that conversation taken care of, he returned to the upstairs workshop to continue instructing Flynn and added to the stock of cores that would be needed to tide the store over while he was away.


    As evening fell, he farewelled his employees, locked up the store, and made his way down to the study. There, he was greeted by a spectral voice, emanating from an orb in the centre of his desk.


    Its boring down here, Filettained.


    You know how to sleep, Tyron told her wearily, sitting down with a sigh.


    Its boring to be asleep! Tyron, if I wanted to spend my time drifting in an eternal haze, I would have told you to leave me as a spirit! I agreed to be one of your experimental undead with free will, not a ghost stuck in a ball.


    If it were that easy to do, I would have done it already, he growled, a frown creasing his forehead. Im trying to uncover magick before the Unseen has provided it to me. <em>Complex</em> magick. There are steps. It takes <em>time</em>.


    Time you dont have, the spirit replied, a little tartly. Im only going to tolerate this existence for so long before I go insane or demand you release me.


    Which was consistent with Doves experience. Living in such a way was simply intolerable for people, to the point even someone with a highly trained mind, with the willpower of an experienced mage, could be driven to the brink.


    Youre right, Tyron said, holding up his hands. I know its difficult. Im working as fast as I can, but I have to admit, its been difficult to make any progress.


    Which was putting it mildly. He felt like he was smashing his head into a wall in the hopes of eventually wearing away the stone. To create a Wight, a higher form of skeletal undead, he needed to make another qualitative leap. The key to making Revenants was to find a way to properly fuse the soul with the remains, connect the ghost and threads that allowed it to control its body.


    To create a Wight, he theorised that it was necessary to forge a connection between the spirit and the <em>Unseen</em>, eventually instantiating them as a new, undead entity in its eyes. Hed worked out a method via which a spirit could cast a status ritual, but how was he supposed to build that into the process of creating an undead? This was the question to which hed been trying, and failing to find an answer.


    And now hed run out of time.


    The Marshalls have been a lot more active this week thanst, he said.


    Filetta sighed.


    I find it difficult to care about the struggles of the living, given that you killed me.


    You tried to kill me first.


    Thats <em>such</em> afort.


    Fine. I only mention it to provide context to what I have to say next. Ill be leaving in the next few days. Leaving Kenmor, I mean. I aim to spend a month in Cragwhistle, on the far western edge of the province. Theres a new rift there I can use to gain levels and practise my magick.


    You want to leave me here for months on end? Youre out of your mind if you think Im going to just wait for you.


    <em>And where exactly are you going to go?</em>


    He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. If he wanted to create a more independent min<em>undead</em>, then he needed cooperation. If his experiment with Filetta didnt work out, then he would free her spirit, as hed promised.


    It would be a <em>waste</em> of good materials, but he would do it.


    Obviously not, he said. I wanted to bring you with me and continue my work out there. Its possible my next status ritual will divulge some clues that light the path forward. I know you may not want toe, so I gave you the context so you could make your own decision.


    The spirit contemted from within her orb, a slight ethereal glow the only clue as to her presence within the mundane object.


    I appreciate you giving me the option, she said finally, I know you dont have to.


    Im not trying to force you into anything. This will only work if you are willing. The moment you dont want to proceed, I will release your spirit.


    Filetta made a sound like a shaky release of breath. Shed spoken to him about what it was like, to be an unbound spirit. It didnt sound great. Half awake, half asleep, drifting through a nightmare realm of fog and spectres who wed at the living without being able to touch them.


    As a Necromancer, Tyron thought it was <em>well</em> past time he found out what happened to the spirits of the living when they died. It was kind of his business, after all. The church of the divines preached that the souls of the worthy were collected by one of the Five and granted entry to their respective afterlife.


    It might even be true. How was he to know?


    He hadnt lied to Filetta, though, he <em>did </em>believe that her spirit was bound for the realm of the dead, which he knew existed thanks to Doves ss description.


    Perhaps it would prove to be a paradise for unimed spirits, but he doubted it. He doubted it very much.


    Ille with you, the ghost said, interrupting his thoughts. Im still willing to have another shot at life. Unlife. You know what I mean.


    That was a relief. Tyron smiled.


    Good. Im determined to seed, just you wait.


    He leaned back with a sigh and nced around the room.


    Well, Its going to be a busy few days. Need to get everything packed and prepared for the trip, and make sure there arent any signs of Death Magick for the inquisition to sniff out.


    When will you be able to work on me again?


    Not until we get there. A week, perhaps? I rmend you sleep until then. Ill let you know when the timees.


    Fine.


    The light flickered and died around the orb as the spirit within returned to that subdued state Dove had referred to as sleep. One more problem taken care of.


    Now all he had to do was pack everything up, prepare the undead for transport, take care of Filettas bones, ensure he had enough of his alchemical mixtures to work on new minions out in Cragwhistle.


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    And a thousand other things.


    At least he had the Ossuary to help transport everything. Whatever he wanted to take with him, he could shove into the interdimensional space. There was plenty of floor space after all, one of the benefits of pouring in as much magick as he had. Once he was done, he could close the door here, then resummon it once he arrived at his destination. Much more convenient than paying to ship box after box of skeletons and bone weaponry.


    It did mean, however, that he needed to summon all his minions out of the citys sewers, which was going to stink.


    May as well get started, he sighed.


    He enjoyed Necromancy, but it was always such a dirty job.

 Chapter B3C76 - Leave The World Behind

    Chapter B3C76 - Leave The World Behind


    Im innocent! Ive done nothing wrong!


    Tyrons head snapped around before he could catch himself. There was a crash as something was knocked over and the sounds of a struggle. People gasped and cried out, some ran, while others drew closer, willing to brave the risk of getting involved to see what was happening.


    Most, however, did as Tyron did; avert their gaze, turn away, and keep walking.


    This was an all-toomon urrence over the past few days. Even as he continued to move, the sounds of the scuffle disappearing in the distance, he saw another group of Marshals, this one with a priest in their midst, moving down the street with purpose. The people of Shadetown had grown to dread these little squads of five or six officials. They didnt search randomly, didnt ost people at random, they seemed to know exactly who they wanted and where they were, which somehow made them all the more chilling to encounter.


    There was only one possible way they could have such urate information that he could think of, and that was Divine Intervention.


    He almost snarled, his upper lip curling with disgust and futile anger. For the first time, the Five deigned to intervene in the Western Province. Not when the gate at Woodsedge became unstable, or when it broke and rift-kin spilled across thend, killing thousands. No, they stepped in <em>now</em>, when the threat to their power was starting to take root.


    As the squad approached him, he stepped to the side of the path and kept his eyes down. The grim-faced men and women didnt nce at him twice, striding past on their way to make another arrest.


    Criminals, smugglers, killers, thieves, people who skipped taxes, people who spoke ill of the empire, people who disrespected the magisters, everyone was at risk. Though Tyron suspected that followers of the Three were the primary target for this purge.


    He needed to get out of town. He needed to be gone <em>yesterday</em>.


    His preparations werentplete, but it would have to do. Hed gone out to collect his order for warm winter clothes and seen three arrests and seven groups of officials before hed even made it back to the shop.


    The purge was in full swing here in the capital. Kenmor was gripped by fear as hundreds, even thousands of people were arrested every day and taken no one knew where.


    There was no way to know just how rigorous the protections ced on him by the old gods were, and Tyron was in no mood to push his luck. It was past time to get out, and it may be some time before he returned.


    The front door of his shop had never looked quite so weing to the Necromancer, and he gratefully pulled the door open, manoeuvring around the bulky packages in his arms to squeeze through the entrance. A few momentster, Cerry was by his side.


    Master Almsfield, wee back! Can I take any of that for you?


    She was smiling, as always, but there was an undercurrent of nervous energy there. The Awakening drew closer every day. He probably should have given her the week off and made Flynn man the desk, but then, perhaps, she was grateful for something to act as a distraction from the uing event?


    No, thank you, he said, I can take care of it. Look after the shop, Ill be back down in a minute.


    After unwrapping the bundles, checking hed gotten what hed paid for, Tyron immediately packed them away. He would be out of the city before the day was done, but there were a few things he wanted to take care of before then.


    First, he sought out Flynn, finding his apprentice hard at work setting cores into appliances in the downstairs storeroom.


    Master Almsfield, is there anything I can do for you? he asked, looking up from his work.


    Im going to be leaving earlier than expected. Today. So I wanted to give you some final instructions.


    Oh, Flynn said, looking surprised. He sat up at his worktable, pushing away the ss hed been peering through.


    There should be more than enough cores to keep up stock levels until I get back, but if for some reason Im dyed and the supply runs out, I want to temporarily shut down the store. Also


    Tyron hesitated for a moment, unsure how much he should say.


    Should conditions in Shadetown grow too difficult to do business you understand me?


    Flynns eyes widened, and he nodded, looking nervous.


    If that happens close the store, and keep your head down. Wait for things to blow over.


    Flynn went to speak, but Tyron cut him off, lifting a pouch full of coins from his belt.


    Im paying you your bonus early. Theres plenty here for you to live off for a couple months.


    He threw the pouch to his apprentice, who caught it.


    Ththis is too much! Flynn eximed.


    Youve been an excellent apprentice and have put up with more entricity from your teacher than most would be willing to, Tyron disagreed. Ive noints about your work ethic, or the quality of what youve produced. Take the money.


    Lastly, Tyron produced a key and ced it on the table next to the young man.


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    I still have mine, obviously, but make sure you dont lose this.


    I wont, Master Almsfield, of course!


    Good man.


    With his apprentice dealt with, Tyron went and found Cerry on the shop floor, waiting until shed finished with her customer before he pulled her aside.


    Yearly bonus, he said, holding up another pouch, with something extra thrown in as an Awakening present.


    The young girl flushed, looking embarrassed.


    You didnt have to do that, Master Almsfield.


    Nonsense. The store has been a great sess in no small part thanks to your efforts. Now, Ive given special instructions to Flynn regarding the store given the current climate. Talk to him for the details. I expect to be back in two months, but if something goes wrong and you need assistance before then, he handed her a letter, you can give this to Master Willhem, and hell help you.


    She went pale.


    Master Willhem! I couldnt possibly!


    Cerry, its fine. Ive warned him in advance, so it wont be a surprise in the unlikely event you have to call on him, alright?


    Reluctantly, she nodded, and Tyron passed her the money, along with the letter.


    Less than an hourter, he was on the road, tucked away inside a carriage, a pensive expression on his face as the streets of Shadetown rolled by.


    During the days long journey to the Ortan estate, Tyron mostly slept. The driver of his carriage, along with those behind, directing the wagon in which hed packed his things, were paid to push through the day and night, and so they did. With winter approaching, the condition of the roads wasnt perfect, but it was good enough that they made good time.


    There were too many thoughts spinning through the Necromancers head for him to be able to rest well. ns for his time in Cragwhistle. The ongoing purge that would soon spill out across the province. How to advance his Wight project, along with the many others he was working on. Despite his best attempts, thoughts of his patrons continued to creep into his head.


    The Dark Ones were advancing their ns steadily, drawing the faithful to the remote edge of the Western Province, filling them with belief that Tyron would save them. He would do no such thing. All he cared about was executing his vengeance. Elsbeth and her fellow priests would need to take care of the rest.


    The Abyss What could be done? Knowledge had been promised, valuable, powerful secrets but the price. Could he pay it? Would he even be willing, if he had the chance?


    The Scarlet Court. His lip curled just thinking of the vampires. Whatever they had done to him still festered in his mind. To ce it there, they had earned his eternal enmity, but they had judged that to be a price worth paying. This was a problem that, as far as he could see, had no solution. If he needed their help to achieve his goals, what could he do to ensure he wasnt furtherpromised?


    These thoughts and more rattled around in his head, causing his sleep to be fitful and unsatisfying. Not that it was easy to sleep in the back of a moving carriage to start with.


    Near the end of the journey, he realised the carriage was slowing earlier than expected. Confused, he pulled back the curtain and looked out the window to see they were still several kilometres from their destination.


    Voices could be heard, someone talking to the carriage driver, the gruff man replying in a mollifying tone. This was odd, to say the least.


    He stood and opened the door so he could step down and see for himself what was going on. The moment his foot hit the road, it was clear what had happened. There was a blockade across the road.


    Tyron frowned and walked forward until he was alongside the driver.


    Whats going on here? he asked.


    The driver, a middle-aged man named Giff, leaned and spat over the side of the carriage before replying.


    Theys sayin the roads blocked tha way we won ta go.


    There were ten of them, Marshals from the looks of the uniforms, standing astride the road that led to the Ortan estate. He had a bad feeling about this.


    He approached the closest officer, whod been speaking to Giff earlier.


    Can I ask what the problem is, Marshal? I have business at the estate and have been travelling for days from the capital.


    The officer gave Tyron a prating stare as he visibly sized him up.


    Im terribly sorry, Mr?


    Elten. Elten Rirath.


    Hm. Unfortunately, this road has been barred as the estate is under investigation.


    Oh my. How terrible.


    Indeed.


    The Marshal narrowed his eyes.


    Might I enquire as to the nature of your business with the Ortan family?


    I have family who work on the property, Tyron replied, trying to appear as a mildly put out city-dweller of means. Ie and visit my uncle and aunt here several times a year. Its <em>very</em> difficult for me to find time to get away from Kenmor. Are you <em>sure</em> I cant proceed?


    You cannot. Im going to ask you to take the road to the nearby vige, Brenith, the officer stated, pointing down the path. Find lodging there and wait for an officer of thew to contact you.


    Am I under arrest? Tyron gasped.


    No, but we will want to ask you questions regarding your rtionship with the estate. If everything is as you say it is, there should be no problem.


    His tone indicated just how likely he thought <em>that</em> eventuality would be.


    Internally, Tyron was fuming. The purge had reached this far already. Someone in the city must have been connected to the Ortans and been swept up in the arrests. Whatever method they were using to get their suspects to talk, it seemed to be exceptionally effective.


    He could feel his connection to the undead stored within the cer under the manor, stronger than it had been in weeks. His minions were still there, unharmed, but for how long? They represented hundreds of hours of work and a treasure trove of resources that he couldnt easily rece.


    I will do as you say, Tyron said, not needing to fake his irritation, but Im not happy about it.


    He turned back to the carriage, mind buzzing furiously.


    What did ya want ta do? Giff asked.


    Just wait here for a moment, Tyron replied. I need to think.


    Aye.


    He climbed back into the carriage and sat carefully, hands folded in front of his face as he considered his options. Would it be possible to sneak onto the estate and free his minions? Unlikely. If the Marshals were going to make a scene and block the road, there would <em>have</em> to be more patrolling the surrounding woods.


    Were they going to investigate the <em>entire</em> estate? If so, they maye across the ritual circle hed constructed and housed in one of the distant corners of the Ortannds.


    They maye across Magnin and Beory.


    Tyron stood and exited the carriage again.


    Just going for a piss, he told Giff and stepped off the road. He walked more than he likely needed to, a hundred metres away from the carriage, hidden behind a copse of trees and shrubs.


    There would be mages at the manor who would likely detect what he was doing, but that was fine. He wasing for them next.


    He brought up his hands, inhaled a long, slow breath, then began to speak.

 Chapter B3C77 - Purge

    Chapter B3C77 - Purge


    They noticed, of course they noticed. Shouts could be heard in the distance, feet pounding on the road, drawing closer. Questions,mands, oneing on top of the other.


    Tyron blocked all of it out. There was only the ritual, only the magick.


    Before they reached him, the ritual wasplete. Rising from the ground came the arch of bone, inset in its centre, the door. Reaching out a hand, he opened it, sending a mentalmand the moment the space beyond became connected to the realm in which he stood.


    Oh SHIT!


    The Marshal at the forefront of the charge, the one Tyron had spoken to on the road, gaped in shock as the first skeleton emerged from the horrid archway. Dark purple light glowed in the eyes of the undead as it strode forth, shield and de held at the ready. Then came the next, and the next.


    Whos to say what they expected to see, but the officers of the empire reacted with admirable speed. As others arrived, they quickly organised themselves and made a wise decision.


    They tried to run.


    Tyron was almost a little surprised when the order rang out.


    Retreat to the manor!


    <em>Almost</em>.


    The Shivering Curse descended on them before they could take two steps. A prating cold drove straight into their muscles, locking them up, and then further, into their blood, freezing their hearts in their chests. Before they could adapt, the first of the skeletal soldiers were amongst them, and Tyrons hands were still moving.


    The undead moved with deadly grace and efficiency, crashing into the officers as they attempted to flee, using their rapidly swelling numbers to press their advantage, flinging themselves on their adversaries. Only two managed to escape the radius of the curse, but it was toote.


    <em>I really should have stored the revenants closest to the door instead of furthest away.</em>


    Histest creations were very different from his old revenants. Thieves and scoundrels, rather than proud yers, they used very different methods to fight. As the Marshals attempted to flee, the former leaders of the Guild hunted them down. Nimble, light and fast, they slipped alongside their targets, shing and stabbing from tricky angles with long, curved des made of bone.


    It didnt take long for thest of their opponents to fall.


    This is going to be annoying, Tyron grumbled to himself. Lets get this cleaned up first. Put the bodies inside the Ossuary for now, then we can bring out the cauldrons.


    His skeletons moved to obey him, lifting up the bodies andying them out neatly inside the door. Marshals werent exactly abat ss, but they did have much better stat gain than the average farmer or citizen. Tyron was already looking forward to how well his next batch of undead would perform.


    Wha what the fuck?!


    A strangled yell from closer to the road brought Tyrons head around. Giff, the carriage driver, hade looking for him. Most unfortunate.


    He didnt make it back to the carriage.


    Damned fiend, he choked, hand clutched to his shoulder where a spear of bone protruded, blood pouring into the grass.


    I apologise. I promise you that your remains and spirit wont be touched after you pass. Die in peace.


    Fuck y


    Tyron ended it himself, then frowned when he realised what hed done. Progression for his ss wasnt granted if he fought for himself! Now the mans death was doubly a waste. He wouldnt repeat this error with the other driver, and he didnt.


    Two more bodies tucked into the Ossuary, and Tyron dismissed the door, ordering his minions to obscure the circle he had created as best they could. Such a hasty ritual, performed without the proper diligence he would normally exercise for such a spell, it was bound to leave significant traces. Hopefully, hisck of a focus would make the residue too difficult for someone to urately read.


    However, the significant use of Death Magick in the ritual was almost certainly detected by someone at the manor. He had to move quickly.


    There were a little more than a hundred skeletons in total within the Ossuary, all hed been able to create since his return to Kenmor. It would have to be enough.


    There was no doubt in Tyrons mind that every individual who had attacked the estate would need to die. Once he exposed himself, word of his existence had to be prevented from escaping. Not even altering their memories would be enough to ensure his anonymity. With the purge underway, everyone remotely close to an incident like this would be checked, and any maniptions would be quickly uncovered.


    Dead men tell no tales.


    There were four cauldrons in total, so Tyron divided them amongst his minions, splitting them into roughly equal groups. It wasnt difficult to activate the constructs, there were magick-capable skeletons in each group who could perform the task, and they would be able to draw from the well of power contained within as they fought.


    Rummaging through the luggage in the second wagon, Tyron found the case he was looking for and opened it. Inside, six orbsy, each with a soft, ethereal glow around it.


    With a gesture, he conjured the spirits forth, forcing them from their containment. The ghosts werent happy to be removed, but then again, they werent happy no matter what happened.


    <em>Scout the way,</em> he ordered them, <em>do not attack.</em>


    They rasped and hissed at him, the sounds of their ire scraping against the edge of his awareness, but he paid them no mind. With the ghosts leading the way, he fell in with one of his skeletal teams and began to ascend.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Lastly, he found another case, within the Ossuary this time, that contained the bones he had custom fashioned to form histest armour. With a short spell, the armour rose into the air and fastened itself to his body. Adequately protected, he was ready to proceed.


    The manor itself stood atop a hill, a little over a kilometre from the road. After splitting from the main road, the path followed a gentle curve, bending this way and that as it cut into the side of the slope until it ended at the house. Tyron didnt take that route. Instead, he and his skeletons went off-road, hunting for those Marshals who were surely patrolling the wooded property.


    If hed arrived at night, things would have been so much easier. As it was, he needed to move cautiously, letting his ghosts roam until they found what he was looking for.


    If a single Marshal saw his skeletons and managed to escape, it would be disastrous. With the purge already underway, it would be trivial to gather the levelled individuals necessary to hunt down a Necromancer, and they would prioritise it, no question. Despite all that he had gained, Tyron wasnt ready to match the full might of the Western Province. Not remotely.


    The first squad was dispatched easily, as was the second. Teams of five men and women who didnt take their task lightly, the Marshals had been impossible to sneak up on, but he didnt need to. All he had to do was get close enough to cast the Shivering Curse. Within that freezing field, they couldnt run fast enough to escape the swiftest of his skeletons.


    It was then that he ran intoplications. There were more groups patrolling the grounds, he was sure of it, but he was unable to track them down. Perhaps they had retreated to the manor after noticing the others couldnt be contacted? It was possible.


    There was nothing else to do except advance on the manor.


    After a final sweep of thend between the road and the house, Tyron gathered his minions together and sent the ghosts forward once more. The ethereal creatures drifted nearly invisibly, passing through the trees without disturbing a leaf until they reached the clearing.


    With a simple spell, he looked through their eyes, and cursed at what he saw.


    The manor was being ransacked. He didnt know how long the Marshals had been here, perhaps only a few hours, but they would finish with the house and begin checking the various sheds and cers soon. Kept under guard, the staff and perhaps even the owner of the property were still on site, bound and gagged, and many of the maids were openly weeping.


    There had been fighting, too. Some semnce of resistance had been put up, but quickly overwhelmed, judging by the looks of things. A shame. He had met many of the men and women who nowy dead, dried blood sshed across their faces.


    But the Marshals themselves they werent alone. Several priests had apanied them, along with several soldiers. These were the warriors of the noble houses, men and women trained, not to hunt rift-kin, but people.


    Tyron almost couldnt help the smile from tugging at the corner of his lips. He <em>had</em> to have them.


    With no time avable to draw up a sophisticated n, he decided to simplymit with everything he had. So long as one of his minions reached the entrance to the cer and pried it open, he would have an overwhelming advantage in numbers.


    The defenders were on guard, watchful, but even so, they were momentarily stunned as a wave of ck fog burst up around the manor before it rolled toward them. Covered by the darkness summoned by the cauldrons, Tyron marched forward along with his undead. His ghosts hunted for the soldiers, heading straight for them, but they were <em>fast</em>. The moment one of them felt the icy chill of the spirit on his flesh, he was gone, shifting to another ce, calling out a warning to the others.


    Of course it wouldnt be easy.


    Tyrons hands were already moving as the first defenders were enveloped by the thick cloud of ck mist.


    <em>Death des</em>.


    He poured his magick into the blessing, stretching the range as far as he could. Within the cer, the skeletons'' weapons began to glow with an ethereal light as they were infused with Death Magick.


    <em>Shivering Curse</em>.


    Again, Tyron cast the spell with all the force he could muster, widening the area of effect to cover as much ground as possible. If they wanted to confront his skeletons, they would have to do so on ground that favoured <em>him</em>.


    Tyronmitted everything he had, holding none of his skeletons or revenants back. The silent undead rushed forward on bony feet, their heels cking against the stone pavers of the courtyard before the manor.


    Terror gripped the enemy. Marshals cried out in fear as they caught glimpses of glowing purple eyesing towards them from within the darkness. Priests called out to the Divines as they raised their staves, trying to invoke a blessing, of perhaps just praying to be spared.


    The exception was the soldiers. They were decisive, and quick to act. Though there were only six of them, they moved to rally the rest of the officers quickly. He could hear their voices rising above the growing din, shouting outmands, demanding that the cowards turn and fight.


    <em>Yes. Turn and fight. Itll be so much faster than having to hunt you down one by one.</em>


    As des were drawn and the fighting grew more widespread, Tyron noted, pleased at how well his regr skeletons performed against the Marshals. Perhaps one on one they were still inferior, but thats what their numbers were for. Following hismands, they were quite capable of fighting in small groups.


    At least, for rtively small skirmishes like this. If he had thousands of skeletons on his side, there would be no way he could efficientlymand so many.


    His revenants, he sent against the soldiers. They were the only ones with any chance at all to stall the soldiers long enough for him to get to the cer. With a silentmand, he ordered his trapped minions to try and force their way out from inside.


    As the hundreds of undead came to life, he felt the drain on his magick increase precipitously. Although, it was nowhere near what it should have been. His investments in efficiency and enchanting to help defray the costs of his undead continued to pay dividends.


    Right now, there were over three hundred minions moving, all following hismands, yet the draw on his personal reserves was still manageable. More than manageable.


    With a deep feeling of satisfaction, he flicked his eyes around the battlefield before judging that the way was clear. Best he keep his minions in the fight and go to the cer himself, keep himself out of sight and out of harm''s way.


    After watching the unfolding battle for a moment, he judged he was safe and began to run through the darkness. The skeletons wielding the cauldrons had remained back from the frontlines, protecting the constructs as they continued to pour out the ck mist. He slipped straight past them, moving to the westward-facing side of the house. It didnt take long for him to leave the darkness behind, reaching the edge of the cloud and emerging into the light, but he didnt stop moving.


    There it was!


    The cer door was twitching and jumping as his minions pounded against it from the inside. The damned thing was sturdy, way more sturdy than it needed to be.


    Hed found that afort when originally locking his undead in there, knowing they would be safe, but now it was <em>extremely</em> inconvenient. As he ran, Tyron reached a hand within his armour and removed a small sliver of bone, words of power already rolling from his tongue.


    With a thought, he urged his minions to retreat from the doors as he flung a hand forward,unching the bone shard through the air. Like a howling dervish, it sted through the air and crashed into the wooden doors, splintering them.


    His undead surged against the doors again. It wouldnt be long now until they broke through. All he had to do was wait.


    <em>Might as well find a spot to conceal myself until they break free</em>.


    He began to look around, only catching a glimpse of something shing toward him at thest moment.


    He raised his arm to neck height out of pure instinct, only for his own limb to crash into his face, sending him sprawling.


    Throbbing pain exploded in his arm as he rolled across the dirt, scrambling to his feet as quickly as possible.


    Thought I had you there, the soldier grinned at him. Youre quick, for a dead man.

 Chapter B3C78 - Battle

    Chapter B3C78 - Battle


    Tyron couldnt help a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.


    The soldier stepped carefully as he centred his de once more.


    What are you smirking for, heretic? Clearly, my sword didnt bite deep enough. Ill correct that shortly.


    Tyron shrugged slightly, straightening himself and raising his hands. Behind him, his minions continued to break down the door covering the basement.


    Its just something Ive struggled with since bing a Necromancer, he said.


    The evil youmit against Divinity, I presume?


    Noits a bad habit Ive developed. No matter how much I try to tell myself off, it always seems to crop up.


    Interesting. Whats this habit you speak of?


    Talking to the minions.


    The soldier scoffed and lowered his stance, raising his weapon to eye level.


    Im not the one whos about to die.


    I appreciate your confidence. It assures me of victory.


    Tyrons hands shed up and the soldier rushed forward. Despite his armour, the man moved inhumanly quick, his movements a blur as his de shed towards Tyrons neck. Despite the speed in which he acted, the soldier still possessed keen awareness, so much that Tyron envied his incredible reactions.


    When he had crossed half the distance, the soldier felt an imprable chill begin to invade his body. Instantly, he adjusted, kicking into the ground so hard the dirt sprayed high into the air, just in time to avoid the weing arms of the ghost. With a muttered curse, he spun and rotated, spinning like a dancer as he regained momentum and brought his de to bear.


    Toote.


    Tyron spoke the final syble and his mind mmed into the soldiers like a sledgehammer. With all of his advantages, the Necromancer had expected to crack the clearly physically dominant warrior like a nut, but that wasnt the case. To his shock, the mental blow hit home, freezing his target in ce, but only for a moment. Something repelled his attack, bouncing it back and causing a fierce headache to bloom in his head.


    The nameless soldier felt a surge of triumph as the mage stumbled. Feeling flooded back into his limbs and he began to move again,pleting the arc of his swing.


    The impact of the arrows and spells shattered his armour and ribs, punching into the soft flesh beneath. Dozens of bolts at once had overwhelmed even the enchantments woven into the metal. So strong was the force it knocked him off his axis, leaving him unable toplete the blow.


    With a shake of his head, Tyron regained control of himself in time to see the soldier try to pick himself up from the ground. Try, and fail. That had been close. Hed intended to freeze the man in ce for his archers and skeletal mages to finish him off, and fortunately the n had still worked, but only barely. Hed underestimated just how much the noble houses would be willing to spend on their personal soldiers. Protection against mind magick? Perhaps it was something given to them as they went about this purge. A preventative, to stop them being corrupted by the evil they hoped to expunge.


    Behind him, his minions finally burst free. The door swung open, and the silent ranks of his undead began to file out, weapons already zing with dark magick.


    With a thought, he directed them into the fight, sending his revenants to help corner the remaining soldiers. No doubt there would be losses, but those were losses he was perfectly willing to absorb. After all, hed already secured one exceptional specimen, and soon there would be so many more.


    Unwilling to make the mistake of moving on his own again, he waited until a full guard had formed around him, a moving wall of bone shields and skeletal soldiers, before he advanced into the fight once again.


    With his array of magicks, Tyron had no need to expose himself to danger on the front lines, not like hed done in the past. Instead, he used his stockpile of bone spears, sending them streaking into any clear targets he could find, or casting Deaths Grasp to trouble the more difficult to pin down opponents.


    The soldiers were whirlwinds of death. Fast, strong, well equipped and experienced in battle, they were able to fend off his revenants, dodge away from his ghosts, and even escape or block his magicks. However, with so much directed against them, arrows and spells from his minions included, it was difficult for them to mount an effective offence. Every time they rushed forward and cut down a skeleton, they exposed themselves to a barrage of projectiles that forced them into a hasty retreat.


    Undoubtedly, they would have extraordinary reserves of stamina, but there would be a limit. The undead were untiring, the only thing preventing them from fighting eternally was the necessity for magick to power their movements. Despite fuelling so many undead, and casting so many spells, Tyron was pleased to note his reserves were far from depleted. With the individual magick gathered by each skeleton, and the reservoir of power contained within the cauldrons, he could maintain this level of activity for some time yet. They would not be able to oust him.


    Damn you, vile unbeliever! one of the priests roared, locking eyes with Tyron, who tilted his head, questioningly.


    I believe the five Divines exist, he called back, but I also believe they need to die.


    If it were possible, the mans eyes bulged even further from his head. He raised his staff high, and it began to reverberate with the ambient magick, glowing bright and emitting a warm, golden light.


    The Necromancer tensed and slipped within the closest cloud of darkness, cautious of what may happen next.


    I call on the Five to smite this heretic, the priest dered, eyes dangerously wide. Let my soul be the fuel for the pyre!


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Fuck! Tyron cursed.


    Undead archers and mages turned their attention to this new threat as the air around the priest ignited. Power began to condense around him, the magick in the air gathering, adding itself to his spell, then rising high. Overhead, an ominous light began to form.


    There was shouting amongst the priests, but Tyron had no time for it. Unwilling to let this magickplete, he flung bone spear after bone spear toward the roaring priest, but each shattered against a golden barrier that snapped into ce around him at thest moment. With each collision, it red brightly before dimming, only to surge back to life as the next blow fell.


    The other priests were fuelling it, hoping to preserve the one fanatic until his spell wasplete. That initial priest was looking the worse for wear. As time moved on, he poured more and more of his magick into the working, and something more. Whatever was happening to him wasnt normal, this was far from a typical spell, or miracle. To the Necromancers eyes, the priest appeared as if he was pouring out his very lifeforce. He was shrivelling into a cadaver right in the midst of the battle, giving up his life to enact this one magick.


    <em>What madness is this?</em>


    Tyron fought against bewilderment as he watched the priest empty himself of everything he possessed, even his own soul, to fuel the now raging light overhead. No doubt it would descend and annihte arge area, wiping out his undead and likely himself in the process. He couldnt hide, nor could he deflect it, the priest <em>had</em> to die.


    Tyron grit his teeth and ordered his undead to surge forward. He didnt doubt the priest would allow the spell to detonate right atop himself and his own allies once itpleted. Perhaps it would be harmless to them, but he doubted it. It was unlikely the soldiers and marshals even realised what was about to happen. They fought desperately to defend the man who was sacrificing his own life to ensure they too would die along with the threat before them.


    Summoning the arcane power from within himself, Tyron began to weave two spells simultaneously, each hand flicking out sigils independently. Words of power rolled in a continuous flood from his tongue, each chant fit into the gaps of the other as both spells took shape.


    He thrust both hands forward, unleashing two Deaths Grip spells at once. Duel waves of ck magick, like ethereal smoke, rippled toward the priest at great speed, undting through the air. When they reached him, Tyron clutched both his hands into fists and the magick coalesced around the dying man. Of course, the shield was there, but Tyron persisted. As the barrier red to life, he squeezed, trying to crush it by force of will. Under his relentless assault, the light dimmed and ignited repeatedly as the other priests used their own reserves to fuel it.


    Arrows and spells pounded into the shield, the entirety of Tyrons force focused on it. He would have to make <em>so</em> many bone arrows if he survived this!


    With his spells attempting to crush the barrier, it was never able to fade, forced to coalesce without pause. This proved decisive in the final moment.


    As the priest, with precious little life left within him, raised his staff one more time, an arrow seared through the air, mmed into the weakened shield, and shattered it. The barrier snapped into ce once again, but it was toote. The revenant, Laurel, had aimed true, her empowered arrow breaking through the defence and piercing the priest straight through his head. Before he couldplete his sacrificial ritual, his staff fell from his hand, and the light overhead began to dissipate.


    A wave of despair rose from the remaining defenders, and Tyron pressed his advantage. None could be allowed to escape.


    Against hundreds of undead, it wasnt possible for his opponents to hold. Not without literal divine intervention. No matter how the remaining priests called out, or what spells they used, Selene, Orthriss, Hamar or Lofis did not descend from the heavens to defend them.


    Naturally, the dead god Tnan did note either.


    It was the first time Tyron had ever witnessed priests of the Divines in battle, and it was interesting, to say the least. He was familiar with thedies in the temple of Selene using their divinely gifted abilities to perform minor miracles of healing. Such a thing wasmon enough, even in a ce like Foxbridge. Here, they used their abilities to defend their allies, even strike out against their enemies with hammers of divine light, a blessing of Orthriss, no doubt.


    What could high level priests aplish, especially when paired with deadly fighters like the professional soldiers of the noble houses?


    Mercifully, there simply werent enough of them to hold back the tide at the Ortan estate. Once he freed his trapped minions, the tide turned in his favour and never turned back.


    Clouds of darkness rolled over the manor, undead swarming within, stabbing and striking without sound and without remorse. In ten minutes, it was done.


    When silence fell, Tyron knew he didnt have much time to waste. What had urred here would spread, even if none were alive to speak of it. He could conceal his identity, he could prevent word of his Necromancy, but the loss of such arge force of marshalls, priests and soldiers was impossible to hide. Others woulde, and soon.


    With a thought, Tyron scattered the majority of his undead across the property. Groups of twenty, each led by a revenant, where possible, moved as quickly as their bony legs could carry them out into the fields and woods. If anyone escaped, they had to be hunted down, there could be no survivors.


    Then, he turned his attention to the captives. Maids, groundskeepers, people hed seen before and interacted with in a limited fashion, none would meet his eye, trembling as he drew close to them.


    No harm wille to you, he reassured them in a t tone of voice. I will take you somewhere safe, but you must remain calm, you must not flee. Anyone who attempts to run will die, understand?


    Fresh sobs from some, hurried nods from others. It would have to do. He managed to catch the eye of one who appeared a little more steady than the others.


    Make sure nobody does anything stupid, he told her. You will be safe and free so long as everyone remains calm.


    With no more time for them, he left a detachment of undead to watch over them and entered the house.


    Picking his way through the debris, it was clear the officers had been in the middle of ransacking the ce when the fighting had arrived. Every drawer and cupboard had been flung open and rummaged through, seemingly without exception.


    Clearly, they had been on the hunt for anything that might signify this manor as a refuge for heresy, which indeed it was.


    In the dining room, he found Madam Ortan herself. Still breathing, gasping for breath through the gag that had been tied around her head. He stepped up to the table quietly, looking down on the unfortunate soul.


    It didnt look as though they had waited to find much before putting her to the question. She had been stripped and tied to the table, arms locked above her head. Blood dripped from the edge of the dark wood and onto the carpet where it continued to soak in.


    Tears flowed freely as she continued to rasp in breath after breath. With a hint of professional detachment, he examined the way the knives had been applied. Whoever had done this had known what they were doing. This was a butchers technique, used to separate the skin from the meat beneath.


    They hadnt gotten far, but the Madam was in clear agony.


    Live, or die? he asked her quietly.


    She only red up at him. With gentle hands, he reached out and cut the gag, withdrawing the rough cloth from her mouth.


    Ill not die to the likes of these dogs, she spat, throat still raw from screaming. In the name of the true gods, I endure.


    All energy spent, the matron of the Ortan family fell limp, only her chest rising and falling with each breath. Tyron dipped his head to acknowledge her grit.


    Ill send in your people to care for you, he said, but we arent staying still for long. I have a path, a dangerous path, that will take us from here to Cragwhistle. We need to be gone in a few hours.

 Chapter B3C79 - Take What is Mine

    Chapter B3C79 - Take What is Mine


    So much to do and so little time. After ensuring that Madam Ortan would be cared for by her people, Tyron was able to turn his attention to more important matters. Corpsesy everywhere outside the manor, which simply wouldnt do. The majority of his skeletons continued to scout the area for any officers who might still be lurking nearby, which meant he was a touch shorthanded. Nevertheless, his minions weremitted to the work.


    The dead needed to be stripped and the bodies safely stowed within the Ossuary, which meant he needed to summon the doorway once more. To show his respect to the owners of thend, and to avoid a possible confrontation with the survivors, he decided not to take the bodies of the fallen workers. Instead, hemanded a small group of undead to dig a grave for them.


    As tempting as it was to take the armour the soldiers had been wearing, he decided against it, and the same went for the priests'' staves and robes. Perhaps there were useful and powerful enchantments there which he could study, but such things were also eminently possible to trace. A risk he wasnt willing to take. Even if the chances they could be found within the Ossuary were infinitesimal, he still didnt want to assume that chance.


    When word of the massacre got out, things would get extremely tense. The church would undoubtedly assume that old god worshipping heretics were responsible and step up their crackdown. That was fine with him. But if they were to determine a Necromancer was responsible, things would be much more difficult for him.


    Despite all the precautions hed taken, the main reason he hadnt been discovered was because nobody was actively looking for Death Magick. The moment a Necromancer was even <em>suspected</em>, that went out the window. Kenmor would be <em>scoured</em>, the surroundingnds soon after, and any whiff of his spells would be found. For that reason, he spent the next hour attempting to collect every shard of bone from his fallen skeletons and scrub every trace of his magick from the manor and surrounding grounds.


    It wasnt possible to fully do so, of course. Every skeleton left a trace remnant just by walking through an area, which should dissipate naturally over a few days. The cauldrons, and the spells he had cast, left a much more dense residue which needed to be removed.


    The job was far from done to his satisfaction, but he couldnt afford to take any more time. He recalled his minions, then changed his mind and directed them straight into the forest. It was past time to be moving.


    Time to go. If you havent packed it, then it isnting, he announced, striding into the dining room.


    The mistress of the house was certainly better than shed been thest time hed seen her, with thick bandaging around her middle to hold everything in ce, but she was clearly still in great pain.


    Madam Ortan is not in condition to travel, one of the maids protested softly, unwilling to look at him.


    Then she stays behind and gets killed by the next group of officers, he stated tly, or worse, they can finish what they started. If anyone here doesnt feel like having their skin peeled off, screaming and crying, condemning your friends and family to end the pain, then <em>get moving</em>.


    Madam Ortan red at him, but didnt disagree with anything he said. Instead, she started to rise from her seat, teeth set against the undoubted agony she was suffering.


    There is no choice. We move or we die, and I would much rather all of you live, she said. Gather your things quickly, we are leaving.


    Tyron was already striding from the room. He couldnt afford to waste too much time and energy on these people. He had other priorities, and his own safety to think about. He had extended a way out, they would grasp it, or they would not.


    Exiting the manor, he took stock. The cer had been emptied of everything he had ever touched, most of it stored within the Ossuary. He considered once again if there was anything he needed to collect, then almost cursed himself.


    As the surviving staff and residents of the manor rushed to collect whatever they could carry for the hard journey ahead, Tyron simrly rushed to collect valuables: souls.


    Although he had secured all the raw materials, the spirits were an equally important ingredient. Considering where he was going, the more spirits he could secure, the better.


    However, there was something he found disturbing. The souls of the priests were not to be found. All of the marshals were ounted for, along with the soldiers, but the priests? No matter what he did, he couldnt conjure forth the ghost of a single one.


    Perhaps it was true and they really did ascend into heaven, to live alongside their god for all time? At the very least, they were no longer here, bound to this realm. If they had gone to be with their gods, hopefully they werent capable of revealing how they had died. Thest thing he needed was dead priests conveying his existence to the Five.


    Task done, he called out, once, to those inside the manor, and then began to walk. They spilled out of the doors behind him, still stuffing packs with clothes and supplies, rushing to catch up. Madam Ortan came along behind, three of her staff helping to support the woman by her sides. Already the bandage had begun to be stained with red, but without any healing miracles or spells, there was nothing that could be done. It would be a long journey to Cragwhistle, but for some reason, Tyron believed that she would make it. There was steel in her, and fire burning in her gaze, a heat that he himself was all too familiar with.


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    Hate, and an unquenchable thirst for revenge.


    Those feelings stirred within him now, as he strode away from the house and into the surrounding grounds. Over the fields and into the woods that pressed up against the border to the central province he walked, the raw, naked fury growing brighter and brighter with every step.


    When they drew close, he turned to those following him.


    Wait here. Do not follow me.


    How long will you be gone? one dared to ask.


    Not long. You should go back and help the others catch up, but someone needs to remain here, as this is where Ill return.


    With no more to say, he turned back and continued to stride forward. Five minutester, he stood before them.


    The anger red within him again, growing so bright and hot it threatened to burn everything else away, but his grief rose alongside it. Despite the years that had passed, the things he had done and the suffering he had endured, his grief remained undiminished.


    Tears burned in his eyes as a vice closed around his throat, forcing him to choke. With a monumental effort of will, he mastered himself. There wasnt time.


    Within the clear, crystal-like material, Magnin and Beoryy, perfectly preserved, as they had intended.


    His father had advised him to make use of their remains, to create powerful undead from them, but he hadnt. With his current abilities, there was no way he could make proper use of these two, and he wasnt sure if he could ever bring himself to.


    Mother, Father. Im sorry about this, but Im going to have to disturb your rest.


    When it was done, he returned back to find the others had gathered. Even Madam Ortan had made it, sweat dripping from her forehead as she shuddered and stifled her groans.


    We are nearly there, he told them. Lets get going.


    The shack was exactly as he had left it, the ritual circle preserved perfectly within. Sealed by the alchemical mixture, it wouldnt be easy to destroy, so he decided not to. If it was found, any mage who studied it would be able to determine its function, to connect to the Abyss, and it would be attributed to the heretics who lived here.


    However, using it in the future would be out of the question. Once discovered, they would surely trap it, or monitor it in some fashion. This would be thest time he was able to utilise it.


    A shame, given how much he had invested in creating it.


    Remain outside, he told the others, I will go inside and cast a ritual. This will open a portal to the Abyss, which we will need to travel through to reach our destination.


    To say they werent happy to hear this was an understatement, but none protested. Perhaps the presence of several hundred undead was weighing on their minds.


    This is the only way, he told them. If you try to travel ovend, you will be caught before the sun goes down. Using this method, you will vanish, no trace left behind. After moving through the Abyss, we will pass into a rift-realm. It will be dangerous, but I will keep you safe. From there, we will find the rift that connects to our own realm, pass through, and be at Cragwhistle in less than a day.


    He looked at each of them.


    Whatever warm clothing you have, put it on now. Temperature is not really a thing in the Abyss, but beyond the rift, we will be in a frozen wastnd. And Cragwhistle isnt that much warmer.


    Despite their reluctance, and obvious fear, no one disagreed or protested. Perhaps the grim determination showed by Madam Ortan was the deciding factor, and the others simply followed her lead.


    Soon, the entrance to the Abyss yawned open within the shack, and Tyron stepped through first.


    Within, he found the nothingness-between was the same as it ever was. Hidden voices whispered, tempted, wed at the edges of his mind, but he warded them off. He wasnt here for these weak ones, the pilot fish who had attached themselves to the great shark.


    With nothing by which to see, moving through the Abyss was an exercise in faith. He almost didn''t notice the great creature until it shifted before him, letting itself be known.


    It was as if the world itself had moved. An entity so vast, his mind couldnt fully grasp it, turned its attention to him.


    It spoke to him.


    The barest brush of its great mind, the faintest whisper of its voice, was almost enough to shatter his sanity on the spot, but Tyron endured. This was a creature of fathomless power within this empty ce, and his only way to secure safe passage.


    It didnt have a name, not as a normal person understood them. When referring to itself, Tyron was granted an impression of mind-numbing age, and an endless need to consume.


    So he named it Void.


    Void spoke to him with a hundred voices, each whispering a different thing. A wee. A threat. An offer. A secret. A blessing. A curse.


    Tyron responded as best he could, epting the wee, declining the offers, ignoring the threats, blocking out the secrets.


    Void regarded him silently.


    Tyron steeled his nerves, and spoke. He told of others needing safe passage through the Abyss.


    Void seethed. There was a price.


    Tyron rejected it. He could not pay.


    A counter offer.


    Tyron reluctantly epted.


    Then he reached within his armour and withdrew several stones, each glowing with dense, ethereal light.


    He reminded Void of their previous arrangement, and asked if the payment was sufficient.


    Void leaned forward eagerly, and in a blink, the souls were gone, drawn from the stone, the echoes of their screams haunting the nothingness around them.


    It would do.


    Tyron bowed low, though the creature cared not for such gestures. With his mind on the verge of dissolving, he withdrew, gasping, blood dripping from his ears and eyes. After he gathered himself, he brought his minions through, and the survivors, who entered shivering and full of trepidation.


    Do not listen to the voices, if you want to live, he warned them, then turned to lead the way.


    It would be a difficult journey, and not all would make it, but soon they would be free, able to make a new life among others who shared their faith openly.


    But for Tyron, the war would continue. He had to grow stronger, he had to learn more, and faster. With the purge in full swing, discontent among the yers would only grow. With enough pushes, enough words in the right ce at the right time, a spark could grow to a zing inferno, one he would use to burn Kenmor to the ground.

 Chapter B3C80 - Epilogue

    Chapter B3C80 - Epilogue


    Cerrys cheeks flushed with excitement as she found her ce in the line. Despite promising herself she wouldnt, shed gotten up early this morning, rolling from her sheets at the first sign of light. Her mother hadughed and shaken her head when she realised who was in the kitchen making breakfast. She understood, after all, it had been the same for her. It wasnt easy to lie still on the day you became an adult!


    Her mother and father were here now, somewhere in the crowd behind her, along with the families of every other person she knew from Shadetown who was Awakening today.


    Shed hoped that Flynn would be able to make it but he was probably working, even though Master Almsfield had told him he didnt have to. It was difficult to keep a pout from her face. Being diligent was one of the things she liked about him, but it would have been nice if hed pulled himself away from those cores just for today.


    No matter. The young woman shook her head and drove the negative thoughts out of her mind. Nothing was going to ruin her day today!


    The line shuffled forward as someone stepped away from the crystal and another took their ce. The young man was smiling slightly, so he must have been happy with his ss. That was good! Cerrys heart leapt in her chest and she mped both her hands together to try and keep it still.


    <em>Dont get too excited! Just ept whateveres your way!</em>


    Keep the line nice and orderly! No cuts! Hey! I said no cuts! Dont give me that look, youngdy, Ive been running this event since before you were born, I know a cutter when I see one!


    Old man Jissel was his usual self, marching up and down the line, swinging his cane at everyone who dared to put a foot out of ce. When he came alongside her, his frown softened for a moment.


    Cerry Tiln, all grown up! Where does the time go? I remember when your mother and father came for their Awakening.


    Nice to see you again, Mr Jissel. Hows your wife, Gelda?


    Taking too long to get out of bed, the old man harrumphed, says her hips hurt. As if mine dont!


    Im sure shes just doing her best to take care of herself, Cerry said as tactfully as possible.


    The old man looked as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it.


    Youre probably right. Im too busy taking care of other things. Like this line! Im watching you Jessup! You shift sideways again and Ill give you a reason to lean on that leg!


    Everyone is just impatient is all, she tried to soothe him, knowing it was useless. Its a big day for all of us.


    Of course it is! Im trying to help. A good Awakening goes ten times faster if people just stick to the line and dont make a fuss.


    He spat to one side.


    Bah. I may as well warn you now, youll need to register your ss today, so you might as well get it done before you leave. See over there, he pointed toward the edge of the square where several tents had been erected, marshalls patrolling in front. They have clerks in there who can perform the status reading for you, then youe back and hand it to me.


    Today? Isnt there usually a three day wait?


    There always had been before, she was sure of it. Her family was waiting for her to return so they could go and eat together. Father had booked a table at the Boars Knees! Cerry could taste their famous potato and gravy already.


    Jissel brought hisrge eyebrows together in a fierce frown.


    I dont know why, but theyre insisting on it. Breaking with tradition for no good reason! That three day grace period is our gods-given right! Who doesnt go out and get pissed after their Awakening? If you arent too hungover to function the next day, you arent celebrating right! Thats what the third day is <em>for</em>, getting all the sted paperwork done. Anyway, its not my business if the authorities want to stick their noses in where they dont belong.


    He reached up to pat Cerry on the arm.


    Nice to see you again, girl. Good luck with your Awakening. Id best get back to managing these hooligans. <em>Yes</em>, that means you, Jessup! I couldnt give a hairy rat''s ass if you''re my grandson!


    She gave him a small wave as he limped down the line, still hollering at his poor rtive, and then it was time to take another step forward. Not long now! She was <em>so close</em>.


    <em>Calm down, Cerry. Dont get too carried away!</em>


    Honestly, she had yed the same game as every other young person in the empire, trying to decide which was the perfect ss, the one that suited her best. Whereas others had flitted from favourite to favourite, wanting to be a yer one day, to a merchant the next, then back to a yer. The boys <em>always</em> wanted to be yers.


    Shed never really settled on a favourite. Even now, she didnt know what she wanted. As long as she was able to keep working in Master Almsfields store, keep working with Flynn, then she would be happy. Life was good right now, and she didnt see any reason to wish that away.


    Another step and she was closer again to the front. After a moment, she realised she was bouncing on her heels, and forced herself to stop. The time woulde on its own, no need to fuss about it! To distract herself, she scanned the crowd again. People had formed into a rough circle around the line, with the bulk of the watchers gathered around the stone at the front. Most were content to wait at the back, but some people really wanted to see the moment their son or daughtery their hands on the stone.


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    So many people she recognised from the area, and many she didnt, people whod travelled in from other areas of the city or even from the surrounding countryside.


    Wait a second was that? It <em>was</em>.


    Flynn smiled at her bashfully and gave a small wave from the back of the crowd. She felt herself blush as a wide grin broke out on her face. She waved back to him wildly, and he grinned back at her before catching himself and moderating his expression. He was just too shy for much of a public disy of affection, but she was <em>so pleased</em> to see him.


    Now the day was perfect and her heart swelled until it was fit to burst.


    Maybe after she received her ss, he would formally propose?! Hed already asked her father for permission to court her, but surely he wasnt ready for the next step already?


    No, of course he wasnt. This was Flynn she was thinking about. There was no chance he was going to ask her to marry him until hed finished his apprenticeship.


    Another step, and suddenly Cerry was the next in line. The person in front of her, a young woman named Heather, walked forward, listened to a few words from Jissel, whod made his way back to the front, and then ced her hands on the glowing stone.


    She was next! Excitement fluttered in her stomach to the point she feared she might throw up.


    <em>Get a grip Cerry, give it a few minutes, and itll all be over.</em>


    She focused on taking deep, slow breaths, like her mother had told her, and it helped a little.


    Are you alright there, Cerry? old man Jissel asked her with a knowing smile. Theres nothing to worry about, youll see.


    He turned back to Heather, who had just removed her hands from the stone.


    Dont forget to head over and have your status read. Thank you,ss. Alright, Cerry. Up youe.


    He was being so kind, and it was so out of character for him, it jolted her back to her senses. With a confident step, she walked forward, took a deep breath and ced both of her hands down on the Awakening stone.


    Instantly, her awareness was stolen away and taken to a world of white. This was expected, her family had described their own experiences to her, so shed known this wasing, though nothing could prepare her for just how immediate the transition had felt. Any moment now, she would hear the words of the Unseen and her ss would be granted.


    Except. Her family had never told her of this lingering darkness, a shadow on the edge of her mind. It sent a chill through her. Then came the words, each syble rippling through her mind, warping her soul like a stone tossed into ake.


    <em>Cerry Tiln. You are a bright spark, a pinpoint of light within the darkness who brings joy where others seek to bring misery.</em>


    Gradually, the tone and timbre of the voice changed, growing colder, more vicious with each word.


    <em>So, light you will bring to those who need it most. You seek to experience joy and spread it to others. This desire shall be granted.</em>


    <em>You have received the ss: Spirit Speaker.</em>


    <em>The messenger of the dead, the Spirit Speaker can talk to the ghosts of the deceased, summon them from their restless wandering and grant release from their suffering, in exchange for loyal service. To increase your proficiency, you must engage in the core pursuits of the ss; speak with the dead and give them purpose in your service.</em>


    <em>ss Attribute per level:</em>


    <em>Maniption +2;</em>


    <em>Presence +1;</em>


    <em>Poise +2;</em>


    <em>Skills granted level one:</em>


    <em>Spirit Speech.</em>


    It burned in her mind, more than she expected. Were she connected to her body, she might have cried out, but as it was, she couldnt emit a sound as the Unseen engraved the ss upon her.


    Bewildered, she tried toprehend what had just happened. What did those words mean? What ss had she received?


    It didnt make sense.


    In a sh, it was over. She returned to herself with a start, staring in confusion at her hands pressed into the surface of the stone.


    She withdrew them in a daze, then turned. To her left, Old man Jissel watched her, his kindly smile fading into concern as she didnt react. Unbidden, tears came to eyes, but still she didnt move,pletely lost.


    With a gentle hand, the old man drew her to the side and waved for the next person to step forward.


    Its alright, child. No matter what, your life will go on, you dont have to worry, regardless how bad it seems right now, he told her softly.


    He turned and nced over his shoulder. Towards the tents, she realised. In that moment, a new fear was born in her heart. Was this ss illegal? It had to be. Surely.


    So she would lose her ss. It was almost a relief, she didnt want this burden.


    Then, a new fear was born.


    People had been disappearing all over Shadetown for weeks. She would need to have had her head buried in the sand not to notice, to see the fear in the eyes of everyone she spoke to. Everyone knew someone who had been taken, and she was no exception. A terrible thought surfaced in her mind, and once she had acknowledged it, there was no hope it would release her.


    <em>Will it really end with giving up the ss? Normally, it would. But what about now?</em>


    She grew even more pale, and Jissel tightened his grip on her shoulder until she looked at him.


    Dont worry about the registration right now, he told her. Head back to your family and Ill let them know to follow up with youter, alright? Remember, its never as bad as it seems.


    With a gentle push, he urged her away, back down the line. One look at her face and those still waiting thought they knew what had happened. Sympathetic looks and words were sent her way, but Cerry couldnt bring herself to acknowledge them. Even Flynn, desperately trying to get her attention from the crowd, couldnt distract her from the terror rising in her chest.


    What was she going to do?


    ~~~


    All across the empire, the number of illegal sses Awakened rose more than ten times. Dark Sorcerers, Death Mages, Rot Soldiers, Raven Eyed and many, many more. sses not seen for hundreds of years, some not for thousands. Magisters were forced into the depths of their libraries to seek the records of some,ing up empty-handed at times.


    Thieves and bandits proliferated alongside other, more mundane illegal sses.


    Despite their preparations, it was impossible for the Marshals, even with the help of the Church of the Divines, to catch them all. Many families awoke to find a child had slipped away in the night, vanishing into the darkness, a brief note on the kitchen table, never to be seen again.


    Many were forced to abandon their sses. Many others were taken for questioning, leaving anxious parents waiting for days, which turned to weeks, then to months, with no word of their children.


    In a small mountain town in the far western edge of the Empire, the youth lined up to ce their hands upon a very different Awakening stone, a stone that had once been a person. Here, there were no magisters, no priests, not of the Five, and the sses received were just as rare, just as dark.


    Bone Smiths. Flesh Tuners. Corpse Weavers.


    And Necromancers.

 Chapter B4 - Prelude

    Chapter B4 - Prelude


    Just tell them Im writing out my notes as quickly as I can, Tyron frowned, but dont forget I have my own work to worry about.


    Your work will go a lot faster if you have help, Munhilde pointed out reasonably. The people are more than willing to give you all the assistance you need, they just need to know <em>how</em>.


    Willingness wasnt the problem. He rubbed a hand across his weary face as he tried to find a tactful way to exin that he didnt want low-skilled people interfering in his process. Hed much rather do everything himself to ensure the final oue was something he could put his faith in than turn a single skeleton over to these amateurs.


    You think I cant see what youre thinking? Munhilde observed wryly. You dont want them to help because theyre not up to scratch. Which means theyll never <em>get</em> up to scratch, because they dont get to practice. You see the problem?


    Im doing this to repay a favour for your people, Tyron replied, irritated. I dont want <em>or</em> need any help, I dont care how many bone smiths you have down there. The old gods want to y with peoples fate and mess with the Awakening? Thats their business, theirs and yours.


    He was perfectly capable of managing his own undead horde and didnt intend to let anyone elsey a finger on a skeletal bone.


    The priestess of the dark gods, Elsbeths teacher in their ways, looked at him as if she were staring at a misbehaving child.


    What? he said, begrudgingly.


    Youre being stupid, she told him bluntly. You don


    She cut off with a strangled sound as Tyron crushed her mind with his own, freezing her in ce. After a moment, he breathed out a long, slow breath, and tried to push the sh of violent anger that had exploded in his chest at her words. His temper appeared to have sufferedtely, which wouldnt do. He couldnt afford to lose control.


    Once he was sure the sh of anger was gone, he released his hold on the priestess and dipped his head.


    I apologise. I must becking rest.


    He was, but it wasnt a good excuse.


    Freed from his control, Munhilde red at him furiously, but mastered herself with effort.


    As I was <em>saying</em>, she spat, you dont know what is happening down the mountain. The Corpse Weavers and Bone Shapers have been making expeditions down onto the ins to the east and north. They gain proficiency by working with remains, so they wanted to see if they could unearth any of the mass graves.


    They found some? Tyron asked.


    Theyre still carting in the bodies, she told him in clipped tones. There could be as many as a thousand in just the graves they found <em>so far</em>.


    A thousand sets of remains Tyron could scarcely imagine it. Not that long ago, he was paying solid gold for twenty a month. This represented an unprecedented amount of wealth. What could he do with such an amount of resources?


    He quickly realised the issue that Munhilde was getting at. No matter what, there was no way he could use them all. Preparing every corpse, stitching them all, even with the Ossuary, then raising them it would take an enormous amount of time. He doubted he could even support that many undead to start with.


    And this was only the beginning. There were tens of thousands of dead in the wake of the rift break, entire viges, farmingmunities, small towns, wiped from the map by unthinking, bloodthirsty kin.


    Now he began to grasp what it was that the Old Gods had arranged for. The newly Awakened had been granted many sses hed never heard of. Among the Famers, Haulers, Coopers and Smiths, there had been so many rted to the dead and the handling of corpses. The Corpse Weavers in particr were a ss which seemed to be entirely rted to preparing the dead for other uses. If they reached a high level, it was possible they could significantly improve the quality of remains, well beyond even what he himself could do.


    With so many recently dead, and the looming conflict ahead, these newly Awakened, along with the Bone Smiths and others, would be the craftspeople feeding a war machine of Necromancers and other dark magick users.


    No need for forges, or yer schools, bowyers and fletchers. All he needed was a steady supply of well-prepared remains and he could fuel the fighting indefinitely.


    The Bone Shapers could possibly even collect the skeletons who fell in battle and repair them, something he already didnt have the time to do. Over the years, more of these sses would appear, and there would soon be hundreds of them, collecting the dead and turning those useless bundles of flesh and bone into something so much more.


    Fine. I understand what youre saying, and I see the value in it. Ill devote more time to condensing my notes.


    That wont be enough, soon. No matter how clear you try to make it, these newly Awakened didnt have your magickal education growing up. Even with your forme and diagrams, I doubt one of the new Necromancers will ever seed in casting Raise Dead without your direct assistance.


    As much as he wanted to refute that statement and insist theyd be fine without him he knew it wasnt true. His mother had prepared him to be a mage from a young age, and hed extensively studied prior to his Awakening. Fluent in the words of power, thousands of hours spent practising hand sigils and dexterity exercises, vocal training and breath control.


    Even with all that, hed <em>barely</em> been sessful in his first cast. Hed provided them with a simplified version which should make things much easier for them. Tyron had been forced to craft the ritual from nothing but the vague impressions the Unseen had granted him. They were gifted with a fully functioning, notated version, but without preparation, even that was useless to them.


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    What do you want me to do? he growled, run a school for Necromancy up here?


    Of course not. I want you to teach the Bone Shapers and everyone else as well. You can show them how to mould bone, summon spirits, manipte souls, prepare corpses, the works. AND she cut him off loudly before he could protest, they will then be able to take over some of those responsibilities for you. This will save you time in the end.


    I have so many projects to work on, and you want me to add <em>more</em> to my te?


    Dy all of your projects to do this, and then you can go back to them with a loyal group of ssed individuals doing the legwork for you. Besides, wouldnt it be helpful to have others to help work on your projects? Who is there who understands Necromancy like you do to coborate with?


    It was tempting to roll his eyes at that. Tyron was good at Necromancy, to put it mildly, and he was well aware of the fact. Not just anyone would be able to give him useful advice, but he understood what she was getting at.


    In truth, he just didnt want to deal with this and was looking for reasons to decline. Investing time in others seemed like such a waste when he could be working to enact his revenge, improve his abilities or furthering his studies. Despite understanding intellectually that teaching these newly Awakened had the potential to aid in all of his goals, his gut reaction was decisively negative. Perhaps he just didnt want to be around people. He was growing increasingly isted, and increasingly, he didnt mind it.


    Fine, he said quickly, before he could change his mind. Ill make myself avable for the next month. Ill still be farming the rift for part of every day, but I can help instruct for the rest. Come back tomorrow and Ill have a schedule for you.


    Munihlde raised a brow. From being so reluctant, he had moved to preparing a schedule? No matter, she wasnt going to argue after shed gotten what she wanted.


    This will be the best for all of us, she assured him, and the Necromancer snorted.


    That remains to be seen, but I will give them a chance. Give them this warning: anyone whoes here needs to ensure they dont waste my time. They wont get a second chance.


    Youll kill them?


    What? No, I just wont teach them.


    rity is important when talking to Necromancers, she said smoothly. Ill leave you be for today. See you tomorrow at the same time.


    There was no reply as Tyron had already returned to his notes, his eyes burning into the page with a focus that bordered on unsettling. The Priestess left him to it and began her descent. She had no idea why he still insisted on living in his cave, but Tyron Sterm wasnt someone she was going to argue with. If she had to hike several kilometres up a mountain to talk to him, then thats what she would do.


    Once she was inside the wall, she found her former apprentice pacing anxiously just beyond the gate. When she saw her former mentor, Elsbeth rushed forward.


    Did you manage to convince him? she asked.


    I did, though it wasnt easy. Your friend is a lot more prickly than I remembered him.


    Hes been through a lot, Elsbeth leapt to Tyron defence.


    <em>Hes barely human anymore. There is little left of him beyond his hunger for revenge.</em>


    Munhilde kept her thoughts to herself. The young Sterm was a weapon, and so long as he was pointed at the same targets her gods wished to destroy, then she would give him all the aid she could.


    So he agreed to teach? When does he intend to start? Elsbeth followed up.


    He intends to give me a schedule tomorrow and begin shortly after that.


    Tomorrow? That soon?


    It appears he doesnt want to waste any time, Munhilde replied wryly. Nowe, we should give the lucky young ones the good news. Im sure theyll be delighted.


    The younger priestess expression warped as she considered just how this news would be received. <em>Some</em> would be pleased but others? Not all were keen to learn from someone as feared as Tyron Sterm. The two turned and began to walk side by side, but didnt get far before they were osted.


    Did you talk to him for us? Trenan demanded as he approached.


    The Hammerman looked tired, his eyes lined with care, but beneath his fatigue there was anger.


    Ive asked that you be patient, Munhilde attempted to soothe the yer. We have many things to talk to Tyron about. You and your teams are only one of those concerns.


    I <em>have </em>been patient. You asked us not to speak to him, and we havent. Meanwhile, the rift we depend on for levels, and for our <em>living</em>, is being monopolised <em>again</em>. Patience has a limit, and yers are usually the kind of people you keep happy.


    Munhildes eyes sharpened as Elsbeth sucked in a breath.


    Is that a threat? the older Priestess asked coldly.


    Not a threat, a statement. Theres unease in the barracks. Not everyone in there is as fucking<em> patient</em> as I am.


    Elsbeth turned to Munhilde and ced a hand on her arm. The older woman drew a breath before letting it out slowly.


    Fine, go speak to him. I advise you to be careful. He is irritable, at the moment.


    The Hammerman snorted loudly as he turned away.


    Ill be more polite than talking to my fucking mother, dont you worry.


    So saying, he broke into a jog, ready to carry the good news back to his teammates in the barracks while Elsbeth and Munhilde continued on their way to speak to the newly Awakened.


    Why has all this responsibility fallen on our shoulders? Munhilde muttered. There is a council, why arent they the ones making the decisions?


    Because the believers far outnumber the unbelievers at this point, Elsbeth said simply. Followers of the Three will listen to us above the Council, so they are putting decisions in our hands.


    Especially ones that concerned Tyron and the strange sses of the newly Awakened. Ortan was more than willing to wash his hands of all of it.


    If only the Venerable were still with us, Munhilde sighed as they entered the town centre.


    There, the stone that had formed from the old man remained, an object of veneration for the people of Cragwhistle.


    I think he did enough for us, Elsbeth said softly, now we need to find our way without him.


    Munhilde rolled her eyes. The girl was right. She didn''t like it, but she <em>was</em> right. There were none who had given more for the Three than the Venerable, including his life. There was literally nothing left for him to give.


    The two Priestesses continued to walk, exchanging greetings and words with the people they passed, until they found the house they were looking for. One of the original buildings, made of stone and wood, it was rtively small, with a low-hanging thatched roof. Munhilde knocked on the door, which opened shortly after.


    Inside, a small gathering of young people, merely eighteen years of age, revealed itself. The Priestess smiled at them.


    Ive got good news, and bad news. Fair warning, theyre both the same news.

 Chapter B4C1 - Interactions

    Chapter B4C1 - Interactions


    Tyron, you cant monopolise the whole thing for months at a time, Drenan said, the yers are already losing their fucking shit.


    The Necromancer didnt respond immediately, watching the Hammerman with a neutral expression.


    Its not that I dont understand your concerns, he said finally, cing his hands on his knees, but there are several matters that you need to consider.


    He brought up a hand and began ticking off his fingers.


    First, if I decide to im all of the kin whoe through the rift for myself, there is nothing you can do about it. Even if all of youe at once, Ill still kill you all.


    Second. There is a greater conflict afoot, and you just so happen to be stuck right in the middle of it. If you arent on my side, then why would I give you anything at all? In fact, if you arent on my side, then why am I leaving you alive at all?


    Third. If you throw a tantrum because Ive taken your toys away, why should I even care?


    Fourth. <em>If</em> you are on my side, and <em>if</em> I were so generous as to share the rift, there is an important question that needs to be answered. Are you of any fucking use? Are the levels and proficiency gained by you going to be more help than if those same resources were spent on myself?


    As the list went on, Drenans expression fell further and further. Although he didnt fear actual violence from the Mage, he did manage to get his point across with those threats. In effect, he was saying I am stronger than you, so I can do what I want, what the fuck are you going to do about it?


    The answer to that was not much. Drenan was perfectly prepared to die in the defence of his people fighting against the rifts, but not against a Necromancer. There had been many additions to Tyrons collection of former ssed skeletons, and he <em>did not</em> want to be one of them.


    As far as the conflict you spoke to us about, I cant speak for the others, but Im sympathetic, at the very least, to your point of view.


    Sympathetic? Tyron raised a brow. The Magisters let a break happen rather than rx the leash around Magnin and Beorys neck. The best and strongest yers in the province were put to death for the sin of <em>getting too strong</em>. Thats a system youre prepared to live with?


    Its not that simple, and you know it, Drenan growled. Im never going to be as good as Magnin or Beory Sterm, so what they had to face is never going to apply to me. I just want to do my part and help keep people safe. Thats it. The systems and authority we have in ce are corrupt and cruel, I understand that, but theyre all we have.


    This was something the Hammerman believed in passionately. The devastation that had rocked the Western Province had shaken him to his core. The people whod allowed it to happen needed to be punished, certainly, but what difference did that make to the suffering of themon folk? They experienced danger every single day, simply for trying to live in this doomed realm, and they deserved help.


    You dont get it, Drenan, Tyron shook his head. The war ising. yers are furious, across the entire province. That rage is only building. The crackdown might have put a lid on it for the moment, but as time passes, that pressure is going to grow until it finally erupts. The believers in the old gods are fighting back, they wont sit back and watch as the purge goes by this time.


    He took a long drink from his waterskin and sighed.


    Even if none of that happens even if the yers and believers roll over I wont. Im going to fight, and Im going to kill, and Im not going to stop until I fail, or I throw the Magisters down and ughter the Nobles in their castles.


    He turned his gaze on Drenan, and not for the first time, the Hammerman noted the intense fury that burned within. Normally, the man appeared so cold, it was easy to forget what was going on within.


    Keep this in mind, Drenan, Tyron continued, I dont fail.


    There didnt seem to be any point continuing the conversation. Drenan pushed his hands against his knees and stood.


    Ill take this news back to the others, and you already know how theyre going to take it. I expect Samantha mighte up to speak to you herself, but others may just make a run for it, try and rat you out to the magisters. Theres doubtless a fat reward for information on a den of vipers like Cragwhistle.


    Who? Tyron said.


    What? Drenan asked, caught off guard as he was turning to leave.


    Who is it you think will try to leave for a reward? Tyron exined patiently.


    What are you going to do?


    Remove the threat.


    The Hammerman frowned, his mouth set in a thin line.


    You want me to betray fellow yers? he spat.


    Pick a side, Drenan. From the sounds of things, you already know some yers who chose who theyre willing to fight for, and it isnt my side. I told you what happens to people who arent on my side.


    Still, the yer hesitated. It didnt sit right with him to sell out people hed fought alongside, but then again, the people he was protecting didnt feel the same way. He had little doubt hed be sold out himself, along with the rest of the vige.


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    After considering for a long moment, he sighed and hung his head.


    Gramble has been openly discussing abandoning the vige. The other members of his team arent convinced, but they arent happy, either.


    Tyron nodded slowly.


    I knew that much already. Dont worry about Gramble.


    No? Drenan said, surprised, raising his head. He thought the Necromancer would take drastic action immediately.


    You thought I would race down the mountain and kill him? Tyron asked. There is no need. Gramble is already dead. He began to pack his things the moment you left the barracks.


    That <em>fucker</em>. Hed already made up his mind, just biding his time until he wasnt being watched. There wasnt any point being mad at a dead man, so he directed it towards another deserving target.


    Why drag that out of me if you already knew? he demanded. Do you get some sick pleasure from making me betray my own fucking ideals?


    Tyron held up his hands in a gesture of peace.


    Of course not. I just cant afford to move cautiously. Not anymore. Gramble was a risk that I couldnt allow to fester, its as simple as that. As for you Im just pushing you to make a choice. Youre a good person, Drenan. Loyal. Competent. Youre exactly the kind of yer my parents were proud to call theirrades.


    He looked almost wistful as he reflected on Magnin and Beory.


    So I want you on my side. Thats all. And as thanks for you being willing to share that name with me, Ill tell you something. I wont be staying here for too long. Theres another site in the province which is almost as isted as Cragwhistle right now, and the rifts there are an awful lot more developed than the one here.


    Drenan didnt have to think long.


    Youre going to Woodsedge? he said, disbelieving. There are hundreds of yers there.


    You think theyll kill me? Tyron chuckled. They might, but I doubt it. I defeated one Magister here, but there will be a dozen victims in Woodsedge.


    Youre really going to do this, Drenan said, eyes widening. Its not that he hadnt believed it, but hearing it spoken in such stark terms was still a shock. This man in front of him fully intended to attack a yer keep and subdue the Magisters inside. Such an act of rebellion was unthinkable absurd.


    And yet.


    Im going to send some skeletons down with you, Tyron said, to collect Gramble for me. If you could have a word with his teammates for me, I would appreciate it. Despite how this may look, I do <em>not</em> want to kill yers unless I have to. They can make wiser decisions than their leader.


    Ill pass that on.


    <em>But Im not sure how much theyre going to listen</em>.


    It was an eerie journey back down the mountain, with two skeletons on his heels. Being around them more didnt help with the ufortable sense he got from the undead. If anything, the opposite was true. Their silence, their disturbing gaze, all of it set his teeth on edge.


    When he reached the gate, he was unsurprised to see there was a disturbance. After he exined himself, he, along with his two escorts, were allowed within the gate.


    The barracks was a mess. Christoff and Petri were in themon area, yelling and crying in equal measure. Samantha was grim-faced, listening to them patiently, while the rest of his own team stood against the walls, arms crossed, angry expressions on their faces.


    When he entered, everyone fell silent and turned towards him. When the two skeletons followed behind, the two remaining members of the Weaver yer team burst into anger.


    No <em>fucking</em> way! They arent taking him, Drenan! Over my dead body!


    The Hammerman winced. In the circumstances, that was an extremely poor choice of words. He held up his hands.


    Dont shoot the messenger, I was just talking to the guy on behalf of all of us.


    You dont speak for us! Petri shouted.


    Then you go up the fucking mountain and talk to him yourself. He turned and pointed to the door. Well? Get moving.


    Despite their simmering anger, neither of the two Mages made a move toward the exit.


    I didnt think so.


    Drenan sighed.


    Look, Im just going to tell you what the Necromancer had to say, then we can make a decision about what to do. In the meantime, he turned his attention to the two skeletons, who still hadnt moved after entering the barracks. I hope these two will stay still.


    There was no response from them, which was expected, since Tyron couldnt speak through them, but hopefully he was listening. There was no further movement from the undead, so possibly he was.


    He took a seat and the gathered yers listened as he exined what hed been told. They were pleased to hear that Tyron may leave for Woodsedge, but the dire warning of aing yer rebellion was disturbing, to say the least.


    Is that really true? Samantha asked, looking troubled. Were so isted here, its impossible for us to know what is happening in the Keeps around the province.


    Ive been talking to the new arrivals, Choll said, her dark skin gleaming in the low light. There is a great deal of fear in them. They talk of family members being taken in the night, of Marshals and Priests roaming the cities, taking people without warrants. Something is definitely happening out there.


    What about Gramble? Christoff demanded. What did he have to say about <em>murdering</em> one of us in cold blood?


    Drenan sighed. He still didnt know how he felt about it himself.


    Again, Im only telling you what he told me. He said Gramble was preparing to leave, sneak out and report on what was happening here to the Magisters.


    Petri exploded.


    Gramble would never! he shouted.


    I wish I shared your confidence, Drenan said quietly, and Petris face twisted.


    So is that the case, Drenan? Youre going to side with the Necromancer over us?


    Its not as if Gramble made it easy for me, did he? Drenan shot back. He started openly talking about leaving the same <em>day</em> that Tyron came back. The man is a fucking <em>Necromancer</em>. Did anyone here think he would take the risk?


    That silenced most of them, but Petri would not be silenced.


    Im not giving over his body, Drenan. Theres no chance.


    The Hammerman turned to the two skeletons waiting by the doorway.


    You heard the man, he said. For what its worth, I agree with him. Gramble might have been a little shit, but he was one of us.


    Without a word, the undead turned and left. The gathered yers watched them go, and some of the tension drained from the room with them.


    Things are going to be tough from here, Drenan said quietly. We need to work out what were going to do.


    You mean, we need to pick a side, Samantha replied. Theres nothing to be done until we do.


    She was right. Drenan didnt like it, but she was right.

 Chapter B4C2 - Teacher is Talking

    Chapter B4C2 - Teacher is Talking


    Not even as a youth, in more innocent times, when hed spent most of his time studying, practising spellwork or reading history, had Tyron ever imagined he would be called upon to teach. Hed pictured his future as an archmage, left to his own devices in a tower somewhere, called upon to drop lightning, storms and fire upon the kin when things got really out of hand. Now, he found himself responsible for a dozen youths, some of them newly ssed MagesNecromancers, like himselfwho couldnt speak a single word of power, let alone a phrase!


    How could he possibly get through this without getting too frustrated and losing his temper?


    That happened far too often these days. He was irritable, impatient, and quick to anger, which was leading him to make rash decisions. He didnt remember being this susceptible to it. The rage he felt deep within, a slow-burning but white-hot anger born when his parents had died, was always present, but now it was so difficult to keep it under control. If he wanted to make useful allies of these newly Awakened, then he couldnt be roaring at them every time they wasted remains or incorrectly cast a spell.


    Which meant he would need to be careful.


    It had taken a day to prepare his initial lessons, time not spent on his projects, but he was prepared to ept that, it was a price he needed to pay to gain in the future. As light crept over the horizon and night gave way to day, Tyron took stock of his skeletons.


    His army of undead, reinforced since thest time hed been here, now with the cauldrons to help them battle, were easily capable of handling the kin streaming from the rift, even without his active interference. The skeletons possessed overwhelming numbers and firepower to deal with such weak kin, although the ice-mammoths still posed a significant threat, requiring him to coordinate the fighting personally.


    What worried him wasnt the kining through, but the rapid expansion of the rift itself. Not that it had grown a lot, but it was still growing too fast. At this rate, it would only be a few years untilrger creatures would emerge, and things like the mammoths would cross with greater frequency. Then, more rifts would form nearby, increasing the number of kin who could cross each day, which would lead to greater and faster expansion, which lead to more rifts.


    The doomed cycle had already begun here in Cragwhistle. Before long, more yers would be needed to contain it, more meat for the grinder, the already stretched yers in the province being inched that little bit closer to the brink. There hadnt been any major disasters since thest break, but it wouldnt be long before the province suffered for theck of Magnin and Beory. They had always been called upon to plug the gaps in the past, and they had willingly done so. Soon, the Magisters would be forced to send the gold yers back out into the field, let them slip the leash. That would help, for a while. Eventually, perhaps in a few hundred years, even that wouldnt be enough.


    Tyron, are you there?


    Elsbeth? Give me a second, Ill be right out.


    He dragged his mind away from these thoughts. It didnt matter to him if the Empire was facing copse. He wasnt going to wait that long to enact his vengeance, and would likely be dead before the rifts deteriorated to that extent. Onest nce over the table and he gathered up what he needed for the day. Brushing aside the nket keeping the warmth inside his cave, he stepped out into the light and blinked when he saw Elsbeth standing in the clearing by herself.


    I thought the students wereing with you? he asked, looking around, wondering if they were hiding behind the trees.


    The Priestess of the Three reddened.


    I thought Ide and talk to you alone first, see if you were ready before I dropped them on yourp.


    <em>She wanted to see if I was in a good enough mood to receive them</em>.


    It was telling how quickly his temper had be known by those around him.


    Im fine, Beth, he said, forcing a smile. Ive been preparing to teach and am ready to help them get started on their new sses. Dont worry, I wont bite their heads off.


    I didnt think you would, she insisted, I just didnt want to bother you if there was something important happening up here. Her eyes softened as she looked up at him. Are you eating? Sleeping alright?


    The Necromancer chuckled.


    Yes, I am. More than I used to, certainly. Dont worry, I havent forgotten what we discussed. Im taking care of myself.


    Good. Well thats good. Ill go and get your new students, <em>Master</em> Sterm.


    Tyron groaned.


    Suddenly, I feel so old.


    Youve been Master Almsfield for ages!


    Thats different.


    If you say so.


    Elsbeth turned and left, returning five minutester with three young folk, two boys and a girl, though he should probably think of them as adults, given thats what they were, post-awakening. As they stepped forward, following behind Elsbeth like ducklings behind their mother, he struggled to picture himself as being that young. It wasnt that long ago hed Awakened, all things considered, but in his mind, it felt like decades in the past.


    <em>Then again, I havent exactly had a normal experience. Things escted rather quickly for me. Hopefully, their path will be a little smoother.</em>


    As she drew close, Elsbeth had the three students line up as she fussed over them before she turned and beamed at him with forced cheeriness.


    Tyron, these are the three who Awakened the Necromancer ssst week. From left to right, we have Georg, Briss and Richard.


    Each of the three ducked their heads, but seemed to struggle to look at him directly, refusing to meet his eye. He probably couldnt me them, all things considered. With a little time, they would be morefortable. At least, he hoped so. It would be difficult to teach people who were terrified to be anywhere near him.


    Hello, he said, trying to sound unthreatening. Wee to your first lesson. Are you intending to stay, Elsbeth?


    No, I will leave you to it. Ill be back in a few hours when time is up.


    Two of the students, George and Briss, sent desperate, pleading nces toward the Priestess, but Elsbeth was resolute. With a friendly wave, she was off down the mountain, leaving the three alone with their new teacher.


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    Tyron sighed.


    Come and sit, please, he said, gesturing to the area he had prepared.


    It wasnt much, five rtively t-topped stones around a fire pit not too far from the cave entrance, but it would do for now. It took a few seconds for the three to start moving, but eventually they did, still avoiding his gaze as they sat down, not saying anything.


    This is going to be difficult for you, <em>very</em> difficult, because what I have to teach is hard to do. Necromancy isplex magick, with a myriad of different methods and techniques required to get the best out of your ss.


    Its going to be much, <em>much</em> harder, if you cant bring yourselves to even look at me. Im not here to hurt you, or poison your minds, but to help you get a good start with the ss. Its something I wished Id had starting out, and youll regret it if you dont make the most of our time together.


    He paused to let them think about that.


    Now, lets be civilised adults. I would appreciate it, if the three of you would do me the courtesy of meeting my eyes.


    They were hesitant, shifting on their seats. Richard was the first to raise his head, followed by Briss, then Georg, but they did do it. Now that he had a proper look at them, Tyron was able to begin forming an impression of the three.


    Richard had the look of a bookish sort, probably not from a farm workers family. Merchants son, perhaps, or a Clerk or Bookkeeper of some sort. Clear blue eyes under a short-cut, wellbed head of blonde hair, his gaze wavered a few times as Tyron considered him, but held firm in the end.


    Briss was slight of frame to the point she appeared almost malnourished; the Constitution she was going to get as a Necromancer was probably going to be of great help to her when winter came. She too had blonde hair, though hers was wispy, so thin it seemed there were strands wafting in the air in defiance of gravity. Although she hesitated a long time, she eventually looked directly at him, locking her gaze on his with some effort.


    Georg was a farmboy; it was written all over him. From the way he dressed, to the stained nature of his clothes, or the workmanlike boots he wore, there wasnt a single thing about him that pointed to any other origin. His eyes flicked this way and that, darting toward Tyron and then away, though it was hard to keep track of them through the mess of curls that hung down over his face. With the thick, callused hands of someone who worked with them every day from a young age, it would be difficult for him to acquire the dexterity needed for proper sigil work, but as long as he was willing to practise, he should get there.


    Nice to meet you all. As I said earlier, my name is Tyron Sterm, though you can call me Tyron. I Awakened as a Necromancer over four years ago, and am currently level forty-five.


    Though he did need to perform the Status ritual soon. It had been a long time.


    When they heard his level, the three of them jumped a little on their seats, surprised.


    Ive advanced very quickly, he agreed, and you can too. This is a ss that lends itself well to rapid growth, but as with all things, it depends on the strength of your fundamentals. I trust youve all taken some time to grapple with the information the Unseen granted you upon Awakening?


    Each of them nodded with some measure of reluctance. The Raise Dead spell had been difficult to untangle for Tyron and his first attempt at aplete ritual had been crude, to say the least. Without any form of magickal training, that bundle of knowledge must have seemed totally imprable.


    The ritual granted at level one, Raise Dead, is aplex, multi-stage magick that will take almost an hour to cast on your first attempt, he told them. Without proper training and preparation, you are not only almost guaranteed to fail, but run a high risk of doing yourself an injury. I myself ran dry of magick on my first cast and passed out on the spot.


    Hed been hoping to get a smile out of them, but they barely even blinked. This was going to be more difficult than he assumed.


    Lets start with the basics, then. Has anyone here had any training at all in magick? Even the slightest thing.


    Unsurprisingly, only Richard put his hand up.


    I was taught a few phrases and gestures, he admitted softly. Nothing much. Ive never cast a spell in my life.


    I thought as much, Tyron said. Which is why we are going to have to start with basic magick before we can even talk about being a Necromancer. Without a good understanding of the words of power, spellwork, and hand sigils, your odds of casting anything are nill. I can see now why my notes werent particrly useful to you. I wasnt considering that your starting point would be so different than mine.


    He rubbed at his chin as he looked at the three young people, then he sighed. He was trying hard to be patient, but already he could feel the effort it was taking him.


    Unfortunately, Im something of a perfectionist, he told them, which is going to mean my standards are higher than they need to be. It was fully expected that they would struggle with even the basics, and Tyron was trying to gird himself to have the patience necessary, but he was constantly aware of time passing. If he wasnt progressing, then his goals were getting further away.


    I have a question for you all, and I want an honest answer. Do you want me to give you a fast path to power, or build you up from the fundamentals? I can teach you just what you need to cast Raise Dead and the basic Necromancer spells. Youll be up and running much quicker, able to create undead and fight kin to gain levels. Or, I can give you a proper basis in magick. It will take a long time, require gruelling, repetitive practice, but youlle out with a basic education in spellwork and sigils that you can apply to a wider variety of abilities. I cant say I can rece several years of training in an academy, but itll be better than nothing. You choose.


    Richard spoke up immediately.


    I want to learn the fundamentals. The others looked at him and he shrugged his shoulders, ufortable with all the attention. My father told me just how expensive it can be to learn the kinds of things Mr Sterm is offering to teach us for free. Its a lot.


    <em>Mr Sterm? Nobody in my family has ever been called Mr Sterm.</em>


    Please, just call me Tyron, he said, holding up a hand.


    The image of his fatherughing hysterically at him being called Mr Sterm wouldnt leave his head.


    What about you two?


    Surprisingly, it was the farmboy, Georg, who spoke next. He still averted his gaze as he spoke quietly.


    Working slow and proper is faster than rushing. Thats what me mam always said, and its true.


    Tyron turned to Briss.


    Ill go with what the others want, she said softly.


    It wasnt exactly what he wanted to hear, but it was easier for him if they all wanted to learn the same things, so he shrugged and decided to get started.


    Alright then, basic spellwork is where we begin. Its a lot neater than butchering corpses, which is a plus. He started rifling through the papers hed prepared until he found what he wanted and handed each of them a page. Right now, I know about two thousand words of power, which isnt many in the grand scheme of things. On this page, Ive written out pronunciation guides for ten, along with descriptions of the matching hand gestures required to form the sigils. These make some of the mostmon phrases youlle across in any spellwork.


    The three looked at the pages with bewildered expressions and only now did Tyron realise something.


    You can all read, right?


    All three nodded.


    Thank the Unseen. Alright. Now I know that it looks confusing, but dont worry, Im going to go through each word and phrase one by one, and Ill demonstrate the hand gestures. In addition to this, I have another page he rifled around until he found it, handing a copy to each of the three. ... which details some simple drills and stretches you can use to increase your finger dexterity, along with vocal exercises. Breath control and endurance arepletely necessary to castplex Rituals, which you need as Necromancy is almost entirely Rituals. We will go through these as well before we finish today, but I expect you to dedicate as much time as you possibly can to them.


    Dont practise so much you injure your hands or make yourself hoarse, but youll need to push yourselves hard if you want to make the most out of the time we have together. Now, this first word is Rhuam. R-hu-ah-em. It is vital you pronounce each syble <em>perfectly</em>, no mistakes. We start by speaking it slowly, one piece at a time, until were sure we have all of them right, and <em>only</em> then do we try and put it all together. Now, repeat after me


    This was going to take a long time, but strangely, he found himself enjoying it. After all, what was more interesting than magick?

 Chapter B4C3 - Lessons Continue

    Chapter B4C3 - Lessons Continue


    The next two weeks passed faster than Tyron had imagined they could. His days were filled with preparing and delivering lessons to the various Necromancy-rted ssed that had Awakened in Cragwhistle. When he had a spare moment from that, he was directing his minions to fight kin or poking away at his own projects.


    Filetta was growing frustrated with hisck of progress, but he assured her that his next status ritual would provide the levels and hopefully some clues as to how he could finally raise a Wight. Fortunately, she was rtively content to pass the time away sleeping within the stone hed ced her spirit in. It was better than being a lost and wandering soul, apparently, so that worked out in his favour.


    It hadnt taken all that long for him to teach the Corpse Weavers and Bone Shapers what hed been able to figure out on his own. How to identify the various qualities of a corpse, what could be done to improve the condition of the bones. Theyd listened carefully to what hed told them, gone through a few demonstrations and hands-on practice sessions, then gotten to work with surprisingly little fuss. A few had been reluctant to handle the dead, which was understandable, Tyron hadnt been thrilled about it when starting out either, but it was surprising how quickly people could adapt.


    Green faces and vomit turned into casual indifference pretty fast when handling corpses became a daily activity. What was bing rapidly apparent was just how many corpses there were to handle. Teams were still venturing out into the still-ruined areas of the province to look for mass graves, and they were still finding more. The bodies hadrgely rotted, but the bones were fine, and collecting them for the Shapers and Weavers had be a small industry in Cragwhistle.


    Steady your breathing and practise the sequence in your heads, Tyron told his Necromancer students.


    The three of them were sat around the fire with their eyes closed,fortably at rest, though their brows were furrowed as they concentrated.


    Its a long sequence, and I dont expect you to remember the whole thing. The key is to stop once you are no longer <empletely</em> certain you have it right. Theres no such thing as blundering forward and hoping it works out when spellcasting. The odds of seeding at random are millions to one, whereas the odds of your spell exploding in your own face are quite good. If you arentpletely sure whates next, stop, refer to your notes, practise that phrase, then start again. Constant repetition is the only way you will be able to squeeze this into your heads.


    Georg, Briss and Richard each nodded as they continued to run through the Ritual in their heads. Tyron had pulled out all the stops to create as bare bones and simple a version of Raise Dead as he possibly could. It wasnt optimal by any means, the result would be a weak, barely functioning zombie that drew so little power it couldnt move itself, but it <em>would</em> count as having raised an undead. If all went well, that would be enough to get the three of them to the second level, where they could start working with skeletons.


    If they wanted to specialise in zombies, they were more than wee, but he couldnt help them much there. Quite deliberately, he had focused his build on the second form of basic undead, and he didnt regret it for a second.


    The ritual should take around twenty minutes to cast. Thats twenty minutes of continuous, wless casting, he reminded his students. Every phrase, perfect. Every gesture, perfect.


    Theyd spent all of their previous sessions gradually building up their skill andprehension of basic magick principles, but Tyron knew if he kept the lessonspletely theory-based, the three youngsters would burn out eventually. His mother had done the same thing for him, giving him just enough knowledge to create some little effect, even if it wasnt aplete spell, then introducing the next set.


    So, hed guided them towards this cut-down version of their primary Ritual. Specifically designed to use as few sigils as possible, it was possibly Tyrons finest creation, even if it wasplete rubbish. Getting the ritual to function in such a short time with such a limited number of words was a feat and a half.


    Tyron watched his three students as they struggled to do as hed asked them. Richard was a fast learner, with a good memory, but he could be overconfident. Several times, hed dered himself proficient in certain phrases or gestures, only to be sharply corrected.


    Good enough isnt good enough, hed warned the young man sternly, much as his own mother had done for him. An imperfect phrase in the middle of battle will get you killed just like if you jumped on your own sword. If you cant get it right sitting here without any danger, then you have no hope of doing it right under pressure.


    Briss was surprisingly adept, and a very dedicated student. She practised more than the other two, and it showed in how well her hand movements wereing along, but she was timid. Shecked the confidence to decide for herself when she was proficient, needing to check with Tyron if she was doing it right over and over again until he refused to supervise her any more. He knew some people needed positive reinforcement to learn, but she didnt have that much time. If she couldnt move on to the next thing without being told a hundred times shed learned thest, shed never get anywhere before he left.


    Georg Georg was an interesting package. Softly spoken, even mumbly at times, with his thick and worn hands, he struggled with the spoken element of spellcasting just as much as did the hand gestures. The youthcked the memory of Richard or the drive of Briss, but what he did have was a willing practicality and a better understanding of what it was he was trying to be.


    Things die, the young farmhand had shrugged when Tyron had asked him about working with the dead, even people. If anything, I think its nice we can get some use out of them.


    Thed had butchered cattle before, skinning the animal and cutting it up for meat. Hed cleaned bones, handled offal and generally seen and done all the dirty work that went into working with living creatures. Of the three, he had the best mindset when it came to Necromancy.


    He left them to their preparations for a few hours while he focused on other things. Looking through the eyes of his minions, he could take a look at almost all of the mountain slope between the rift and the rapidly expanding town. The majority of his undead were positioned high up, close to the rift itself, ready to intercept the kin the moment they came through.


    The fighting was extremely one-sided for the most part. His skeletal mages and archers pelted the monsters the moment they emerged, followed by a charge from his skeletons and revenants. Almost two hundred undead remained there, with small groups scattered across the mountain and arge force close by to defend himself.


    Only the mammoths required his direct intervention, but they appeared rarely, and usually one at a time.


    After he had left them to their internal reflection, he gathered his students attention with a p of his hands. They opened their eyes and looked at him seriously. At least their willingness to meet his gaze and be around him had mellowed as time passed. It probably helped that he no longer wore his bone armour when they were present.


    Come with me, he told them and directed them away from the cave a little ways into the woods. There, they came upon a corpse that had been prepared for their use. A young man, probably unawakened, dead to the cold and found by Tyrons skeletons out on the mountain.


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    Gather around, he told his students. Dont be so far back, Briss,e closer.


    She looked a little green, but Richard was worse. Of the three, hed clearly been the most sheltered. Georg barely changed expression.


    You have the Corpse Appraisal Skill, same as I have. What is your intuition telling you about these remains?


    There was silence for a moment as Richard and Briss considered, but Georg was the first to speak.


    Cold has kept him pretty fresh, he said. Body will be a bit stiff, though, I wager.


    Every body you work with will be stiff, Georg, Tyron told him. It happens to a person when they die.


    Ah, I seen that before.


    You sure would have. The cold wont be any impediment to our magick. After casting Raise Dead, the zombie will be able to move just fine.


    After another pause, Briss spoke up.


    I think some animals got to him, there appears to be some damage to the right leg.


    The body is a little chewed on, Tyron agreed, which would limit his movement as a zombie. Remember, a zombie uses magick to fuel the muscles, but doesnt rece them. This minion would have a definite limp. Anything else?


    Richard hesitated.


    Th-thats a person, though, he said.


    Not an unreasonable response, but an unhelpful one.


    Thats a corpse, Tyron corrected him. Whatever it is that turns tissue and bone into a living person is long gone.


    In fact, the spirit was tucked away in a stone back in Tyrons cave, but they didnt need to know that.


    This is materials. This is a potential servant that you send to fight on your behalf. Thats it. He gestured up towards the rift. Would you rather send a dead body up there to fight the kin or a living, breathing person? Think of your neighbours and friends. Should they fight, or should this? he dered the question pointing a finger down at the dead body. To me, the answer is obvious. In fact, Necromancers like us could be the answer to the growing problem suffered by the empire. There arent enough yers, but there are a <em>lot</em> of dead bodies. We are the only ss that can use one problem to solve the other.


    Richard nodded, somewhat reluctantly, but Tyron was satisfied he got his point across.


    Now, I am going to cast the modified version of Raise Dead that I have prepared for you. Pay close attention to my words, and to my hands. Keep in mind that this is easier for me due to my higher level Skills and Mysteries. Your result wont be as good, and cant be, so dont expect it.


    You have <em>mysteries?</em> Plural? Briss blurted out.


    Tyron frowned.


    Dont worry about that, he snapped. Focus on what is happening here. He red at the three of them until he was satisfied they were focused. Each of you is going to make an attempt after me. Ill cut off your spellwork the moment you make a mistake, so dont worry about killing yourselves.


    Richard gasped.


    I said <em>dont</em> worry about it. This is a normal way to teach students Rituals. Now, Im going to start.


    He raised his hands, nced at the students one more time, then began to cast. He went slowly, not throwing the full force of his magick behind the Ritual, but even so, the words tolled like a bell, sending a ripple through the air that washed over the surroundings and through the three young apprentices. It took him twenty minutes toplete, and when it was done, the corpse on the ground opened its ssy eyes, and began to twitch.


    Lowering his hands, Tyron nodded with satisfaction. The Zombie was drawing a bare trickle of power, the conduit formed between the two of them totally insufficient to fuel its movement, even with the reduced costpared to a skeleton.


    There you have it, he said, brushing his hands together and flexing his fingers. A sessful cast of Raise Dead. As you can see, it worked, the modified ritual isnt intended to create a useful undead, but to help you learn the spell.


    He cut off the flow of power between himself and the zombie. In moments,cking the energy required to maintain its unlife, the corpse fell back into the snow.


    Georg, you first.


    The farmboy raised his brows in surprise before he stepped forward, the others shuffling around to make room for him. As he steadied himself, closing his eyes and mumbling words of power beneath his breath, Tyron focused. He would need to intervene the instant a mistake was made, before the arcane energy spiralled out of control.


    Ill start now, the young man dered, then raised his hands.


    He spoke well, better than Tyron had anticipated, but his fingers continued to be an issue. He was forming the sigils correctly, but only <em>barely</em>. The fact he was this sessful at all spoke to how hard hed been practising.


    He made it two and a half minutes in before his first major slip.


    Tyron leapt forward and mped down on his hands, shouldering the young man out of the way as he sted away the warping Ritual energy with a burst of his own magick. After a few breaths, he was satisfied nothing further would happen. Georgy on the ground gasping and Tyron extended him a hand.


    I hope I didnt hit you too hard, he said, I forget sometimes that you dont have any levels.


    Reforged by the Unseen, Tyron had thirty points of strength on him from advancements. He was far, far stronger than even the mightiest unawakened.


    Im alright, Georg wheezed. I didnt think you could hit that hard, sir.


    Take a moment to get your breath. Briss, youll be up next. I promise Ill be a bit more gentle, he tried to reassure her, but she still looked nervous.


    She shuffled forward, then took several deep breaths as she tried to focus. Then, she began.


    Surprisingly, her diction was excellent, and her fingers were quite nimble. At a steady pace, she moved through the ritual until Tyron had to intervene almost five minutes in. Trying to restrain himself, he rushed forward, used his hands to push her out of the way before erasing the warping spell. This was another reason why he designed it to contain so little power. Failure wasnt as catastrophic as it would have been otherwise.


    Well done, Briss. Now its your turn, Richard.


    The studious young man swallowed heavily before he stepped forward and readied himself. Georg helped pick up Briss and they moved to the side to watch.


    After a moment, he raised his hands and began.


    He made it barely past a minute before Tyron had to intervene. After dealing with the aftermath, he led the three young Mages back towards the cave and spoke to them there.


    Georg, you did well, especially with your diction and breath control.


    Fingers tripped me up, he nodded, staring down at his thick digits.


    Theres a Dextrous Fingers feat you can choose in the general feats list if you have a slot open. It may be worth considering. If you keep doing your exercises, it <em>will</em> get better, but it will take time, and youll never be quite as nimble as you would like to be.


    He turned to Briss.


    You did extremely well, but you need to maintain your focus. A normal version of this ritual canst up to an hour, and many spellsst longer than that. Start practising the whole ritual at once, as well as working on your phrases. You need to get used to concentrating for extended periods at a time.


    Next was Richard, who hung his head, disappointed to have performed the worst.


    I know youve been working hard, but nerves got the best of you. I know it''s difficult, but you cant be nervous. You need to find a way to channel that energy into something helpful, or put it out of yourself. He considered for a moment. Have you ever performed publicly?


    Richard blinked.


    Uh, no?


    Try heading to a tavern or inn and singing or something. Juggling. Whatever you can do. If you can get through a song in front of a crowd, performing a ritual in front of three people will seem like a breeze.


    Now, Im going to be away for a few days, through the rift. I expect each of you to keep working on your drills and practising the ritual. When I get back, youll need to show me some improvement.

 Chapter B4C4 - The Hunt is On

    Chapter B4C4 - The Hunt is On


    Were being pushed too hard. Magisters are falling over from fatigue. Mistakes are being made. You need to reconsider your timetable!


    Lady Erryn kept her expression neutral as her eyes bored into the Grand Magisters.


    This is not <em>my</em> timetable, but that of the gods themselves, she replied coolly. If your Mages cannot keep up, then consider why they are so unfit for the purpose that has been assigned to them. Perhaps you should exin to his excellency the Duke why his purge of the heretics is falling behind. I cant wait to see his expression when he hears that the divine purpose ced into his hands is being dyed by <em>fat</em> and <emzy </em>Magisters.


    Sheshed him with the weight of her authority in thest sentence, letting him feel the pressure of her scorn.


    Grand Magister Tommat, I would <em>hate </em>to think that, even at thiste stage, I need to remind you of the price of failure. If you think that my head would be the only one to roll, you are sorely mistaken. Yours, along with all the senior Magisters, would be rotting in a sack before mine touched the ground.


    With a re so heated she herself felt the heat of it, the old Mage before her wilted visibly, a weed sted by the sun.


    I wouldnt dream of such a thing, Lady Erryn. I wish for nothing but sess for our current endeavour, I am a loyal servant of the Divines! All I wanted was to ensure you were aware of the situation. Mistakes are being made, mistakes that could impact the great work of yourself and the Duke. It would be remiss of me not to alert you of potential failures.


    At that moment, Recillia Erryn hated everything about this situation. She hated this frail, short-sighted old man who had somehow risen to the top of his order. She hated the Red Tower, infested with entitled,zy second sons and daughters. She hated her office, and the fact she had to sit here amongst these cast-offs. Most of all, she hated her responsibilities here, having to wrangle such creatures to serve as was their fate.


    Stand straight, she demanded acidly. Youre the Grand Magister, for the gods sake. Show a little dignity.


    Magister Tommat straightened himself, flushing red from both anger and shame. She didnt care.


    There will be no change to the timetable, she informed him, and with even a modicum of thought, you would understand why. Should the Duke fail to enact the words of the Oracles, he will be deposed faster than you blink. When the stakes are so high, you can imagine what will happen to those who put sess in danger. The main problem I see, is that your people are not operating under enough <em>fear</em>.


    She stared contemptuously at the old man.


    These are unprecedented times thate with unprecedented danger. Even the heads of the Noble houses are at risk, let alone Magisters.


    Leaning back in her char, the nobledy considered her options, one finger tapping against her bottom lip. As she thought, Grand Magister Tommat could do nothing but fidget and sweat, cursing his own bad luck. A few more years and he would have retired, a respected and valued contributor to the peace of the realm. As much as he hated to admit it, he <em>was</em> unsuited to the circumstances he found himself in. For the entirety of his time as a Magister, things had run like clockwork, the asional yer problems put down quickly and easily. Now that they were being forced to perform in ways they were unustomed to, the fragility of the Red Tower was being brutally exposed.


    I believe a demonstration of the seriousness of the situation is all that is required, Lady Erryn announced, her tone as sibnt as a snake.


    Unease crept into Tommats mind as he tried to process that.


    What do you mean? he asked slowly. Im sure my people are more than aware of the circumstances.


    I disagree, she replied smoothly. The next two Magisters to fail in the course of their duties are to be sent directly to me. I will ensure they receive the discipline that is warranted.


    Though he knew it was pointless, Grand Magister Tommat had to speak up on behalf of his people.


    We have always handled disciplinary matters internally. I myself have been responsible for ensuringpses are met with appropriate punishment.


    Recillia narrowed her eyes.


    We are in this position because we disagree on what is appropriate. It will be as I say.


    Tommat bowed his head, knowing he had no choice but to yield. The Magisters served by the will of the Noble houses; they could not defy them.


    What are you going to do? he asked softly.


    I will give them to the church, she replied, voice t and emotionless. They will be tried for obstructing the work of the Divines.


    ~~~


    The screams were never ending. No matter where he was in the tower, there was no way to escape them. They haunted his sleep along with his every waking moment.


    The young, recently promoted Magister Regis Shan had never seen anything like it, and he hoped never to see it again. The Divine fire that had descended, burning not the flesh, but the spirit. Even now, it continued to burn, two Magesmitted to the mes.


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    The only thing that kept him going was the thought that he might be next.


    Despite the fatigue, he pushed himself forward, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the door frame as he knocked on the door. Without waiting for a reply, he swung it open, closing it quickly behind himself.


    Inside, Grand Magister Tommat sat behind his desk, two other high-ranking Magisters alongside him, including Herath Jorlin. For once, the young Magister wasnt looking his usual, well-coiffed self, appearing just as haggard as Regis felt.


    However, it was the much older man who drew his eye. The Grand Magister appeared as a shadow of his former self, eyes sunken into his head, skin pallid and pale.


    I have the reports from Lotsford, Regis announced quietly, cing the pages down in front of the three men.


    Herath collected them without a word, eyes running down the summary on the first page quickly.


    That many? he asked, no hint of surprise in his tone.


    Thats what the report says, Regis replied.


    Surely even the church is going to have trouble dealing with so many prisoners at once. What are they doing with them?


    That is not our concern, Tommat said. We are not to interfere in the working of the Priesthood. Handling the heretics is their responsibility. We are to assist them in collection and managing yers. That is all.


    After a moments pause, Herath bowed his head toward the Grand Magister.


    Of course. I will refrain from such enquiries in future.


    See that you do.


    All through the conversation, the sounds of screams rang in their ears, ceaselessly. None acknowledged it.


    The further the search stretches to the west, the thinner our numbers be. There are barely enough Magisters left in the tower to maintain our normal functions as it is, the hitherto silent Magister Anlyn said.


    It doesnt matter, Tommat sighed. There will be cessation in the efforts to sweep the unclean from the province. The Duke has set the timetable; we have no choice but to meet his demands.


    That means more Magisters leaving the tower, Herath said, forcing out a smile. I suppose Ill need to start packing my bags. Im guessing they wont be finished in Lotsford anytime soon, which means the next group to head out will be going to Waybridge?


    Anlyn shuffled through his papers for a moment before he nodded.


    Yes, he confirmed. Then further south, toward Endless Sand and Dustwatch Keeps.


    I hate it down there,: Herathpalined. The sand gets into <em>everything</em>.


    Pardon. Should I remain or return to my duties? Regis asked.


    He was swaying on his feet, so he reached out a hand to grasp an empty chair to steady himself. It had been over three days since hedst slept, and the lordling was unustomed to such deprivations, to say the least.


    Stay a moment, young Regis, the Grand Magister said, turning his haunted gaze upon him. You will need to leave us and head out into the field alongside Magister Jorlin. I wanted to ensure that you are prepared for your new duties.


    Although he had been dreading such news, the fatigue left the young Shan lordling feeling too numb for any great reaction. All he could muster was a sigh and a shrug.


    As long as I get to sleep on the way there, I think Ill be fine, he said.


    Herath forced augh with a lopsided grin to match.


    I understand where youreing from, but you dont want to be making any mistakes out there. The consequences can be ear-splitting.


    On and on, the screaming simply never ended, a constant refrain to life in the tower. How did they not run out of breath? Surely their voices would be gone soon? Were the damned Priests <em>healing </em>them?


    Regis shook his head. It wouldnt do to dwell on such thoughts. He pushed them from his mind.


    Remember, we dont determine the targets, we help the Marshals and Priests. Our main responsibility is to step in and control any yers caught up in the purge.


    Herath Jorlin found a map amongst the scattered papers on the desk and unrolled it.


    Well be heading to Waybridge. There are already teams at Reynold Keep and Havercroft in the south. Have you ever been to Endless Sand Keep?


    Regis shook his head wordlessly.


    It has a reputation, let''s say. Its a long way from Kenmor, and the yers are a little more independent than those you find at ckrift or Undermist. Dustwatch and Skyice are even further west and are significantly worse.


    Regis blinked. They were openly talking about disgruntled yers? Such a thing had never happened in his presence before.


    What should I expect? he asked finally, trying to focus his mind.


    The worst, Herath replied. That way, when things turn out better, we wont be surprised. One thing has been true for the duration of this emergency: the further from the capital we get, the more arrests are made. By the time we get to Skyice, half the damn ce is going to be in chains, including the yers.


    What happens when we arrest yers?


    People die, Grand Magister Tommat answered for him, wearily. If they arent subdued fast enough with the brand, theyll try to push past the agony and inflict as much damage as possible. Weve already lost Magisters who werent careful enough, and I would hate to see a promising young man cut down just as his career was beginning.


    Despite the crushing fatigue, Regis felt a chill run down his spine. There were so many ways to fail, so many ways to die. Just what was happening in the province, and why were the Magisters being crushed under so much weight?


    Just how bad were things going to get as they pushed further west? How many Magisters were they going to lose?


    Perhaps Herath could see the thoughts written on his face, for he smirked and answered his unspoken questions.


    Its going to get bad. <em>Very</em> bad. I expect there will be far fewer members of this tower by the time this is all done. Lady Shan is driving us hard, and there will be more examples before too long.


    The screaming. Always the screaming.


    But it isnting from her. Itsing from the Duke, from the Priests, the Oracles, the Emperor himself. We live in unprecedented times, and if we arent sharp, we will be swept away with the tide.


    Regis stiffened his back.


    I wont be swept away, he dered quietly. Im going to survive.


    Herath stood and pped him on the shoulder.


    Youre starting to sound like my good friend Poranus. A little fire in our bellies will get us a long way right now. He turned back to Tommat. How long until you need us to leave?


    The old man didnt need to consult his notes.


    Two days. Thats the most I can give you.


    Very well. If youll excuse me then, my fellow Mages of the Red Tower. Im going to bed.

 Chapter B4C5 - Web Of Knowledge

    Chapter B4C5 - Web Of Knowledge


    Did you see his hands?


    Yes. For the fifth time, we all saw his hands.


    The movement was so crisp. No wasted motion. I could barely see him flip from one sigil to the next.


    We <em>know</em>.


    And he said he was working <em>slowly</em>. If thats slow, then how fast can he go?


    Georg sighed and pushed away the notes he had been attempting to study for thest half an hour. In the dim light, it wasnt that easy to see, but he found it difficult to sleep at the moment. Much like life on the farm, there was always more that could be done when studying Necromancy.


    Richard. Hes good, alright? We know hes good. If he wasnt, would he be worth learning from?


    His fellow Necromancer, lean, with pointed features and a permanent nervous expression, threw his hands up in frustration.


    Good? Good doesnt begin to fucking cover it, Georg! Ive seen others do magick. Admittedly not much but he blows all of them out of the water. Almost everything hes showing us <em>he taught to himself</em>!


    Again, Georg sighed. Theyd been over this so many times. Once Richard got a thought into his head, he found it extremely difficult to push it out. Hopefully, his current obsession would run its course soon.


    I dont care, Georg told him honestly. It doesnt matter if hes the best milker in the paddock or barely average. Ill get cream out of him all the same.


    Richard turned to him, aghast.


    Did you justpare Tyron Sterm to a <em>cow</em>?


    Sfine, Georg shrugged defensively. Gets the point across, doesnt it? As long as he teaches me how to do this he wiggled his thick fingers with an air of general frustration, ... nonsense, then Im satisfied. I want to make the best of my ss.


    You arent seeing the big picture! Someone with his skill could take us so much farther.


    Georg thumped a fist to the table, causing Richard to jump. Recognising hed lost his temper, the farmhand quickly apologised.


    Sorry. Its just. You need to stop doing this to yourself.


    <em>And to me</em>.


    Doing what? Richard asked, lowering himself into a seat atst.


    Youre making yourself nervous! The more you build up Tyron in your mind, the more desperately you want to impress him, the more likely you are to fail when you try to work your magick in front of him. You know damn well what happenedst time


    I dont want to talk about it.


    and itll happen again if you keep getting yourself worked up.


    The bookkeepers son slumped in his chair and hung his head.


    Youre right. I know youre right. Its just theres a lot of pressure. This is an illegal ss, right? If we dont be strong quickly


    There was a rattle at the door, and a momentter, Briss pushed it open and stuck her head through.


    Am I interrupting? she asked.


    No, Georg growled, folding up his notes. Clearly, he was destined not to get any work done tonight.


    Good, Briss muttered as she slipped through the door and closed it behind her, totally oblivious to Georgs frustration. She looked at Richard, still curled up like a ter at the table. Is he stressing himself out again?


    What do you think? Georg replied.


    Heedless of his suffering, Briss scuttled next to Richard and started poking him in the side.


    Hello? Snap out of it, Richard. Youre fucking this up for yourself.


    A few more pokes and Richard snapped, pping his arms until Briss backed off.


    He emerges from his shell! she dered triumphantly before seating herself at the table. She rummaged around in the small leather bag she carried over her shoulder and pulled out her own notes. Now, you guys can help me with this phrase. Is it supposed to be Rhu-al-atten or Rhu-al-att-<em>hen</em>, she asked.


    Georg frowned, unsure.


    Thetter, Richard stated dully. You have to emphasise the ent on the final syble.


    I knew it, Briss breathed, closing her eyes and trying tomit the phrasing to memory. Ive been stressing about that for <em>hours</em>. When I wrote my notes, I wasnt clear enough.


    Isnt it spelled out on the sheet we were given? Georg asked, confused.


    It isnt. Not on the one youre thinking of, Richard answered the question. Its not part of the ritual. Briss is working on her fundamental phrases.


    Exhaling a big puff of breath, Georg leaned back in his seat and stared up at the low roof of the house they dwelled in.


    I dont know how youmit so much to memory so fast. The words get tangled in my head before I get halfway through the list.


    Chunking. Break the list into smaller groups and work through them one at a time. Trying to do too many at once will stall your progress.


    Richard, of course, was the source of this sage advice.


    How can you be so good at this while also being such a mess? Briss asked innocently.


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    Richard slumped t on the table, miserable.


    Im just good at memorisation. My father taught me how to manage lists from a young age.


    Useful talent for a mage, it turns out, Georg noted.


    What does it matter if I cant manage to hold it together long enough to finish the ritual? Richard said.


    You failed <em>once</em>, Georg pointed out. Its normal to be bad at something before you can get good at it. More practice is all you need.


    I wonder how much time we really have? Briss muttered. Even Tyron told us he would only have weeks with us.


    That sombre statement caused a hush to fall over the trio as they thought about the implications. Learning magick from scratch was proving to be exceptionally difficult, no matter how skilled their teacher was. To even get started with their new ss, they would need to be proficient enough to cast aplex ritual. It was a steep hill to climb.


    None felt that more than Georg. He struggled to remember the arcane phrases, his hands refused to move the way he needed them to. He spent hours on the drills he was taught every day, but his progress remained cially slow.


    If he wasnt able to learn enough to make his start as a Necromancer before Tyron left, what was he supposed to do?


    Richard cleared his throat as he straightened in his seat. He and Georg had been living in this small house since the Awakening, while Briss stayed next door, sharing with some of her friends who were Bone Shapers. It wasnt much, a single room with a firepit, some straw beds and a table, but it had one luxury the rest of the town struggled to get their hands on: an enchanted light source. Not that it was a particrly good one. Now, as the night drew close, it barely provided enough illumination to reach the edges of the small room, shrouding the wooden walls in shadow at the corners.


    Ive been wanting to ask though I didnt want to be rude or anything but. What did you two want to get out of this ss? Why do you think you received it? He shrugged his narrow shoulders. For me Ive always wanted to be a mage. I didnt even necessarily want to be a yer, I just always wanted to learn magick, I didnt particrly care what kind.


    So you got your wish, Georg said quietly.


    I did, I suppose. Its exciting most of the time. The rest of the time I just feel terrified. Mr Sterm Tyron, he talked about wanting to bring down the Magisters. I guess Im only now starting to realise that we wont have a chance to keep our sses unless he seeds.


    The bookish young man looked ufortable being this open about himself, but he pushed on.


    Maybe it wont even end at sses. With everything thats been happening, he gestured vaguely toward the east, maybe theyll just kill us if they find us. In which case, we cant even survive unless Tyron wins.


    Briss looked at him,passion on her features.


    Oh, Richard. Your family is here in Cragwhistle, right?


    The young man nodded.


    They arent just going to take your ss away. They wont even just kill you. My grandparents were taken by them, right when it all started. She teared up a little, recalling the painful memories. My nan and pa were tortured, until they gave up the names of everyone they knew, just to make it stop. Our neighbours were taken next, and we would have been taken after that if my mum and dad didnt take us away that very night. She drew a shuddering breath. It wont end with just killing you. Theyll stick hot knives in you until you talk. Then, your family will be next.


    We came here after that, looking for protection. Instead, the gods gifted me with this ss, and Im going to use it to keep my family safe. The willowy girl nodded to herself. Tyron has shown us that its possible. Hes gone through the rift, by himself. That alone should tell you how strong a Necromancer can be. If the three of us work together, then we might be able to protect Cragwhistle.


    Thats what I want to do.


    Her words fell heavily into the silence. Richard looked shocked and saddened to hear her story, as well as fearful. Perhaps hed never fully considered just how much his family was at risk, simply from being here, in this ce. Were he to be caught, as a Necromancer, all of his rtions would go down with him, there was no question of that.


    For a smart person, Georg had no idea how he managed to overlook the obvious. Briss turned toward the farmboy, who sat at the table, staring at his calloused hands.


    Everyone worshipped the Three where I grew up, Georg said, so I kind of fell into it as well, I suppose. Sfine, really. I dont think it really matters that much which set of gods people worship.


    If you ask a god, they might disagree, Richard said faintly.


    Georg shrugged.


    I suppose. I mean it doesnt make much difference to the people. I seen a lot of people pray, but I never seen a god muck out a stable. I pray to Raven every now and again, and Rot a few times, but Ive never heard a whisper back. For the most part, my life has always been about getting the work done.


    He closed his hands into fists on the table. Even now, his hands seemed smudged with dirt, despite not having worked a field in weeks. Sometimes it felt as though the earth had bonded with his skin, and no amount of washing would get rid of it. Not that it bothered him; hands were for working.


    I dont know why I was given this ss, and honestly, I feel like it was a mistake most of the time. I dont see how Im suited to it. But since I have it, I want to make the most of it.


    He turned to Richard.


    Your parents are bookkeepers or somesuch, right? Briss, your family are coopers? the other two nodded in confirmation. Well, my family have been Farmhands. ssed Farmhands, for generations. Weve never even been able to make enough to own our ownnd, not even out here. He looked down at his hands again. His mother and father had hands just like his, except more. More calloused. More dirty. More scarred.


    As a Necromancer, Ive got a chance to make something of myself. You said it yourself, Briss. Tyron is on the other side of the rift, by himself. He keeps every core he finds for himself, right? With that kind of money, I can buy somend. My brothers and sisters wont have to work themselves to the bone for someone elses farm anymore. Thats what I want.


    Of course, there was more to it than that. Briss had spoken the truth. Unless Tyron was victorious, and Cragwhistle remained free from the purge, his goals would go unrealised. He needed time. Time to grow strong and carve a path forward. Being impatient wouldnt get him anywhere, he knew that. Steady progress was the important thing: every day, get a little bit further forward.


    Im with you, Briss, Georg announced before he turned a level stare toward Richard. Youd better get on the same page as well. Maybe you didnt want any part of this fight, but you were thrown in all the same the moment you got this ss.


    Without another word, he reached down and picked up his notes, rifling through them until he found a nk page, which he ced t on the table in front of him. From his belt, he withdrew the small whittling knife he always had, and made a small cut in the meat of his thumb. Just another scar to add to the collection.


    Richard noticed what he was doing first.


    Are you sure? he asked hesitantly.


    Georg nodded.


    Ive thought about it. Im learning too slow, my hands cant keep up with my head. If I have to burn a feat for it, then I will.


    General feat slots are Richard started to say, then caught himself and shook his head. Sorry, I know youve given it the right amount of thought. Its your decision.


    I think its the right decision, Briss encouraged him. Tyron suggested it himself, so it must be useful for a Necromancer.


    <em>I hope so,</em> Georg thought to himself.


    Unfortunately, he hadnt levelled once in his Necromancer ss, but that was to be expected. The process to select a new General Feat was a simple one, and in moments hed confirmed it, writing out his choice with his own blood on the page. Then, he ended the ritual.


    How does it feel? Briss asked, curious.


    Its strange, Georg said, looking down at his hands. Like a tickling running up my fingers and into my head.


    It can take a while for a feat like that to finish taking effect, Richard said. You may not even notice a difference until morning.


    Well then, Georg said, picking up a page of his notes while doing his best to ignore the sensation, may as well get back to learning. Are you going to sit there moping, Richard? Or are you going to get back to it?


    The bookish young man looked down for a moment before he forced augh, picked up his own notes, and began to read. After a moment, Briss joined them. Soon, the three students were immersed in the world of magick once again, memorising phrases, practising gestures, and trying to make sense of it. Together.

 Chapter B4C6 - Moving Forward

    Chapter B4C6 - Moving Forward


    The cold was even worse than Tyron remembered it, though he wasnt sure if that was because it had gotten worse, or because hed pushed it from his memory. Regardless, hede adequately prepared this time.


    The wind picked up outside, sending the constant snowfall battering against the side of the tent, but Tyron paid it no mind. Hed had this specially made, and it had cost him more than hed expected, a lot more, but had proved to be worth every copper mark. Tripleyered canvas, treated to be proof against water, kept the inside as dry as a cookhouse, while the heaters hed enchanted himself kept it just as warm.


    It took four of them, one ced in each corner, but it was enough to stave off the chill and keep him rtivelyfortable, which was something of a miracle given the frozen hellscape he was in. Outside, his skeletons surrounded his little pocket of safety. Immune to the cold, heedless of the snow and ice, his minions watched and waited in case another pack of roaming kin came across this hiding spot.


    It had taken a while to find this spot, tucked away between two outcroppings of rock. For the past three days, this had been his refuge against the worst of the weather, but it appeared the direction of the wind had changed.


    Would it be too much to have his skeletons form an unliving wall to block the snow? How effective would they even be? They were more gap than solid.


    Tyron grunted to himself. If something didnt change soon, hed just have to bite the bullet and relocate. As much as he didnt want to leave his tent, if it was needed, then it was needed. Hed been out there plenty of times already, what was one more?


    Whatever it was called, this realm only grew more dangerous with time, and fighting on this side of the rift was far more perilous than being on the other side. On several asions, hed encountered packs of roaming ice mammoths, though never more than three at a time, thankfully. Against opponents like that, he couldnt leave his skeletons to fight on their own discretion. His minions would likely win, but how many would he lose? An uneptable risk.


    By applying his magick and directing the fighting personally, he was able to ovee such packs with no permanent damage done to his horde. Although repairs were often required, which slowed things down.


    The smaller boar creatures and ice wraiths were far moremon, springing up from the snow-covered ground at any moment. The Ice creatures were almost impossible to see in the storms, blending into the flurry of ice and snow without effort. Fortunately, his skeletons could spot them just fine, their strange eyesight picking the creatures out from the sleet. Despite the increase in power hed experienced, Tyron still had to be cautious here beyond the rift. There were more dangerous creatures than the mammoths roaming the wilds, though hed never seen one up close, thankfully.


    All hed gotten was the impression of somethingrge, covered in white fur. The hulking creature either hadnt spotted them, or had other prey in mind as it stalked through the frozen wastnd. Whichever was the case, Tyron was grateful. He hadnte here to fight creatures like that, risking his minions and himself.


    For the time being, he was perfectly content to battle against the hordes of weaker creatures. Those were the opponents his skeletal army was perfectly equipped to fight.


    In one corner of the tent, the bag containing the cores hed collected bulged, fat and happy. Stopping to cut the cores from the weaker monsters had be a waste of time, given the prevalence of the mammoths, though the Ice Wraiths were usually worth plundering. With such a haul, hed have plenty to fuel his next experiments and creations, one of his aims for this trip achieved.


    The other sat on the floor of the tent in front of him.


    Tyron stared down at the nk page, biting his lip absentmindedly as he pondered. Eventually, he realised he was making no progress at all at untangling the thoughts running through his head. Rather than waste any more time trying, he cut his thumb, leaned forward and pressed it into the paper.


    The ritual was as short as it was simple, and soon his blood flowed over the paper, forming the letters which became the words whichmunicated the influence of the Unseen.


    It had been awhile since hisst status ritual, and the blood continued to flow for longer than he was ustomed, to the point he wondered if he would need to find a second page, forming messages about his proficiency in various skills rising. Tyron began to wonder if extremely levelled individuals like his parents ever had to worry about running out of blood. Someone like Magnin would have had dozens and dozens of Skills and abilities he could level. Tyron knew for a fact his father had gone an entire year between status rituals at least once. What would his sheet have looked like? How did he even survive the blood loss?!


    Eventually, once each of his Skills had been dealt with, the ritual came to the meat of the matter.


    <em>You have raised skeletons and they have fought on your behalf. Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 48. You have received +6 Strength, +9 Constitution, +9 Intelligence, +6 Wisdom, +6 Willpower, +6 Maniption and +9 Poise. </em>


    <em>You have utilised Death Magick to cast spells and rituals. Death Mage has reached level 6. You have received +5 Constitution, +5 Willpower, and +5 Poise.</em>


    <em>Your patrons havevished you with gifts and delight to see you using them well. Ensure you continue to utilise your talents to further their ends, lest they be less generous. Forbidden One has reached Level 30. You have received +3 Maniption, +6 Constitution, +6 Intelligence, +6 Willpower and +3 Poise.</em>


    Despite everything hed done, hed only gained another three levels in his main ss. It was difficult, but he forced the dissatisfaction he felt aside. Hed risen <em>exceptionally</em> quickly; reaching the Silver ranks as fast as he had was almost unheard of, if he didnt consider the time hed taken to learn enchanting. He knew it was absurd to expect he would proceed to level sixty as quickly as he had to level forty. It took years of fighting for most yers to reach Gold after promoting to Silver, the most dangerous period of their career.


    He needed to be satisfied he was moving forward at all, even though he knew his progress would be even slower in the future.


    Forward is forward, he told himself.


    At least his new sub-ss was rising quickly, as it should. Five levels in Death Mage was nothing to sneeze at, and he could look forward to a feat and three new ability selections. As always, the message from his patrons brought a sneer to his face. Lavishing him with gifts, were they? He had no doubt that whatever the vampires had done to him counted amongst those gifts.


    For now, he was still too weak to achieve his objectives alone, so he needed their help. That wouldnt always be the case, but for now, he had to bide his time. Reaching level thirty meant another feat selection for this sub-ss as well. Yet more decisions to make.


    On top of that, Tyron was determined to spend his general slots as well. Hed hemmed and hawed over the decision for too long, until the weight of indecision had paralysed him. It was past time to break out and spend what he had to spend. They were valuable, unretractable choices, and there were hundreds of possible options and thousands ofbinations, but dying any further was only going to stifle his growth.


    Name: Tyron Sterm.


    Age: 23


    Race: Human (Level 20)


    ss:


    Lord of the Ossuary (Level 48)


    Sub-sses:<ul><li>Forbidden One (Level 30) </li><li>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</li><li>Death Mage (Level 6)</li></ul>


    <strong>Racial Feats:</strong>


    Level 5: Steady Hand.


    Level 10: Night Owl.


    Feat Selections Avable: 2


    <strong>Attributes:</strong>


    Strength:


    78


    Dexterity:


    135


    Constitution:


    191


    Intelligence:


    308


    Wisdom:


    202


    Willpower:


    167


    Charisma:


    66


    Maniption:


    105


    Poise:


    122


    Several important milestones had been reached, the most important of which was intelligence over three hundred. A formidable number only possible thanks to the favourable stats of the Necromancer and Anathema sses. With that level of power behind his magick, Tyron was well on his way to achieving both the enormous pool of energy required to fuel his spells and rituals, and the punch necessary to make up for hisck of offence.


    Wisdom over two hundred was a great leap forward in his level of control, something he had always excelled at. With the aid of the Unseen breaking through another milestone, his ability to manipte arcane energy would only rise higher. This would prove particrly useful when enchanting.


    <strong>General Skills:</strong>


    Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)


    Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)


    Concentration (Level 5)(Max)


    Cooking (Level 4)


    Sling (Level 3)


    Swordsmanship (Level 2)


    Sneak (Level 3)


    Butchery (Level 5)(Max)


    Engraving (Level 5)(Max)


    Sculpting (level 3)


    Skill Selections Avable: 4


    Four general Skill selections and two General Feats. These were the most prized slots in any build, not due to their power, but to their versatility. Georg struggled due his rtively clumsy fingers, but that problem could be, if not solved, at least alleviated by the use of a General Feat. A person could be partially ambidextrous, gain better bnce, better body control, a more glib tongue, more sensitive hearing, greater store of magick, better sense for the movement of energy, better ability to track objects in motion and almost anything else that could be thought of.


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    General Skills were less prized, but no less valuable. The ability to have the Unseen provide the basics of any Skill considered part of itself was incredible. Tyron had taken advantage of this already, learning butchery to help advance his Necromantic career.


    I really did expect Id have to do a lot more sneaking, he muttered to himself, staring at the level three ability with a frown.


    With a base maximum of only five, these Skills would never be life-changing, but they could help in unexpected ways, and add new dimensions to how a person interacted with their sses.


    After pondering for so long, Tyron knew full well what Feats he wanted to choose. He worked his thumb to force a little more blood from the cut and wrote at the end of the page.


    <em>Well of Magick</em>.


    <em>Arcane Renewal.</em>


    There were a range of things he could have picked, and hed agonised over many different choices. Resilient Flesh would have coupled with his high Constitution brilliantly, as would Stamina Renewal. The first would make him even tougher, hardening his skin and muscle until it was like corded wood. Thetter would have helped him push fatigue even further away, allowing him to push through days and days without food, water or rest.


    A ssicbination for Mages was Dextrous Hands and Agile Tongue, making it easier to cast using hand sigils and spokenponents. Tyron was already extremely proficient with both, but the feats could have helped elevate him to an even higher level. Perhaps.


    It wasnt always possible to know just how great an effect a particr feat would have. It would always work, but how well could vary.


    Night Owl paired very well with Tireless, which would havebined to almost deactivate his biological clock. With the sleep spell ready to hand, he never had to worry about getting natural rest, and those two featsbined would have enabled him to function without sleep for so much longer.


    In the end, he decided to bow to the demands of his ss. The Necromancer ss demanded an almost unlimited supply of power, and so he would do whatever he could to ke that thirst. Well of Magick should increase his pool by roughly a tenth of its current capacity, and Arcane Renewal would decrease the time it took to refill by a fifth.


    Beneath that, he continued to write the list of general Skills he wanted.


    <em>Weaving.</em>


    <em>Dodging.</em>


    <em>Running.</em>


    The first choice would, he hoped, prove useful in furthering his craft, even a little. With any luck, Weaving would assist in his bone stitching. Hed run into some roadblocks in that area, and perhaps this Skill would help shine some light to get him through.


    Thest two were quite obvious in their utility. He was never going to be able to stand and fight with any proficiency. If a level five dodge saved him even once, it was worth it. If a level five run helped him escape even once, it was worth it.


    With those choices written in blood, it was time for the ss selections.


    <strong>Necromancer Skills:</strong>


    Corpse Appraisal (Level 20)(Max)


    Corpse Preparation (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Death Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    <strong>Enhanced Minion Commander (Level 14)</strong>


    Undead Control (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Minion Modification (Level 10)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Bone-Soul Melding (Level 12)</strong>


    <strong>Death Infusion (Level 5)</strong>


    <strong>Bone Forging (Level 15)</strong>


    <strong>Anathema Skills:</strong>


    <strong>Abyss Tongue (Level 6)</strong>


    Spell Concealment (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Arcanist Skills:</strong>


    Expert Magick Scripting (Level 30)(Max)


    Channelling (Level 10)(Max)


    Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 19)</strong>


    Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 18)</strong>


    <strong>Expert Network Formation (Level 29)</strong>


    Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 20)(Max)


    Advanced Core Sense (Level 16)


    <strong>Expert Power Control (Level 28)</strong>


    <strong>General Spells:</strong>


    Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)


    Sleep (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)


    Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Spells:</strong>


    <strong>Raise Dead (Level 36)</strong>


    <strong>Bone Animus (Level 28)</strong>


    Commune with Spirits (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Shivering Curse (Level 10)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Death des (Level 10)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Empowered Bone Armour (Level 8)</strong>


    Minion Sight (Level 10)(Max)


    Spirit Binding (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Deaths Grasp (Level 7) </strong>


    <strong>Anoint Dead (Level 7)</strong>


    <strong>ck Miasma (Level 8)</strong>


    <strong>Death Bolt (Level 10)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Summon the Ossuary (Level 5)</strong>


    <strong>Bone Lance(Level 3)</strong>


    <strong>Anathema Spells:</strong>


    <strong>Pierce the Veil (Level 10)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Appeal to the Court (Level 5)</strong>


    Dark Communion (Level 1)


    <strong>Advanced Suppress Mind (Level 20)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Repository (Level 10)(Max)</strong>


    <strong>Fear (Level 5)</strong>


    mour (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Advanced Invasive Persuasion (Level 12)</strong>


    <strong>Crones Shade (Level 8)</strong>


    Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)


    <strong>Necromancer Feats:</strong>


    Skeleton Focus III


    Magick Battery II


    Bone Mastery


    Spirit Mastery


    Undead Specialist


    Awaken the Altar


    <strong>Anathema Feats:</strong>


    Repository


    Wall of Thought II


    Drain Life


    Stormwise


    <strong>Arcanist Feats</strong>


    Magick Thread Control II


    Compact Sigils II


    Conduit Seal II


    Core Networking II


    <strong>Mysteries:</strong>


    Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20


    Words of Power (Advanced): WIS +20 CHA +20


    Essence of Death (Initial): INT +3 WILL +3


    Soul Magick (Initial): WIS+3 CHA +3


    <strong><em>Lord of the Ossuary has reached Level 48. Choose two additional Skills or Spells:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Corpse Divining - Deepen your connection to the dead, allowing you to understand them more fully. Will rece Corpse Appraisal and raise its maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Corpse Singing - Enhance your ability to empower remains, cleansing and purifying them. Will rece Corpse Preparation and raise its maximum level by 10.</em>


    <strong><em>Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Skeletal Sacrifice - Detonate a skeleton to shower your foe in shards of bone.</em>


    <em>Ossuary Vent - Create an opening through which the energy of the Ossuary can be extracted.</em>


    <em>Blessing of Bone - Invigorate your Skeletons, empowering them to greater speed.</em>


    <strong>Forbidden One has reached level 30. Choose two additional Skills or Spells:</strong>


    <strong>Skills:</strong>


    <em>Corrupting Presence - Subvert the Will to resist from those around you.</em>


    <em>Dimension Weaving - Improve your capacity to manipte the Dimensional Weave.</em>


    <em>Crones Gaze - Sense the inner motives of another when meeting their gaze.</em>


    <em>Raven Speech - Communicate with the children of the Old God.</em>


    <strong>Spells:</strong>


    <em>Advanced Bewitch - Rece Bewitch and increase the maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Blood Shield - Draw the essence from your opponents to form a protective barrier. </em>


    <em>Flesh to Power -</em><em>Sacrifice your own body, or the body of another, to generate magick.</em>


    <strong>Death Mage has reached level 6. Choose three additional Skills or Spells:</strong>


    <strong>Skills:</strong>


    <em>Curse Weaving - Enhance your capacity to manipte curses.</em>


    <em>Expert Death Magick - Reces Advanced Death Magick and raises the maximum level by 10.</em>


    <strong>Spells:</strong>


    <em>Greater Death Bolt - Will rece Death Bolt and raise its maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Sap Life - Drain lifeforce from an opponent to invigorate yourself. </em>


    <em>Wilting Curse - Weaken and enfeeble your foes.</em>


    <em>Death Fist - Will rece Deaths Grasp and raise its maximum level by 10.</em>


    <strong>Forbidden One has reached level 30. Choose an additional Feat:</strong>


    <em>Dark Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Dark Ones.</em>


    <em>Abyssal Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Abyss.</em>


    <em>Scarlet Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Scarlet Court.</em>


    <em>Ruler in Shade - Your false faces are harder to break and see through.</em>


    <em>Corroding Presence - Encourage Death Magick growth in all around you, even the living.</em>


    <em>Bewitching Gaze - Those who look into your eyes are more susceptible to magickal influence.</em>


    <em>ck Soul - Tune your spirit to the void.</em>


    <em>Dead Flesh - Adapt your body to contain death aligned energy.</em>


    <em>Still Blood - Your blood will cease to flow, and change.</em>


    <strong>Death Mage has reached level 5. Choose an additional Feat:</strong>


    <em>Efficient Death I - Your mastery will allow you to achieve more with less.</em>


    <em>Empowered Death I - Your mastery will strengthen your spells to greater heights.</em>


    <em>Prating Death Bolt - Your Death Bolt will pierce. </em>


    <em>Death Conversion - You will be faster when converting normal magick to Death Aligned magick.</em>


    <em>Curse Tuner - Curses you apply to others will have the opposite effect on you.</em>


    <em>Death Sense - Detect nearby sources of Death Magick.</em>


    <em>Deaden Self - Your sense of pain will grow dull.</em>


    <em>Eyes of the Grave - You will see as the spirits see.</em>


    <em>Rot ws - Your hands will generate Death Magick in your nails.</em>


    <em>Fallen Shadow - You may store Death aligned energy in your shadow.</em>


    Tyrons abilities continued to grow apace as his Skills and Spells improved, but he wasnt satisfied with this level of progress. He needed to make greater leaps, get ahead of the Unseen. His Mysteries remained stubbornly frozen in ce, refusing to progress even as he learned and grew.


    There were many difficult choices to make in this ritual, and some he honestly didnt <em>want</em> to make.


    Death Mage was rtively simple. Greater Death Bolt, Death Fist and Sap Life were all useful choices. With his greater capacity to contribute more directly to the fight, increasing his personal offensive options made good sense. TMeanwhile, the Death Mage feats were a wee surprise. Efficient Death would be nice, allowing him to cast more spells using less energy, and he would choose it if that was all it did. If the Unseen decided it <em>also</em> applied to the energy drawn by his minions then it would be incredibly powerful. He had to take it to find out, so take it he did, despite there being other interesting options.


    For Lord of the Ossuary, he had to stop and think. Both of the new options, which would rece Corpse Preparation and Appraisal, would be useful and powerful IF circumstances hadnt recently changed. Were he to be handling all of the remains himself, then they would be amazing, but if <em>others</em> with specialised sses would be doing those things for him then they would be two wasted slots. Just how much did he trust the newly ssed people of Cragwhistle to rise to the challenge? Would they ever be able to do it better than he himself could do it now?


    It was a leap of faith.


    For the time being, he selected Blessing of Bone and the Ossuary Vent. Empowering his skeletons? Great. Exploding them? He wasnt a fan. The Ossuary Vent was an intriguing option, allowing him to make use of the rich and dense energy of the Ossuary even when he wasnt inside it. He could already think of ways to incorporate such a spell to sh-charge his constructs.


    Which left him with Forbidden One. For starters, he struggled to find a feat he actually <em>wanted, </em>let alone liked. Curry favour? He did more than enough of that already, thank you very much. Ruler in Shade was useful, but the Old Gods already provided a simr benefit. It would be good not to be dependent on them for the effect, but he was loath to choose something he could get another way.


    Corroding Presence? Wouldnt that make it almost impossible for him to hide?


    Which left only Bewitching Gaze as something he could pick without doing some permanent modification to himself that he didnt understand. So that is what he chose.


    For the abilities, the choices were <em>slightly</em> more appealing. Dimension Weaving grew more and more relevant as time passed. Crones gaze and Raven Speech were both possibilities, though perhaps not ideal. Blood Shield was straight up distasteful, but it <em>was</em> another defensive option, which, paired with the Drain Life feat, could work to both shield <em>and</em> heal him.


    In fact, with this many options to inflict harm and heal himself being avable, something like Flesh to Power became ever more appealing, though a dangerous option. Injuring himself in the hopes of being able to repair the damage seemed like a slippery slope. As usual, he didnt have any details to determine if the risk would be remotely worthwhile.


    After some consideration, he took Dimension Weaving and Blood Shield. They were, perhaps, the safer options, but there was no need to waste a slot on something that may not be useful.


    Then he drew the ritual to a close.

 Chapter B4C7 - Reams of Gold

    Chapter B4C7 - Reams of Gold


    <em>Am I really going to die in here?</em>


    Once again, the thought bubbled up unbidden. It was getting harder to push it away, especially recently. Feolin didnt try to fight it this time, just letting that unsettling idea rattle around inside her head, growing louder and louder. Eventually, she realised it wasnt going away on its own, not this time. She mmed a hand down on the table, then stared at her clenched fist in surprise.


    Was she really that angry? Had it really gotten to her this badly? Shed been living in the bird cage for almost a dozen years, twelve years of idle leisure and luxury that she had yearned for while knee-deep in blood and guts at the rifts. Only twelve years, and already she was turning against the paradise she had wanted for so long, railing against the prison she had entered willingly. It happened to everyone eventually. No matter how much they pretended it didnt get to them, it did. Eventually, everyone cracked. And when they did the other yers had to band together to put them down. If they were lucky, that is. Some managed to hold off their friends and lovers. They were unlucky. The Magisters came for them, turning up the brand until they were a screaming mess on the floor, unable to move, unable to speak.


    <em>Fuck you, Brole. You were right all along. Am I really going to die in here?</em>


    Before she started to spiral, Feolin pushed herself up from the table, determined to go out. She felt an irresistible urge to move, to do something<em>, anything</em> to avoid the thoughts. A quick nce in the mirror on the way out the door didnt tell her anything she didnt already know. Short of stature, with a wave of curling brown hair running down her back, she appeared to be approaching middle age, despite being significantly older than that. One of the many benefits of rising high in the esteem of the Unseen.


    But perhaps her age was starting to show. Was she a touch more pale than she was before? Did she detect a hint of grey in her hair? Perhaps it was all in her mind. Maybe she was just tired. She looked tired.


    Stepping out of her apartment and into the broad streets of the Golden District was like stepping into a painting. Tall trees lined the streets, old oaks and maple, swaying gently in the breeze and providing shelter from the midday sun. nters carved from stone lined the front of every building and every floor, each connected to the automatic watering system flushed by water mages daily. Surrounded by vibrant life, it was difficult not to feel an upswell of joy at the sight.


    Feolin walked down Splinter street, giving her greetings to neighbours and acquaintances that she passed on the way. All Gold Ranked yers, enjoying their retirement, there was easyughter and broad smiles aplenty. These were the people whod made it, the ones whod survived.


    From those whod been in the cage a little longer there was something else about them. A knowledge, deep in their eyes, that something was not <em>right</em>. For them, the smiles were a little forced, theughter, just a touch on edge.


    <em>Its all in your head, Feolin! Theyre tired because they were out drinking and fucking and just woke up. Or they were working, or theyre not in a good mood today. Its fine!</em>


    Hurrying her steps, she rounded the corner onto Dunwodden Street. Two hundred metres up the road, she came to a stop at a doorway, lined with flowers like all the others, and began pounding away at the dark wood door. A gardener tending to the nters looked up at the noise and recognised her.


    Ms Nurn, he called out in a hushed tone, I believe Mr MacRielly is asleep. He only came home a few hours ago.


    Interesting, the former yer noted, continuing to pound on the door. Which brothel was he at this time?


    I certainly didnt ask, madam.


    No, she grunted, that probably wouldnt be appropriate.


    She gave up on using her fist and instead used her foot, leaning back and delivering kick after kick into the door until it began to splinter. Even for a me mage, the strength gifted by the Unseen to a gold rank was enough to do some serious damage. She had enough trouble with incidental breaks as it was, she had no idea how more physical sses managed to roll out of bed without shattering their side tables.


    After a minute or two of determined kicking she finally heard something from inside. Cursing mainly, followed by stumbling, a fall, then groaning, then more cursing. Eventually, the door opened to reveal a haggard, pale, red-headed man with arge moustache and bloodshot green eyes.


    I shouldve known it was you, Fee. What in the name of fuck are you doing to my door?!


    A pleasure to see you as always, Feolin offered a short curtsy. May Ie in, old friend?


    The northerner blinked a few times before he stood to one side and pushed the door open.


    Why in the fuck do you insist on the good manners after kicking the ever-loving shit out of my door? Ill never understand women, he muttered to himself.


    Feolin wrinkled her nose as she walked past him.


    You reek of alcohol. Its <em>midday</em>.


    The man visibly counted for a moment in his head.


    Well, it makes sense, then, he burped. I only stopped drinking four hours ago.


    Go and wake yourself up. Ill wait for you in the kitchen, she sniffed.


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    MacRielly pped himself in the face, wondering if today was finally going to be the day he pped back. After a moment of consideration, he wisely chose not to. He wasnt <em>that</em> drunk. Trying to tell Fee what she could and couldnt do was a mistake a person only made once in their lifetime, and hes learned that lesson a <em>long</em> time ago.


    There was only one method for dealing with the mad bitch, and that was getting the hell out of her way. Besides, he was extremely pleased with the current state of his moustache. It was bushy, but not too bushy, and had achieved a pleasant arc on either side of his mouth, hanging down at <em>just</em> the right angle. Having it burned off along with all the skin on his face would be such a shame.


    Ill be with you in a minute, dearie, he grumbled, taking himself to the washroom.


    I am <em>not</em> your dearie, she replied in a clear voice.


    Its a term of endearment, you fucking hag!


    With the practised motions of a person whod gone through this same process many times before, the northerner took that cap off a small bottle, imbibed a purging agent, then spent the next five minutes being violently ill. Then he disrobed, stepped into the wash basin and allowed the enchanted facility to shower him with water andthered soap. With the enhanced alcohols purged from his system, his superhuman physiology was already well on its way to a full recovery by the time hed dried off and changed.


    Still a little damp, he staggered into his own kitchen to find Fee had made herself very much at home. The diminutive mage had made herself a cup of tea, no doubt having sneered at the poor quality of the leaves a little, and sat reading the paperid out across his table.


    I dont know why you insist on this poor excuse for a table, she remarked. It looks like its made by nailing <em>logs</em> together.


    Thats because it <em>is</em>, MacRielly grunted as he sat down and started pawing at the bowl of dried meat he kept in the kitchen. Eventually, he found a well-salted hunk of venison and shoved it in his mouth, groaning with satisfaction as his teeth scissored through the unbelievably tough meat like sheers through cotton.


    I almost cant remember what it was like to struggle to chew this stuff, he said, gesturing toward the jerky. A single piece of my fathers smoked venison couldst me half a day. It was as tough as my shoes and twice as tasty.


    Then he looked down at the table.


    Never disparage this true, rustic furniture in front of me again. Thats how we do things in the north, and I fucking like it that way.


    Its uncivilised, Feolin noted.


    Fee. Weve known each other for what, twenty-five years? Have I given you a single indication in all that time that I care for civilisation? Even once?


    The mage rolled her eyes and pushed the paper away before meeting his gaze.


    You soak yourself in Sound wines every chance you get, she scoffed. Not just any wine, mind you, <em>vintage</em> Sound wines. The kind my father kept locked away in the cer because it was too good for drinking. You act like you''re happy drinking ewe piss, but the truth is in to anyone who knows you. Youre a <em>snob</em>.


    MacRielly ced a hand on his chest, gasping theatrically.


    You wound me, Fee. You cut fucking deep. But its true. Those fuckers in Sound make some <em>incredible</em> ewe piss.


    Feolin snorted withughter, but the humour vanished from her eyes all too quickly. Her friend noted the change and realised what had happened, why she was so desperate to wake him up this morning.


    How bad is it? he said softly.


    She didnt reply for a while, letting the question hang in the air while the two of them looked down, not willing to nce up lest they see it.


    Its getting worse, she confessed finally. I thought I thought I had it under control. I <em>do</em> have it under control, but it keeps getting worse. Eventually eventually.


    They both knew what would happen eventually. Some people settled into the Golden District and lived happily for thirty, forty years. Some, even longer than that. Fifty. Sixty. Eventually, everyone cracked.


    You remember Magnin and Beory? MacRielly asked.


    Feolin leaned back in her chair, sighing. How could I forget? she replied. Beory Sterm was my hero.


    Just before we retired, back at Dustwatch, I spoke to Magnin when they came in. You remember? I asked him if he was ever going to take the stipend ande to Kenmor. If he was really going to keep fighting for the rest of his life.


    MacRiellyughed and shook his head, remembering the expression on the legendary swordsmans face.


    He looked at me like Id just asked him when he was nning to cut his cock off and eat it. Never he told me, and I just remember thinking that the man was crazy. A hero, a legend, but crazy all the same. But you know what? He was looking at me exactly the same way. He thought we were mad. All of us Silvers who promoted and took the golden ticket, every one of us. He thought we were barking mad.


    Feolin nodded slowly.


    Brole was right, wasnt he? she asked, her voice quiet and trembling. We should have stayed out. Stayed Silver.


    Its difficult to say, MacRielly grimaced. Brole is fucking dead, impaled on the end of a Driftbeasts de. We cant exactly ask him if it was worth it.


    He died fighting, she pointed out. He died protecting people while we sit here, slowly fading into nothing. Slowly suffocating in this cage.


    The birdcage. yers had always called it the birdcage. The bronzesughed about it, treated it as a joke. The Silvers yearned for it, hoping against hope they would survive the ughter until they could leap into the cage and m the door shut behind them. Hoping it would keep the monsters out.


    The Golds, the ones living inside it, gradually realised what it was for, and they <em>hated</em> it.


    Well, for the first time in a long time, I might actually have some good news for you, Fee. MacRielly said, a little hesitantly.


    The brown-haired mages eyes shed to him in an instant. The mere mention of something positive had the me burning in her again. He could practically feel the heat rolling off her.


    He held up his hands. Dont get too excited. Its only a rumour, at this point. I havent just been drinking and fulfilling my duties while down the street of sin, you know? I keep my ear to the ground. Ive been visiting the Scarlet Pavilion this week, and Ive heard a few things. Theres a lot of movement in the provincetely. Youve heard about the purge thats happening?


    Of course, Feolin rolled her eyes. Im not deaf, dumb and blind. Everyone is talking about it.


    Well apparently, theyre losing more yers to the purge than they expected. Numbers are getting thin out there. If things keep going like they are, theyre going to get <em>real</em> fucking thin.


    The diminutive mage stood in a rush, eyes growing wide. MacRielly grinned.


    Yes, he confirmed. Its only a whisper right now, but theres talk. They might let us out!

 Chapter B4C8 - Teach the Teacher

    Chapter B4C8 - Teach the Teacher


    Im impressed, Tyron noted, nodding with satisfaction. Each of you has managed to learn the ritual and reach level two. This is where the real work can finally begin.


    The three young Necromancers exchanged excited nces, pleased that he was pleased. After returning from beyond the rift, the Sterm scion had thrown himself into private study for a few days, then emerged without warning and resumed lessons.


    Im happy to see that Feat worked out well for you, Georg. Your hands are noticeably more dextrous. Have you found its helped?


    The former farmhand nodded, holding his hands up and gazing down at them.


    Its helped a lot more than I thought it would, he admitted. Feel like they actually listen to me now.


    Good. I was a little reluctant to hand out build advice to people. Its not as if I have a text I can study to point out the best ways to be a Necromancer. Im figuring it out as I go, and so will you.


    The four of them sat around the crackling fire outside of Tyrons cave. The sun was still high overhead, though it offered little warmth at this time of year, and each of them was eager to progress, having ovee the first hurdle that had been set before them.


    Briss could hardly believe that each of them had managed it. Learning how to cast magick had seemed impossible to her only weeks ago. After receiving the training that Tyron had offered, all three of the students had thrown themselves into study. It was all they did each day. They rose, practised magick until they couldnt any more, then went to sleep. The words and phrases, which had seemed so alien, began to feel even a little natural on their tongues. The hand gestures and sigils, so difficult, so demanding, had caused each of them to experience cramps and spasms through their fingers, Georg in particr.


    Before we move onto the next, perhaps most important topic, I want to provide some honest feedback for you, to help improve your magick fundamentals.


    Georg, Briss and Richard exchanged nces. They were impatient for new knowledge, but had each opted to learn the basics from their teacher while he was avable. The training was demanding, but it was necessary. They were proud of how far they hade.


    Tyron looked up at the tree-line, mulling over his words.


    Im painfully aware that youve only been practising magick for a matter of weeks. So let me preface my words with some praise. Youve done well. The level of dedication youve shown has been eptable.


    Richards eyes widened a little before he caught himself. <em>eptable</em>? They did nothing but practice magick and sleep! What more could they do?


    However all of you are still terrible, Tyron said tly. If the ritual I constructed for you wasnt as stable as it was, each of you would still have failed. If youd attempted to cast the <em>actual</em> Raise Dead spell, you would all be dead. Your breath control is poor. Your lung capacity iscking. The way you transition from one gesture to the next is its <em>dreadful</em>.


    <em>He cant even find the words,</em> Briss thought to herself, heart sinking.


    The cadence is <em>barely</em> within the limits of tolerance. That has to sharpen up if you want to be a proper mage. How many times have I told you that rhythm is exceptionally important when casting any type of spell? To properly utilise magick, you must be as reliable as a metronome. He smacked one hand into the other to form a solid beat. Every. Time. Perfect. He let his hands fall.


    To be honest, its dangerous for you to start progressing this quickly when you are still so poor. You arent capable of raising a battle-ready undead at this point, but Im hoping the attributes you received from the Unseen will be enough to help push you forward a little and elerate your progress.


    All three of the students were hanging their heads at this point. Of course, they knew as much without being told, but it was difficult to hear it stated so bluntly.


    Tyron looked at them without pity. It was true, they <em>were</em> awful, and if they got a false sense of confidence now, after experiencing even a tiny amount of sess, they would surely fail soon down the line.


    Dont think Im just trying to burst your confidence so you dont get a big head, he warned them, because you are <em>dangerously</em> ipetent. Do not attempt to cast any ritual magick without my supervision. Youll die. Now, with that out of the way, lets talk about advancement.


    After having their egos crushed, the young folk were still able to perk their heads up. Having performed the status ritual not long ago and made their choices, the heady rush of progression was still very much on their minds.


    I know we talked fairly extensively about the choice you need to make at the second level, Tyron stated. Bone Stitching or Flesh Mending. One to unlock the ability to make skeletons, the other to freshen up corpses, basically, make them more suitable to create zombies. As I told you, I went down the skeleton route, but that doesnt mean you have to. Now, tell me, what did you all pick?


    Georg spoke up first, as he usually did. He wasnt as shy as the other two.


    Flesh Mending, he said.


    Tyron nodded slowly.


    Any particr reason? he asked.


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    The former farmhand lifted his fingers and wiggled them wryly. They might be a lot better than they were before, but Im not sure my fingers would be quick enough to do that stitching you showed us. I figured going with a more straightforward type of undead would be a safer bet.


    Well, Im d that at least one of you picked it. Now you have an ability I dont and we can take some notes on it. Im especially curious to see what sort of ss advancements will be offered to a zombie specialist, since Ive never seen them. What about you, Richard? Briss?


    Bone Stitching for me, Briss spoke quickly.


    For me as well, Richard confirmed.


    Very good. Well, well need to split up the lessons a little between the three of you now. You two will need to work on your stitching technique, while Georg will need to find some dead flesh he can mend. Getting a handle on these fundamental abilities will be key to creating your first minion. The better your stitching, the better the skeleton can move and fight. The same goes for a zombie. The better a job you do getting their muscles and tendons back together, the more mobile your minion will be.


    The most fundamental building blocks of the ss, creating functional undead. There was so much for him to teach them, Tyron almost didnt know where to start. He drummed his fingers on his knees for a time as he thought, the three students waiting patiently for him to speak.


    Ill have a corpse brought up here, Georg, so you can practise. Fortunately, I dont believe it needs to be human for you to train your new ability, even if you wont be able to raise it as an undead. My ghosts have spotted a few dead deer out there, mostly frozen over, that you can work on.


    Richard looked a little green at the thought, but Georg simply nodded. Working with and around dead animals was daily life as far as he was concerned. Hed worked on a cattle farm.


    Richard and Briss, you can start immediately working on your threading. Tyron raised a hand, palm down, and spread his fingers. After a moment, threads of magick extended from the tips of each digit hanging down, unmoving in the slight breeze. These are the threads youre going to work with. You should have a basic understanding of how to manifest them now, right?


    The two newly Awakened nodded before they too held out their hands and concentrated. It took Briss a minute before she was able to create the threads, Richard slightly behind her.


    Just another thing that you have to practise, Tyron said. When you manifest the thread, its important that your concentration doesnt waver. If they flicker out of existence halfway through working on a joint, you are going to be filled with regret, since youll have to start over. Its also important that the thickness is consistent. If some fibres are thicker and stronger than others, then it wont function right, whether it''s sinew or muscle youre imitating.


    He looked at his own threads.


    I made this as thick as I could so it would be easier to see, but Im honestly a little stuck when ites to threading.


    It was difficult for Richard to imagine that Tyron Sterm would struggle with anything magick-rted; it all seemed toe so naturally to the man that it was unfair. What could someone this proficient possibly be struggling with?


    Whats the difficulty? he asked, curiosity oveing his instinct to remain silent.


    Tyron frowned, but not at the student. His ire was focused on the threads. He lowered his hands with a sigh.


    I dont mind sharing. Half the point of teaching you is to get an outside perspective on Necromancy. The issue is simple. Eventually, you will reach a point where you will turn increasingly powerful levelled individuals into minions. Some types of Undead can retain the abilities, or at least some of them, that they possessed in life. So if you happened to get your hands on a dead yer


    Richards eyes widened. That would be a powerful undead indeed.


    The <em>issue</em>, Tyron grumbled, is that the threads are not strong enough. He held up his hand and the thin lines of magick formed once more, dangling down from each finger. When creating a skeleton, this thread takes the ce of the sinew and muscle, allowing the bones to move. However, the thread isnt as strong as a high levelled person''s body. You may not ever run into this problem, Georg, given youll be using the original materials rather than recing them. When this new undead attempts to use the abilities they could use in life, the threads may not be able to take the strain and begin to degrade, or even snap.


    Once again he let his hand fall, frustration written inly on his face.


    This is a key milestone I need to ovee to create the highest tiers of skeletal undead. Ive tried thickening the thread, adjusting my weaves everything I can think of, but so far, nothing has worked.


    Richard and Briss stared nkly ahead. The thought of turning a high levelled yer into a skeleton was shocking enough to them that the rest hadnt really registered, but Georg merely shrugged.


    Have you tried weaving the threads together? he said.


    Tyron blinked, then scowled.


    What do you mean? How do you weave the threads together? For what purpose?


    Now the other two students turned to face him as if he were crazy, offering advice to this expert, but Georg continued doggedly.


    Like we do when we make rope. You never made any rope before? You take a whole bunch of long, thin fibres, and then we weave em together to make something stronger.


    The gears visibly turned in Tyrons head as he tried to visualise what he was being told. Rope? No, hed never given a moments thought to the construction of <em>rope</em>.


    What do you make rope out of? he asked intently.


    A little ufortable with all the attention, Georg shrugged.


    Straw, mostly. Or hemp. As long as it grows long and stringy you can make pretty decent rope out of it.


    Would that even work? How thick could the threads that bound a skeleton together be before they were no longer practical? Tyron had seen the ropes used to tie ships to the dock in Foxbridge, some of them as thick as his wrist. Obviously, that was far toorge, but perhaps something thinner would work? If he was able to double the strength of the threads with less than a threefold increase in thickness then it could possibly suit his needs. Growing more and more interested, the atmosphere around him began to change.


    As the subject of his attention, Georg saw the worst of it. The intensity that was always present in their teacher became almost manic. His breath came a beat too quickly.


    You need to exin to me how you make rope. Now, Tyron demanded.


    Uh. Its it can be a theres a few steps Georg muttered, wracking his brain to recall exactly how it was done. His grandfather had been the one to show him, but that had been years ago. Whenever rope needed making, hed just done what he was told. You need to braid the fibres. Theres an a pattern.


    There was also a heck of a lot of preparation involved to get the straw in the right condition to turn into rope. It wasnt like you could just yank some reeds out of the ground and make a rope out of them.


    Tyron stood, stalked forward, and pped a hand down on Georgs shoulder.


    Show me.

 Chapter B4C9 - What It Takes

    Chapter B4C9 - What It Takes


    Richard staggered out of the cave and into the light, blinking owlishly. It took a few seconds for his brain to register the re of the light stabbing his brain. He closed his eyes and flinched back awkwardly, almost stumbling over his own feet. How long had it been since he¡¯d slept? Since he¡¯d been <em>allowed</em> to sleep?


    ¡°Hurry up and piss!¡± Tyron snapped from within the cave. ¡°You¡¯ve got more work to do on your threading!¡±


    At the sound of the Necromancer¡¯s voice, the young man flinched, then slumped in despair. With slow, staggered steps, he began to make his way into the woods so he could find a likely tree. Leaning against the wood as he did his business, he felt as if he might have dozed off for a second. He was so exhausted, he could have fallen face first into an ants nest and slept soundly as they repeatedly stung his face. He¡¯d never known fatigue like this before, or anything remotely close.


    His thoughts moved though bogged down in msses. Slowly. Each thought struggled to connect to the next. It took him several moments to recall that he was supposed to return to the cave and continue practising. In that moment, he almost wept.


    It took all of his willpower, but Richard mastered himself and began the slow walk back to the cave. As long as he kept going, it would end. All he had to do was keep working, and eventually the nightmare would stop and he would atst be allowed to sleep.


    ¡°Is that¡­ Richard? Are you still up here?¡±


    A voice called out to him, and Richard, for a moment, wondered if he¡¯d begun to hallucinate. Was there really another person here? Someonee to rescue them from their relentless teacher? He turned his head and saw that yes indeed, someone <em>was</em> there, the blonde priestess who he¡¯d met shortly after the Awakening.


    ¡°Uh. El¡­ Elsbeth?¡± he mumbled.


    ¡°That¡¯s me,¡± she smiled, walking up to him. As she drew closer, her expression began to shift from bright and warm, to show increasing concern. Once she reached his side, she was clearly worried, extending a hand to grab him by the arm.¡°Are you alright, Richard? You look dreadful! Look at your eyes, they¡¯re practically red! When was thest time you slept?¡±


    When <em>was</em> thest time he¡¯d slept? He wasn¡¯t sure. He tried to count the number of times it had been dark outside since they¡¯d started working on threading, but couldn¡¯t quite trust he had the numbers right.


    ¡°Three¡­ I think¡­ I think it¡¯s been three days?¡± he said, not sounding confident at all.


    ¡°Three days!¡± Elsbeth gasped. ¡°That¡¯s dreadful. I know your Constitution gains can help you endure ack of sleep, but this is ridiculous. You could only have levelled once or twice. Don¡¯t fall into bad habits this early into your life as an Awakened.¡±


    She continued to lecture him while Richard¡¯s fuzzy brain tried to work out why she could possibly imagine any of this was <em>his</em> idea. Elsbeth held onto his arm and guided him towards a seat, speaking all the while. When she eventually asked him a question, Richard had no idea what it was, he could finally get a thought out.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t <em>want</em> to be up this long,¡± he said.


    A momentter, he realised those words could possibly constitute a kind of betrayal by his teacher. He opened his mouth to try and correct himself, but closed it again when he realised that Elsbeth was no longer in front of him. Where had she gone? Was it some kind of magick?!


    ¡°TYRON!¡± she bellowed from behind him, causing the young man to jump in his seat.


    What confronted Elsbeth inside the cave was equal partsedy and tragedy. Tyron sat at the head of the table, feverishly scrawling into his notes, eyes half bulging from his head, while at the same time performing a one-handed weave using magick threads with his free hand. As if that weren¡¯t enough, he somehow <em>also</em> had the capacity to rant at the two students who sat at the table with him, each hollow-eyed and sluggish, slowly working their hands as they practised some form of magick or another.


    At her shout, Tyron cut off immediately, turning a baleful re on her, whereas it took the students a couple of seconds to register her presence.


    ¡°What are you doing interrupting my teaching, Elsbeth?¡± Tyron snapped. ¡°We were just starting to get somewhere.¡±


    She looked from him to the near-corpses that were his students, then back to him.


    ¡°Are you out of your mind, Tyron?! They¡¯re so exhausted they can barely move! Look at them! No, <em>really </em>look at them!¡±


    At first, Tyron had flicked them a dismissive nce and looked away, but at her demand, he actually took a second to properly assess them. Then, he squinted a little.


    ¡°Oh,¡± he said, sounding surprised.


    ¡°Is that <em>really</em> all you have to say?¡± Elsbeth said acidly. ¡°You¡¯ve worked them into a stupor. They¡¯ll be lucky if they remember <em>anything</em> from thest day. Three days without sleep? What in the name of the Dark Ones were you thinking?¡±


    ¡°<em>Three</em> days?¡± Tyron blinked, visibly confused. ¡°Hasn¡¯t it been four?¡±


    ¡°What?!¡±


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the vition.


    After more shouting and hollering, Georg and Briss were eventually ejected from the cave, emerging into the sunlight to join Richard, who sat awkwardly nearby while the Priestess continued to scold the Necromancer inside.


    ¡°How dare you treat them like this?¡±


    Something unintelligible.


    ¡°People need sleep!¡±


    More muttering.


    ¡°No, you are <em>not</em> normal!¡±


    It would go on like this for some time before a dishevelled-looking Tyron walked out of the cave. He appeared somewhat irritated, though there may have been an element of embarrassment underneath. With one hand scratching his cheek, he addressed the three students somewhat sheepishly.


    ¡°Uh¡­ Apparently¡­ I¡¯ve been working you too hard?¡± He sounded a little doubtful.


    ¡°You <em>have</em>,¡± Elsbeth insisted, emerging from the cave with her arms crossed across her chest, ring.


    ¡°Fine. Go back to town and get some sleep. I¡¯ll call on you again in a few days. Don¡¯t forget to practise.¡±


    It took a moment for the three students to realise what had taken ce. As soon as they realised they were finally free, they reacted with strong emotions. Georg slumped over, uttering a prayer to the Three. Richard simply fell over and began to crawl/roll down the mountain. Briss silently wept.


    Tyron shifted ufortably.


    Perhaps, now, he could see that he had gotten carried away and pushed the young people too far. With the help of some skeletons, he managed to get the three of them home while Elsbeth watched him disapprovingly.


    ¡°I said I was sorry,¡± he grumbled.


    ¡°That¡¯s not good enough and you know it,¡± she sniffed. ¡°I thought you were finally starting to take care of yourself, but not only do I find you slipping back into your worst habits, I find you forcing them onto others who are not equipped to deal with it like you are! Honestly, Tyron. What was going to happen if I didn¡¯t intervene? Would they have just worked until they literally copsed?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t say anything!¡± Tyron defended himself, a littlemely. ¡°I would¡¯ve thought they would mention it if they were being pushed beyond their limits.¡±


    Elsbeth scowled.


    ¡°I notice you said ¡®<em>would¡¯ve</em>¡¯ thought. You didn¡¯t <em>actually</em> think about it, did you? Not even once.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t. Caught up in the work, he¡¯d paid little mind to his students save that they were practising, or helping him work on his new threading technique. Especially at first, it was easier to use the methods Georg had recalled with more than one person, which had led to a whole new area of study which was weaving with more than one Necromancer¡¯s threads at the same time. There had been a few revtionse out of <em>that</em> exercise, each of which had pushed his understanding of this new weaving technique further.


    ¡°I got a little carried away,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°A <em>little</em>?¡±


    ¡°Yes, a little. This might seem absurd to them, but I¡¯ve done this sort of thing all the time. Going a week without sleep isn¡¯t that a big a deal for an Awakened.¡±


    ¡°For someone like <em>you</em>, with a level over forty, sure. They¡¯re level TWO!¡±


    ¡°Alright! I get it! I¡¯ll be more careful in future.¡± Tyron felt his temper ring and worked to tamp it down before he turned back to Elsbeth, the only one of his childhoodpanions who wasn¡¯t an undead in his service. ¡°What did youe up here for, Elsbeth? Is there a problem?¡±


    She shot him a look to let him know she wasn¡¯t done arguing with him, but moved on for the sake of furthering the conversation.


    ¡°I came up here for a few reasons. One, to check on you and your students.¡±


    Another re.


    ¡°And to see if the yers had been up to meet you yet. I know they wanted to see you after you returned, but I have no idea why.¡±


    Tyron grunted. The local yers were more of a pain than they were a help, but that would change if they were willing tomit to the fight against the Magisters. If they did, he would have a reason to invest in them, even if they only paid lip service to start with. It wouldn¡¯t take much to turn them into traitors in the eyes of those in charge of the purge. In fact, they likely already were, given the number of ¡®heretics¡¯ out here in Cragwhistle. When they eventually reached this ce, the Magisters and priests would burn the whole city to the ground and kill everyone here, without exception.


    The only chance they had was a general uprising. If it also helped him achieve his goals, Tyron was willing to y along and help foment such a rebellion.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t spoken to them since I returned,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve been¡­ busy.¡±


    ¡°So I see,¡± Elsbeth stated tartly.


    ¡°I¡¯ve made a major breakthrough, Elsbeth! Georg told me about rope making and, although a lot of the methods involved can¡¯t be directly applied, the fundamental principles still apply to bone weaving. With some further refinement, I believe I¡¯ll be able to strengthen the sinews of my skeletons by as much as half!


    ¡°With some time and practice, I should be able to <empletely </em>restructure my weaving methods to work with the thicker strands and produce Revenants capable of utilising their full range of abilities! Do you know what that means?¡±


    Getting swept up in the moment, Tyron¡¯s eyes were gleaming with manic light. Elsbeth simply nodded.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s nice, I suppose,¡± she said.


    ¡°Nice?¡± Tyron said, spinning to face her. ¡°Beth, this is a huge step forward in the field of Necromancy! This could unlock all sorts of possibilities!¡±


    ¡°Just keep in mind that your students can¡¯t help you if you kill them, or scare them off.¡±


    Well, that was a good point.


    ¡°Now are you going to sleep?¡± she asked him pointedly. ¡°You''ve been working for what, four, five days? Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s time for some rest?¡±


    This wasn¡¯t what he wanted to hear. The Necromancer¡¯s mind reeled with all of the things he wanted to do. Further development of the ¡®rope thread¡¯ method was <em>critical</em>. Getting the greatest improvement in strength for the smallest increase in width was an inexact science, and he had several different weaves to try. Then there were the many, multi-faceted <em>applications </em>of the ¡®rope thread.¡¯ How to best form tougher, stronger muscture? How to shape and forge more durable joints? Which joints would benefit the most? Fingers would probably need to still be made of the thinnest, finest threads, but shoulders, hips, knees and ankles could all do with being able to handle a higher load.


    And to determine the best course of action, experimentation was required! Exhaustive, repetitive experimentation! He had to get skeletons onto the Altar and re-weave their threads. Perhaps ten at a time, to have a good-sized group with each different thread configuration. His weaving Skill was going to be maxed out in no time at this rate.


    ¡°Tyron?¡± Elsbeth pointedly interrupted his thoughts.


    He rolled back his head and groaned.


    ¡°Fine! You¡¯re right, I know you¡¯re right. I¡¯ll eat and sleep and all of that nonsense.¡±


    She¡¯d convinced him it was necessary back in Kenmor, that resting was more efficient, since his work got worse and worse the less he slept, and that argument still held true. Despite being able to endure more privation than ever before, after five days of consecutive work, he was getting worn down. It was time to rest.


    Though she wasn¡¯t pleased to hear the necessity of sleep and food be described as ¡®all that nonsense¡¯, Elsbeth still nodded in satisfaction.


    ¡°Good. Don¡¯t forget to wash yourself also. And probably change your clothes while you¡¯re at it.¡±


    It was difficult not to roll his eyes. Here he was trying to further the advancement of a totally undeveloped field of magick,rgely by himself, and he was getting henpecked about his <em>clothing</em>.


    ¡°Alright, Elsbeth. Will there be anything else?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s fine. I¡¯lle back and speak to you tomorrow.¡±

 Chapter B4C10 - Rumours of War

    Chapter B4C10 - Rumours of War


    As much as he hated to admit it, Tyron <em>did</em> feel better. He disliked being <em>mothered</em> by Elsbeth; it was something Beory had never really done for him when he was growing up. If he associated anyone in his life with the kind of fussing and care that he considered the unique domain of mothers, it would be his aunt, Meg. She was the one who¡¯d cared for him when he was sick, forced him to eat when she thought he was wasting away, and demanded he sleep when she found he¡¯d been up for too long.


    The image of his aunt, a plump, brown-haired woman with a warm smile and a big heart shed into his mind, and Tyron sighed. It didn¡¯t feel right, to leave Meg and Worthy thinking that he was dead, but at the same time, he didn¡¯t see what he could do about it.


    Tell them he was still alive? To what end? His Uncle may well still be strong enough to force him to abandon his revenge, sitting on top of him and preventing him from performing Necromancy. Worthy was a Silver Ranked yer when he retired, a hammerman of some renown, with years of experience on the frontlines. If he decided he wanted Tyron to give up on revenge, then what would have to be done to stop him?


    Tyron was <em>absolutely</em> unwilling to fight his own uncle, risking killing him, when he didn¡¯t have to.


    Better to leave them in ignorance for now. When he was a little stronger, Worthy wouldn¡¯t be able to stop him anymore, and it would be safe to bring them into the fold.


    Thinking along these lines left a sour taste in the young Mage¡¯s mouth. He resolved to take better care of himself, to prevent Elsbeth from having to intervene in this manner again. Sleeping every third night seemed perfectly sustainable in his eyes, so that would be the schedule he stuck to.


    He just wouldn¡¯t force the same habits onto his students. Getting carried away like that in front of them was frankly a touch embarrassing, and he hoped he hadn¡¯t scared them offpletely. Not in his wildest dreams did he imagine working with new Necromancers could pay off so spectacrly and so quickly.


    Ropes. <em>Ropes</em>. It made perfect sense when he thought about it. In fact, it was so obvious he felt idiotic for never considering it before. He¡¯d spent so much time trying to modify the thread as he produced it,ing out of his fingertips, that he¡¯d never even bothered to consider doing something with it <em>afterwards</em>.


    Refreshed and ready to work, he felt that bubbling mania rising within him as he took swift steps toward the table in his cave. His eyes greedilynded upon the notes left there the previous day. Yes, <em>yes</em>. There was so much to do, so many ideas buzzing around in his mind! This would be another great leap forward in his mastery of the undead, a massive qualitative step that would push his revenants to new heights. Even if it didn¡¯t mean much for the minions he had <em>now</em>, there were only a few who were capable of damaging their current stitching when exercising their abilities, it would change everything for the skeletons he would create in the <em>future</em>. It was only a matter of time until he got his hands on a Silver ranked set of remains, and when he did, he wanted to be ready.


    Before then, he needed to push, to learn how to make Wights, and create the finest undead it was possible to make. And this technique in front of him would help unlock the firstyer, all he needed was a little time to focus.


    ¡°Hey, Tyron! Are you in there?¡±


    Just as he was preparing to immerse himself back in his studies, a voice, like jagged nails down a chalkboard, dragged him away, shattering the gathering momentum of his thoughts. It set his teeth on edge.


    Snarling at the interruption, Tyron stalked toward the entrance to his cave and tore it aside.


    ¡°What?¡± he demanded, knowing the irritation was written all over his face, and not caring one whit about it.


    Outside, he found an unexpected gathering. Samantha Dous, leader of the Stafire yer team, Drenen Ebert, leader of the Hooligans, along with Brigette, the scowling blonde swordswoman he worked with, and another person, a stranger. Taken unawares, Tyron felt a little defensive around these yers. He hadn¡¯t expected to see four of them, he presumed the stranger was also a yer, show up on his doorstep.


    With a few silentmands, he ordered his skeletons to draw closer. The guard he always kept nearby formed up around him, shields and swords at the ready. He didn¡¯t mind if they thought he looked weak; he would rather be safe than thought of as impressive.


    ¡°Drenan? What¡¯s going on here?¡± he asked, his tone clipped.


    The only people able to hurt him on this mountain were the yers, and he didn¡¯t appreciate being approachd by a group of them. Silently, he had his ghosts start to sweep the woods around the cave, seeking any who were hidden. Drenan held up his hands in peace.


    ¡°No need to worry, just came up to talk. This here,¡± he gestured toward the neer, a middle-aged man with silver hair and numerous scars on his face, ¡°is Brom. He arrived yesterday, from Woodsedge.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you, Tyron,¡± the neer said, his voice low and gravelly. ¡°I worked with your parents a few times, heard a fair bit about you. d I can finally put a face to the name.¡±


    Tyron raised a brow.


    ¡°You worked with Magnin and Beory? As a Silver?¡±


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    Brom chuckled.


    ¡°I¡¯m a scout, and your old man couldn¡¯t be bothered to do it, so they brought me through the rift with them. Twice I¡¯ve been to the other side with them. Once at Woodsedge, once at ckrift.¡±


    That did sound like Magnin. Due to his sheer physical prowess, he could do most things himself, including scouting. He had extremely sharp senses, unbelievable speed and reflexes, and knew how to move quietly when he wanted to. Was he as good as a dedicated scout ss? No. He couldn¡¯t be next to invisible in a shadow, or see around obstacles like they could, but so overwhelming was he in every other respect, it almost didn¡¯t matter.


    Not to say he <em>liked</em> doing it. Magnin liked to fight, not skulk around, find a target, leave it alone and return to the group. Whenever they could find someone else to do the job for them, his parents were more than happy to hire them on. Problem was, they had a difficult time meeting people who were up to their standard. Whoever this Brom was, he must be good.


    ¡°You were lucky to see them fight up close,¡± Tyron mused. ¡°Not many got the chance.¡±


    ¡°They were incredible,¡± Brom agreed heavily. ¡°This realm is much worse for their loss. Such senseless waste.¡±


    Drenan spoke up, wanting to exin what they were doing here.


    ¡°Brom brought some news from up North. He¡¯s on his way down to Skyice once he¡¯s done here, and thought you¡¯d be interested to hear what he has to say before he leaves.¡±


    This was interesting. Whatever it was must be good.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard there were some rumblings up at Woodsedge. I was nning to go there myself,¡± Tyron said. ¡°Brom the Silver yer, I¡¯m going to assume you came to tell us those rumblings were more than a passing shake?¡±


    The grizzled man rubbed at the stubble on his chin as he eyed the Necromancer.


    ¡°Well, you aren¡¯t wrong about that. First of all, I¡¯m not a Silver yer, not anymore,¡± he grinned, wolfishly. ¡°I¡¯m Gold, as ofst week.¡±


    Gold. An unsanctioned promotion. That could only mean one thing.


    ¡°Rebellion,¡± Tyron stated, his tone t.


    Silvers who were close to reaching level sixty were monitored like hawks. Every time they left a keep to fight at the rifts, it was monitored, and when they got back, they were checked. yers who refused to promote, who remained in the high fifties and simply never performed the status ritual, were watched even more carefully. To promote to Gold and slip through the Magisters¡¯ was¡­ unthinkable. He must have done it in the keep, right before the fighting started.


    ¡°Aye,¡± Brom confirmed. ¡°There¡¯s no Magisters alive in Woodsedge to speak of.¡±


    ¡°What about the yers who didn¡¯t want to fight?¡± Tyron asked.


    The man looked down at his worn boots for a moment.


    ¡°There¡¯s none of them either,¡± he said quietly.


    Fight or die. A yer who wasn¡¯t with you, was against you, whether they liked it or not. They could bepelled by the brand to do almost anything.


    ¡°What about your brands?¡± Tyron asked pointedly. ¡°How were you able to fight at all?¡±


    Almost without thinking, Brom reached a hand up to his left shoulder and rubbed at it. yers didn¡¯t get to choose where it was applied, as that decision was left to the whims of the Magister performing the ritual. Often it was on the neck, though most yers hated it being visible. Due to that fact, most were on the chest or back of the shoulder.


    ¡°You probably know this already, but every time you advance, they have to reapply the thing, strengthen it. The version they use on bronze folk isn¡¯t as effective on silver. A few vets like me got together and nned everything out. We advanced together, then we did what we had to do.¡±


    Tyron winced. Less effective or not, that would have hurt like hell.


    ¡°Have you started to train up some unbranded fighters? It¡¯s only a matter of time until they realise what you¡¯ve done. They can trigger the pain remotely whenever they please,¡± he warned.


    Brom nodded grimly.


    ¡°Oh, we¡¯re well aware. There were six of us, and we¡¯ve spread out, trying to get word to as many of the keeps as possible before the curse takes us. Fucking pricks.¡± He leaned over and spat on the ground. ¡°They¡¯ll get around to me eventually, but so far they seem upied with other things.¡±


    The purge, Tyron realised. Of course the Magisters were busy, they¡¯d been pushed out of the tower in unprecedented numbers, sweeping across the province. Rounding up heretics, hunting for rogues alongside the priests and marshalls. Maybe it was helping to suppress rebellious yers close to the capital, but this far out, Magisters were few and far between.


    ¡°You might have more time than you think,¡± Tyron mused, before exining his thoughts.


    ¡°Well, I hope you¡¯re right. If you¡¯ll excuse me, I¡¯m going to get going. I¡¯ve got a long run ahead of me, and I don¡¯t want to dy any further.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Brom,¡± Drenan said, shaking the man''s hand as he turned to leave.


    ¡°Don¡¯t thank me,¡± the grizzled scout scoffed. ¡°Fight with me. You don¡¯t have long to make a choice.¡±


    With that, he set off at a jog, keeping his feet with uncanny precision and bnce as he moved far too quickly down the slope. That left Tyron and the local yers standing around outside his cave in the frigid air.


    ¡°Well, now you¡¯ve heard from someone that isn¡¯t me,¡± Tyron said. ¡°I hope that speeds up your decision.¡±


    Drenan scowled, but Samantha was more measured.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t an easy decision to make. My girls are so young, just starting out as yers. They don¡¯t want to risk their lives in a desperate fight against the Magisters.¡±


    Tyron wasn¡¯t sympathetic.


    ¡°What we want, or don¡¯t want, doesn¡¯t apply in the current circumstances. Or do you think my parents <em>wanted</em> to be tortured to the brink of death before they killed themselves?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Samantha replied quickly. ¡°No I don¡¯t think that.¡±


    ¡°So, let¡¯s not talk about what we <em>want</em>, let¡¯s talk about what <em>is</em>. The Magisters areing. The Priests and Marshalls areing. There are soldiers from the Noble housesing with them. Every yer on this mountain is going to be killed when they get here. The only question you need to ask your team members, is are they going to cut their own throats now, or are they going to fight?¡±


    Brigette, watching from behind Drenan finally spoke up.


    ¡°How can you say that? Where is your pity?¡±


    Tyron looked at her as if she were mad.


    ¡°My pity, my mercy and my sympathy, all died along with Magnin and Beory.¡±


    He turned and walked back towards his cave.


    ¡°Besides, you heard Brom. If you don¡¯t fight, the other yers will kill you themselves.¡±

 Chapter B4C11 - Advanced Undead

    Chapter B4C11 - Advanced Undead


    It took Tyron longer to implement his new methods than he expected. Devising a functioning framework that utilised the newer, thicker threads was multiple times more difficult than the usual thin ones. Even before reaching that point, he¡¯d needed to test and evaluate half a dozen different varieties of ¡®rope¡¯ before he settled on a solution.


    Most frustrating of all was that there wasn¡¯t a clear winner out of his test versions. Some were stronger, some more flexible, some a little thinner, some a little thicker, each with their own unique strengths and weaknesses. Tyron eventually decided that different types of ¡®rope¡¯ would be better for different jobs. Some joints needed more flex, some needed to be more durable, and others needed to tolerate as much power as could be put into it.


    When, after much experimentation, he was finally able to settle on aplete design, it utilised five different varieties of ¡®rope¡¯, along with the original, unmodified threads for the most delicate sections. Theplexity was obviously many times greater than the threading process he¡¯d performed earlier, and took more than twice as long to implement, but for the results he was looking for, this kind of effort was expected.


    ¡°What do you think? This is as good as I can make it right now.¡±


    The skeleton in front of him turned left and right, flexing and shifting its weight from side to side. In one smooth movement, it brought up its bow and pulled back the draw, released it, then repeated the motion.


    ¡°It¡¯s good. Much smoother than before. It feels a lot more natural, closer to how I remember my own body feeling.¡±


    Tyron grunted.


    ¡°Well, those are your bones, but I take the point.¡±


    For several long moments, the skeleton didn¡¯t speak, and he knew why. It wasn¡¯t possible for his revenants to even <em>think</em> of hurting him, even if they really wanted to. As a result, their own minds wouldn¡¯t obey them, going nk if their thoughts turned to defiance. This was far from the first time this had happened.


    <em>Need to stop reminding her that she¡¯s dead</em>.<em> And why she¡¯s dead.</em>


    ¡°Thanks for helping me out with this. I appreciate it.¡±


    The skeleton turned towards him, one hand resting on a hip in a familiar pose.


    ¡°You¡¯re <em>thanking</em> me?¡± Laurel groaned. ¡°I don¡¯t want thanks, Tyron.¡±


    ¡°What do you want then?¡±


    ¡°I want to be dead.¡±


    ¡°I figured.¡±


    Of course she did, life as an undead wasn¡¯t supposed to be pleasant. The more he learned about the afterlife, though, the less Tyron thought it was an improvement. Speaking to Filetta about wandering souls, drifting purposelessly through a hazy fond, didn¡¯t fill him with great expectations for his own life after death. One thing he was <em>reasonably</em> certain of, though, was that it ended.


    Service to a Necromancer wouldn¡¯t end, not until he died.


    ¡°I¡¯ll think about letting you die when I¡¯ve achieved my aims,¡± he told the skeleton.


    ¡°And what are you aiming for, Tyron?¡±


    Her voice emanated from within the skull, without her jaw moving. It was another eerie aspect to speaking with the dead that unnerved his students fiercely. He himself was perfectly used to it.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to kill the Magisters, overthrow the red tower, and bring down the rulers of the province,¡± he replied.


    Of course, his ambitions stretched even further than that. Those responsible for the deaths of Beory and Magnin werergely confined to the Western Province, but they were merely agents. He wouldn¡¯t be satisfied until the Five Divines themselves were forced to answer for his grief. How he could achieve that, he had no idea. For now, he kept that idea to himself. He would only beughed at were he to say it out loud.


    As it was, Laurel acted just as expected, her bony shoulders rising and falling with mirth.


    ¡°Well, I guess it won¡¯t matter if you¡¯re going to let me go or not, since¡­¡±


    She trailed off, unable to finish her thought.


    <em>Since I¡¯ll get myself killed anyway.</em>


    Even if he won, and defeated the Magisters, killed the duke and murdered the other members of the noble houses, what then? When the wrath of the Emperor was stirred against him, and the troops poured out of the Central Province, what was he going to do then? It was basically a death sentence.


    He had a few thoughts, but it would take time to develop those into proper ns. Time he severelycked.


    ¡°Since you¡¯re done being so talkative, I don¡¯t see any reason to let you speak any more.¡±


    Immediately contrite, the skeleton backed away from him, it¡¯s hands up.


    ¡°No, Tyron, there is no need for that. It¡¯s fine, right? I¡¯m sorry. I wasn¡¯t trying to upset you. I can be quiet, just leave me be, alright. I won¡¯t bother you. I promise. Please. <em>Please?</em> PLEASE?!¡±


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    Despite her frantic pleading, Tyron¡¯s expression didn¡¯t twitch. With a wave of his hand, he was able to disconnect her soul from the functions that enabled her to speak, a neat trick he¡¯d mastered while working with Filleta.


    Once again, the skeleton fell silent, no longer able to speak. He could almost hear Laurel¡¯s silent scream as her mind roiled against him through the conduit they shared. Or at least, it attempted to.


    ¡°Boring to the point of insanity, that¡¯s how Dove described it, being dead and unable to influence the world around you of your own free will. And he could talk. I was almost surprised you were able tomunicate as well as you could when I gave you the chance, Laurel.¡±


    After all this time, he was almost certain she would have gonepletely mad. If he gave Rufus the ability to speak, he¡¯d expect to hear nothing but endless screeching. With a mentalmand, he ordered the skeleton back to her post and watched as she silentlyplied.


    With that finally taken care of, he could begin the process of converting his remaining skeletons, which would be days of finger-breaking work. Thankfully, he had the Ossuary to help speed things along. If he had to unstitch and restitch every skeleton individually, it would take him weeks, perhaps months to finish the job.


    This put him one step closer to his aim of creating Wights without learning how via the Unseen. He¡¯d been able to teach himself the secret of raising revenants without having to purchase the ability, and he was determined to repeat that triumph. This was only the first step, however. Now that he was able to create a skeletal body which could withstand the full power of a ssed fighter, what remained was to discover the qualitative difference between a revenant, and a wight.


    There had to be something, an advanced technique or method, that enabled them to unleash greater strength than a revenant could. His current suspicion centred around the status ritual. A revenant could, theoretically, disy the same level of power it possessed in life, already. The only way to improve upon that, was to create an undead that could grow stronger. That meant granting it ess to the Unseen in some way. And it couldn¡¯t be via an ad-hoc process like he¡¯d cobbled together for Dove. No, it would have to be built into the process of creating the undead in the first ce.


    And, he had no idea how to do that. Not yet, anyway.


    ¡°Anyone up there?¡± someone called out.


    Drenan¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Just me,¡± Tyron called back, e on up.¡±


    He and the rest of his team emerged from the trees and climbed up the slope towards the cave. Drenan cast his eyes around at the dozens of skeletons visible in the clearing.


    ¡°You call this fucking ¡®by yourself¡¯? There¡¯s fifty undead here!¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t qualify as people, Drenan. They¡¯re literally soulless. Without souls. There¡¯s no person in there.¡±


    ¡°There is in some of them,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°None of <em>these</em> ones. So I¡¯m here by myself. And what, you want me to introduce you to the shackled and tormented souls of the people I¡¯ve enved in death?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ no. Not really.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes and reigned in his temper.


    ¡°You¡¯re heading up the mountain?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ Going to relieve team Starfire and watch over the rift for a day.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going through?¡±


    ¡°<em>Fuck</em> no. I¡¯m not trying to get my team killed, Tyron.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    They probably <em>were</em> too weak to survive in the cold against the Mammoths.


    ¡°Does it feel good to be back doing yer work?¡± he asked the group atrge.


    The two mages avoided his gaze, but Brigette met it defiantly, as always, though she didn¡¯t appear quite as pissed off as she had.


    ¡°It is good to be helping people again,¡± she said. ¡°And I¡¯ve needed to cut loose. Being cooped up inside for weeks on end isn¡¯t what I wanted when I signed up to be a yer.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s only one thing yers want in the end, that¡¯s what my father used to say,¡± Tyron said. At the mention of Magnin, her interest immediately perked up. ¡°Freedom. He said they always want freedom.¡±


    He reached up and tapped a finger at the left side of his chest, indicating the position a brand might be ced. ¡°That¡¯s why they never get to have it. At least, that¡¯s what he said.¡±


    Her face immediately clouded over.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to fight for you,¡± she growled. ¡°There¡¯s no need to rub our faces in it all the time.¡±


    Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t me being a prick. That was something he genuinely used to say. Helping people is nice, protecting thend is nice, but deep down, I think he believed every yer wanted to be in control of their own destinies, which is why they fought when nobody else would.¡±


    Brigette fell silent and Tyron decided not to bbour the point.


    ¡°Well, good luck up there. The rift is growing a lot faster than expected, but it¡¯s still a manageable thing. I¡¯m sure Samantha and her team will be grateful for a break.¡±


    They¡¯d been up there for two days at this point, which was still a difficult ask for a bronze team. With the loss of Gramble, and his two allies refusing to help manage the rift, it was up to the Hooligans and team Starfire to put in the work. Though Tyron still chipped in, after the local yers hadmitted themselves to the rebellion, he¡¯d left it to them for the most part. There was still some time before he intended to return to Kenmor, and he wanted to push himself at a more punishing rift. Soon, he would need to go to Woodsedge.


    Perhaps sensing his mood, Drenan asked him a question as the group gathered their things to leave.


    ¡°Are you going to be here when wee back down?¡±


    ¡°Probably not,¡± Tyron replied, deciding to be honest. ¡°It¡¯ll be a while before I return to Cragwhistle, possibly months. Hopefully you guys manage to advance before I get back.¡±


    ¡°Well, I hope so,¡± Drenan replied. ¡°Good luck out there. Try not to get yourself killed. I don¡¯t know why, but there are a lot of people here who believe in you.¡±


    <em>I never asked for that.</em>


    He didn¡¯t voice his thoughts aloud.


    ¡°I don¡¯t intend to die just yet,¡± he said instead.


    Then off they went up the mountain to fight. Soon, Samantha and her all-female group woulde down, eager for rest, though they were unlikely to speak to him. Which meant blessed silence.


    ¡°No time like the present then, I suppose.¡±


    If left to his own devices, he¡¯d likely dive back into his research, or start working on his minions, which would dy his travel further and further. Eventually, he¡¯d run out of time and be forced to return to the capital without having the opportunity to fight more kin. As much as he wanted to continue to experiment and work on his notes, Tyron was unwilling to give up the chance to gain even a single level. Which meant it was time to pack.


    Surprisingly, Elsbeth found him a few hourster as he was trying to gather all the disparate sheets of paper he¡¯d scrawled on into some semnce of order.


    ¡°I¡¯m d I caught you before you left,¡± she said from the cave entrance, holding the nket slightly aside so she could peek through.


    ¡°Elsbeth? What is it this time?¡± he asked, half serious. ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve been taking my daily nap.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not funny.¡± She entered the cave and wrinkled her nose at the smell.


    ¡°Don¡¯t say anything. It¡¯s a cave, there¡¯s a limit to the venttion that¡¯s avable. I¡¯m aware it smells, and I don¡¯t care.¡±


    ¡°Be that way. I wanted to talk to you before you left, about your students.¡±


    ¡°What about them?¡±


    ¡°Well, they want to go with you. To Woodsedge.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡±


    Elsbeth stared at him.


    ¡°To learn from you, I suppose? Why do you think?¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t have that much time to teach,¡± he replied, irritated. ¡°I¡¯ll be fighting at the rifts most of the time.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll be grateful for any of your time, I¡¯m sure. I¡¯ll also be going. There are people Munhilde and I want to meet at Woodsedge.¡±


    ¡°Oh, great.¡±


    So much for his blessed silence.

 Chapter B4C12 - Speak with the Three

    Chapter B4C12 - Speak with the Three


    ¡°You owe them.¡±


    ¡°Do I really?¡±


    ¡°They have been working tirelessly on your behalf. Far more than your other <em>patrons</em>.¡±


    ¡°Tirelessly?¡± Tyron barked augh. ¡°They¡¯re <em>gods</em>, I¡¯m not even sure they can tire at all. And, correct me if I¡¯m wrong, but I gather that they¡¯ve essentially not lifted a finger to help their people for several thousand years. I think they¡¯re due for a little work.¡±


    Munhilde glowered furiously at this disrespect, but Tyron remained unrepentant, ring back as the now familiar fury kindled in his chest.


    ¡°They are the only thing shielding you from the eyes of the five pretenders. If they withdrew their support for a <em>second</em>, you would be seen by the oracles, and the armies of the province would march to cut you down.¡±


    This statement angered Tyron,rgely because she was correct. Without their protection, the purge would have been knocking on his door before he¡¯d ever had the chance to learn about it. On top of that, the Crone had been responsible for reinforcing his false visage. There was no chance he could have gotten past the Magisters or resisted the efforts of the nobledy who¡¯d attempted to break his facade. So far, all they¡¯d asked in return was for him to lend his support to the growing rebellion, but he hadn¡¯t needed to do much yet. This demand came right before he had a chance to discharge some part of his debt via working with the rebels in Woodsedge. Once he returned to Kenmor, he¡¯d depend on their support again to protect his identity as Lukas Almsfield.


    The fact that she was right didn¡¯t do anything to diffuse his anger. Instead, it only seemed to fan the mes, and he struggled for a moment to contain himself.


    ¡°It¡¯s the only ritual to speak with your patrons you haven¡¯t performed,¡± Munhilde pointed out in a softer tone, perhaps sensing his mood.


    He resisted the urge to snarl. There was a good reason he¡¯d never done so. After they¡¯d invaded his dreams and threatened Elsbeth to force him to side with them, they were lucky he hadn¡¯t abandoned thempletely.


    ¡°Fine. Fine. I¡¯ll do it before I leave Cragwhistle.¡±


    He wanted to be out of this conversation, and he wanted to be out of it <em>now</em>. Arguing with the priestess wasn¡¯t going to get him anywhere. She was right, even if he didn¡¯t want to hear it, and losing his temper here in the middle of town was not something he wanted to be involved in.


    Munhilde opened her mouth to say something, but the Necromancer was already stomping away. He didn¡¯t like being in Cragwhistle to start with. Despite spending almost no time in town, he was recognised almost everywhere he went. How was it possible? There were so few who he¡¯d spent any amount of time with in town, but that didn¡¯t seem to matter.


    As he walked past buildings, people leaned down to whisper to their children, or watched him from the corner of their eyes. Heck, some just openly stared, not caring if he noticed. He could appreciate how open they were, but he hated being the centre of attention, which he inevitably was inside Cragwhistle.


    Perhaps he should have brought fewer skeletons with him. But he wasn¡¯t going anywhere without at least a handful of guards, since he wasn¡¯t able to defend himself well without them.


    Before he managed to get out of town, Ortan caught up with him, breathing heavily, as if he¡¯de running. Tyron didn¡¯t break stride as therger man gasped for air beside him.


    ¡°Thanks¡­ thanks for waiting up,¡± Ortan wheezed.


    ¡°What do you want, Ortan?¡±


    It took a few moments for Ortan to gather his breath.


    ¡°I wanted to ask when you were going to get back? There¡¯s a lot of people who wanted to meet and speak with you. We¡¯ve kept most of them away. Well, Elsbeth did most of that, but I helped.¡±


    ¡°What could they possibly have to say to me?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Some of these people look at you in an¡­ unhealthy way.¡±


    Tyron nced at him sideways.


    ¡°Unhealthy? ording to who?¡±


    ¡°ording to straightmon sense,¡± Ortan growled. ¡°And do you really have to bring the undead into town?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Ugh. Fine. Anyway, I told them I¡¯d see if you¡¯d speak with them before you leave.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I figured as much. I¡¯ll let them know. I expect they won¡¯t be happy, but what are they going to do about it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back in a few months. If they really have something to say, I can hear it then. If that¡¯s all, I¡¯ll talk to you the next time I¡¯m in town, Ortan. I have to go and prepare for an unpleasant conversation.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Who are you talking to?¡±


    ¡°Three pains in my neck.¡±


    It dyed him by several hours, but he wasn¡¯t prepared to perform aplex ritual like Dark Communion without dotting his i¡¯s and crossing his t¡¯s first. He may havee a long way as a Mage since he first attempted Pierce the Veil, but he hadn¡¯t truly appreciated just how dangerous these rituals were at the time. He¡¯d done almost no work to develop this ritual, since he hadn¡¯t ever intended to cast it, so at the very least, minimal preparations were necessary before making an attempt.


    He¡¯d had to ask Elsbeth and Munhilde to entertain the students as he worked. As usual, the spell contained many simr elements to the other two he¡¯d learned as an Anathema. Many dimensional elements, forging a connection between two ces and opening the way, but as with those previous rituals, there were elements wholly unique to the patron on whom he was calling. The Dark Ones weren¡¯t beyond a Veil, or within another realm, they were <em>here</em>, with him. Not directly, but their realm, the dark forest, or whatever they called it, was¡­ local. Separate, but part of the ce in which he lived.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    This created several key differences in the ritual that he found illuminating, but he didn¡¯t have the time to chase down those loose ends. Right now, he wanted to get this ritual done as quickly as possible. Dying his departure any longer than necessary was time wasted that he could ill afford to lose.


    Right now, he huddled in a crevasse outside of Cragwhistle, sheltered from the near omni-present wind, frantically scrabbling in one of his notebooks. Different collections and orientations of sigils appeared on the page as fast as his hands could manage, but no matter how quickly he wrote, his mind was still faster. One pattern was only halfpleted before he discarded it and started on another.


    It didn¡¯t take as long as it might have for him to piece together something he considered workable. He was much better at this than he once was, but even so, this was quick. Normally, he wouldn¡¯t dare enact this ritual with such flimsy preparations, but he almost disdained to give it that level of care. If the Three wanted to mess with him, there wasn¡¯t an awful lot he could do about it, and he was confident enough in his ritual magick that he felt his rough and ready arrangement would work.


    So hemitted. He¡¯d brought all the ritualponents he needed on the trip, in case a need arose. With the help of his skeletons, he prepared a ritual circle, nted the staff his mother had prepared for him at the head, and began to cast.


    Almost immediately after he began to speak, words of power thundering into the air, he felt the changee over him. After five minutes of casting, he could hear a sound, as if the wind around were rustling through the leaves of trees that he couldn¡¯t see.


    After twenty minutes, he could smell it, the deep loam and rotted leaf of the forest floor. After thirty minutes, he could feel gnarled roots under his feet. After forty, he could see it, the woods ovepping his own vision, rock and tufts of long grass mixed and blending with ancient trees. At this point, Tyron finally realised what the key differences between this ritual and the others really was. He wasn¡¯t just connecting one ce to another, he was <em>travelling</em>.


    When he was done, and thest of the sigils was formed, the final words spoken, Tyron lowered his hands, rxed his voice, and looked around.


    The forest was just as he recalled it. An old, old ce, the trees burdened with the weight of uncountable years. Mist and moisture clung to everything; the air itself was damp enough that his clothes became immediately ufortable.


    He rolled his shoulders, ill at ease. This was their ce, and he could almost <em>see</em> their power. It was everywhere, full and potent. Was he more sensitive now? Or perhaps the gods truly were more active, their strength waxing as they exerted greater influence on the world.


    ¡°I¡¯m somewhat surprised they agreed to let you back in here, given what urredst time,¡± a sinuous voice spoke from behind him.


    Tyron whirled on the spot and found the thin, hooded figure standing apart from the trees, as if he had always been there. The Necromancer went to make a reply, then hesitated, raising a brow at the Messenger.


    ¡°You may speak,¡± the creature offered a long-suffering sigh. ¡°Despite doing nothing to earn the privilege, you are permitted to profane this sacred ce with your worthless utterances.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you too,¡± Tyron swore. ¡°I haven¡¯t forgotten what happenedst time I came here. Haven¡¯t forgotten the way your precious gods tried to break the rules.¡±


    ¡°This is bold talk from a little mage who hides behind the three like a child clinging to their mother,¡± the Messenger replied, sarcasm cutting like a knife. ¡°You peek from behind their skirts and think yourself bold, but I can see you for what you are.¡±


    ¡°And what am I? Other than an unworthy vessel, in your eyes?¡±


    For a moment the Messenger appeared at a loss.


    ¡°An unworthy vessel? You took the words directly from my mouth. That is exactly what you are. Nothing more.¡±


    Tyron folded his arms across his chest.


    ¡°Your gods are the ones who demanded Ie here. If the only purpose was for you to spit childish insults, then I¡¯ll leave.¡±


    ¡°And how exactly would you leave?¡± the Messenger drawled from beneath the shadows of his hood.


    ¡°I¡¯d rework the ritual to move myself back to the point of origin.¡±


    Not easy to do on the fly, but he could do it.


    ¡°Would your magick, even work here? Do you truly understand what this ce is?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t see the point in specting, since I don¡¯t believe you have any intention of enlightening me. Since your name is ¡®Messenger¡¯, and not ¡®Useless piece of shit¡¯, I presume you have something to say to me. What is it?¡±


    ¡°If you do not cease with this disrespect, my gods will shatter your existence like ss!¡± the Messenger growled.


    Tyron raised a brow.


    ¡°I¡¯m being disrespectful to you, not them. I believe they know the difference.¡±


    ¡°What you believe bears little resemnce to what <em>is</em>,¡± the hooded figure hissed. He whirled in ce and began to stride away between the trees. ¡°Follow,¡± came themand, filled with derision and scorn.


    There was nothing else to do, so the Necromancer shrugged and began to move forward, trailing after his mysterious guide.


    It was such a strange ce, this wood. The more he saw, the less certain Tyron became of what it actually was. Were these trees actually trees? Or were they something else entirely? Was it really dirt and roots beneath his feet? Was this ce even real in any sense of the word? Time felt strange. Distance felt strange. Much like the Broken Lands, it was as if the normal rules that governed the existence of a being such as himself did not function in this ce. What he saw wasn¡¯t what he saw. What he heard wasn¡¯t truly what he heard.


    As he puzzled over it, trying to understand just what it was that he was experiencing, the Messenger led him to a clearing, in which he saw three statues.


    Except there weren¡¯t three statues.


    A Crow perched upon a thin branch, watching him with eyes of thunder. A Rat crawled up from beneath a grasping tree¡¯s roots, chittering with insatiable hunger. An old man, who was also a young man, who was also a newborn babe, who was also a decrepit Crone, grinned at him with a toothless grin, the madness of humanity crowded upon her face.


    The Messenger bowed low to each in turn before stepping to the side, and vanishing into the shadows, leaving Tyron alone with the three. With the Three.


    The Crow did not speak, and yet it <em>spoke</em>.


    <strong>DO YOU KNOW, THE NATURE OF MAGICK, THE TRUE IDENTITY OF THAT WHICH INVADES?</strong>


    All at once, the sheer power of the god washed over Tyron, as those words mmed into his mind. He staggered under the force of it, but held firm.


    ¡°No,¡± he replied when he had steadied. ¡°No I don¡¯t. Magick came through the rifts. Magick corrupts the realms it touches, creating monsters, making rifts, connecting the fallen worlds to their next victims. But I don¡¯t know what it is, or where it came from.¡±


    The Rat stood up on its hind legs.


    <strong>ENTROPY AFFECTS ALL THINGS. REALMS. GODS. EVEN ENERGY. DO YOU KNOW HOW MAGICK CAN DIE?</strong>


    The presence of Rot was just as overwhelming as that of his brother god. Tyron reeled before he gathered himself again. What did this question even mean? How to <em>destroy</em> magick? <em>Magick</em>? It was an ever changeable, ever malleable source of energy. It could be fire, water, light, dreams, even <em>death. </em>There was nothing in existence that it couldn¡¯t mimic or influence, but it was <em>never</em> lost.


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± he was forced to admit. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of magick being destroyed, or vanishing. Even when consumed, it merely changes form, or dissipates, only to reform againter.¡±


    The Croneughed, and a thousand voicesughed along with her.


    <strong>THEN WE HAVE MUCH WE CAN TEACH YOU.</strong>


    She grinned.

 Chapter B4C13 - Woodsedge

    Chapter B4C13 - Woodsedge


    It had been years since Tyron stepped foot in Woodsedge. The journey north took almost a week, even covering distance quickly with a ssed wagoneer. He was curious to see what the area looked like, post-break, if the damage would even be visible, or if enough time had passed for thend to recover.


    It had not been enough time.


    When the rift had broken open, hordes of monsters, including thergest, most powerful creatures, which couldn¡¯t normally fit through, had entered this realm. As he leaned out the side of the carriage and looked at the approaching wall of green that was the forest, he could tell it hadn¡¯t recovered well before they drew close.


    Whatever those massive beasts had been, they¡¯d torn their way through the woods with the same mindless rage they¡¯d applied to everything else. Wide paths were still scattered with tree trunks and other debris. Rotting wood was everywhere, along with the shoots of new growth.


    When they drew close enough, the three students also poked their heads out to look, Briss whistling with awe as she took in the damage.


    ¡°What happened here?¡± she wondered.


    ¡°The break,¡± Richard answered shortly.


    ¡°I <em>know</em> it was the break,¡± she replied, ¡°but how exactly was this done? What monsters are able to cause this kind of destruction?¡±


    Tyron had leant them the few bestiaries he kept with him, volumes that detailed what was known about the creatures from beyond the rifts, as well as those that manifested within this realm on their own. If they were going to fight against the kin, it was important they acquired at least a rudimentary understanding of what they were going to see.¡°The rift at Woodsedge isn¡¯t thatrge, not like Skyice or Dustwatch¡ªwell, I suppose it¡¯s bigger now. Usually you find yers in the high bronze range who are confident fighting here, all the way up to mid-silvers who are cautious.¡±


    Dove¡¯s group had been one of the cautious ones. Carefully amassing experience and pushing themselves toward the threshold of gold rank a little bit at a time.


    ¡°Which means you would only rarely see the really nasty kin on <em>this</em> side of the rift. Those yers who are strong enough to venture to the other side wille across them, and in fact, it''s important that they do. Having strong kin ripping and tearing at the rifts is the main way they get wider.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me, but that doesn¡¯t answer my question,¡± Briss pointed out respectfully. ¡°I was hoping to learn more about the monster that can do something like this.¡±


    She gestured toward the devastated woods, wide tracks of trampled trees that had previously stood for decades, perhaps even longer. Tyron sighed.


    ¡°If I¡¯mpletely honest with you, I don¡¯t know their names,¡± Tyron admitted. ¡°I¡¯ve never been beyond the rift here myself, though I¡¯ve seen it. What I was trying to say is that such kin are so rarely seen, and only by a few, powerful yers, that they don¡¯t appear in most bestiaries. You need to get your hands on specialist volumes dedicated to specific rifts. We¡¯ll be able to find plenty of those when we reach the keep.¡±


    The three students exchanged nces, as if surprised that there were things he didn¡¯t know, but Tyron ignored them. As if he had the time to learn the name of every type of kin beyond every rift. There were uncountable realms that had be corrupted by magick, and dozens of those had connected to this one, with dozens of types of kin to be found in each. Memorising all of that information was something even his parents hadn¡¯t bothered to do, despite being some of the precious few yers to actually fight at every rift in the province.


    They had decreed Skyice to be the worst, not necessarily because of the strength of the kin, but due to the extreme cold and high altitude. If Magnin had lived on, he would have been irritated that the new rift had been discovered atop another frozen mountain.


    As the students discussed quietly amongst themselves, pointing out features of the scenery, the carriage continued on its way through the woods, powering its way toward the keep. It took a few hours, but eventually they reached the wide clearing he remembered. The canopy pulled back to reveal the sun burning overhead, the sudden light making him squint. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted and the new Woodsedge was revealed to him.


    A lot of work had been done sincest he¡¯d been here. After he and Dove had emerged from their cer refuge, they¡¯de here to investigate and pick through the ruins. Well, he¡¯d picked through the ruins, Dove had justined and made sarcastic remarks. At that point, there had been holes in the walls, entire streets had been ttened and many buildings were severely damaged.


    Clearly, the people had been busy. The yer keep itself hadn¡¯t been damaged that much, but repairs to the town were well underway. From the outside, he could see the walls had been mostly repaired, trails of smoke rising from the chimneys of buildings within.


    He poked his head out the window again, looking backwards to confirm that the second carriage, carrying Elsbeth and Munhilde, was still trailing, which it was.


    When they finally pulled up at the gate, Tyron was pleased to step down and stretch his legs outside as the two priestesses alighted from their own carriage.


    ¡°We¡¯ve finally arrived,¡± Elsbeth said, relief clear in her tone as she looked toward the gate, a small distance away. ¡°Do you think we¡¯ll have any trouble getting inside?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to say,¡± Tyron replied. ¡°Since the yers overthrew the magisters and took over the keep, they may not be too weing of strangers right now. I don¡¯t suppose Munhilde¡¯s friends know that she¡¯sing?¡±


    ¡°They know I¡¯ming,¡± she said, joining them, ¡°but that doesn¡¯t mean I have a letter of entry. We¡¯ll need to convince them to let us in, just like everyone else.¡±


    She pointed toward the gate, and when Tyron looked more carefully in that direction, he realised that there were quite a few carriages, carts and people waiting outside. The first time he¡¯d seen it, he¡¯d assumed it was a normal amount of traffic, but considering less than half the number of people lived within the walls aspared to before the break, this was excessive.


    Faced with the prospect of being denied at the gate, Tyron could only hope there wouldn¡¯t be too much resistance.


    ¡°Well, nothing for it but to unload our things and talk to them,¡± he said.


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the vition.


    By now, the three students had exited the carriage, and he turned to address them.


    ¡°Help get all the luggage down and arrange it all on the side of the road. I¡¯ll go talk to the guards at the gate and see if they¡¯re going to let us in. If not, we¡¯ll need to head a little distance away and set up a camp.¡±


    As he wandered over to the gate, Elsbeth and Munhilde fell in alongside him and they walked together in silence. They were halfway there before Tyron realised something.


    ¡°Should I disguise my face here?¡± he asked aloud.


    He¡¯d gotten used to walking around with his real face showing, and considering there were no magisters here, he hadn¡¯t thought he¡¯d need to return to concealing himself. He certainly couldn¡¯t wander around the scene of open rebellion as Lukas Almsfield, but he had other faces he could adopt.


    Elsbeth looked thoughtful, but Munhilde barked a shortugh.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that will be necessary. Your face is probably our ticket inside.¡±


    Tyron looked at her curiously.


    ¡°Not just your face. Your name as well,¡± she borated.


    When they arrived at the gate, they could hear the yelling and arguing well before they arrived. As expected, the gate was shut, only a small side door being open, and a stone-faced guard stood facing a group of clearly furious people demanding entry.


    The three travellers approached and stopped a respectful distance behind the half-dozen shouting figures. Tyron figured they¡¯d run out of breath eventually and then he could step forward, but the guard noticed them first and gestured for them to draw closer.


    ¡°Shut the fuck up for a minute and let me talk to these people,¡± the guard stated levelly to the yellers, the first words he¡¯d spoken to them since Tyron had seen him.


    ¡°You¡¯ll talk to them but not us?!¡± one of the waiting men demanded, spittle flying in his rage.


    ¡°I have something to say to them they haven¡¯t heard a hundred times before. That¡¯s not the case with you. Now, unless you want me to get the others out here to beat you back again, shut your mouth for a few minutes.¡±


    With no change of expression, he turned towards the new arrivals.


    ¡°Wee to Woodsedge. The gates are closed for the time being as we sort out some administrative details. Check back with us in a few days if you still want to enter the walls.¡±


    ¡°You have the patience of a saint,¡± Tyron chuckled. ¡°How long do they keep yelling at you like that for?¡±


    ¡°Usually a few hours after it¡¯s announced the gates aren¡¯t opening. They run out of steam eventually.¡±


    ¡°We can fucking hear you!¡±


    ¡°Is there anything else?¡± the guard asked.


    Munhilde prodded him in the back, causing Tyron to shoot a re over his shoulder. Then he sighed.


    ¡°I¡¯m Tyron Sterm. I want to get inside and talk to the people in charge. The¡­ new¡­ people in charge.¡±


    The guard¡¯s brows raised.


    ¡°That¡¯s quite the im. I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯d be willing to perform a status ritual to confirm it?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say I¡¯d be happy to, but I will if I have to.¡±


    There were no official records, in fact, no records at all of his actual status, as he destroyed all the copies he produced and cheated every official check using the blood magick of the vampires.


    The fact he was willing to entertain the idea of the ritual seemed surprising to the guard. After a moment of contemtion, he turned and knocked at the door, followed by two others stepping out a few momentster.


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem, Prich?¡±


    ¡°Got a chap here who needs to perform a status ritual. Can I get youds to handle it?¡±


    ¡°Status ritual? What for? Gate¡¯s closed.¡±


    ¡°Might not be closed for him,¡± Prich replied without emphasis. ¡°Folks up at the keep might want to hear what he has to say, if he is who he says he is.¡±


    Both neers looked somewhat surprised, but gestured for Tyron to follow them through the gate, which caused no shortage of outrage from those who were still waiting outside. Paying no mind to the furor, the two men closed the door and locked it before hunting for a sheet of paper in the small post they upied inside the gate.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t worried about him being out there by himself?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°Prich? No way. He might look like that, but he¡¯s a fucking beast. Been out hunting kin to get levels on the sly over thest few weeks. For a guard, he¡¯s got a lot more levels than those idiots would expect.¡±


    That made sense. It made sense that the local yers would have been trying to encourage others to gain levels, especially people withbat sses but no brand.


    ¡°Here we are. Put a bit of ret on that, would you please?¡± one of the guards said, passing Tyron a sheet of somewhat clean paper.


    A swift cut to the meat of the thumb and some muttered wordster, his blood flowed onto the page for the guards to see. Sure enough, his name was there, along with his sses.


    ¡°Holy shit!¡± one of them breathed.


    The other stepped sharply away from Tyron, putting a hand on the hilt of his weapon.


    Before either guard could grab it, Tyron snatched up the page and pressed it to his chest.


    ¡°Well, I assume you saw the name?¡± he asked the two guards.


    ¡°Hey now. You¡¯ll need to be handing that over to me,¡± the first guard said, the one who hadn¡¯t retreated.


    ¡°No,¡± Tyron replied simply. ¡°I¡¯ll show it to whoever has to see it, but I will not hand it over. I¡¯m sure you understand why.¡±


    The air was tense for a few moments as the two guards looked at him, one with a nk expression, the other with open fear on his face.


    ¡°How about you open the door, and I¡¯ll step outside?¡± Tyron offered. ¡°You can lock me out, no problem, and I¡¯ll talk to your friend. How¡¯s that?¡±


    It felt odd to be trying to calm these men down. If anyone should be feeling ufortable, it should be him! He was here without his minions, without his bone armour, revealing his status to these strangers for the first time in his life!


    They were more than amenable to the idea of him going back outside the gate, to the point where they didn¡¯t even consider it much, they simply threw open the door and allowed him to walk out. Prich, still receiving a faceful of abuse, turned to regard him, then nced down at the page he clutched to his chest. Then blinked when the door mmed shut and was noisily bolted behind him.


    ¡°I take it they didn¡¯t see what they wanted in your status?¡± Prich asked tly.


    ¡°They certainly didn¡¯t, but not in the way you¡¯re thinking,¡± Tyron replied. He stepped forward, gripped the page in both hands, then held it out for the guard to read. ¡°I refuse to hand this page over, but you can get what you need from it.¡±


    He scanned the paper briefly before he blinked. Once, then twice.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± he said.


    Tyron stepped away, frowned, then crushed the paper in his hand before shoving it into his mouth. It was disgusting, and he hated doing it this way, but he didn¡¯t have a way to start a fire in the next five seconds and every moment this sheet existed he felt lessfortable. Prich watched him masticate, grimacing and grunting as he tried to force the mess of dirty paper and blood down his throat.


    ¡°Well, I can understand why you¡¯d do that, but the people you want to see are likely to demand you make another one.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll eat that one too,¡± Tyron managed to force out, between chews.


    ¡°Alright, you¡¯ve proven who you are, and shown <em>what</em> you are. I¡¯m going to have to talk to some people before I can let you in, though. I¡¯m sure you understand.¡±


    Tyron nodded, then finally swallowed thest of it.


    ¡°That¡¯s <em>foul</em>,¡± he gagged before spitting. ¡°I¡¯m here with five others who also want to enter the city. Two priestesses of the¡­ less well-regarded gods, and three students of mine.¡±


    ¡°I understand you. I¡¯ll ask about them as well. I suggest you make yourselvesfortable, it might be a while before you¡¯re let in.¡±

 Chapter B4C14 - Rebel Keep

    Chapter B4C14 - Rebel Keep


    Rurin Wilkin wanted nothing more than to bury her face in her hands and scream. Failing that, a stiff drink would likely do the job. Or perhaps ten. Twenty if she was still conscious by then.


    ¡°Fuck you, Brom,¡± she growled, thinking of the absent yer as her eyes roamed over the myriad of pages in front of her. ¡°You knew to piss off the second it got hard!¡±


    Advancing to gold in secret? No problem. Racing to gain levels out in the rift before she returned? Easy. Working with her old friends to overthrow the yer keep and murder the magisters? That was harder, but still rtively simple. Managing all this paperwork? She wasn¡¯t cut out for it in the slightest. There were only so many people in the city, and still they managed to find ways to piss and shit all over each other (metaphorically), then sprint toward the person in charge.


    Which, unfortunately, was her.


    A knock on the door was followed by Tim sticking his head through a narrow gap.


    ¡°Looking for a distraction?¡± he asked with a slight smile.


    ¡°By the godess¡¯ tits, <em>yes</em>,¡± Rurin said emphatically. ¡°Tell me there¡¯s something I can kill.¡±


    Tim frowned a little, considering the issue.


    ¡°Well, I suppose thates down to how you feel about Beory Sterm.¡±Rurin stared.


    ¡°She was a friend of mine for two decades. I loved that woman to death.¡±


    Hearing that Beory and her husband had passed had ripped the heart out of her chest, plunging her into mourning, just as it had hundreds, if not thousands of other yers across the province. They¡¯d been too bright, too exceptional for anyone to be in their presence and not wish to be even a little bit like them. The Sterms had been the light, and every yer they met was an insect, hopelessly drawn closer, almost against their will.


    She¡¯d first met Beory closer to the capital, when she was working in ckrift Keep. Things had gotten out of hand there, the yers pushed to breaking point, until those two had strolled into town and smashed the kin back inside in a week. At that point, she and Magnin had still been gold ranked, though it was never officially known if and when they¡¯d gone higher.


    Bing friends with Beory was more luck than anything Rurin had done. It seemed the dark-haired battlemage had seen her one day and decided they should spend time in each other¡¯spany, not that Rurin was ungrateful. It was impossible not to want to be around them.


    With her opinion on the matter stated clearly, Tim was able to continue.


    ¡°In that case, I doubt there is any killing involved. I wouldn¡¯t expect you to cut down the child of your deceased friend.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Rurin squawked, springing up from her chair so quickly it toppled over loudly behind her. ¡°Tyron is here?¡±


    Tim raised his brows.


    ¡°At least, someone <em>iming</em> to be him is here. Apparently, he produced a status sheet for the guards, but ate it on the spot rather than let them take it to show us. You¡¯ll have to go to him, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    As if Tyron Sterm would be so foolish as to let someone wander off with a copy of his status. He¡¯d be an idiot if he did, and Beory had not raised an idiot.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be there immediately,¡± she dered, walking around the table as she snatched up her coat from the hanger, pulling it on in a hurry.


    ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll tag along,¡± Tim mused, ¡°it would be interesting to meet the child <em>those two</em> created.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t say anything weird. I¡¯ve met Tyron before, he¡¯s a good kid.¡± She fell silent as she pushed out the door and her fellow gold ranked yer fell in behind her. ¡°Well, he <em>was</em> a good kid.¡±


    Who knew what toll everything that happened five years ago had taken on him. When she¡¯dst seen him, he¡¯d been probably¡­ fifteen? A quiet and serious young man who¡¯d struggled to conceal the envy in his eyes as she had left the house with his parents, off to the rifts.


    She ruminated on thatst meeting as she made her way out of the keep and down through the town. What had be of that child? Beory hade to see her after he¡¯d run away, not that there had been anything Rurin could do for him.


    ¡°<em>Just look out for my boy,¡± Beory had said with a faint smile. ¡°Help him, if you get a chance.¡±</em>


    <em>¡°Tell me what¡¯s going on, Bee,¡± Rurin had begged. ¡°This isn¡¯t like you. What can I do for Tyron that you can¡¯t do yourself?¡±</em>


    <em>The battlemage had given her a wan smile. On reflection, she had likely already been suffering from the brand.</em>


    <em>¡°I won¡¯t say, so don¡¯t ask. You¡¯ll understand why when it¡¯s done.¡±</em>


    But that wasn¡¯t the case. Even now, with her friend in the ground for years, she had no idea why.


    At the gate, she walked straight up the guard house and found Prich waiting for her.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think you¡¯de down yourself,¡± the guard said, as expressionless as always. ¡°Not this fast.¡±


    ¡°She needed an excuse to get away from the paperwork,¡± Timothy offered before she could say anything.


    ¡°Shut the fuck up, Tim. If you want to throw stones, go and take care of it yourself.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve finished my work for the day,¡± the mage said, as calm as ever. ¡°You¡¯re the only one who¡¯s fallen behind.¡±


    ¡°Why are we doing filing after rebelling against the fucking empire anyway?¡± Rurin threw up her hands, exasperated.


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    ¡°You¡¯re deflecting, but I¡¯ll bite. Because we need to keep the people here fed, and we need to ensure thews are still observed. Besides, I think an unorganised rebellion is even more doomed to fail than a well-run one.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re still doomed to fail either way?¡±


    ¡°Naturally.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a depressing fucker sometimes, you know that?¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    Throughout the exchange, Prich remained nk-faced. If he had any thoughts about the two gold yers in front of him, the supposed leaders of the rebellion, he kept them to himself.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Tyron?¡± Rurin demanded, turning away from her contemporary. ¡°Is he outside?¡±


    ¡°I encouraged him to settle in somewhere nearby, since I thought you¡¯d be too busy toe down here for some time,¡± Prich informed her.


    ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll go out. Thanks for your work today, Prich. We appreciate what you do for us.¡±


    ¡°Happy to do my part,¡± the guard replied, no change in his expression.


    Through the door, Rurin and Tim found the other two guards on duty confronted with a pack of red-faced, shouting men and women gesticting wildly as they demanded to be let inside.


    ¡°What in the realm is going on?¡± Rurin asked.


    Tim leaned close to her ear to whisper.


    ¡°These are the people waiting for you to finish their applications before they can enter the city.¡±


    The gold yer felt a headache building in her temples. With an explosive exhtion, she pushed her tension away. Then she stomped on the ground. The impact was fierce, enough to make the non-guardsmen standing close stumble as the ground shook beneath their feet. As the crowd gathered themselves, shocked at the sudden shake, she cleared her throat.


    ¡°Come back tomorrow morning and I¡¯ll have your papers for you. If any of you are at the gate when Ie back, your application will be instantly denied.¡±


    Looking around the clearing, she spotted a small group of people arranging their luggage andying out bedding. Assuming that was who she was looking for, she strode away, Tim walking alongside her.


    ¡°Ho, the camp!¡± she called as she approached.


    Several figures turned towards her, a few raising a hand in greeting, but she only had eyes for one. Something about the way he stood, the slight hunch to his shoulders, the way his hair fell down to his shoulders. She recognised that boy.


    ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t Tyron,¡± she grinned as she approached.


    The young man seemed a little taken aback, but he recognised her a momentter.


    ¡°Rurin Wilkin. I should have known you¡¯d be part of this.¡±


    She stepped forward and grabbed him up in a bear hug, which he weakly returned with one arm, though not nearly as weakly as she¡¯d expected.


    ¡°Holy shit, boy! You¡¯ve gotten stronger. Aren¡¯t you a Necromancer?¡±


    ¡°A <em>silver</em> Necromancer, thank you very much,¡± he grumbled as she set him back on his feet.


    ¡°Silver, eh? How in the realm did you manage that? Don¡¯t answer, let me get a good look at you.¡±


    She pushed him out to arm¡¯s length and inspected him, only then did she begin to detect just what had changed about thed. He was older, obviously, eight years had passed since she¡¯dst seen him. He was taller than her now, more mature, more fleshed out and no longer as skin and bones as he¡¯d been before. But that wasn¡¯t the change that most caught her attention. His eyes were different. Where once they were curious, and intense, now his gaze burned with purpose. It was so clear it may as well have been written on his face for the world to see.


    ¡°Oh, Tyron,¡± she said sadly, ¡°they wouldn¡¯t want this for you. Vengeance was never something your parents cared about.¡±


    The young Necromancer raised his brows in surprise, just a fraction, before his eyes hardened.


    ¡°They can¡¯t push me from the path I¡¯ve set,¡± he said, ¡°because they¡¯re dead. I won¡¯t rest until those responsible have been crushed.¡±


    His voice was so t, so unemotional. All he did was state a fact. Rurin shook her head.


    ¡°You¡¯re as stubborn as your mother,¡± she sighed. ¡°You look more like her now than you used to, I think. Get a haircut and maybe you¡¯d favour your Da a little more.¡±


    She ced a hand on his shoulder and met his haunted gaze.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about what happened to your folks. I was honoured to call Beory a friend. She asked me to help you, not long before it ended. Things are difficult right now, but I¡¯m willing to give whatever aid I can, you just have to ask.¡±


    Tyron nodded, grateful.


    ¡°I¡¯m also here,¡± Tim said, waving just from behind Rurin¡¯s shoulder, dragging everyone¡¯s attention to him.


    ¡°Shut the fuck up, Tim,¡± Rurin said, not turning around. ¡°That¡¯s Tim,¡± she said by way of exnation, ¡°Timothy Falns. A fellow gold rank, like myself. I suppose you could say that the two of us are leading this tumbler¡¯s show, now that Brom has flown the coop.¡±


    ¡°We met him. Brom, I mean. He stopped by Cragwhistle, which is where I was training, on his way down to Skyice,¡± Tyron said. ¡°I came here for two reasons, to fight the kin beyond the rift, and to help in whatever way I can.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you were going to help? Are you sure about that? We could use all the help we can get,¡± Rurin sighed. ¡°Organising the town is a nightmare, along with keeping word from spreading about what we''re doing here. Every day, I expect to drop dead on the spot, except the magisters haven¡¯t bothered to get around to it yet. In the meantime, we¡¯ve been doing our best to grow the rebellion and get some sort of structure in ce.¡±


    ¡°yers are terrible at running anything other than a bar-fight,¡± Tim added helpfully. ¡°We¡¯re drowning in paperwork.¡±


    ¡°Not to mention the cleanup and construction of the town isn¡¯t finished, so we don¡¯t have much space to work with,¡± Rurin said, gesturing back towards the walls. ¡°Unless you¡¯ve brought a few dozenbourers, I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯d be much help with that.¡±


    Tyron allowed himself a slight smile.


    ¡°I think I can have the cleanup taken care of rather quickly. The construction may prove more difficult, but if all you need is things moved from one ce to another, I can certainly do that. You know my ss.¡±


    Rurin raised a brow.


    ¡°I don¡¯t see any undead around, though. Are you keeping a horde of zombies up your ass?¡±


    ¡°No. I have a pocket dimension.¡±


    ¡°Ah, handy.¡±


    ¡°As for your organisational troubles, I think I can help with that too. I¡¯m a mean hand at paperwork; I can spare some time to help deal with that. As for leadership, I can assist you there too. More urately, I can introduce you to others who can help. This is Munhilde and Elsbeth, priestesses of the three.¡±


    Rurin¡¯s eyes widened, and she offered a short bow to the two women as Tyron introduced them.


    ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to wee any representative of the old gods,¡± she said carefully.


    Getting on the shitlist of <em>their</em> clergy was even scarier than crossing the five in her books.


    Munhilde shot Tyron a dirty look before she stepped forward to address the two gold yers.


    ¡°I had <em>hoped</em> to speak to my contemporaries within the city before we made ourselves known, but it is true, the gods themselves are putting their weight behind the growing rebellion, and my fellow priests and priestesses have been tasked to assist. Our people are spreading themselves across the far flung reaches of the province, creating awork by which we can coordinate our actions.¡±


    ¡°Fuck me,¡± Rurin breathed, and even the unppable Tim seemed shocked. ¡°With that sort of firepower behind us, we might just get something done.¡±


    ¡°You were expecting to fail?¡± Tyron asked, surprised.


    ¡°Oh, yes,¡± Tim replied immediately. ¡°<em>Utterly</em>.¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t rebel because we thought we would win,¡± Rurin answered him, stomping on Tim¡¯s foot, ¡°we did it because it¡¯s the right thing to do. What happened to your parents was <em>wrong</em>, and the divines have allowed the realm to rot for far too long. If we don¡¯t try and do something, then what¡¯s the point of fighting the kin at all?¡±


    Tyron¡¯s eyes glittered.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going to fail,¡± he said, certain. ¡°We are going to kill them all.¡±

 Chapter B4C15 - Within the Walls

    Chapter B4C15 - Within the Walls


    Tyron andpany had indeed been allowed within the walls, and while Elsbeth and Munhilde hurried to meet with the other members of their faith, Rurin ushered him and the three students to a less salubrious part of town.


    ¡°There aren¡¯t enough people to need these buildings, so this part of town hasn¡¯t been repaired,¡± she told him cheerfully. ¡°Since you seem so confident in yourbourers, you can put them to work here. Probably do it at night, though. I doubt the locals would take too kindly to seeing zombies doing street work.¡±


    The Necromancer raised his brows.


    ¡°I thought they might be pleased to see the work getting done at least, and I don¡¯t keep zombies, skeletons only.¡±


    ¡°At least you won¡¯t be found out by the smell. I¡¯ll let a few of our people know you¡¯re here and who you are, and send some runners out to the rifts so the people in the field know you¡¯ll be out there. I doubt they¡¯d be grateful to be surprised by undead in the field.¡±


    ¡°Unlikely,¡± he agreed.


    Having said their piece, Rurin and Tim had waved their goodbyes and departed back to the keep, leaving Tyron and three nervous students alone in a dark, half-crumbled building, surrounded by more of the same.


    ¡°Be careful,¡± he warned them, ¡°it¡¯s possible there may be stray kin here, tucked away in the rubble.¡±


    The three jumped closer together, eyeing the toppled walls and beams with naked suspicion, if not outright fear. Tyron could only roll his eyes before he stepped away from them and began to prepare a ritual space.This far from the keep, tucked deep into the broken areas of town, he hoped nobody would notice the magick, but even if they did, he didn¡¯t really have a choice but to do it. All of his minions were currently locked away within the Ossuary and he felt naked without them. Munhilde and Elsbeth had assured him it would be the best and safest way to approach the city, but he¡¯d needed a fair bit of convincing before he¡¯d finally agreed. Things had worked out, but he still <em>hated</em> feeling so vulnerable.


    When the ritual wasplete and the doorway into the Ossuary had manifested once more, he threw open the door with a smile on his face, pleased to see the rows of waiting undead within. With a brief mentalmand, he summoned the strongest of his minions to his side, along with a smaller contingent of regr skeletons. Forty should be enough to start with.


    His three pupils watched him perform the magick from close by, but as usual, they seemed totally lost watching him. At their level, what he did must seem impossible, beyond human, and they¡¯d probably be surprised to learn he knew the feeling well. His own mother had dazzled him with her mastery, sending spells flying around the house so quickly he could barely see her hands move, or understand the wordsing out of her mouth.


    For a Battlemage, fast casting was perhaps <em>the</em> most important skill to master, and Beory was well beyond a master. At his best, he could match only half her speed, even now. But he didn¡¯t need speed, he needed precision, and efficiency. That was how heforted himself, anyway.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it,¡± heforted his students, even though they hadn¡¯t asked, ¡°it¡¯s hard to learn anything when you watch somebody who¡¯s far above your level. This ritual dabbles in areas of magick you haven¡¯t touched, and perhaps never will.¡±


    The three each digested his words in their own way. Georg epted it most readily, while Richard was the slowest to let go of his frustration.


    ¡°What would you like us to do, Mr¡­ uh¡­ Tyron. Sir,¡± Briss stammered out, eyes locked on the skeletal arch that had materialised before her.


    ¡°We need a ce to sleep. Let¡¯s see if we can find something that looks like it won¡¯t fall on our heads.¡±


    It didn¡¯t take that long to find one. It looked like an old clothing shop, built right up against the wall. With huge gaps in the walls further around on both sides, it appeared this particr dwelling, and those close by, had been spared the worst of the monsters¡¯ rampage. With the aid of the undead, it didn¡¯t take long to gather up the refuse and dump it in a neat pile nearby. Within a couple of hours, they¡¯d managed to tie up a canvas and put up some tents. Most importantly, Tyron pulled his table out of the Ossuary before he dismissed the door once more, giving everyone a ce for their notes as they returned to their studies.


    Out of sight of the rest of the town, his skeletons continued to toil, moving rubble and broken beams, gradually bringing order back to this abandoned section of Woodsedge. When night fell, Munhilde and Elsbeth came looking for them, along with Rurin and Tim.


    The two priestesses looked satisfied, if a bit weary, whereas Rurin lookedpletely exhausted.


    ¡°I hate paperwork!¡± she groaned, slumping to the ground as Tim stood behind her, radiating smug energy.


    ¡°Did you bring your ledgers for me to look at?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°And miss a chance to get them out of my hands? Not on your life.¡±


    She had, in fact, brought a leather satchel, which she deftly removed from her neck and tossed at him as if it weighed nothing. It did not weigh nothing.


    He caught it with a grunt, then pulled out the two thick, bound volumes within. With a sigh, he ced them on the table.


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    ¡°It¡¯ll take a little while to hear back from the teams on the rift, but you should be safe to head out there tomorrow or the day after,¡± the gold yer informed him.


    ¡°In the meantime, I get to go through your records.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it a shame?¡± she grinned at him.


    ¡°You¡¯re worse than my father was,¡± he told her.


    She gasped and clutched a hand to her chest.


    ¡°How <em>dare</em> you?¡± she demanded. ¡°I saw him file a report once. He nearly died!¡±


    It sounded like an exaggeration, but it almost certainly wasn¡¯t. Magnin had <em>hated</em> pen pushing with the intensity of a thousand suns. He would rather carve his details into a wall with his sword than fill in a form, and had, in fact, done so on more than one asion.


    Beory had handled most of the filing work in their household.


    ¡°I confess, I didn¡¯t know the Sterms that well,¡± Timothy mused, ¡°but I find it hard to believe the Century yer had an even greater aversion to lodging paperwork than this sorry excuse for a rebellion leader.¡±


    ¡°In that case, you¡¯re right,¡± Tyron told him.


    ¡°In what respect?¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t know them well.¡±


    The man pondered that for a moment before he shrugged.


    ¡°You two look like you had a mixed reception,¡± the Necromancer said to the two priestesses.


    Elsbeth pulled a face.


    ¡°It was fine, really,¡± she sighed.


    ¡°Our fellow clergy members just aren¡¯t used to operating so openly,¡± Munhilde chuckled. ¡°We¡¯ve tended to the flock in secret for thousands of years, and been actively hunted all that time. Now they want us to help lead a rebellion against the empire? My fellow ordained may have been hoping for it to happen most of their lives, but they now find themselves more exposed than they arefortable with.¡±


    ¡°Are they going to be alright?¡± he asked with one raised brow.


    If the clergy didn¡¯t stand up and lead, then the rebellion would falter in its early stages, whereas they needed it to grow as quickly and smoothly as possible.


    <em>He</em> needed it to grow. It was an instrument of his vengeance, one tool with which he would pry open the empire and scoop out the guilty.


    Munhilde snorted at his question.


    ¡°Of course they will. Think about the gods we worship and serve. Do you really think the people chosen to serve them are <em>soft</em>?¡±


    If they were anything like the Venerable, then they were the toughest and most ornery bastards to ever walk the realm.


    ¡°I suppose not,¡± he said, nodding. He turned back to the volumes on the table. ¡°Well, let¡¯s get started. I want to finish this as soon as possible.¡±


    ¡°What¡­ now?¡± Rurin gaped.


    ¡°Yes, now.¡±


    Tim smiled like a cat.


    ¡°It¡¯s like my birthday,¡± he murmured.


    ~~~


    He remained within the walls for two days, working without rest on ledgers and forms under the resentful gaze of Rurin, until she managed to convince Tim to sit in for her. It wasn¡¯t a challenging task, merely tedious, with the most important documents being the ones required to send to the Red Tower. The magisters loved their records, and the more innocent the paperwork flowing from Woodsedge was, the longer it would take them to investigate the ce. It was a paperthin ruse, given that they would eventually know the magisters here were dead, but any time they could buy would be valuable.


    The rest of it was simple recordkeeping and administration for the town itself. He was hardly an expert in such matters, but he flew through the pages with such cold efficiency he left the two gold ranked yers wide-eyed with shock.


    ¡°Are you sure you weren¡¯t a clerk in a previous life?¡± Tim had asked him at one point.


    Once he figured out what needed doing and how to do it, it was simple enough to turn those tasks over to Elsbeth and Munhilde, who could then pass them on to the local clergy. On the third day, Tyron rose and stretched, finally freed from the table. After checking on the students and giving them some feedback on their studies, he once again summoned the Ossuary and brought out everything that had remained inside, including the ¡®study materials¡¯.


    Before they had left Cragwhistle, he had received the first offerings from the newly Awakened who now specialised in the preparation of corpses. Those bodies had been fermenting within the Ossuary for some time and needed the condensed death energy within them to be purged, lest they rise on their own, but once that was done, he had dozens of bodies for his students to practise on while he was away.


    After some final instruction, it was time for him to depart. It had been stifling, sitting at the table while the rift was <em>so close</em>. The kin emerging at Cragwhistle hadn¡¯t been strong enough to truly test him anymore; his skeletal horde had grown beyond it. Now he finally had the chance to take on a greater challenge.


    Nagrythyn, the realm beyond the Woodsedge rift, was far more dense in magick that the world of ice which had so recently connected to the western province. More dense magick meant more potent kin, and more of them. With the full might of his undead army, Tyron intended to push harder to gain the levels he desperately needed to realise his ns.


    Stepping out through the hole in the wall, he smiled to himself, thinking just how difficult it had been for him to leave the town the first time he¡¯d tried. After lining the street hoping for a yer team to notice him for days on end, he¡¯d finally gotten a chance when Monica Briar, a mage on Dove¡¯s yer team, had picked him out from the crowd.


    Now, all he had to do was literally walk out through an unrepaired hole in the wall.


    Just like that, he was on his way. With over two hundred skeletons in formation around him, he pressed forwards, into the woods. Despite the teams in the field being told of his presence, he avoided the main path, preferring to go cross country. Not that his path was <em>too</em> rough, given he had dozens of shield-bearing skeletons to clear the way for him.


    He didn¡¯t see too many kin at first, which made sense. After a break, the buildup of monsters on the other side of the rift was depleted. Well, not depleted, they just came into this realm and murdered everything they could find until they themselves were killed, but it still equated to less kin. It would take time for their numbers to build again, and once they did, they would press against the rifts once more, with more slipping through than before.


    After almost an hour of careful trudging, he ran into his first kin. The little ankle-biting swarms had been difficult for him to hunt when he had only a few poor-quality minions, but now they were destroyed before he was really cognizant they were there. The skeletons at the front of his formation skewered them the moment they appeared,unching themselves out of the brush.


    For a moment, he considered collecting their cores, but decided against it. The more he pressed forward, the more frequent the monster attacks became. Eventually he would close in on the rift itself, and then he could finally put his new abilities to the test.

 Chapter B4C16 - Unleash Undeath

    Chapter B4C16 - Unleash Undeath


    Tyron stood, looking down once again on the Broken Lands. The rift at Cragwhistle was much too small to produce such an intense reality-warping effect, but here, it was just as bad as he remembered. The realm itself seemed to twist and shudder as the rifts spewed a torrent of magickal energy forth in an endless stream of power. He was more sensitive to it now, the movement and flow of energy had been his study for the past several years during his Arcanist training, but here, standing so close, he almost couldn¡¯t believe what his senses were telling him.


    <em>So</em> much magick.


    It was¡­ obscene. Perhaps he hadn¡¯t sensed it before because of just how vast it was. In this ce, where the dimensional weave was a tattered, ragged thing, the rifts were like¡­ plug holes in the bottom of a bath. Nagrythyn, an entire world fully polluted by arcane energy, was draining into this one at a staggering rate. There were eight rifts in the western province alone, and this wasn¡¯t even thergest.


    What hope did his world have? Just how much longer would it be before dangerous kin began to arise here? Already, there were beasts twisted by magick. Ro¡¯w were used as messenger birds, but they hadn¡¯t existed before the rifts. Exposure to magick had twisted an existing bird species into something tougher, hardier, more vicious. Across the empire, there were cattle species reared which had not existed before the rifts had opened.


    Already, the magick was woven into every part of their lives, their existence. The Unseen itself was a thing of magick, a weapon to fight back against the poison, allowing people to turn the blight back against itself.


    Yet as Tyron stood, looking down on the rift at Woodsedge, and feeling that torrent of power rising into the sky, he began to understand a little of what the Three had been hinting at.


    This realm, the empire, was on the precipice. The corrupting influence of the rifts was reaching a tipping point, and soon there would be no road back. This realm would fall, bing another endless source of monstrous rift-kin. Then, the power would reach out, punching through the weave to find other, new realms to poison.


    He shook his head. This was a problem far toorge for one Necromancer to handle. There was nothing he could do right now, except focus on himself and his immediate goals. He wasn¡¯t focused on saving, but on destroying.


    There were several teams patrolling the area around the rift. Indeed, there were several fighting right up close to it. Those who spotted him raised an arm, and he waved back, then retreated back into the woods.After establishing a simple camp, he forced himself to sleep. Tackling Nagrythyn was a difficult task and not one he wanted to attempt without proper rest.


    When he awoke, his mind felt refreshed. He rolled from his nkets, stretched, and washed himself with cold water from his canteen. There had been several attacks during the night, but his unsleeping guards had seen to it that he remained safe. Now, Tyron prepared himself with a cold breakfast and some exercises to stimte his mind and loosen his fingers.


    Hisst status ritual had proven to be unusually fruitful in terms of new spells and abilities,rgely thanks to a rush of levels in his new Death Mage sub-ss. Of course, he had performed some tests, done some examination, but putting them to use on the battlefield would soon reveal their true worth.


    Preparationsplete, he assembled the full might of his undead with a thought and proceeded to march toward the rift. With every step, the warping effect of the Broken Lands grew stronger, twisting his senses. Colours seemed to drip and run, his sense of time shifted and bent, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, varying from moment to moment. Even the light was affected. One moment he stood in perfect sunshine, the next he was plunged into deepest shadow, travelling from day to night in a single step.


    It was bewildering, but if he focused, he could push it from his mind and focus on what really mattered. The kin. The closer he drew to the rift, the more his skeletons were engaged by the monsters. Swift, insectile beasts withshing ws and de-like arms, propped up by their many stabbing legs. Swarms of smaller creatures scuttling out from under the foliage to snap and bite at the feet of his undead.


    His troops were more than a match for the challenge. A wall of bone shields stood between him and any foe. His archers and mages reached out to stab into the fast-moving kin before they could draw close. His longsword-wielding skeletons stepped forward in unison, their bodies flowing over the ground with light and easy strides, before they drew back with their des, pulled on his power and struck home.


    It was so effortless. Of course, he needed to concentrate, to direct his troops and sense the threats through the eyes of his ghosts before they could threaten his undead, but against these lesser kin of Nagrythyn, his skeletal horde was untouched.


    He dismissed a twinge of bitterness that threatened to rise up within himself. This solo march to the rift proved exactly what he had hoped all along. A Necromancer <em>could</em> be a forceful weapon against the rifts. Using the bodies and bones of the fallen, useless materials otherwise, one such as himself could do the work of dozens of yers. Were he to grow stronger, perhaps it would be possible for him to hold a rift asrge as the one at Woodsedge by himself.


    He¡¯d been right. It was foolish in the extreme to make Necromancy an illegal ss, a tragic waste that he¡¯d been hunted and spurned rather than weed and celebrated. Ultimately, it didn¡¯t matter. In receiving the ss, he¡¯d been nothing but a pawn in arger game, gods above pping down those who had dared to reach higher than their allotted station.


    Yet perhaps, in the world after the empire had fallen, not all would be lost. Others, like his three students, could be raised up to hold the line against the monsters.


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    When he came to the ridge that looked down upon the rift once more, he didn¡¯t pause or hesitate, but continued on his march. Down he stepped, his skeletons marching alongside him as he gazed on the bridge between realms.


    The rift at Woodsedge was well developed, to the point it wasn¡¯t one single puncture anymore, but several, each of varying sizes. Like the tattering of a well-worn sock, the rift pulled at the threads in the dimensional weave, separating them, allowing more and more holes to appear. When the threads between those holes snappedpletely, the individual openings would merge together, forming an everrger, more destructive gap.


    There were half a dozen such openings here at Woodsedge, individual rifts that allowed the kin to pass from their own corrupted realm into this one. The local yers were hard at work, fighting the kin as they emerged, patrolling the surroundings to catch any who slipped through the. Yet more teams would be on the other side, pushing back the tide, hunting thergest and most powerful beasts lest theye to the rift and try to force their way through, opening the way even wider.


    ¡°Ho there, yers!¡± Tyron called.


    ¡°Ho there, scary as fuck Necromancer!¡± came the reply, causing Tyron to chuckle.


    Adorned in his bone armour and surrounded by undead, he probably did look intimidating.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take this side!¡± he called, pointing to the area he would defend, and the other teams acknowledged him with a wave, shifting their own positions, reducing the area they needed to cover and allowing him his own space.


    For a single individual, he took a lot of space, covering almost a fifth of the circle around the rift by himself, but the others didn¡¯t seem to mind. It made their jobs significantly easier, after all. With the rift itself in front of him, Tyronid out his troops, putting his mages and archers in good positions to fire, his guard pulled tight around him, and his revenants held in reserve. Yet this time, he put himself further forward than he normally would, his fingers twitching with anticipation as he prepared to unleash his new magicks.


    He didn¡¯t have to wait long, since the flow of kin through the rift was basically constant. Sometimes only a few woulde through, five or six over the course of a minute, sometimes there would be dozens. As the monsters crept through, they seemed to hesitate, but only for a moment. Once they realised there was something to kill, something they could corrupt, they charged forward, hissing and clicking, long, ded limbs cutting into the ground with every step.


    When some began to charge his way, Tyron raised his hands, eyes narrowing as he drew in a sharp breath. Words of power thundered into the air, hammering reality like the blows of a smith¡¯s hammer. His hands shed from one sigil to the next, so quickly the transitions between them could barely be seen. In moments, his spell was prepared and he let it fly.


    The closest of the kin, a horse-sized, many-legged monstrosity, twitched and stumbled. A momentter, it screeched as its blood burst out of its body. In long streams, it flowed through the air towards Tyron until it reached a metre from his face. At that point, it flowed into a perfect sphere, widening the more blood was drained into it.


    Tyron watched it take shape with interest. The blood of the kin wasn¡¯t like his own. Rather, it was so dark it was barely red, and so thick he knew his own heart couldn¡¯t hope to pump it. He found he could use simple gestures, flicks of his fingers, to shift the blood, preventing it from blocking his view. It was more responsive than he expected, quick enough that he could feasibly move it on reaction if he saw somethinging his way. But how durable was it?


    Under his orders, one of his closest guards withdrew their sword and shed through the blood shield. Much to his chagrin, the de slid directly through the blood, providing almost no resistance at all.


    Did he not have enough blood? Or was there something else? He needled his own mind, probing the hints and fragments ced there by the Unseen. His eye twitched when he found what he was looking for. He ordered the skeleton to strike again, but this time, his fingers flicked out <em>just so</em>, and the blood hardened, congealing instantly into a solid mass. The de nged off as if it had struck a rock, and he felt the draw on his magick as the blood used his strength to ward off the blow.


    His shield wasn¡¯tpletely unharmed; a portion of the blood had been sheared off by the de, turning into a bubbling pool of ichor on the ground. Tyron nodded slowly. Each aspect of the ability made sense. It was quite magick-intensive, but another barrier between him and his foes was more than wee. With practice, and greater acknowledgement by the Unseen, he would be more efficient with the spell, and increase the amount of protection the shield offered.


    The spell itself hadn¡¯t been enough to kill the kin he had cast it on, but the loss of so much blood had certainly hampered the creature. Once it had regained its bnce, the creature had continued its charge against his skeletons, only to fall, punctured by arrows of bone and Death Bolts without reaching the front line.


    It was a promising start.


    When the next wave charged at his portion of the perimeter, he took part in the fighting more directly, hurling Greater Death Bolts from both hands. More concentrated and impactful than the lesser version, Tyron believed he possibly could have created the spell on his own, but acknowledged he would never have devoted the time to do so. As it was, he was pleased to have a superior weapon he could wield from a safe distance, and would soon impart it to his skeletal mages.


    Drawing back his hands, he concentrated, and once again spoke the words of power. Death Magick congealed around him until he released the spell and sent the power undting through the air, thicker and more potent than before.


    As with the Death¡¯s Grasp, the spell chased down his target, wrapping around it, burning it with death-aligned energy and holding it still. However, this upgraded version of the spell was more robust, more physical. Tyron clenched his fist, and the kin screamed in rage and pain as its shell slowly began to crack under the pressure. Before the spell exhausted its magick, the monster shattered, its guts exploding out over the battlefield.


    ¡°That¡¯s disgusting!¡± one of the yers from an adjacent team called. ¡°But effective! Keep it up!¡±


    Tyron nodded in reply, surprised at the power of the spell he¡¯d unleashed. Death¡¯s Fist had proven itself to be significantly better than the original version of the spell, and he was pleased with the result. It used a <em>much</em> greater amount of magick, however, which meant it may not be practical to teach it to his skeletons.


    For several hours, he continued to hold his ce in the perimeter, practising his new spells on the kin who charged toward his skeletons and directing the battle with his thoughts. When he was satisfied he understood these new abilities well enough, he called out to the surrounding yers once again.


    ¡°In an hour, I¡¯m going to go through the rift! You¡¯ll need to cover this section for me!¡±


    ¡°By yourself?!¡±


    Tyron swept an arm to the skeletal horde around him.


    ¡°Not really!¡± he called back.

 Chapter B4C17 - Nagrythyn

    Chapter B4C17 - Nagrythyn


    Tyron and his ¡®honour guard¡¯ were the first to go through the rift. He wasn¡¯t willing to send his skeletons into a fight he couldn¡¯t see and risk losing many of them. Who knew what monstrosity could be awaiting him on the other side?


    After holding his area of the defensive perimeter around the rift, he pushed forward and allowed the other yer teams to cover the space behind him as he prepared himself to advance. It wouldn¡¯t be the first time he¡¯d crossed over a rift, but it was always a disorienting experience.


    The rifts themselves were¡­ difficult to describe. Rents in space, tears in the dimensional weave connecting two ces which should never have touched. They weren¡¯t neat circles through which a person could peer and inspect the other side before they crossed. Instead, a rift was like a hazy, shimmering area without a defined edge. Peering into the centre of the rift before him, Tyron didn¡¯t see a warped view of thendscape on the other side, as if he were staring through a heat haze; instead, he caught fleeting glimpses of things he didn¡¯t truly understand. Light and time and space and magick, all oveid in strange, twisted patterns that his mind struggled to grasp. People weren¡¯t supposed to see such things, the fundamental nature of the weave, of magick itself, as they interacted in the <em>wrong</em> space before him.


    Almost, he felt as if he could grasp something, but he knew better than to stare too long into a rift. His mother had warned him of the madness that gripped mages who fell into that trap.


    <em>Some things our minds aren¡¯t made to understand,</em> she¡¯d told him<em>. Even if you gained something from the experience, you would be in no state to act upon it, your grasp of reality shattered forever.</em>


    So, filled with resolution, he stepped forward, and once again set his feet upon an alien realm. Physically moving through a rift was wrenching. His guts clenched and his head pounded at the sudden shift, but then he was through, on the other side. He ordered his skeletons forward, and for the rest to pile through behind him, the connection between them still stable through the rift.


    There was too much to take in at once. Crossing was always dangerous, as the kin would gather most thickly around the rifts on this side. While only a few dozen might push through every minute, there could be hundreds here, waiting, circling, trying to push through.


    Despite knowing that several teams were on this side already, the possibility existed he could be jumped by a ravenous horde of monsters the moment he crossed over.


    Fortunately, that wasn¡¯t <em>quite</em> the case. There were dozens of kin still hovering around the rifts on this side. Clearly, one of the teams had swept through not long ago, for there to be so few. At his appearance, the insectile creatures chittered and hissed in rage before they charged toward him. In moments, his troops were under attack, and his hands were moving, weaving magick to ensure he could secure his foothold.The shivering curse mmed down, plunging the surroundings into freezing cold. His skeletons were unaffected, their bones untouched by the prating chill, but the kin were not so lucky. Many recoiled at its touch, but then plunged forward regardless, too maddened by the magick to resist the urge to fight and kill.


    The tables were flipped in an instant. The cursed kin were heavily affected, severely slowed by the curse, allowing his vanguard of revenants and skeletons to hold them back. All the while, the rest of his troops poured through the rift, setting upon the monsters and shifting the numbers advantage to his side. Soon enough, the kin in the area had been neutralised, and the full force of his undead horde had gathered around him.


    An easier crossing than he¡¯d expected, but he wouldn¡¯t look a gift horse in the mouth. Despite having killed the kin in the area, the danger had not passed. A rift this size would pull kin towards it like iron to a lodestone for hundreds of kilometres around. If he remained here, it was only a matter of time before he was overwhelmed, or something toorge for him to handle arrived.


    Just like the other teams who¡¯de across, he wouldn¡¯t remain here, but move some distance away and intercept the kin as they travelled towards the rift. In this way, he could cut down on the numbers reaching the other side in a safe manner, while gaining experience against the strongest that Nagrythyn could throw at them.


    With his immediate safety secured, Tyron hurried away from the cluster of rifts, his skeletons pulled into a tight formation around him. Only then did he finally allow himself to take in his surroundings, and immediately froze in his tracks.


    Whatever name would be given to the realm connected to Cragwhistle, it was an uninteresting ce to look at. In fact, it was almost impossible to see any of it at all, as the entire ce seemed gripped in a perpetual winter storm. Snow and sleet fell continuously, with fierce winds whipping up the ice that had fallen to the ground.


    Here, though¡­ he could see very clearly that he was in a different world.


    The sky burned an angry purple overhead. Boiling clouds wreathed with lightning only allowed glimpses of the dark light that struggled to break through. Thendscape was¡­ a disaster. Spires of stone punched upwards, as if they were the tips of des driven through the crust, and they were covered with hexagonal holes that formed attice pattern in the rock. Wisps of what appeared to be steam could be seen rising from them, and he struggled to imagine what was going on within, until he saw a pack of crawlers emerge, scuttling out of the holes and making a beeline toward the rift.


    Was it from those strange pirs that the kin emerged? How were they made down there? The exact nature of how kin were created was either not fully known, or a well kept secret, for he himself had never been told, nor found it written anywhere. Perhaps there were monstrous creatures spewing out the corrupted kin like termite queens deep below, or perhaps they were formed purely from magick. He had no idea, and though he would like to know such a secret, he had no intention of learning it now.


    No, what he needed to do was make sure he avoided those pirs at all costs as he headed away from the rift.


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    Altering his course, he led his skeletal army between the pirs, keeping as far from each as he could, but it wasn¡¯t easy. They were <em>everywhere</em>. The vegetation wasn¡¯t very thick close to the warping effect of the rift, but the further he travelled, the more he found blue and purple grasses popping up in thick clumps, along with other tangled bushes.


    It was nerve-wracking, and Tyron had never wished so much to have eyes in the back of his head. From any ce around him, kin could spring up at any moment. They could be beneath his feet, separated by only a few metres of soil and stone, and he¡¯d never know. He tried to stay vignt, to keep his focus as razor sharp as he could, but there was something else pulling at his mind. An insistent voice that prodded and poked him, an itch that he was desperate to scratch.


    The magick. The magick was <em>so dense</em>.


    Only within the Ossuary had he experienced anything like it, but even that could notpare to this. His magickal sense was drenched in power. Every rock, every pebble, every de of grass vibrated in his senses, rich with energy to the point he felt they themselves would jump up and attack him. If he focused his eyes in <em>just</em> the right way, he was sure he¡¯d be able to <em>see</em> the power moving in great currents in the air, rolling over thend in wide rivers.


    He clenched his teeth.


    Once he allowed himself to look, to truly <em>look</em>, he wouldn¡¯t be able to stop, he could already tell. Until he got somewhere safe, it would be madness to indulge in such a thing.


    As if to prove his point, there was a rumbling to his right, followed by a pack of kin emerging from a pir, squeezing themselves through the holes to emerge chittering into the open air. When they saw him, Tyron was already issuing orders to his skeletons. Arrows of bone flew through the air as his undead arranged themselves in ranks, his guard drawing tight around him.


    The moment theyid eyes on him, the kin were possessed by the urge to kill that typified their kind. Uttering their eerie, high-pitched screeches, they charged forward, their lithe, many-legged bodies carrying them across the ground at high speed.


    These weren¡¯t the little ankle biters, these creatures were the size of horses. With their bodies held low to the ground, they scuttled at absurd speeds and could sh out with their de-like arms at jarring angles. He ordered his shield-bearing skeletons to ensure they stayed between the foe and his more vulnerable minions. These creatures could cut through half a dozen legs with one sweep of their arms, putting huge numbers of skeletons out ofmission.


    With a sharp impact, one of his minions lowered his shield and caught the first strike well. Digging in its heels, the skeleton drew deep on Tyron¡¯s power to hold itself in ce and absorb the blow as the surrounding undead leapt forward to strike with their longswords. Before they could reach, the kin had already scuttled away, chittering madly as it circled, looking for another opening.


    It was frustrating, but he needed to posture defensively against opponents such as these. Not for the first time, he wished he¡¯d had the time to create mounted skeletons. He could use Raise Dead on horse remains now, giving him ess to faster, more mobile minions, but learning how to stitch an entirely new type of muscture was a daunting task. He hadn¡¯t even perfected his system for human remains yet! It was clearly too early for horses!


    With his current abilities, there were still things he could do.


    Once again, his hands flickered as he spoke the words of power. This time, he was aware enough to sense what was happening as he cast. His words caused the dense magick around him to almost visibly ripple, the arcane energy bending reality to his will in a way that manifested <em>to the naked eye</em>.


    He could almost <em>feel</em> the sigils take shape around his hands, his fingers trailing through the power in the air.


    When he unleashed the shivering curse, it burst out over a wider area than even he had expected. He¡¯d juiced the spell, needing it to cover his entire force and a little beyond to slow the monsters as they approached, but working with such dense magick had pushed the spell even further.


    Slightly intoxicated by the feeling, he began to weave another spell, shaping the magick, pushing the power he contained within himself out into the rich air of Nagrythyn.


    Shortly after, the des of his skeletons became wreathed in dark energy as the Death des spell took effect. With both spells in y, his skeletons would be much more effective against their much faster and better armoured opponents.


    Empowered by his magick, the undead fought back against the kin. The moment the creatures entered the freezing field, they struggled to deal with the cold, recoiling, or rapidly slowing down. His minions pounced, plunging their des deep into the monsters when they got the chance.


    Before Tyron could get too lost in the feeling of casting in this environment, another disturbance shook him from his reverie. Behind him this time, another spire began to resonate with the scritching-scratching sound. Soon enough, another pack emerged, hissing and chittering.


    The Necromancer cursed beneath his breath and made the mental adjustments necessary to shift his formation to amodate this new threat. With more kin joining the fight, he suddenly felt his position was much more precarious. All the spires around him loomed much taller as he began to fear more kin emerging on all sides, surrounding him and his undead. There was no way to know how many there were, waiting to emerge, he could be a dead man already and simply not know it.


    ¡°Damn,¡± he muttered to himself, waking up to how dangerous of a position he¡¯d suddenly found himself in.


    With a mentalmand, he ordered his reserve skeletons to step forward and ce down their burdens. Another thought, and the cauldrons were activated. Dense ck smoke billowed upward and rolled over the field, nketing his entire force in moments. His minions began to pull in the Death Magick contained in the cloud, replenishing their reserves and charging the arrays contained within each of them. Concealed in the darkness, his minions fought harder than before, empowered by the cauldrons.


    Tyron himself wove magick again, this time around his eyes. In the moment, he was most concerned about the unseen kin still lurking in the spires around him, or just below the ground. Kin contained potent concentrations of magick because of the cores within them. If he used the spell which allowed him to see that energy more clearly, perhaps he could catch a glimpse of just how many monsters were in the vicinity.


    Except, he¡¯d miscalcted. Although the spell filtered out the Death Magick, it still made him more sensitive to the rest of the ambient arcane energy around him, and there was a <em>lot</em>.


    The torrential flow of power around Tyron seized his awareness, sweeping him up and blinding him to all else. There were no skeletons, no kin; he couldn¡¯t see a thing except the vast, sweeping currents of magick all around him, in the sky, across the ground, beneath his feet.


    It was <em>everywhere</em>.


    As he stared, he felt something tickle at the edge of his mind. Something about the movement, the pattern, the way it interacted with itself. The way it flowed, winding around itself, spoke to him on some level, and the more he looked, the more he felt there was something he was missing, something he felt he should <em>know</em>.


    Meanwhile, more kin began to creep out of the spires, drawn to the surface by the disturbance.

 Chapter B4C18 - The Sight of Magic

    Chapter B4C18 - The Sight of Magic


    Tyron slumped against the wall of the ravine, gasping for breath.


    <em>Holy fuck. That¡¯d been close!</em>


    He raised a hand to brush the sweat from his eyes, only to find it shaking slightly. It wasn¡¯t surprising. For a moment there, he¡¯d truly felt that he would never see his home realm again.


    Once again, he checked his minions, looked through the eyes of his watching ghosts, just to ensure that he was secure. When he¡¯d confirmed there were no kin in the nearby vicinity, he finally allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.


    It had been a mistake to test his new eye-magick here in the rift. If he¡¯d been cognizant of how vulnerable it would make him to the ambient energy, he would never have used it and orchestrated the fight through the eyes of his undead, who were unaffected by the darkness. As it was, he¡¯d been lost in his reverie for far too long, leaving his minions to battle with their own primitive instincts as more kin had joined the battlefield.


    When therge beast had emerged, breaking up through the ground in an eruption of dirt and stone, the tremors had finally been enough to shock him out of his stupor. If he¡¯de back to himself even a momentter, all may have been lost.


    Therge monster had stunned him. It was asrge as a merchant''s carriage, or perhaps a small house. Covered in thick, chitinous tes and propelled by twelve legs, each as thick as a man, it loomedrge over his skeletons. With short, scythe-like forearms, it had reared back and cut down four of his undead in one slice. If left alone, it would likely have decimated his horde in a matter of minutes.


    As it was, he¡¯d lost more of his precious minions than he¡¯d wanted to. He groaned and leaned his head back against the rock. This rent in the ground created a good bit of cover. From the outside, it looked like a hill that had been cut in half by some monstrous creature, or mighty yer, and perhaps that was exactly what it was.


    With a set of warding stones sitting at either entrance and all of his physically bodied undead pulled within the ravine, he was as hidden and protected as he could be in this realm.There were still spires nearby, but not as many, thankfully. They clustered most densely in the area around the rift before thinning out a bit further away.


    That massive beast¡­


    It had a name, he remembered that much, but couldn¡¯t quite recall what it was. A monster the local yers ran into every now and again, it was one of thergest kin that could fit through the rift at Woodsedge, outside of a break.


    To bring it down as quickly as he could, Tyron had unleashed his full offensive array against it in a flurry of magick that had strained even his dexterity.


    He¡¯d used Blood Shield on it to rip away its ichor. He¡¯d used Sap Life to drain its vitality. Death¡¯s Fists and Greater Death Bolts had rained down on it as fast as he could cast them. Recklessly, he¡¯d rushed to be closer to the creature and began to cast Bone Lance, the hardened spears of bone extending from before his hand to pierce the creature in its side.


    He¡¯d been desperate to cast Suppress Mind, to hold the monstrous kin still, but it had resisted the spell somehow, his magick unable totch onto its mind. Perhaps if he¡¯d been able to meet its eye, the spell would have taken hold, which was another reason he¡¯d rushed to close the distance, but the monster was so alien he couldn¡¯t tell if it even <em>had</em> eyes.


    With the aid of his spells and revenants, the kin had been brought down, but not before fifteen of his undead had been unmade.


    With more kin emerging from the spires, Tyron had realised it had been a mistake to stand and fight in such a location. What had followed was an extended, running battle over ten kilometres as he tried to shepherd his minions to safety while holding off the swarming kin at the same time.


    Now that it was over, he realised just how lucky he was to escape when he had. If another of those massive kin had emerged¡­ killing it would have taken too long, locking him in ce perhaps long enough for kin to swarm out and surround him.


    Tyron shook his head. Despite all his preparation, he¡¯d still underestimated this ce. A Necromancer he might be, a supremely talented mage he might be, but this was a realm that only full teams of silver yers were allowed to enter. This was where Dove and his team had been pushing to level up and reach gold rank. That kin he¡¯d encountered wasn¡¯t even thergest and most deadly creature that could be found here, not by a long shot.


    Hopefully <em>those</em> monstrosities were still thin on the ground after such arge number of them had pushed through the rift during the break.


    In spite of all his advancements, he couldn¡¯t run around doing whatever he liked here. He had to be cautious, be smart, tackle challenges that were within his capabilities, mitigate his losses and maximise his gains.


    Already, he¡¯d lost more skeletons here than he had in all the time he spent beyond the rift at Cragwhistle. Luckily, he still had materials stashed away within the Ossuary. With some time, he could rece his losses, even grow his forces if he wanted to.


    This was the perfect environment for him to grow. The kin here were more powerful and more plentiful than what he could fight in the frozen wastnd at Cragwhistle. His time here would surely be rewarded by the Unseen, but only if he pushed himself to the limit.


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    With a sigh, he shook out his hands and arms before he pushed himself to his feet. An early setback, but it wasn¡¯t too bad, considering the worst-case scenario. He hadn¡¯t lost anything he couldn¡¯t rece, and he¡¯d secured a temporary refuge in the meantime.


    After adjusting his bone armour, he walked to one end of the ravine to check on the warding stones he¡¯d ced there. When he¡¯d first seen Dove¡¯s stones, he hadn¡¯t really understood how they worked, but these ones he¡¯d created himself. They were, effectively, a tool which enabled yers to use a simplified ritual to shield themselves from the kin. Given that they drew in ambient magick to power themselves, they could be set and left alone, for weeks at a time if need be. By suppressing the magickal disturbance caused by all living things, it enabled yers to hide from kin, even if they came quite close.


    The first set was reasonably ced, but not quite perfectly. Tyron adjusted them minutely then stood back to examine the warding again. Much better. Then he repeated the process at the other side. Clearly, he¡¯d been flustered when he put them down the first time, to make such blunders.


    Any kin approaching the ravine wouldn¡¯t have any sense he was here until they were right on top of him. Speaking of on top¡­


    He nced upward. The ravine was perhaps a little shy of fifty metres deep, the sides so smooth it was clear this space hadn¡¯t formed naturally. Perhaps his father had cut this hill? It was possible. The thought warmed him slightly, even as he wryly dismissed it as a fancy of his imagination. Slicing a hill in half was certainly within the realm of the possible for the century yer, the man who¡¯d killed a hundred kin with a single swing of his de.


    If any kin were to approach from above, he had no way of preventing them from detecting him. There wasn¡¯t anything he could do about that for now. Without enough warding stones to line both sides of the entire ravine, there would always be a gap up there. If something happened, he¡¯d have to deal with it at the time. He was totally unwilling to find a cave or hole in the ground to use as his camp, considering that was where all the kin wereing from. Hiding below ground may as well have been a death sentence.


    With his security as robust as it was going to get in the short term, Tyron moved on to the next thing he needed to do. A little food and water, drawing on the supplies he¡¯d brought along, courtesy of his pack skeletons, hit the spot nicely. He needed to keep his energy up here; there could be no more slip-ups.


    After examining the ravine more closely, he chose a rtively t spot where he could establish a small camp and ordered his skeletons to clear it. Of course, there were undead posted at both sides of the gash, and a strong guard around him at all times, just in case, but there were still enough spare minions for the menialbour.


    The absurdity of watching skeletons carrying rocks and setting up his tent had long worn off for Tyron, and he barely spared the undead a nce as they went about their tasks. Instead, his attention was elsewhere. With muttered words and flickered gestures, he cast the magick which would enhance his vision, enabling him to see the flow of power of this world.


    The moment the spell waspleted, he found himself in the centre of a howling wind. For a moment he spun on the spot, disoriented, then realised just what he was seeing.


    Magick was flowing through the ravine, and incredibly quickly at that. In his own realm, the ambient magick was so weak, this spell wouldn¡¯t allow a mage to see it at all. He¡¯d used it as Dove had, to study the remnants of energy left behind by other mages, or to study areas and objects with concentrated power within, such as the rifts themselves.


    Here, in Nagrythyn, it was like¡­ like he¡¯d been beneath the ocean all along, but only now could he see the water.


    Perhaps the magick in his own realm was far from being enough to lead to the creation of local kin? Was the fall of his own world much further away than he¡¯d supposed?


    If that was so¡­ then why was the situation there so desperate? The Venerable had given him a glimpse of just how much had been lost to the rifts during his lifetime. Empires, kingdoms, all gone, consumed by the kin, to the point the people no longer remembered the name of their own realm.


    Only the Empire remained, with its five provinces, and the small satellite peoples along its borders, like the Dust Folk in the southern desert. It was possible other pockets of resistance remained, cut off from the Empire by wide swathes of lost territory, but it seemed unlikely.


    The Dark Ones, the three gods, were born of the realm at the time of its creation, so if anyone could see the whole thing, they could, and they seemed focused on the Empire. If he really wanted to, he could ask them if there were any other holdouts, but he doubted he could trust them to answer honestly.


    So why? Why was the damage soplete? Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer, or at least part of it.


    The yers were the men and women of the Empire who Awakenedbat sses and then trained to fight against the rifts. They were brave, effective, well-trained and dedicated to the mission of saving their homnd¡­ for the most part. But at every turn, they were hobbled and foiled by the Magisters. Branded, in order to control and limit their power. Cursed, to be unable to turn their abilities upon non-kin, and thus incapable of fighting back against their controllers.


    Tyron knew that the Magisters weren¡¯t to me, they were simply the hand of something greater, themselves leashed by the Noble houses. And who controlled the Noble Houses?


    There was an intricate web of power and politics that bound the houses together, all leading back to the line of the Emperor in the central province. However, Tyron wasn¡¯t blind to the true authority in the Empire. The Five Divines spoke through their chosen mediums, and the Houses had no choice but to answer. Their power was based on the divine authority to rule granted to them by their gods. All the five would have to do is take away their blessing, preventing the heirs of the noble houses from inheriting their privileged sses through the awakening stones. The Empire would crumble in a single generation.


    So¡­ did it somehow benefit or serve the Five Divines to have the realm fall so quickly into a perilous state? What did they hope to gain from it, with their own worshippers bearing the brunt of the suffering?


    He shook his head. That was a question for another time. With the magick still enhancing his eyes, he studied the vast flow of power around him.


    To cast a spell, mages drew out the arcane energy contained within themselves and gave it shape via the words of power and sigils formed with the hands. Yet that alone wasn¡¯t enough to power a spell. As Tyron himself had done, it was sometimes necessary to draw in or shape the magick in the area. It was a difficult skill that required a mage to impose their will upon the world around them in order to cast the most powerful spells.


    Watching the magick streaming past him, Tyron sat, his back pressed into the rock, and spoke a word of power.


    With keen interest, he watched as it blossomed into the dense energy around him, shaping it, moulding it ever so slightly to a new shape.


    Again, he spoke, and again, he watched.


    Then again.


    And again.


    So passed his first night in the realm of Nagrythyn.

 Chapter B4C19 - Surprising Faces

    Chapter B4C19 - Surprising Faces


    He snatched a few hours of sleep, but only after thoroughly searching the surroundings with his ghosts. The ravine was still rtively close to the rift, and therefore still highly active. Packs of kin roamed past regrly, on their way to the brokennd to try and push through to his home realm. Luckily, very few wanted to pass through the ravine he had settled in, and those that did were handled by his undead without making too much noise.


    When he awoke, blinking, for a moment, he was disoriented as he stared up at the purple clouds roiling overhead.


    <em>Oh right, this really is another world.</em>


    With that realisation came a sense of urgency, the need to be doing something, achieving his aims, but he slowed himself down. In a ce as dangerous as this, he needed to be at his best at all times. As he drank and ate, his mind inevitably turned to the experiments he had conducted the night before. The words of power had acted¡­ so visibly in this realm. It was as if he could <em>see</em> his spell taking shape, whereas before, he could only feel it, in a vague sense. Perhaps nothing woulde of such ying around, but he felt as though he were on the verge of grasping something meaningful.


    After refreshing himself, Tyron once again studied thendscape through the eyes of his ghosts. Even here, they appeared to be invisible to the kin, though he didn¡¯t eliminate the possibility that <em>something</em> out there might be able to sense them, perhaps even destroy them. For now, they made ideal sentries, and though their vision was poor, it was enough for him to feel safe stepping out of the ravine.


    Once again, he was exposed to the elements here on Nagrythyn, and he found it surprisingly pleasant. Compared to the frozen wastnd which was his only other experience beyond a rift, this was a paradise. The temperature was warm, and the winds were high, but theck of snow and ice were wee. Of course, the powerful kin lurking right beneath his feet put something of a dampener on his enjoyment.


    Ranks of skeletons formed around the Necromancer as he drew his minions into a tight formation. There had been losses yesterday, and though he could absorb losses, too many too soon would force him to return before he was ready, before he had achieved what he wanted to. He would have to fight intelligently, conserving his troops and ensuring he utilised every possible advantage to tilt the odds in his favour.


    d once more in his armour of bone, Tyron strode forward, leaving behind only a small guard to protect the campsite.


    He didn¡¯t want to go too far, the spires were far moremon the closer to the rift he travelled, and he didn¡¯t want a repeat of the day before. So instead, he found an area where he could intercept most of the kin bypassing the ravine, as well as pick off those who emerged from the dozen or so spires he could see within a kilometre.Being where he was, it didn¡¯t take long to encounter his first kin. In fact, he hadn¡¯t even reached the spot he¡¯d decided was a likely hunting ground before a pack of roaming monsters spotted him and rushed forward, eager to tear him apart.


    Although there weren¡¯t many of them, only four of the ¡®regr¡¯ sized kin, Tyron went on the offensive, using his magick to devastating effect against the monsters.


    Blood shield inflicted damage and offered him an extrayer of protection, then he rained down Greater Death Bolts, Bone Spears and Death¡¯s Grasp. The kin were pummeled by his rapid-fire spells, allowing his undead to step forward and finish them off without difficulty.


    It wasn¡¯t the most efficient way for him to hunt. He wouldn¡¯t gain levels for fighting on his own, only his minions fighting for him would grant him experience from the Unseen, but he couldn¡¯t afford to allow even the smallest fight to extend unnecessarily. The feeling of getting bogged down and surrounded still haunted him, and Tyron was <em>not</em> keen to repeat the experience.


    Once he established his little hunting ground, things went a lot smoother. Kin would emerge from the spires nearby and attack the moment they spotted him¡ªsitting upon a small rise as he was, he was hard to miss. At regr intervals, packs travelling toward the rift woulde close enough to spot him, and simrly would charge in a blind rage.


    The kin of Nagrythyn were terrifying creatures. The bulk of those he saw wererge, horse-sized monsters, hunched over and scuttling about on sharp, insect legs. Some were swift, incredibly so, with scythe-like de arms that could sweep through unprepared skeletons like they were made of paper, where others were heavier and slower, use their powerful jaws to snap at his undead, or trample them to the ground with sheer bulk.


    Swarms of the smaller ankle-biters were also fairlymon, requiring his skeletons to spear them on the ground before they chomped through their shins. It was the mixed groups that caused him the most trouble. Swarms of little biters, arriving alongside groups of either kind ofrger kin, or both. On those asions, he had to unleash the full force of his magick, using curses and offensive spells to weaken the monsters and strengthen his undead. Fortunately, he was yet to see anythingrger, like he had the day before.


    Except at one point¡­ where he had felt a tremor through the ground beneath his feet. At first, he¡¯d thought it might be caused by something below, and had been carefully considering getting the heck off the little rise, but then he¡¯d seen something in the distance.


    The light was dim on Nagrythyn, with the sky blocked by the perpetual storm, so he could only just make it out in the distance, but what he saw had been terrifying.


    Perhaps as tall as the wall around Woodsedge, the beast looked like a moving hill. Propelled on legs as thick as trees, it slowly heaved itself forward, heading toward the rift.


    As he¡¯d tracked the slow march of the creature, Tyron could only stare, eyes wide as he witnessed the passage of the kind of monster his parents had regrly been called on to fight. Indeed, judging by the size of it, that had been exactly the sort of monster which had knocked through the walls around Woodedge and bulldozed a path through the buildings inside. Multiple of them hade through the rift during the break, and now another was heading that way. Normally, they couldn¡¯t get through¡­ but that was before. Now? Perhaps it was possible¡­.


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    But there wasn¡¯t anything he could do about it at the moment. He wasn¡¯t strong enough to fight something like that. Not yet.


    So he settled back down and returned his attention to the field around him. For the next few hours, Tyron maintained his vigil and the undead fought. Several times, he was forced to use the cauldrons, nketing the area with dark fog in order to overwhelm the kin, and his skeletons were pressed many times.


    Learning to jugglemanding the undead and casting was perhaps the greatest challenge he faced. His undead possessed extremely simple minds, and when they weren¡¯t being directed by him personally, they acted in predictable ways, which left them open to getting overwhelmed or cut down. So he couldn¡¯t stop paying attention to the minions and focus solely on casting, but if he wasn¡¯t casting spells, then that also left his skeletons under threat.


    It revealed a troubling weakness that Tyron would need to ovee if he wanted to achieve the scale of undead horde that he wanted. If he were managing a thousand skeletons, or ten thousand, he couldn¡¯t afford to be directing all of them himself. Even if he focused all of his attention to the task, he still wouldn¡¯t be able to manage it, and couldn¡¯t cast any supporting magick at all.


    It was something he considered as the day continued to go by, filled with nigh-constant fighting.


    When he was starting to contemte returning to the ravine for the day, he heard something unexpected, a human voice, calling out to him.


    ¡°Ho the yer!¡±


    Tyron pricked up his ears and began to look around, not seeing anyone nearby.


    ¡°Ho the yer!¡± he called back.


    He knew there were other teams here in Nagrythyn, but he hadn¡¯t really expected to run into one. Tyron continued to look around, but he didn¡¯t see anyoneing forward.


    ¡°Just to be sure,¡± the hidden voice called out again, ¡°you aren¡¯t a crazy illegal who¡¯s looking to murder us, are you?¡±


    ¡°No to thest part,¡± Tyron replied, cupping his hands around his mouth to help his voice carry further. ¡°But I am definitely crazy, and possess an illegal ss. What was the first clue?¡±


    ¡°The undead horde was a bit of a giveaway,¡± a man said wryly as he stepped out from behind a rocky outcrop.


    He was much closer than Tyron had thought he was. Perhaps he¡¯d used some trick to cast his voice? Or a skill?


    ¡°You¡¯re a scout?¡±


    ¡°Guilty,¡± the man replied with a smile that never touched his eyes. ¡°My team has been tracking a ratherrge beastie that seems to be heading toward the rift. I¡¯m going to assume you saw it.¡±


    Tyron grimaced.


    ¡°I did,¡± he replied, then pointed. ¡°I spotted it over there, heading that way.¡±


    The scout turned to look where he was indicating then nodded. ¡°You¡¯re lucky it wasn¡¯t any closer. Not sure how well your troops would have held up against it.¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Tyron replied honestly, then considered for a moment before he sighed. ¡°Look, I have a camp nearby, well supplied and sheltered. Obviously, it¡¯s not easy to trust the guy covered in human bones, but I¡¯m here to kill kin, the same as you, and if you need rest, I can provide it.¡±


    He wouldn¡¯t me them for turning him down. Necromancers needed strong remains to grow their power, and a team of yers beyond the rift¡­ If they went missing, who could possibly say what happened to them? He could ughter them and reanimate their bones with no one being the wiser.


    As expected, the scout appeared somewhat leery of the suggestion.


    ¡°Well¡­ I won¡¯t say we don¡¯t need a rest¡­ but I think I¡¯d better consult with the team before agreeing to something like this.¡±


    Tyron could only shrug.


    ¡°I understand. If you need supplies, I have fresh water and food that I can bring back here and hand over in open ground.¡±


    That suggestion brightened up the scout¡¯s expression.


    ¡°Well, I think I can agree to that directly. Thanks very much. I¡¯ll be back in¡­ an hour with the rest of my team. Is that reasonable?¡±


    Tyron nodded. He could hold out for that long. In a blink, the scout was gone, vanishing before Tyron could even acknowledge that he¡¯d moved.


    Scouts. Abination of speed and stealth was frankly terrifying to contemte. When he thought of what incredible feats the trained assassins of the empire might be capable of, because he was certain they must exist, he began to wonder if he might have to live under a permanent cloud of cauldron smoke, just so they couldn¡¯t see him.


    He sent a pack of twenty skeletons along with two of his revenants back to camp to retrieve supplies as he continued to maintain his position, thinning out the kin and practising his abilities.


    After a full day of fighting, he felt he was starting to get a handle on his new offensive spells. He could cast them with greater speed and precision, but his aim still needed a bit of work.


    It took thirty minutes for his minions to return with the supplies, but as the scout had said, Tyron didn¡¯t see the yers arrive until just after the full hour had passed.


    There were six of them, and clearly they¡¯d been out in the rift for some time. Bedraggled and weary, each of them carried minor wounds and scrapes to show for their extended stay in the field.


    The scout raised a hand as they approached, and Tyron waved back. With a small group of skeletons around him, as well as some carrying the packs, he stepped forward and stopped twenty metres away.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got some food, water and basic medical supplies here. Bandages, poultices, nothing fancy,¡± he said, sending his skeletons forward to ce the bags on the ground.


    He¡¯d brought more than he needed, and this sort of thing was expected beyond the rifts. His parents had told him many times of the camaraderie and shared mission of yer teams battling in the harshest conditions in other realms. Tyron didn¡¯t expect to make any friends out here, but he would do his part to help others keep back the kin withoutint.


    ¡°Thank you, yer,¡± the scout acknowledged, sounding genuinely grateful. ¡°My team appreciates it.¡±


    There was a chorus of muttered agreement as the rest of the team eyed the skeletons warily. Then one of themnded their gaze on Tyron himself.


    ¡°Wait¡­ Lukas. Is that you?¡±


    Tyron¡¯s head swivelled on his shoulders as he turned to stare at the young man who¡¯d spoken out. For a brief moment, he even wondered what face he was wearing, but he knew he didn¡¯t have a mour up at the moment, so they should be seeing his normal appearance.


    ¡°Uh¡­ that¡¯s not my real name, but I have gone by Lukas. Can I ask who¡¯s speaking?¡±


    The young man stepped forward and nted his spear in the ground, spreading his hands so Tyron could see him more clearly. Something tickled at his memory, and the Necromancer gaped.


    ¡°Wait¡­ are you Rell?¡±


    The young man grinned.


    ¡°The very same.¡±

 Chapter B4C20 - Progress

    Chapter B4C20 - Progress


    Richard ran a critical eye over his zombie. He wasn¡¯t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he knew his teacher had extremely high standards and was careful to iron out every w he could find in all that he did, so Richard aspired to do the same.


    The problem was¡­ he wasn¡¯t exactly sure what he was looking for.


    ¡°It looks like a zombie,¡± Georg said tly. ¡°Why are you looking at it as if it were a cow you were thinking of taking to show?¡±


    The clerk¡¯s son frowned.


    ¡°What do you mean, ¡®take a cow to show¡¯? Show who?¡±


    Georg rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Richard, you aren¡¯t so city you¡¯ve never heard of a harvest festival.¡±


    ¡°Of course I have.¡±


    Briss also looked confused, so after looking back and forth between the two of them, Georg slumped his broad shoulders and shook his head.¡°I can¡¯t believe this. Farmers hold contests at harvest festivals to see who has the best crops and animals. Some take it very seriously and breed their cattle for generations to try to get the best ones to rear and take to show. Richard was looking over his zombie as if it were a prized heifer.¡±


    The farmhand almost seemed embarrassed having to exin something so basic and rural, but the others merely nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been to a harvest festival before, but I only saw the veggies on disy. I saw a pumpkin so big I could have used it as a table!¡±


    Briss giggled.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have to take your word for it, country boys. I¡¯ve never seen anything like that.¡±


    ¡°Getting back to the matter at hand,¡± Richard said, turning back to his minion. ¡°I <em>was</em> trying to see if there was anything wrong with this zombie. I¡¯m not sure if there¡¯s anything to see, though¡­¡±


    ¡°I fixed it up about as well as I know how,¡± Georg said, then looked down at the book of anatomy he¡¯d been studying, a gift from their teacher. ¡°I still don¡¯t understand half of this. I had no idea a person had so many muscles.¡±


    The others weren¡¯t sympathetic. They¡¯d been tasked with memorising the bones of the body <em>as well</em> as the muscles and ligaments. To create a proper skeleton, they would need to create their own muscture, after all.


    After looking over the undead a few more times, Richard eventually turned away with a sigh. There didn¡¯t seem to be much point staring at it any longer. Tyron could probably tell him a dozen ws with a nce, but Richard just didn¡¯t know what he was looking for.


    ¡°You need to be more positive, Richard!¡± Briss tried to encourage him. ¡°You were able to cast the Raise Dead ritual! That¡¯s a massive step forward from where you were before.¡±


    ¡°This is only the basic version,¡± Richard downyed his achievement, refusing to allow himself to celebrate. ¡°The full ritual is ten times asplicated. This is only the beginning.¡±


    ¡°Give up, Briss,¡± Georg said, head back down in his book. ¡°He¡¯s made up his mind to never feel good about anything he achieves ever. Leave him to it.¡±


    Briss rolled her eyes.


    ¡°He¡¯s the first of us to manage a sessful cast; even Timothy was impressed at how quickly he managed to learn.¡±


    ¡°I think Mage Timothy was just looking down on us,¡± Georg said. ¡°He didn¡¯t appear to be all that pleased to be helping us.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s just busy,¡± Richard defended the gold yer, though not really knowing why. ¡°Doing a favour for Tyron is probably low on his list of priorities.¡±


    After all, to the gold ranked yers in charge of organising the rebellion here at Woodsedge, their teacher was not some major figure. In fact, the only reason he received the attention he did was due to his family name and not any merit he possessed himself.


    ¡°How are you finding the repair flesh spell, Georg?¡± Richard asked, turning his attention away from his unmoving zombie. ¡°Have you managed to level it up yet?¡±


    Therge farmhand looked up from the medical text in front of him, a frustrated expression on his face.


    ¡°It¡¯s slow. No, I haven¡¯t levelled it. I need more¡­¡± Georg considered his words for a moment, then decided to lean into it, ¡°... bodies to work with.¡±


    Both Briss and Richard grimaced at his choice of words. His two fellow students had shown reluctance to engage with the more grisly realities of their ss, and he was growing tired of watching them dance around the subject.


    ¡°The spell is called Flesh Mending,¡± he told Richard, ¡°it fixes the meat on a dead person. I know we have some carcasses to work with, but I haven¡¯t gone around working on all of them behind your backs.¡±


    Richard looked a little green.


    ¡°Is it really necessary¡­¡± he started, but Georg cut him off.


    ¡°Yes. It is.¡± He pointed a finger at the motionless zombie in the room with them. ¡°Look at that. You remember that was a person at some point, right?¡±


    ¡°Of course I remember,¡± Richard said.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you keep it in your head enough,¡± Georg stated tly. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if you¡¯re going to handle what¡¯sing next.¡±


    Briss cleared her throat.


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    ¡°You don¡¯t have to be so hard on him, Georg. This isn¡¯t easy to get used to. Just because we became Necromancers doesn¡¯t mean we suddenly befortable working with dead people.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going to ¡®work with them¡¯. You¡¯re going to butcher them with your own two hands, like stripping meat from an animal. Do you have any idea how much blood is in a living creature? How much offal and sinew? I¡¯ve been elbow deep in cow guts, and that¡¯s bad enough, but doing it to a human? That¡¯s a whole new level.¡±


    Richard shifted on his feet, ufortable with the conversation, but Briss fell silent, her expression more sad than anything else.


    ¡°I know about all this. We <em>all</em> know about this. I felt we would be able to work on it gradually. Get used to it bit by bit. I hardly think Tyron would expect us to be¡­ removing waste from a corpse immediately.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± Georg asked, his voice tinged with humour.


    If anything, he felt it was more likely their teacher would demand exactly that, as opposed to handling them with kid gloves and taking them through the process in carefully managed stages. He could tell Richard had the same thought, as he imagined Tyron standing before them, holding out a knife and wondering why they were wasting time.


    ¡°You two both need to step up,¡± Georg told them. ¡°I¡¯m here working on what I need to improve my zombies. I¡¯ve gotten hands on with two of the corpses already, repairing them as best I can, and I¡¯m figuring out the Raise Dead ritual bit by bit.¡±


    His progress was slower than the other two, but he felt it wouldn¡¯t be long until he too could cast the simple version Tyron had written for them. Once he¡¯d mastered that, he could start learning the expanded list of words and gestures needed for the real thing.


    ¡°You two are both faster at learning magick than I am, but you haven¡¯t started preparing for your first skeleton.¡±


    He pointed a finger toward the cool room where the dead bodies Tyron had left them were stored.


    ¡°When are you nning to butcher and start working on your skeleton muscles?¡±


    Briss sighed and walked over to where Georg was sitting, cing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.


    ¡°All right,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯ve made your point. Come on, Richard.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Richard said. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we wait for Tyron to return, so he can teach us how to do this?¡±


    ¡°He already showed us the basics of getting a skeleton up and moving. I know you have the same reference sheets that I do. Grab a knife and let¡¯s do this.¡±


    She looked a little green, but clearly she was determined to go through with it. With hard eyes, she stared at Richard, overriding his splutteredints with her steely gaze.


    ¡°Georg is pushing us to move faster because he understands what¡¯s going to happen to us if we don¡¯t learn. We¡¯ll die, Richard. If we can¡¯t protect ourselves, we are going to fucking die. The magisters, the priests, the soldiers, maybe even yers, they are going toe here, and they are going to <em>fucking</em> kill us. We can¡¯t afford to wait for Tyron. Who knows how long it¡¯s going to be until he gets back? We need to start figuring this out ourselves.¡±


    Richard listened to her speak, more words than they usually got out of the mousy girl in a day, with more anger than they usually got in a week. When she was done, he hung his head for a brief moment, then nodded.


    ¡°Alright,¡± he said. ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s¡­ let¡¯s do this. Come on, Georg, you¡¯reing too.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what?¡± the former farmhand said, looking up in confusion. ¡°You need me to hold your hand?¡±


    ¡°In a sense, yes,¡± Richard said firmly. ¡°I¡¯ve never butchered anything, and neither has Briss. Who¡¯s going to teach us so we don¡¯t cut our own fingers off?¡±


    Although he didn¡¯t like it, Richard had a point. After thinking about it for a second, Georg pushed himself up to his feet with a sigh.


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll help you, but only for the first one. I¡¯m behind the two of you on casting. I need to practise.¡±


    With varying levels of reluctance, the three students approached the cool store, sharp knives in hand.


    Over the next two hours, each of them had run out in order to empty their stomachs, though Georg had only had to do so once. By the end, Richard had been on his hands and knees, dry heaving into the grass. When they were done, the three students emerged from the storeroom, blood up to their elbows and spattered over their clothes. Each of the three was pale, though the former farmhand had fared much better than the others in this respect as well.


    Richard was again, by far, the worst. White as fresh linen and trembling, he had struggled throughout the entire process, though he persisted to the end.


    ¡°I think¡­¡± he muttered, ¡°I think¡­ I¡¯m going to wash up.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll go after you,¡± Briss said softly as she stared into the distance.


    Georg chuckled as he looked down at himself.


    ¡°That was worse than I thought it was going to be,¡± he admitted. ¡°The smell¡­¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Richard said, holding up a hand, ¡°stop talking.¡±


    ¡°I was just going to say the smell I could deal with.¡±


    Richard turned resolutely away and began to walk toward the outside path.


    ¡°But the <em>eyes</em>,¡± Georg groaned. ¡°I didn¡¯t know they could <em>pop </em>like that.¡±


    Richard immediately heaved, clutching at his stomach as his guts spasmed in pain.


    ¡°You¡­ prick,¡± he managed to get out before staggering away, trying to control himself.


    ¡°That was evil,¡± she said.


    Georg scratched the back of his head, then remembered the state of his hands and grimaced.


    ¡°You¡¯re right, I¡¯ll tell him I¡¯m sorry when he gets back.¡±


    Briss nodded before she looked down at herself. For a moment, he thought she might run off to be sick again, but she only sighed and looked up at the sky.


    ¡°That was awful,¡± she admitted. ¡°I absolutely hated it. But I¡¯m d you made us do it. Thanks for pushing us, Georg.¡±


    He shrugged a little awkwardly.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. You two are going to be much better than I am at this, you just need to¡­ be more serious about it.¡±


    Briss shook her head in silent disagreement.


    ¡°You have a much better temperament than us. You¡¯ve taken the most difficult aspects of Necromancy in stride. I feel like your attitude toward life and death is much more closely aligned to where it should be for this kind of work. I envy that about you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothin¡¯ special,¡± he said. ¡°When you grow up on a cattle farm, things are dying all the time. You get used to it.¡±


    She looked straight at him then, and for a moment, he felt as if she were looking <em>through</em> him.


    ¡°Richard and I will get used to it,¡± she corrected him. ¡°We¡¯ve never been around death, not like this, but we will get ustomed to it. You, on the other hand, you never had to get used to it, this is what life has always been like for you. It might not seem like much of a difference, but I think it¡¯s profound. The more we grow, the more I think you¡¯ll see.¡±


    He still didn¡¯t think it was that big of a deal, but he didn¡¯t have a way to articte well what he thought on the matter, so he only shrugged again.


    ¡°Richard will be done soon. You go next and wash up.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    She left, and not long after, Richard returned, looking much better for having a chance to wash himself down.


    ¡°Get the taste of sick out of your mouth?¡± Georg asked him.


    Richard grimaced.


    ¡°Barely.¡±


    He was still shirtless and dripping from the well water he¡¯d used to clean himself. He wandered over to his pack and pulled out something clean to wear and pulled it on to stop himself from shivering.


    Georg stuck a thumb behind him.


    ¡°Richard¡­ when are you going to let that poor zombie die?¡±


    ¡°Oh shit!¡±

 Chapter B4C21 - Unlikely Reunion

    Chapter B4C21 - Unlikely Reunion


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you survived all this time. You¡¯ve lived quite an interesting life, Rell.¡±


    The young man, still as stone-faced as he ever was, merely quirked up one corner of his mouth and smirked.


    ¡°I find it a little difficult to take that from <em>you</em>, Tyron Sterm. To think I was standing next to yer royalty on Victory Road.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me that.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t deny it. Look at how this lot changed their tune when they found out what your name was.¡±


    The Necromancer looked back at the rest of Rell¡¯s team, following behind the two of them, far more trusting now that they knew who he was. It hade out in bits and pieces after he¡¯d recognised the former rat, who¡¯d known him by ¡®Lukas.¡¯


    ¡°Feels like a lifetime ago we were sitting on the side of that road. Rats trying to get picked by yer teams heading out to the rifts,¡± Tyron reflected. ¡°Ci was there as well. I hadn¡¯t thought about her in a long time.¡±


    ¡°Ci¡­¡± Rell shook his head. ¡°She was the only other rat I¡¯d seen with potential. I always wondered what happened to her. I assume she died on the rift, or during the break.¡±


    ¡°She¡­ she died. I found her and the rest of her team in the woods around the rift.¡±An unpleasant memory. The scene of the battle, the dead kin scattered around, a full team of fallen yers, and their young, aspiring rat, torn apart.


    Rell breathed out.


    ¡°That¡¯s a shame. She was a bright spark surrounded by withered shadows in those days.¡±


    He grimaced and gestured with his head toward the skeletons around them.


    ¡°Is she¡­?¡±


    Tyron frowned, then realised what he meant.


    ¡°Oh. No. No, she isn¡¯t. I buried her.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t been able to bring himself to do it. The reason he¡¯d gone into those woods in the first ce was exactly for that purpose, to hunt down the remains of fallen yers so he could turn them into skeletons. In his head, he¡¯d imagined finding bodies weeks or more old, mostly rotted, even just skeletons with scraps of flesh clinging to them. Faced with the prospect of butchering a young woman he¡¯d known when she was alive, he¡¯d crumbled and thrown up everything in his stomach before burying her.


    If he found her today¡­ it would be different, a thought he didn¡¯t linger on for long.


    ¡°Sorry I asked,¡± Rell said. ¡°I understand, you need to make the most of your ss, and it isn¡¯t as though you asked to be a Necromancer. I don¡¯t begrudge you having to utilise the remains of the dead.¡±


    Tyron eyed the man next to him with a critical eye. When he¡¯d first met Rell, they¡¯d spent four days side by side on Victory Road, eating dust as yer teams marched past, never so much as meeting their eye. It was only on the fourth day he¡¯d been picked up by Dove¡¯s team, though the Summoner hadn¡¯t been with them. At the time, Rell had been a simply dressed, serious and oddly disciplined young man. Where everyone else had sat, he¡¯d stood to attention, showing his grit and determination in the hopes it would help get picked.


    Obviously, it had worked. He¡¯d already been out ande back alive when Tyron had first met him, and now he was here.


    ¡°I hope you don¡¯t mind if I ask you a few questions,¡± he said.


    ¡°Ask away,¡± Rell nodded.


    Tyron considered for a moment.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t branded, are you?¡±


    Rell snorted and shook his head.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m not, Gods forbid.¡±


    ¡°So that means you¡¯re prepared¡­ to be part of a revolution?¡±


    He didn¡¯t answer for a time, measuring his words.


    ¡°When your parents¡­ Magnin and Beory died¡­ let¡¯s say that tempers were high. Many yers threw down their weapons and pledged to make the magisters pay the same day they found out. I also wasn¡¯t happy with how your family had been treated, and nobody bought their lies about it for a moment, but more than that, I also have reasons to see things change in this realm.¡±


    ¡°Then you know what my next question is going to be.¡±


    ¡°I suppose so,¡± Rell sighed.


    ¡°ss and level?¡± Tyron grinned.


    ¡°It¡¯s rude to ask people their level,¡± Rell frowned, but a slight smile gave the game away. He¡¯d given Tyron this warning once before, many years ago. ¡°You might be surprised at how closely our paths aligned in those early days. I was also on the run, though not quite as hunted as you.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s brow went up.


    ¡°I find that quite surprising. Now I¡¯m even more curious.¡±


    ¡°Bard,¡± Rell replied shortly. ¡°I Awakened as a bard.¡±


    There was silence between them for a minute.


    ¡°Not going to run away?¡± Rell asked.


    ¡°What? No, I¡¯m just surprised,¡± Tyron replied honestly, then his thoughts caught up. ¡°Oh, the mental influence. It shouldn¡¯t work on me, I¡¯ve ced severalyers of protection around my mind.¡±


    He¡¯d be foolish not to, considering everything he¡¯d been through.


    A <em>bard</em>, of all things. That was truly unexpected. It made Rell¡¯s story all the more remarkable. It was a minor miracle he¡¯d even made it to Woodsedge to start a new life as a rat. Combined with the added miracle of his surviving the break, his story was truly something remarkable.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t much favour living a life of luxury?¡± Tyron asked.


    Rell shot him a disgusted look and Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°yers have to reach gold before they get that kind of treatment. It isn¡¯t as if people who yearn for that treatment don¡¯t exist.¡±


    ¡°No thank you,¡± Rell said curtly. ¡°The thought of living my life with a chain around my neck didn¡¯t appeal. So I did the same thing I imagine you did, I ran.¡±


    ¡°And this team is fine with it? They don¡¯t mind having you around?¡±


    ¡°They trust me,¡± Rell said, grim-faced. ¡°I do everything I can to suppress my influence and focus my efforts on my sub-sses.¡±


    ¡°You could just give it up, relinquish the Bard ss.¡±


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°I¡¯ve thought about it. Many times. The stats are good, and it can be surprisingly easy to level. Some of the abilities are handy for a yer to have. Even so, I would have thrown it away a long time ago, but the group persuaded me to keep it.¡±


    Tyron turned back to speak to the others.


    ¡°See that hill there? The one split in half? That¡¯s where my camp is.¡±


    ¡°Is it clear?¡± the scout asked him.


    Tyron concentrated for a moment.


    ¡°It is for the moment. Kin do try to run through it, but most go around. I¡¯ve got skeletons in position to kill the ones who get through the wards.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s pick up the pace, then. A little rest is just what we need.¡±


    Shortly after, the group stepped into the ravine, and just like that, there was a barrier between them and the danger of Nagrythyn. A paper-thin barrier, and some undead, but a barrier nheless. It was interesting to watch the changee over the group, the release of tension, the slight easing in their posture. A little of their wariness bled out of them and Tyron could only imagine how draining it was to be out in the field for so long.


    yers could spend weeks at a time beyond the rifts, though it wasn¡¯t rmended. Even Rell rxed a little, though his iron self control didn¡¯t slip much.


    At least now Tyron knew why he kept himself on such a short leash.


    ¡°I¡¯ll try to keep the skeletons out of your way,¡± he told his guests, ¡°but keep in mind I¡¯m not controlling them directly all the time. They won¡¯t bother you; just step to the side if you see one walking towards you.¡±


    He gestured toward the middle of the ravine.


    ¡°My camp is there. Feel free to set yourselves up wherever you please, there¡¯s no pressure to join me. This side is much safer than the other, so I¡¯d rmend resting here.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll do that, then,¡± the scout nodded, grateful, yet still keeping his guard up.


    Tyron had no issue with that. Trusting a Necromancer you just met seemed like a quick way to get yourself murdered. He waved a hand to the group and left to head towards his own tent, leaving them to their business. To his surprise, after a moment''s hesitation, Rell followed him.


    Once he reached his modest camp, Tyron sat, his back against the wall of the ravine, pulled an apple from his pack, and waited until Rell, despite exhibiting some reluctance, sat alongside him.


    ¡°Hard to imagine Magnin and Beory¡¯s son turning out to be a Necromancer.¡±


    ¡°Imagine how <em>I</em> felt.¡±


    It was interesting talking to Rell. This was someone he¡¯d first met before everything had reached the point of no return. There wasn¡¯t anything remarkable about the time they¡¯d spent together, just idle conversation while waiting in the beating sun. Yet he felt as if a strange thread connected the two of them. To think they had bothnded in Woodsedge under such simr circumstances, and now found themselves fighting on the same side.


    ¡°When my parents died, right in front of me, they told me why, and how, and who was responsible. Exined everything, so I didn¡¯t have to live my life guessing. They wanted me to live out a peaceful life, had made arrangements for me. I could hide from the magisters, take up a false identity, be protected by their friends, and just¡­ live out my days.¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°I refused. I refused then, and I refuse now. My mother and father didn¡¯t deserve to die that way, after everything they¡¯d done. They were <em>heroes</em>. I¡¯m going to kill every single person responsible, burn it all down to the ground. It won¡¯t stop when the western province falls. Once that happens, it only elerates. The other provinces get involved, the emperor gets involved. Everything bes harder at that point, but I won¡¯t stop then. I won¡¯t stop until it¡¯s all gone.¡±


    ¡°If you do that, a lot of people are going to suffer. Not just the ones you want to hurt, but everyone else. The people without a choice.¡±


    Tyron turned his head and looked Rell dead in the eye.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care,¡± he said, simply, and held up the red fruit in his hand. ¡°If the empire is an apple and the people are its flesh, I¡¯ll cut through as much as I have to until I get to the core. Nothing else matters to me.¡±


    He raised his hand and took a bite. The skin crunched under the force of his teeth, releasing juice which ran down his chin.


    ¡°And you have to do the same,¡± he said, while chewing. ¡°There¡¯s no other way out for you. Either you die, or you keep surviving until the empire no longer exists.¡±


    Hispanion sat in silence for a time, absorbing this, until he nodded.


    ¡°I know,¡± he said quietly, ¡°I¡¯ve always known that, but I suppose I¡¯ve never really believed it was possible. I wanted to live out my dream, to be helpful, and useful. I wanted to contribute, and save this realm from the kin. When it seemed as though the Awakening had stripped that chance from me, I was devastated.¡±


    ¡°Bards are helpful.¡±


    ¡°I refuse to live in chains, singing to distract the people from their plight.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to sing,¡± Tyron said. ¡°Some bards only talk.¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡±


    The Necromancer continued to eat, chewing thoughtfully as he considered what might happen next.


    ¡°How many others are there, like you?¡±


    ¡°Bards?¡±


    ¡°No. I mean unbranded yers. People getting trained up to fight.¡±


    ¡°A few dozen. Why?¡±


    Tyron pulled a face.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to need a hell of a lot more than that.¡±


    ¡°There are more. There¡¯s others being trained in almost every keep in the province.¡±


    ¡°And how do you know that?¡±


    ¡°yers talk. They¡¯ve beenworking for years, though not in an organised way.¡±


    ¡°And what are you going to do?¡± Tyron said directly. ¡°As an unbranded Bard, you¡¯re pretty much as illegal as I am. What¡¯s your n?¡±


    Rell¡¯s face hardened.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to keep doing what I¡¯m doing. I¡¯m fighting, getting strong, killing kin. I¡¯ve got two sub-sses dedicated to fighting now, Marksman and Field Scout.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve already advanced them?¡± Tyron asked, surprised.


    ¡°I¡¯ve worked hard.¡±


    ¡°Have you figured out a third sub-ss yet?¡±


    Rell eyed him.


    ¡°Not yet,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°It should be charisma-based.¡±


    This wasn¡¯t what Rell wanted to hear, but Tyron continued to speak before he could say anything.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got two agility-based sses. Sure, you can shoot some arrows, throw some daggers, make yourself useful in the field, but you¡¯ll never be as good as someone who Awakened to a primary fighting ss. You already know that.


    ¡°But that¡¯s fine. You can fight, you can help, good. But taking anotherbat sub-ss isn¡¯t going to make <em>that</em> much of a difference. You¡¯ll go from a mediocre yer, to a reasonable one, <em>after</em> you manage to advance it. Instead, you need to lean into your strength and pick something that enhances the benefits of your primary ss.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to be a bard.¡±


    The words were spoken calmly, but there was a tightness to Rell that spoke to how distasteful he found the very idea. Tyron couldn¡¯t me him. Bards were equally as feared as they were respected. Men and women with such maic charisma it bordered on mind control. For the safety of the people, they were escorted everywhere they went, considered a necessary evil. A song or story from a normal person was only that, but from the mouth of an experienced bard? A song could entrance an entire vige, transport them from this dangerous world to another time and ce. A story could shift their hearts in their chests, lift their spirits and fill them with pride of purpose, putting farmers out into fields with determination burning in their spirit.


    They could even quiet the mes of outrage in a gold ranked yer, restless and angry about being locked up.


    yers weren¡¯t the only ones who lived in the birdcage.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you should be a bard,¡± Tyron said, ¡°I think you should be a weapon.¡±


    He pointed a finger at Rell.


    ¡°Get your main ss to gold rank, and you¡¯ll be the most effective member in the entire rebellion. Even more than me.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. How many skeletons can you support?¡±


    Tyron thought for a moment.


    ¡°Possibly a thousand.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a one man army. How is a bard supposed to match up to that?¡±


    ¡°Because you can talk your way into a fortress and walk out with the key. Because you could turn enemies into allies with just a few words. Because the magisters will certainly use people like you against us, and we need someone on our side who can counter that influence.¡±


    ¡°You want me to do that? Go around warping minds with just a few words, twisting people into something they weren¡¯t before? It¡¯s disgusting.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a lot of sympathy, Rell. You know what I have to do when I get a dead body? I butcher it. I cut the skin, muscle and tendons away with my own hands. Then and only then can I make them into a skeleton. Clearly, you don¡¯t like bards and what they can do. You probably have some experience in your life regarding them. Get over it. This is a war.¡±


    Rell turned his eyes on him, cold, with a low burning rage in them.


    ¡°You want me to convince people to work with us? Fine. Help me and my team, right here and now. We¡¯ve been tracking that massive kin for days, and if it isn¡¯t brought down, there¡¯s a chance it breaks through and wrecks Woodsedge all over again. Even if it doesn¡¯t¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll widen the rift again,¡± Tyron nodded, then sighed. ¡°I had a feeling it mighte to this.¡±


    He stood and tossed the remains of his apple onto the ground.


    ¡°Better go and talk to the rest of the team, then.¡±

 Chapter B4C22 - The Bigger They Are

    Chapter B4C22 - The Bigger They Are


    ¡°Shame you can¡¯t raise it as a minion.¡±


    ¡°For whatever reason, the Unseen doesn¡¯t want me to raise anything other than humans. I¡¯m not sure why.¡±


    ¡°Seems like a bit of a waste.¡±


    ¡°Well, I can do horses as well.¡±


    ¡°Horses?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Horses.¡±


    ¡°Why horses? There aren¡¯t that many of them around.¡±


    ¡°Not on this side of the rift, at least.¡±


    ¡°True.¡±BOOM.


    In the distance, the giant kin put down another leg, and the ground rumbled with the force of the impact. It was almost unbelievable to think something sorge, something so <em>dense</em>, could even move under its own power.


    Staring at the beast, Tyron could feel the immense amount of magick radiating off of it, enough to disturb the tempestuous winds of power that ran across the entire realm.


    ¡°Remember, I get the core,¡± Tyron said.


    Banner, the scout of the yer team Burning de, rolled his eyes.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, you get the core. I don¡¯t care about what happens <em>after</em> we kill it, so long as it¡¯s dead. What are you even going to do with the thing? Sell it?¡±


    ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t care.¡±


    ¡°Call me curious.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a trained Arcanist. I¡¯m going to use it to make something.¡±


    ¡°I thought you were a Necromancer.¡±


    ¡°Enchanter sub-ss.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    Curiosity sated, Banner turned his attention back to the enormous kin. It wasn¡¯t moving quickly; perhaps something thatrge couldn¡¯t. Every now and again, it would pause, as if resting, or listening. It was eerie to see the thing, standing totally still while smaller kin ran past, sometimes directly under it, heading toward the rift.


    A number of these beasts had already punched through during the break, but if they starteding through outside of such dire events? Woodsedge would need many more, higher level yers to fight them off. All the while, each and every one of these creatures that made it through would tear the rift that little bit wider.


    Which meant teams like Burning de had toe through and intercept them, every time.


    ¡°Are you sure about their weakness?¡± Tyron asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s the intelligence we have. If it''s wrong, then we won''t live long enough toin to anyone back at the keep. You know what we call these things?¡±


    ¡°Ten-legged man eaters?¡±


    ¡°We might be yers but we¡¯re a little more creative than that.¡±


    ¡°yer squashers.¡±


    ¡°Your naming sense is worse than mine. We call them rift smashers.¡±


    ¡°I think my names were better.¡±


    ¡°Not remotely. All right, I¡¯ll leave you here. Good luck managing the troops, try not to get yourself killed.¡±


    Tyron shot him a cold look.


    ¡°I¡¯m at far less risk than you and your team. Worry about yourself.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a deal.¡±


    So saying, Banner was gone, vanished like smoke as he crept his way back to the rest of his team, scattered around the intercept spot. Once he was alone, Tyron drew in a deep breath. He wasn¡¯t nervous for himself; he would be protected and able to fight from a distance. His concern was for the yers, and for his precious undead.


    The kin was <em>huge</em>. With a single sweep of a leg, it could crush <em>dozens</em> of skeletons. If things went poorly, he could lose a hundred minions in a matter of moments. Such a loss would set him back <em>weeks</em>¡ªtime he couldn¡¯t afford to lose.


    Yet, he also didn¡¯t want to see Woodsedge lose one of their most promising teams at this early stage.


    Keen to avoid being detected, he hunched down lower into the vegetation, over twenty skeletons ttened into the ground alongside him. This close to the rift, there were many spires and a steady stream of kin moving toward the way between realms, so it was inevitable that some would be drawn into their battle against the giant monster, but getting sniffed out before they engaged the beast would be worse by far.


    Again, the massive kin began to walk forward, each ponderous step sending tremors deep into the ground. Looking at it move, he once again doubted that his skeletons, or a team of yers, could do anything to harm it.


    Something like this was for gold ranks and higher. For Magnin and Beory, but here he was, hoping to kill one.


    Well, hoping to help kill one. He wasn¡¯t going to be the star of this show.


    BOOM.


    Another shuddering step, and a soft whistle carried over the air.


    <em>The signal</em>.


    Tyron hastily crawled forward, lifting himself out of the vegetation to get a better view as he ordered his packs of skeletons to act. Archers rose from hiding positions along the right nk of the beast, as did his skeletal mages. The undead silently took aim and fired, unleashing their barrage against the monster.


    Arrows forged of bone, death bolts, even the asional death¡¯s hand, flew towards the monster, only for the majority of them to tter harmlessly off the creature¡¯s shell. A small number actually found their mark. Tyron wished he could improve his minions¡¯ aim, but at least some of them managed to find the gaps in the kin¡¯s armour and sink into the soft flesh beneath.


    Not that they would be enough to do serious damage. It would only be enough to¡ª


    BOOM!


    ¡ªmake it angry.


    This novel is published on a different tform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    The beast turned towards his undead horde, and towards him. For the first time, Tyron was given an unobstructed view of its face. It was dreadful. Huge, wide jaws that detached from its facey under its beady eyes, so many he couldn¡¯t count them in the moment. Two smaller limbs protruded either side of its low hanging head, each longer than he was tall, tipped with sharp barbs which could likely skewer him to the ground with a single stab.


    To think his own parents, even his uncle, would regrly fight barn-sized monstrosities like this. It was absurd. Would <em>any</em> number of skeletons even make a difference against something like this?


    <em>There are already ns in ce for stronger undead. Focus!</em>


    Tyron threw his distracting thoughts to the side and concentrated on the scene in front of him. As soon as the kin began to approach, he raised his body from the ground and began to cast. With his hands, words and sheer force of will, he began to bend reality, adding his own spells to those of his minions.


    The Shivering Curse sprang into existence, a wide zone between his own position and the kin. The creatures of Nagrythyn seemed poorly adapted to the cold, and even a kin this size may be slowed down by it.


    As soon as he finished one cast, he flowed smoothly into the next. Soon, the ck aura of death magick began to glow around the weapons of his minions, and Tyron directed them forward to attack.


    Not many, though. He wasn¡¯t supposed to do most of the work, only to distract, which suited him just fine. Limiting the number of minions at risk was exactly what he wanted.


    Enraged by the needling attacks, the massive kin advanced steadily, moving faster than it had before. <em>Much </em>faster. He¡¯d been told it was more nimble than it appeared, but seeing it was another thing entirely. Obviously, if it was always as slow as before, it would hardly be a threat, but seeing it gather momentum as it charged toward him caused his heart to seize briefly in his chest.


    He expelled a breath and calmed himself, raising both hands once more to cast. This time, his two hands moved independently, each flicking from one sigil to the next in a flurry almost too fast for the human eye as he spoke the words of power with incredible speed.


    Double casting, slipping the words of one incantation into the gaps in another while forming two sets of sigils, one with each hand.


    The signature technique of his mother, a Battle Mage so aplished at flinging out deadly elemental magick so quickly in the midst of battle that she became renowned for it across the province. Each hand performed half a sigil at a time, and normally those halfs wouldbine to form a whole, but not when double casting. Each hand needed toplete the sigil it had half-constructed, which meant he needed both hands to leap to the next form before the magick lost its shape. It wasn¡¯t twice as much work as normal casting, but four times.


    When it was done, he thrust his hands forward, unleashing both spells at the same time.


    Double Death¡¯s Fist.


    Dual clouds of formless, ck magick streamed forward, twisting through the air toward the oing beast until they shed against its left foreleg.


    Tyron clenched both his hands as the spells took form, clutching around a single joint, the crushing pressure trying to pull in different directions.


    Against the mighty creature¡¯s immense strength, Tyron felt as though even his strongest spells were like spitting into the wind, yet he was surprised to see the kin stumble, even if only slightly. Seemingly uncertain as to what had caused the problem, the monster turned its head slightly, which was when the yers ran forward to strike.


    Powerful offensive magick burst from the cover they¡¯d been hidden in before they emerged. Banner was there, moving like the wind with a bared de before he leapt and hackdown, aiming for the same joint Tyron had targeted.


    Rell was there also, bow at the ready, loosing arrows with a slow, deliberate pace, taking careful aim for each shot.


    The kin screeched in rage and continued to turn to deal with this new threat. Its legs stabbed down into the ground sharply, trying to tten any yer who drew too close. Everyone was careful not to move near the monster¡¯s face lest they fall victim to the deadly, sharp-tipped limbs nking its head.


    Tyron lowered his hands and turned his mind back to his troops. His mages and archers continued to fire at the kin, hoping tond hits on its more vulnerable areas, but he pulled back his other minions in preparation for the next obstacle.


    They were already emerging, poking their heads out of the spires around the battlefield, cking and scratching as they sought the source of the disturbance. With the massive kin mming into the ground and screeching, every monster within a kilometre was certain to hear the battle taking ce, and they would definitelye to investigate.


    The moment theyid eyes on the conflict, the kin became enraged, pulling themselves through the holes in the spires before skittering toward the fight.


    With a mentalmand, Tyron directed his minions to circle the field as best they could. He couldn¡¯tpletely envelop it without spreading his undead too thin, but he could manage a little over half.


    The first of the reinforcing kin mmed into his lines and Tyron flinched as some of his skeletons were cut down before they could get into position. Every loss ate at him, but if things worked out well, it would be worth the price.


    With rapidly spoken words, he shaped his power and flung out Greater Death Bolts one at a time, knocking down some of the kin and giving his undead the time they needed. Soon, the ranks were properly formed, with shield-bearing skeletons in front and protecting the nks of each group.


    Of course, Tyron ensured he had defenders, but he was still more exposed than he would have liked. The moment a kin came within range, he cast Blood Shield in order to gain anotheryer of protection.


    He¡¯d suggested using his domination abilities against therger kin to the members of Burning de, but they had seemed convinced it would be resistant to any attempt at maniption. Instead, they wanted to rely on the tried and true method used by the yers at Woodsedge for many, many years.


    It was now Tyron¡¯s job to keep the surrounding kin off them so they could pull it off.


    In only a few minutes, the battlefield had be a scene of chaos. Everywhere Tyron looked, something was happening. His skeletons were engaged on multiple fronts, battling in squads with their backs to the enormous monster, who Tyron barely had time to think about.


    He still had mages and archers firing at it, but more and more, he was forced to pull those undead away to help relieve his melee skeletons as they became more pressed. He felt as though his brain were physically heating up as he flicked from one conflict to the next, issuingmands so quickly he didn¡¯t have time to consider or reflect on any of them.


    Trying to manage so many fights at the same time left him barely any time to cast magick, though he still slipped in the asional spell.


    That skeleton needs to lower its shield! Those ones need to change their position to receive that charge! Those kin could be nked by his sword wielders over there! Do it!


    Fuck! More kin have run into that fight! Ghosts can move over to help, archers can fire to support in the meantime. The ranks didn¡¯t reform fast enough to react to that charge and a kin got through! It¡¯s going to turn and cut down the shield skeletons from behind!


    Revenants, clean up the mess!


    ¡°Dammit.¡±


    With anothermand, he ordered his reserve skeletons to move forward, lower their cauldrons, and activate them.


    He hadn¡¯t wanted it toe to this. They were an immensely useful tool for empowering his undead, but they would effectively surround the main battle with imprable smoke. If any kin broke through his lines to attack the yers, they would have no way of seeing iting.


    It was necessary. If he hadn¡¯t done so, they would have broken through anyway, which was the one thing the yers had feared most. Fighting the enormous kin was incredibly dangerous. Fighting while holding off hordes of swarming monsters trying to stab you in the back? Impossible.


    As the many fronts his skeletons were engaged in stabilised under the effect of the death magick¨Crich smoke, Tyron spared a nce for the massive kin.


    It was struggling, bleeding from many cuts and wounds that team Burning de had inflicted. As stated, they¡¯d aimed for the joints in its legs, hindering its mobility. With its incredible size and weight, the kin was starting to be unable to support itself on such injured limbs. It hissed and screamed with rage, but the yers moved desperately to avoid giving it a chance to strike back as they continued to apply pressure.


    It wouldn¡¯t be long until they brought it down; all Tyron had to do was focus on his role.


    Convinced the yers had the beast in hand, he pulled the remaining archers and mages away and had them support his desperately battling skeletons. Fallen kin were everywhere, but so were damaged or destroyed skeletons.


    Once more, he raised his hands to lend his magick to their aid. Though he wasn¡¯t too familiar with it yet, he cast Blessing of Bone upon his undead. Aplicated spell that drew a great deal of his energy, but as the magick flowed out of him and into his undead, he could see just how effective it was.


    Empowered by the additional magick, his undead moved faster, reacted quicker, as if everything had slowed down around them. Tyron checked on his reserves, and discovered that he was doing surprisingly well. With the cauldrons in y, his skeletons were being empowered by the death magick they absorbed through the conduits he had built into all of them.


    A smile came unbidden to his face. It was <em>working</em>. His minions were so much more efficient, despite all of them fighting, drawing deeply on the magick they needed to function.


    It was <em>working</em>.


    He brought up his hands and once more began to mould a pair of Death¡¯s Fists.


    They were going to win.

 Chapter B4C23 - Thoughts Turning

    Chapter B4C23 - Thoughts Turning


    ¡°Is your man going to make it?¡±


    Rell stiffened and Banner red at him sourly.


    ¡°If I said he wasn¡¯t, what would you say?¡±


    Tyron shrugged.


    ¡°Waste not, want not. I wouldn¡¯t take his spirit or anything, but the remains would be useless to everyone except me, right?¡±


    The scout looked as though he wanted to get angry, but was simply too exhausted. Ultimately, he settled on a disgruntled ¡°fuck¡± and spat to the side.


    ¡°I suppose I can¡¯t judge a Necromancer the same way I would anyone else. Sn is going to make it, probably.¡±


    Considering how he¡¯d been wounded, it was a minor miracle and a testament to just how durable a yer could be as they gained levels. When he¡¯d seen the man skewered straight through the gut, he was sure he was finished.


    ¡°He¡¯s a lucky man,¡± Tyron observed. ¡°I wish him all the best with his recovery.¡±Banner turned away from the remains of the rift-killer to stare towards the rift itself, not that far distant.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have to take him through for healing as soon as we can. Are you able to hold things here for a little while?¡±


    Tyron gestured toward the skeletons still hard at work digging into the remains of the giant kin. Forget about butchering, it looked more like mining. They¡¯d dug so deep into the monster with their des, cutting away huge chunks of flesh, it looked more like they were tunnelling than anything else.


    ¡°I won¡¯t be going anywhere until I secure the core, so I may as well hold this side of the rift for you as well.¡±


    It had been a difficult battle, with several members of Burning de suffering wounds, though only one was dire. The longer the fight had drawn out, the more unstable the kin had be, almost pulling itself apart in its frantic thrashing.


    This was the weakness of such massive kin, apparently. They couldn¡¯t properly hold up under their own immense strength for long periods of time. Eventually, the yers had worn it down, driven it to desperation, and it had begun to injure itself faster than they could with their des.


    It wasn¡¯t pretty, but it was a reliable method for silver yers to take on something they probably shouldn¡¯t.


    In its panic and desperation, the monster had gone into a frenzy, moving faster and more recklessly. At that point, it had managed to knock down one yer, turn to face him and then skewer him with its forward-facing prongs.


    His armour had crumpled like paper, the spike punching straight through it, and his body,ing clean out the other side.


    Rell stepped forward and extended his hand, which Tyron took.


    ¡°Thanks for helping the team,¡± the young man said. ¡°We might not have been able to make it if not for you.¡±


    ¡°Have a good rest at Woodsedge, and get back into the field. You¡¯ve got a lot of levelling to do.¡±


    Of course, he wasn¡¯t referring to his yer skills, which Rell immediately picked up on, and nodded.


    ¡°I won¡¯t forget,¡± he said, reluctance clear on his face, but he wouldn¡¯t go back on his word.


    Team Burning de departed a few minutester, waving their goodbyes and moving warily toward the rift. Tyron held up his end of the bargain, spreading his undead wide to cover their approach while a small group of undead continued to hunt for the core.


    It took two hours to finally find it, buried deep in the centre of the creature. His undead were covered in gore and absolutely reeked, emerging from inside the kin like some sort of horrific undead-birth, one carrying a gem gripped tight in both its skeletal hands.


    When he saw it, Tyron was taken aback. The core itself was massive, almost the size of his head, but it was also surprisingly well formed. With great care, he turned it over in his hands, inspecting it from all angles. It would need to be properly cleaned before he could ascertain its true value, but he may have just gotten extremely lucky.


    Not wanting to be drawn in while still exposed in the open air, Tyron carefully stowed the gem in his pack and began to organise his undead. It took hours to fight his way back to camp, hounded by kin every step of the way. It was difficult, and he lost more skeletons in the battle. By the time he finally managed to safely cross his wards, he left a pile of almost two dozen dead kin at the entrance to the ravine.


    ¡°Fucking <em>fuck</em>,¡± he cursed, copsing outside his tent.


    Doing everything himself was proving to be immensely draining. With a swift gesture, he allowed his bone armour to detach from his clothing. The hardened and reinforced tes of bone fell to the ground before being collected by a nearby skeleton and ced in storage.


    Seated on the ground, Tyron reached a hand for his pack, pulling out some food and his canteen. As he ate and drank, he turned his mind to the events of the day. Fighting so many kin, holding his own in the rift, without support things had gone as well as expected. The fight against the rift-killer had been unexpected, but not unwee, as things had gone. The fight had given him valuable experience, a rare core, and greater insight into what he wascking.


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    Therger his horde grew, the more attention Tyron needed to spend managing his individual skeletons. He¡¯d made many modifications to their simple, artificial consciousness, and his minions were leagues ahead of what the generic Raise Dead ritual would produce in terms of the actions they would take, but it still wasn¡¯t enough.


    No matter how well he polished their responses, theycked the critical thinking skills only a fully developed consciousness possessed. Creating something with that level ofplexity from scratch¡­ was probably impossible, even for him.


    Oh, with years of research, he could probably get somewhere close, but didn¡¯t have time for that. Things were rapidlying to a head, and he needed to progress in so many areas. Conducting all of this research from scratch was simply taking too much time, he couldn¡¯t hope to advance in every area, developing entirely new branches of magick on the fly, and grow fast enough to take part in theing conflict.


    That meant¡­ it was time to start taking some shortcuts.


    After all, there was no need to create a human consciousness from scratch when he could take ready-made souls. All he needed to do was give that soul the ability tomand his skeletons the same way he did, then he could create his own ready-made skeletonmanders.


    Of course, the method to performing <em>that</em> particr trick would have to be spun from whole cloth, just like everything else he¡¯d had to do. Then there was the question of wights. The next step in skeleton evolution, so to speak, even stronger than a revenant, capable of more.


    He refused to sit and wait until the Unseen saw fit to give him ess to the method. He would seek it out himself, and create something even greater than what it was willing to give.


    The longer the project was dyed, the more he could feel the burning hunger inside him grow. His mind and spirit craved that moment of breakthrough, that instant in which he felt the magick fall into ce all around him and the Unseen itself was forced to bow.


    In the back of his mind, he had been teasing at the problem for weeks, but there was still a long way to go.


    His simple mealpleted, Tyron looked to the left and right. It was dark here, within the ravine. The sun was weak overhead, obscured by near-permanent clouds, but here, with tall ridges looming on both sides, it was almost like a perpetual nighttime. To his left stood the majority of his skeletons, defending the entrance through which the kin entered.


    Their reserves of magick had nearly been exhausted by the time they¡¯d managed to return, but now they would be recharging, absorbing ambient energy and converting it into the death-aligned magick they needed. The proximity of so many undead only elerated the recovery as they passed Death Magick between each other. The cauldrons had also been expended in the fighting. They too would need time to recharge before the well of power stored within had been fully restored.


    Perhaps in a day, everything would be back to full capacity.


    In the meantime¡­


    Tyron stood and tried to shake off his lethargy. He wasn¡¯t that physically tired, and his mental fatigue hadn¡¯t nearly approached his limit. Considering he was here beyond the rift, he may as well get to work. Even if he couldn¡¯t fight, this was a valuable opportunity. There were no distractions here to take away his focus. No students, or priestesses, or vampires, or gods, or abyssals, or even store attendants to distract him from his work.


    The more he pondered it, the more he realised what a rare opportunity this was. The magick was so thick here he could practically <em>taste</em> it, howling down the middle of the ravine in a silent and invisible torrent. What might he be able to learn working in such an environment?


    Suddenly he felt rejuvenated, a tingling excitement building in the back of his head. He eagerly shook his hands out, as if preparing to cast a spell, but having no idea what it was going to be.


    <em>Slow down. Focus</em>.


    That¡¯s right. It wouldn¡¯t do to waste such an opportunity. This moment had great potential, potential that would be wasted if he didn¡¯t go about things in a logical manner.


    The first thing¡­


    Tyron returned to his leather travel satchel and withdrew the core he¡¯d retrieved. It rested heavily in the palm of his hand, glittering with a dark light that seemed to be reflected from deep within.


    With a little water and a cloth, he was able to remove most of the grime and take a good look at it.


    Cores came in many grades, each considering two factors: the size, and shape of the core. Generally speaking, therger the better, though density could also y a factor. Some cores were more concentrated than others, which meant more power with a smaller physical size, a very desirable trait.


    This core probably wasn¡¯t that dense, but on size alone, it would channel a great deal of power. These were the kinds of cores Master Willhem would pay bags of gold to possess. Due to their unwieldy size, such things were generally used inrge-scale enchantments that remained in ce. Doubtlessly, there were several such cores powering the myriad of defences woven into the Magisters¡¯ tower, for example.


    The other key factor was shape. The closer the core came to forming a perfect sphere, the better it would function. This also had the side benefit of being easier to work with, thanks to their uniform surface, but Tyron had long ceased to care about such things. He often engraved chips, slivers of core formed in the weakest monsters to possess a core at all. The theory went that cores could expand when a kin was created, as well as during its lifetime, but whatever might cause such a change was unknown. As a core grew, it did not do so in a uniform manner, but unevenly. In such a case, a core like the one in his hands would be created. It had been a perfect sphere at some point, but begun to expand. Smooth in some ces, jagged in others, it would need a significant amount of work to bring out its full capacity, but done properly, it would channel a powerful amount of magick.


    And he had several ideas.


    As he considered his next steps, Tyron¡¯s eyes slowly began to lose focus as his thoughts began to elerate.


    Yes¡­ yes he could do a great deal with such a thing. And perhaps he could get more? He knew the method now, and it wasn¡¯t inconceivable that he could pull it off himself. He would need more minions, of course he would, but he had a good number of bones stored away for just such an asion.


    And of course, if he was going to create new minions, they would have to be the best.. The soldiers and marshalls he had killed at the Ortan estate were still preserved within the Ossuary, along with their captured souls. They would make fine revenants and skeletons. Exceptional ones.


    Not to forget, Filetta still waited. With more undead, he would need more coordination. More control. She would be the first of his awakened undead, a willingmander of his troops.


    All he had to do was figure out how¡­. It was a puzzle, but not one without an answer.


    Tyron was <em>excellent</em> at puzzles.

 Chapter B4C24 - Ascendant

    Chapter B4C24 - Ascendant


    Within the Ossuary, Tyron worked at a feverish pace. The space within the pocket dimension he¡¯d created had seemed absurdlyrge at one point, but now, he didn¡¯t have enough room for all that he wanted to do.


    The equipment and tubs he had used in his study beneath Almsfield Enchantments had been installed here, as had a desk,fortable seat and all the materials he would need for ritual casting. In addition, he had installed a ss and pliance to allow him to work on enchantments for his undead.


    Amidst all of this clutter, a slew of paper, notes, open books and piles of misshapen bone were strewn, products of his ongoingbour.


    How long had he been gripped by the frenzy this time? He genuinely didn¡¯t know, and he didn¡¯t allow himself to entertain the thought, lest it distract him.


    In his mind, sigils whorled and spun,bining, shifting, aligning, then breaking apart faster than he could write them down. He considered one angle to the problem, then allowed his mind to run like a river, trickling down into thousands of divergent pathways as he flicked from onebination of runes to another. When none showed promise, he would throw his half-formed work to the side and begin again, attempting to arrive at a solution from a new starting point.


    Exacerbating the problem was the fact he didn¡¯t know exactly what form the solution would take, but as he worked, as he attacked over and over again, he felt as if the thing he was trying to achieve was slowly taking shape.


    Several times, he¡¯de across a method he¡¯d thought might work, might create the superior undead he was looking for, but each time, his method fell apart as he tried to implement it.


    What did he need to create a wight? It all came down to what he believed a wight <em>was</em>. What he wanted it to be was amander type undead, one with a limited form of ess to the Unseen. In other words, a form of semi-lich. A sentient undead that could continue to grow and gain levels in its new undead race, much like Dove did.


    But Tyron didn¡¯t intend to bleed every time he wanted his minion to check its status, which meant an entirely new method was needed to help his wightsmune with the Unseen. He knew how to¡­ for want of a better word¡­ <em>extract</em> the status from a soul, but he needed a new medium which could take that information and act as a conduit between the dead spirit and the Unseen.At the same time, he needed to determine a method via which the wight could form a connection with his minions.


    This was infinitely moreplex than it seemed. Not only did the connection need to be formed, so his wight couldmand the dead as he did, there wereyers that needed to be considered as well. After all, he couldn¡¯t allow the wights¡¯ connection to override his own. If he ordered his minions, hismands should take precedence. But how to introduce a priority system to a system that existedrgely as a form of magickallymunicated <em>thought</em>?


    It was the conduit formed between Tyron and his undead that acted as the vehicle for his unspoken directions, and his first thought had been to modify the Raise Dead ritual to change the way this functioned. If he formed a conduit between himself and the wight, then from the wight to the skeletons under itsmand¡­ he would still be able tomand the dead via their mander,¡¯ and the wight could issue instructions to the dead it was connected to.


    It <em>should</em> work, but this method carried with it a fatal w. If the wight were to die, so too would the skeletons under theirmand. Tyron hadn¡¯t been able to determine a method whereby the conduit would transfer back to him upon the death of the wight.


    Frustrated, he pushed his current sketch away and stood up. His body, toughened by the Unseen, suffered little from these extended periods of work, but his mind was fatigued. Then again, his eyes had achieved a familiar level of sandy irritation, to the point it almost hurt to blink. He¡¯d reached the limit again; it was time to rest.


    He emerged from the Ossuary and back into Nagrythyn. Little had changed in his absence. His minions remained in their ces and the camp was undisturbed. To be safe, he took the time to sweep the surroundings with his ghosts, looking through their eyes to see if anything was amiss.


    Thankfully, nothing turned up, so hey down on his bedroll and cast Sleep, instantly plunging himself into a deep state of rest.


    For some reason, he never felt much better when he awoke. His head still pounded, his thoughts were still sluggish, but he knew his condition would gradually improve over the next few hours. Food and water, some simple stretching, and he already had begun to feel the benefits. Still, his mind buzzed, eager to pick up where he had left off.


    Instead, Tyron forced himself to focus. He wasn¡¯t just here to work, but to gain vital experience by battling against the kin. Gaining levels would grow harder and harder as he progressed, so he knew he still needed to make the most of this opportunity.


    He checked the state of his minions and the cauldrons to ensure they were fully charged. He nodded with satisfaction upon confirming that they were, and began to organise his minions.


    Since the battle against the rift-killer and throwing himself into his studies, he¡¯d gone through this cycle three or four times; he couldn¡¯t quite remember which exactly. When his skeletal host was assembled, Tyron affixed his bone armour and ordered his minions to advance.


    The world of Nagrythyn hadn¡¯t changed in the time he had been here. It was still deste, chaotic, and filled with a never-ending stream of rift kin, eager to invade and rampage through other worlds. Idly, he wondered if it would be possible to travel this realm and find another rift which connected to an entirely different ce. How many alien realms did this one ce connect to?


    It was the sort of question only someone like Magnin and Beory could answer. With their immense strength, those two could travel through Nagrythyn, if not in safety, at least with confidence. To hunt down another rift would likely take months, travelling hard every day, an impossible task for regr yers.


    If Tyron grew strong enough, perhaps he could do it, but it was only an idle fancy. There was no reason to abandon his home¡­. He had business there yet.


    Summoning all his caution, he scanned thendscape for anything unexpected, but found nothing beyond the usual, which was horrifying enough.


    He didn¡¯t dare venture too far from the ravine anymore, not now that he knew there were giant rift-killers potentially on the loose. He was eager to secure more cores, but not before he¡¯d bulked up his forces.


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    For three hours, Tyron engaged in relentless battle against the kin, harvesting cores when he could, but mostly fighting to maintain as many of his undead as possible. Many of his skeletons were overdue for maintenance, their bones cracked in ces, their threadinging undone in others, but he couldn¡¯t afford the time, not yet.


    When they returned to the ravine, he once again ensured the perimeter remained secure, and the warding stones were functioning correctly, before he reentered the Ossuary and threw himself into his work. With every hour that passed, he crossed off another potential solution, but still he was haunted by the tantalising sensation of the correct method taking shape, just beyond his reach.


    Every time he reached a dead end, he felt as though a single point of light had been shone on the true form of the wight.


    Again, he shoved the page in front of him away, almost spilling his bottle of ink in the process. He reached out and ced the cap on it once more. Were he to lose his precious supply, he¡¯d probably end up having to write in his own blood because he wasn¡¯t going to stop until he achieved the breakthrough he sought.


    Frustration bubbled up, but he forced it down as he stood and began to pace back and forth. There was still something he was missing¡­ a technique or method that would provide the medium he sought.


    Something that would bring all the disparate, functional pieces in his mind together into a single, cohesive whole.


    Was it form? Or density? Or abination of both? How could he test it? His idle thoughts on the matter of density caused his mind to turn to Nagrythyn. Out there, the magick was so thick it behaved in different ways. Just speaking the words of power had enabled him to <em>see</em> their effect with his own, unenhanced eyes. Perhaps¡­ he wasn¡¯t thinking about this the right way. He was trying to be clever, trying to find neat roads toward the solution. Perhaps it was time he attempted to use a battering ram.


    Suddenly inspired, he burst out of the Ossuary and looked around with wild eyes.


    There! That section of ground would be t enough for his purpose. With a thought, he brought two dozen skeletons to his side and had them prepare the area, pulling the strange, alien grasses and shifting stones until it had beenpletely ttened. Then, he went to work.


    With the staff his mother had gifted him, he began to draw into the sandy dirt. Sigils rapidly took shape under his precise and expert hand, spiralling outwards from the centre in concentric circles, a whirlpool of arcane power.


    Several times he paused, frowning, then brushed over a section before rewriting it to his satisfaction. For six hours he worked, addingyer afteryer to the increasingly intricate ritual circle. When it was finally done, he stood back, his eyes tracing over it carefully, inspecting every inch for even the slightest w. Finding none, he entered the Ossuary briefly, returning with a stone, which he ced within the exact centre of the circle.


    Contained in the stone was the soul of a random marshall, a sacrifice for the uing test.


    Next, he had his skeletons gather the four cauldrons and ce them at precise intervals around the circle, which he then inspected himself.


    <em>This will either work¡­ or blow up in my face. Or it could do both.</em>


    He didn¡¯t care if it blew up, as long as it worked.


    When he was ready, he raised his hands and began to cast a spell he hadn¡¯t worked with yet, the Ossuary Vent. Whenpleted, a small rent in space opened, and from it, a thick cloud of Death Magick began to pour.


    This spell allowed him to release the dense, concentrated Death Magick held within the Ossuary to the outside, and now he called upon it to help fuel his ritual. As the energy fell like ck mist, it was captured in the circle, syphoning down toward the centre and growing ever more dense as it did.


    This continued until the Ossuary had emptied its store of power and he dismissed the Vent, staring at the plume of power held hostage in the circle he¡¯d created.


    It stood about as tall as he was and as thick as his arm, terminating at his eye level and starting just above the ground, just above the stone ced in the centre. So far, it appeared the containment was holding just fine, so he moved to the next step.


    With a thought, four skeletons activated the sigils on the cauldrons, which began to belch forth ck smoke, rich with Death Magick, into the air. Rather than spread, this energy was also captured by the sigils, spiralling around the circles, growing richer, more concentrated, before it too was funnelled all the way to the middle.


    The plume had grown thicker and appeared more like a storm, pushing and roiling against the prison he had constructed for it. Still, it was holding.


    <em>Here we go</em>.


    Tyron raised his hands and began to speak. At the same time, he activated the outermostyer of the circle. Two things began to happen. First, his own power began to pour out of him and into the circle, spiralling down toward the centre. And second, the ambient energy that howled through the ravine began to be syphoned down as well. Not all of it, such a torrent of power would overwhelm the circle in moments, but a portion, providing a steady flow of power that added to his own.


    As the arcane energy moved through theyers of runes, it began to change, darkening, thickening, shifting to the alignment he desired before joining the shuddering spire of Death Magick held captive in the centre.


    Tyron eyed it fiercely, watching for any sign the power was on the verge of breaking its containment. Though it twisted and bulged in ces, straining against the invisible bonds that held it, he was confident his sigils would hold.


    When he had emptied out half of his reserves, he ceased the flow of power from himself, but allowed the ambient magick to continue being absorbed. He observed with caution, sensitive to any fluctuations in power as the contained energy grew more and more dense. After a time, he judged the gathered magick was approaching the limits of what his circle could contain, so he moved swiftly, adjusting the outermost sigil to cancel the absorption of energy.


    In the centre of the circle, the incredibly dense plume of energy spun and wobbled. Pure, concentrated power like this was dangerous and unstable. Tyron was eager to seed, but even in his manic state, he retained his sense of caution.


    Now to see if this gathered power would be useful in his experiment.


    Taking hold of the staff, he shifted to the nexus of the circle he¡¯d prepared and nted it firmly. He raised his hands on either side of the powerful artefact, and began to cast.


    This time, he wasn¡¯t quick, he didn¡¯t fire out the words of power at a rapid pace, but instead cast slowly and deliberately. One sigil followed the next at an even pace, and he spoke clearly, each word spaced from the next.


    This was the Spirit Binding ritual, which was used to create ghosts. The spell contained severalponents, but it wasn¡¯t overlyplicatedpared to his more potent rituals. First, the spell conjured forth the spirit.


    The soul trapped within the stone began to emerge, right into the middle of the dense pir of Death Magick.


    Tyron watched intently, hyper-sensitive to anything abnormal.


    With a few quick gestures, he used the eye magick Dove had taught him, staring hard at any interaction between the spirit and the arcane power.


    He thought he saw¡­ <em>something</em>¡­ but what came next would be the key moment.


    The next stage of the spell required him to construct a ¡®shell¡¯ or container of magick for the spirit to inhabit. It was a wispy, half-formed thing, delicate and insubstantial, but that wasn¡¯t what Tyron was trying to make. He wanted something different.


    Again, step by step, he began the next stage of the spell. Surrounded by such an immense cloud of energy, the shell began to behave differently. It sucked in the energy, shifting and warping.


    Tyron ceased the ritual, carefully unbound thest few sigils, then redid them.


    Forward, and back. Forward, and back. Tyron¡¯s focus was absolute, as was his control of the magick. Slowly, piece by piece, he began to modify the spell, and watched the changes taking ce inside the circle with growing glee.

 Chapter B4C25 - A Fine Line

    Chapter B4C25 - A Fine Line


    In such dense, concentrated Death Magick, every word he spoke, every sigil he formed, resonated, like hot metal struck by a hammer. He could see it react, shift and mould itself at the behest of his words, and he carefully studied it, eyes unblinking, lest he miss the key moment.


    Once more, he paused the ritual.


    Were his students to attempt such a thing, Tyron would tackle them to the ground to protect them from the blowback, but such was his control that he was able to control the magick, calm the vtility, and proceed unharmed. Having such a potent staff to act as a ritual focus certainly didn¡¯t hurt.


    His mother had truly gone all out in the construction of her gift. Tyron felt he was practically cheating when using it. As a focus, it was as solid as a mountain, acting as a bulwark between himself and the power he manipted, containing it with ease.


    Step by step, he slowly unwound thest few sigils of the ritual. An even more difficult feat than simply pausing it in ce. With a will of iron and an unwavering grip of his magick, Tyron was in perfect control at all times, never letting a single thread slip from his grasp.


    In the centre of the ritual circle, surrounded by the dense pir of Death Magick, the hapless spirit wailed and roared, flinging itself around in an attempt to escape its binding. It can¡¯t have been pleasant, what he was putting this spirit through. In effect, he was holding it in the material world, half forming a shell for it, stuffing it partway in, then dragging it out again, over and over.


    It didn¡¯t matter. A soul couldn¡¯t feel pain, not from something like this, and Tyron spared no thought for the difort of a marshall¡¯s spirit. This was a necessary step, he needed to better understand this process, and it was <em>working</em>.


    Every time he restarted the ritual, he changed it, modifying it piece by piece as he searched for something <em>better</em>.


    The flimsy shell used to house a ghost wasn¡¯t sufficient to create a wight. It was the fusion of soul and skeleton that created a more powerful undead. For the revenants, he had learned to pour the spirit <em>inside</em> the bones, allowing the soul to bond to the threads contained within, giving it control over the body and letting them use their Skills in a limited way.That wasn¡¯t enough for a wight. This was the missing piece, he was certain of it. A new way to house the soul and bind it to the remains, something more powerful, more magick-intensive.


    Once again, he started to move the ritual forward. Testing, probing, he spoke the words and formed the sigils at a steady and even pace, guided by his instinct as much as his intellect.


    Suddenly, his eyes snapped to a point in the heart of the circle.


    He¡¯d seen something¡­ something had changed.


    His heart pounded in his chest as his face twisted into a wild grin, but his hands and voice remained perfectly steady as he watched, eager for another sign.


    There it was! A single spark, green, like a guttering me had kindled within the plume of Death Magick. Carefully, he continued, feeling around this new manifestation, feeding it, letting it grow. Ever so slowly, the green me began to expand, growingrger as it feasted on the dense power around it. So much energy began to flow to this new creation, Tyron moved to throttle it, unwilling to let it consume too much lest it go out of control.


    Therger it became, the more clear its nature was. It wasn¡¯t a me, not exactly. More urately, it seemed like a cross between a dense mist and fire. It drifted and floated with the slow,zy movements of a mist, but flickered around the edges, shifting and warping as a crackling fire might. The colour, however, was consistent, a vivid, ethereal green.


    When he judged it was of sufficient size, he cut off the flow of power and moved to the final stage of the ritual. In a few short minutes, he bound the captured soul into this new substance and ended the spell.


    Tyron leaned forward, eager to see what would happen.


    With the ritual cut-off atst, the power sustaining it was allowed to copse, dispersing around the circle, but still confined. In the centre, the strange, green substance¡­ copsed to the ground. Frowning, Tyron watched, and slowly, his patience was rewarded.


    It was <em>moving</em>.


    At first, he wasn¡¯t sure if it was just the natural, ephemeral movement of the mist, but no, it was definitely shifting on its own. The spirit within was able to control it, whatever it was. However, not very well. Almost like a puddle of ooze, the trapped spirit nudged this way and that, unable to do much within this new form.


    After a time, Tyron entered the circle himself and reached down to physically touch the shifting green me.


    It was cold, freakishly so. Much like a fire radiated heat, this flickering substance radiated cold, to the point he felt his finger was burned from the chill. Even so, he managed to touch it directly before pulling his hand away.


    It was¡­ odd. A mix of physical and¡­ not. Part magick, part material, it seemed to exist in a state between the two. And the ghost was able to inhabit it just fine, even interact with it¡­.


    This was <em>perfect</em>.


    It required an immense concentration of Death Magick to create, but of course it would, creating a wight was supposed to be difficult! With this, he had the finalponent he needed!


    ted, he ordered two nearby skeletons to scoop up the ghost and carry it into the Ossuary. There was a lot he still needed to do before Filetta could be reborn!


    ~~~


    Tyron worked in a frenzy, no pause to rest, no time to eat. No matter how fast he went, he felt as if it was impossible for his body to keep up with his mind. The first breakthrough had put a crack in the dam wall, and it seemed everywhere he turned, new secrets were leaking through, so many he couldn¡¯t possibly hope to snatch them all.


    One moment he would be performing tests on what he hade to call Spirit Flesh, the next he would be perfecting a new structure of conduit magick, only to leap over to advanced threading techniques a few minutester.


    Gradually, all the pieces were being assembled, everything he needed to finally take the next leap. Despite the unrelenting sense of urgency he felt like a spike through his chest, Tyron was meticulous in everything he did. Nopromises could be allowed, everything would have to be <em>perfect</em>.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    After a period of days, he couldn¡¯t hope to say how many, he stood before the altar, bloodshot eyes moving from oneponent to the next, weighing and assessing. He nodded to himself, then leaned down to inspect the remains themselves.


    Filetta¡¯s bones had been as wlessly prepared as he knew how. No expense had been spared, no steps had been avoided to ensure these bones were as strong as possible.


    He¡¯d used Bone Salt to remove even the tiniest scrap of flesh, reinforced the bones with mineral solutions, saturated them with dense Death Magick, bound and aligned them to ensure no particle of energy leaked out. They were easily the best bones he¡¯d produced.


    Then, he had gone a step beyond even that.


    The enchanting work he¡¯d performed had been¡­ excessive, some might say. With extreme attention to detail, he passed his gaze over every single bone. Sigils and arrays had been bound into almost all of them, from the toes right up to the individual vertebrae and of course, the skull. Inside and out, the skull was covered in sigils that had been carved ever so finely into the bone itself. Within, it housed an array of cores that dwarfed those the normal skeletons held.


    His best undead would be stronger, faster, and hold a greater reservoir of power than his revenants could dream of.


    When everything was prepared, he took a deep breath and went to fetch Filetta¡¯s soul from the recess it had been stored in. She didn¡¯t wake when he picked her up, but had begun to stir by the time he ced the stone down at the head of her skeleton.


    <em>¡°What¡­ what is happening</em>? <em>How long has it been?¡± </em>she rasped.


    ¡°It¡¯s time. You¡¯re about to be reborn, Filetta.¡±


    The spirit fell silent as Tyron walked around the altar, making his final preparations.


    <em>¡°Are you sure?¡±</em> she asked.


    Perhaps she was still hesitant, unwilling to move forward with their agreement.


    ¡°It¡¯s this, or I release you back to wander until your spirit is drawn to the realm of the dead,¡± he reminded her.


    She had no physical presence, but even so, he could sense her shudder. She did not want to go back.


    ¡°<em>Fine</em>,¡± she breathed and fell silent.


    A good thing she¡¯d agreed. At this point, Tyron wouldn¡¯t have been able to prevent himself from going forward in the event she¡¯d refused.


    Raising his hands, Tyron took a deep breath, and began to speak.


    It was the Raise Dead ritual, but so heavily revised as to be almost an entirely different thing. Words of power thundered through the Ossuary as Tyron wove sigil after sigil, no hesitation in his voice or hands. Power roiled through the air before pouring into the bones before him.


    As the magick continued to flow, four skeletons stepped forward, each positioned at the corners of the altar, and activated the cauldrons there. From four points, the dense ck mist boiled into the air, only to be captured by an invisible syphon, arcing overhead before being drawn down to the bones. Tyron kept going, his words mming into the dense magick, giving it shape and purpose, even as he drew up and poured out the energy contained within himself.


    Eventually, that tiny spark ignited, deep with the rib cage, and Tyron fed it, unfettered this time, allowing it to feast on the dense energy he provided as it grew and expanded. While he didn¡¯t slow its growth, he did <em>shape </em>it, directing the Spirit Flesh to expand along the lines he hadid out for it, like pouring molten metal into a mould.


    The ghostly flesh grew, and where it met the bones, it clung to them, then expanded along them. From the ribs, it crept down the spine, up to the shoulders, then the neck and down to the pelvis. He fed it more and more power, never ceasing in his efforts. It took hours ofborious work to fill out the skeleton, but eventually he had seeded, draining himself, the cauldrons and even the Ossuary dry of magick. Despite the cost, it was sessful.


    The bones were now encased in a new body, one formed of shifting mist and icy green fire. He could still see the bones within, the skeletal grin and hollow sockets staring at him through the Spirit Flesh.


    When it was awake, it would be a frightening sight.


    Tyron was exhausted, but his work had only just begun. He gathered up the staff of his mother and nted it in the prepared spot, using it to hold the ritual in ce, locking the magick in its current form.


    The next part would be¡­ difficult.


    Tyron gathered up the gloves he had prepared and activated the runes on them. He reached out toward the Spirit Flesh, and felt the cold bite at his fingers, but it was muted, warded off by the enchantments he had prepared. Hopefully, it wouldst.


    He plunged his fingers within the flesh and immediately felt as if he had stuffed his hands in ice. Without the gloves, he would likely lose his fingers in a matter of minutes. As it was, he would need to endure for hours.


    Concentrating, he drew his hand back slowly as he wove a sigil with the other.


    As his hand came out, threads of flesh came with it, bound to the tips of his fingers. So far so good. Carefully at first, then with growing confidence, he began to weave.


    First, he needed to thicken the threads he had, using the method he had developed after learning rope-making from Georg. Once that was done, he needed to weave the flesh into muscle and sinew. This was <em>immensely </em>more difficult than working with regr threads. The Spirit Flesh didn¡¯t like to be bound, didn¡¯t like to hold a shape, and trying to force it to sit exactly as he wanted wouldn¡¯t end in sess.


    Instead, what was required was to weave the flesh into the <em>suggestion</em> of what he wanted. Too rigid, and it would shift back to mist, returning to formlessness. Too soft, and it would never take to the shape at all, remaining as mist.


    When done perfectly, it would remain as he had left it, sitting in ce, tied to the bones, and ready to function.


    This process dragged on as he was forced to unbind and rework certain sections over and over again until he was satisfied they would function as intended.


    When it was done, he copsed back from the altar, snatching his hands away from the cold. He desperately wanted to pull the gloves off, his hands felt as if they were shards of ice, but he knew they were better off being warmed by the enchantment inside than out. Even so, he shoved them into his armpits, only to yelp as the cold bit into his flesh.


    ¡°Holy <em>fuck!</em>¡± he cursed. ¡°If I lose my fingers¡­¡±


    Every mage¡¯s worst fear.


    However, over the next ten minutes, they slowly warmed up, and he eventually pulled his gloves off to reveal his fingers had turned purple, but at least weren¡¯t frostbitten. He thawed them for another ten minutes before he moved to the next stage of the process.


    He¡¯d prepared bone armour for the wight that was almost the equal of his own. More enchantments were carved into it, providing additional protection, resistance from harm and even a mini-cauldron that could produce a ck fog of its own in a pinch. With care, he attached each piece in the correct ce, affixing it to the remains. When that was done, he turned to a moreplex issue.


    The conduit he would form between himself and this undead was going to be unlike anything he had made before. After all, the wight needed to act as amander, but he refused to allow his undead to be tied to it directly. Allowing the skeletons bound to the wight to die when it did was uneptable. Instead, he would turn <em>himself</em> into a conduit, allowing the wight to issuemands through him.


    It was exceptionally delicate work, withyer afteryer of controls and safety mechanisms built into it. By the time this was done, he was well into the second day of the process. He was drained beyond belief, but it was impossible for him to stop now.


    With his magick recharged and a rich cloud of ambient energy in the Ossuary, Tyron lifted the staff and began the final stage.


    Sonorous words rolled from his tongue as he once again picked up the Raise Dead ritual, binding the undead to himself, and finally, lifting up the spirit of Filetta, taking her soul and cing it into the body he had prepared.


    As her soul nestled into the cavity in its chest, there was a bright sh of light that filled the Spirit Flesh and burst outward. As the ritual reached its crescendo, the mist and me of the ghostly body moved with greater energy, as ifing alive as it bonded to the soul ced inside it.


    He spoke the final word, brought his hands together and cut off the flow of power.


    It was done.


    In the depths of the hollow sockets in the skull, purple light began to glow.

 Chapter B4C26 - Returning

    Chapter B4C26 - Returning


    Georg lifted his head from the notes he¡¯d been poring over as he heard someone rush down the vacant street toward the half-copsed house he¡¯d chosen to upy. There were only a few people who came to this deserted part of town, and most of those didn¡¯t run, narrowing the list of subjects quite a bit.


    With a sigh, he pushed back his chair and ordered his zombie to pack away his things. Likely, he wouldn¡¯t be able to get back to studying any time soon, so it may as well be tidied while he dealt with this distraction.


    He reached the door just a moment before his surprise guest did and pulled it open to see Briss, out of breath and red-faced, reaching for the handle.


    ¡°Georg! Nice timing!¡± she wheezed.


    ¡°Morning, Briss. What brings you to my neck of the woods?¡±


    She pulled a face as she continued to suck in breath.


    ¡°This wouldn¡¯t be so difficult if you didn¡¯t move so far away,¡± she said.


    ¡°It¡¯s two streets, Briss.¡±


    She desperately needed excercise. ¡°Well, now we need to run back. Tyron ising!¡±


    Georg blinked.


    It had been two months since Tyron disappeared into the rift. He¡¯d begun to wonder if the man was evering back, or indeed if he was still alive. He was powerful, of course, but powerful yers died beyond the rift all the time.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± he blinked. ¡°We haven¡¯t heard a peep about him in over a month.¡±


    Some yers had returned to the keep with word of the Necromancer, but none had seen him since.


    ¡°Someone saw a column of skeletons marching through the woods,¡± Briss told him impatiently, ¡°who else is it going to be? Rurin sent word herself. Richard is already waiting, soe on!¡¯


    She pulled at his arm and Georg allowed himself to be dragged out the door, feeling a little bemused. If Tyron really wasing back, how were things going to change?


    The three students had worked together and made decent progress in the time he¡¯d been away. Each of them had sessfully created their first proper undead servant a few weeks ago, a moment worthy of celebration. Georg himself had reached level four, one away from his first Necromancer feat.


    Slowly and steadily, like making a fence, he¡¯d been going about the process of preparing himself to strike out on his own. Levelling the ground, digging out holes for the posts, making sure the timber was treated. Getting all of his ducks in a row to make sure he¡¯d be self-sufficient if he needed to be.


    Tyron had left behind extensive notes on Necromancy, all copied from the dense book of notes he kept with him at all times, along with pages filled with more general knowledge on magick, going over structure, techniques,mon sigils and how they were used. It was a wealth of material that had kept the three of them more than busy in the intervening time. Would he help them further now that he was back? Or would there not be enough time?


    Briss was excited, he could see, and Richard would be doubly so. The two of them looked up to Tyron more than he did, almost hero-worshipped him in the case of Richard, and he wasn¡¯t sure how he felt about that. Tyron had been immensely helpful, more than he needed to be, but Georg was under no illusions that his three students were anything other than an additional burden to him, one that he hoped would bear fruit some day.


    When they returned to the main street, they found Richard standing outside the front of their first house, brushing his hair down with his palms nervously.


    ¡°I got him!¡± Briss called and Richard turned towards them as they jogged thest few metres.


    ¡°I told you he was going toe back,¡± Richard said, somewhat smugly, and Georg could only roll his eyes.


    ¡°You did,¡± the former farmhand allowed. ¡°Do we even know if he¡¯sing here?¡±


    ¡°Where else would he go?¡± Richard frowned.


    <em>Just about anywhere</em>? Georg thought to himself.


    It was foolish to think the first thing the son of the Sterms would think of when returning from the rift was three fledgeling Necromancers.


    Yet Georg was surprised when, half an hourter, a skeleton marched around the corner, wielding a shield and de of ck bone, followed by another, then another. It was almost strange to see them walking in the clear light of day, these undead servants, but in such great numbers, they were intimidating indeed. More than a hundred turned the corner before Tyron himself appeared, his bone armour still affixed in ce.


    The Necromancer didn¡¯t wear a helmet, so his face was clear to see. He looked¡­ tired. Perhaps tired didn¡¯t go far enough. He looked <em>exhausted</em>. His features were drawn, his hair grown out and matted, yet he radiated the same sort of confidence he had before he¡¯d gone in.


    The very best always seemed to have this sort of air around them. His uncle Rickart had been a mild-mannered man, but he was an expert when it came to breaking in horses. Take that same, quiet individual, and put him in a field with horses, and he transformed into someone with utmost confidence, a presence, a weight of <em>authority</em>.


    Tyron always carried himself that way, except now¡­ more so.


    Whatever had happened in the rift had clearly had a positive effect on him. Georg experienced a sudden surge of¡­ ambition. He too wanted to have that quiet strength, walk on the other side of the rift by himself and return with levels and experience.


    He calmed himself. That was a long way off. You couldn¡¯t harvest before you sowed, that was justmon sense.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Then behind Tyron came something different, something they hadn¡¯t seen before. Two skeletons, burning with a flickering green light and enveloped in thick tes of smoking ck bone armour walked behind the Necromancer, one at each shoulder. Georg gaped at them. They were like nothing he¡¯d seen or heard about. How was it even possible to create undead of this level?


    Just what had Tyron done on the other side of that rift?


    When he finally stood in front of them, Tyron looked the three students up and down with a weary gaze.


    ¡°You¡¯ve gotten better,¡± he said, his voice a touch gravelly and raw.


    Richard stood straighter and Briss smiled at thepliment.


    ¡°We¡¯ve studied hard,¡± Richard said, trying to contain his pride.


    Georg tried to count the number of skeletons on the street, but stopped when he reached eighty. Why were there so many here and not stored away?


    ¡°Is there a reason the skeletons aren¡¯t stored in the Ossuary?¡± he asked.


    Briss and Richard turned to stare at him, but Tyron merely flicked his gaze to the minions around them.


    ¡°The Ossuary is full,¡± he said shortly. ¡°Now, let¡¯s sit down and have a discussion. We need to speak about whates next.¡±


    Full? If this many skeletons were outside¡­ what was <em>inside</em>?


    Tyron brushed past the three of them and made his way inside the partially repaired building he¡¯d left them in. Immediately, he recognised the change and queried them as he removed his bone armour.


    ¡°The three of you aren¡¯t staying here anymore?¡±


    ¡°I am,¡± Richard said quickly, ¡°but we decided it would be better if we had more space to work. It¡¯s not like there¡¯s any shortage of it in this area. Briss is a few doors down and Georg is two streets over.¡±


    With his armour removed, it was clear to see how Tyron had been deprived. His clothes were filthy, streaked with sweat and grime. In ces, his pants were tattered, stained with blood, and there were several cuts. The Necromancer looked down at himself, then sighed.


    ¡°I should have probably washed first,¡± he said, ¡°I apologise for the smell.¡±


    As Richard assured him no apologies were necessary, Tyron sat at the table, several of his skeletons entering behind the three students to perform tasks. Two of them gathered up his armour and carried it away, while others brought a heavy leather satchel and ced it on the ground by his chair.


    The students gathered some seats and sat at the table with their teacher, wondering what was going to happen next.


    Georg fully expected they were about to be abandoned. He didn¡¯t even feel aggrieved. At some point, a calf had no more need of its parents and struck out on its own. It was normal.


    He would quickly be proven right.


    ¡°I spent longer than I intended beyond the rift. As soon as I can, I need to return to Kenmor via the rift at Cragwhistle. It won¡¯t be possible to take you with me, in the event any of you wanted toe.¡±


    The words were delivered firmly, but without malice, he was simply stating the way it had to be. Briss and Richard appeared crestfallen, Georg simply nodded.


    ¡°The three of you should continue to work together either here or at Cragwhistle,¡± he went on. ¡°Hunting low level kin with your undead will be the best way for you to advance, and both ces have an abundance of remains for you to work with.¡±


    Tyron reached down to the satchel by his side and removed three sheaves of paper. cing them on the table, he pushed one in front of each student.


    ¡°These notes and exercises should cover everything you need to know to reach the level of a bronze ranked yer. Your advancement choices may well be different than mine, but I¡¯ve written what advice I can.


    ¡°There¡¯s more drills to help you work on your fundamentals and another glossary of words of power that shoulde in handy for you going forward.¡±


    Georg shifted through the pages with his brows raised. There was a lot here, all of it written in the neat, meticulous hand he¡¯d be familiar with. When had the man found the time to do any of this? Wasn¡¯t he fighting for his life against the kin? He certainly <em>looked</em> as if he had!


    This was far more than he¡¯d expected to get, and he felt a strong sense of gratitude towards the Necromancer. He had no idea why Tyron would go so far for them, but he was grateful nheless.


    ¡°This is¡­ amazing,¡± Richard said, hungrily flicking through the pages. ¡°Thank you, Tyron!¡±


    ¡°Unfortunately, I don¡¯t have the time I would like to help you through the next stage,¡± he sighed, ¡°so you¡¯ll be best served relying on each other for aid. For now, I have until nightfall to go through anything you don¡¯t understand and give advice. Who¡¯s first?¡±


    He looked at the three of them expectantly, they all stared back in confusion.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t¡­ aren¡¯t you going to rest? Or wash?¡± Briss asked.


    Their teacher scowled at them.


    ¡°Do you want me to be clean or do you want to learn magick?¡± he said irritably.


    ¡°Magick,¡± Georg said.


    The others shot him a look, but he only tilted his head toward Tyron, who was nodding approvingly.


    ¡°Exactly. Magick is far more important. Now, let¡¯s get started.¡±


    It was Georg, of course, who asked the first question. He¡¯d been struggling with certain sigil forms, his fingers still not able to transition from one to the next as smoothly as he liked. Tyron demonstrated the correct method, pointing out he¡¯d been misaligning his wrist.


    After that, Richard found the nerve to speak up and request Tyron inspect his first skeleton, at which point Briss also spoke. Their teacher spent the better part of an hour picking apart every mistake they¡¯d made with their threading technique, demonstrating the ws in their undead¡¯s movement.


    ¡°It¡¯s not bad for a first attempt,¡± he mused, looking over their skeletons, ¡°but you can do a lot better than this.¡±


    He turned to Georg.


    ¡°You must have produced a zombie by now. Do you want me to take a look?¡±


    Zombies didn¡¯t have the fastest walking speed, but his undead made it eventually.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been trying to repair its flesh daily,¡± he said, scratching at the back of his head, ¡°but I can¡¯t seem to prevent decay entirely.¡±


    Tyron wrinkled his nose as he approached the minion.


    ¡°Smells worse than me,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t my area of expertise,¡± he continued, ¡°but it seems the rot is umting despite your efforts to repair the damage. Either you haven¡¯t been able to fix the undead flesh properly, or the body is elerating its rot the longer it stays undead.¡±


    ¡°That would mean¡­¡±


    That would mean it was impossible to keep a zombie alive for a protracted period of time, no matter how well he cared for it. Georg bit his lip. Had he chosen a dead end after all?


    ¡°There are two courses of action. Continue to diligently practise your flesh mending, raising its level, and create more zombies, so you canpare results. If it is true that the rot elerates the longer they are dead, I am certain there will be measures to counteract the problem provided by the Unseen. Once you have a small number of zombies, go out and hunt smaller kin, but take others with you. If you run into arger monster, the zombies won¡¯t be much help.¡±


    It was good advice, and somewhat set his mind at ease. He may havee across his first stumbling block, but he would ovee it.


    Tyron remained with the three students for hours, answering their questions, assisting them with the new exercises he¡¯d provided, and correcting their use of sigils and words of power. When the sun finally fell, he rose from the table.


    ¡°This is farewell for now,¡± he said. ¡°Work hard, stick together, and by the time I return, I expect all of you to have made great strides. Level twenty at least.¡±


    He shook each of their hands, bid them good luck, and then he was gone, his entourage of skeletons vanishing into the night.

 Chapter B4C27 - Giant Strides

    Chapter B4C27 - Giant Strides


    The wagon rattled over the uneven backcountry roads as Tyron slept. Twenty skeletons were hitched to the front, pulling it along while drawing on his magick, but he could maintain that sort of draw forever, even in his sleep.


    Walking alongside the wagon, tworge, armoured figures, each burning with an inner, sickly green me directed the lesser undead, ensuring they didn¡¯t stray from the path. After so long beyond the rift, pushing himself to his limits and beyond, Tyron was tired down to his very bones. After the journey back to Cragwhistle had begun, he¡¯d copsed into the wagon, barely able to keep his eyes open long enough toy out some crude bedding before he¡¯d lost consciousness.


    For eighteen hours, he slept like the dead, heedless of the chill or the constant jolting of the wooden wagon bed.


    When he finally awoke, he felt like death scraped over burnt toast. The first sensation to return was, of course, pain. Roused atst from his dreamless sleep, Tyron gradually became aware of throbbing pain through his head and back. He drew a sharp breath as his right hip twinged, only to start coughing and spluttering at the foul sensation of his bone-dry mouth and throat.


    A pounding headache soon followed, along with a rumbling stomach that felt as if it might chew through his skin and start working on his belt if he didn¡¯t eat soon.


    All things considered, he felt absolutely awful.


    ¡°Finally awake, princess?¡± a mocking voice called from alongside the wagon.


    It had several unique qualities to it, this voice. It was raspy, and somewhat¡­ hollow¡­ as if it were an echo reverberating out from the interior of a crypt. Even on first listening, nobody would ever think the words hade from a living being.


    ¡°F-Filetta?¡± Tyron groaned as he pulled himself upright.Despite his absurdly high Constitution, the repeated battering of the road had eventually gotten through to him. After a couple of hours, he¡¯d be as right as rain, but for now, he took some time to rub down his aching limbs, pushing the heel of his hand into the protesting muscles to help get the blood flowing.


    ¡°Is that still my name?¡± she mused.


    ¡°Call yourself whatever you want.¡±


    His pack wasn¡¯t far away and Tyron reached out to drag it to himself, undoing the strings and rummaging around inside. He hadn¡¯t stayed long enough in Woodsedge to eat and rest, despite Elsbeth offering to house him for a few days, but he¡¯d been sensible enough to grab some provisions before leaving. Elsbeth had packed a few meals for him, bundled up and tied in cloth.


    He withdrew and opened one to find some cheese, meat and fruits, which he began nibbling at. Eating too quickly would only make him sick. His diet had been¡­ poor, over thest month. It would take time to put the flesh back on his bones.


    But it was worth it. The progress he¡¯d made was so valuable, he was convinced it would propel him forward in his search for revenge.


    ¡°What sort of name would suit me now?¡± Filetta mused. ¡°Arabad the ck? Fiorahn the Unbound Spirit?¡±


    ¡°You are most definitely bound,¡± Tyron grumbled. ¡°Should an undead soldier be this whimsical? Does it matter what your name is?¡±


    ¡°I am not one of your nameless skeletons, Tyron,¡± Filetta retorted. ¡°I¡¯m helping you, but I¡¯m <em>not</em> a mindless ve.¡±


    ¡°So nice of you to help, out of the goodness of your heart. I¡¯m sure trying to avoid your fate as a wandering spirit doesn¡¯t have anything to do with it.¡±


    ¡°Hardly worth mentioning,¡± Filetta said, waving a skeletal hand, ¡°I just want to be helpful. Speaking honestly, being in this state isn¡¯t that much better than being a spirit.¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°That¡¯s nonsense. You have ess to the Unseen, a new Race and ss, what more could you possibly want? I practically gave you a second life!¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t <em>feel</em> anything, Tyron! No warmth or cold or touch¡­ or anything!¡±


    That didn¡¯t sound so bad to him¡­. Goodness¡­ was he part lich already?


    ¡°It¡¯s not the worst way to go through unlife,¡± his second wight observed, ¡°but it¡¯s a long way from actually being alive.¡±


    ¡°From you of all people,¡± Tyron red. ¡°I¡¯ll happily revoke your speaking privileges again, Laurel. I didn¡¯t turn you into a wight so you could provide your <em>insights</em>.¡±


    At the mention of being unable to speak again, the wight Laurel snapped to attention and continued to walk alongside the carriage silently.


    ¡°What did she do to piss you off, again?¡± Filetta asked.


    ¡°Tried to kill me for money,¡± Tyron growled, settling himself morefortably. Already, he was starting to feel better. He continued to sip water to help ease the pounding headache in his temples, and nibbled slowly at the food to regain his strength.


    ¡°I did the same thing, though?¡± she pointed out.


    ¡°<em>You</em> didn¡¯t grow up with me.¡±


    ¡°I was fucking you, though.¡±


    ¡°Is it¡­ is it really necessary to point that out? Things didn¡¯t exactly turn out well between us, considering I murdered you, so why bring it up?¡±


    The wight chattered her teeth at him creepily.


    ¡°Because I still hate you for it.¡±


    Well, when she put it like <em>that</em>. Filetta was¡­ a little different from the rest of his undead in that she retained much more of her free will. She was even able to dislike him. More than that, she could think about harming him. She just couldn¡¯t act on it¡­.


    This was part of the agreement he¡¯d made when she had decided to be a wight, and he didn¡¯t want to betray that trust without good reason.


    As for Laurel, she had been much easier to persuade. As she¡¯d said herself, unlife as a wight wasn¡¯t the <em>worst</em> way to spend your time dead. Not even close.


    Even when alive, she¡¯d always acted in her own self interest, and this was no different. She would do anything Tyron asked to improve her situation even a little.


    Two wights, his finest creations. The amount of mana required to maintain them was staggering, possibly as much as a hundred skeletons, but with everything he had done to mitigate the drain on his power, he could create several more without overly taxing his magick.


    Even better, the spirit flesh had proven to be a medium capable of holding the status ritual. Filetta and Laurel had both been able to perform it and confirm their new Race and ss without having to use his blood.


    Speaking of the status ritual¡­


    ¡°Keep an eye out for a secluded spot close to the road,¡± he instructed his twomanders. ¡°We¡¯ll need to stop for a few minutes.¡±


    Laurel just nodded her skeletal head, but Filetta released an odd noise, as if she¡¯d tried to whistle. Without lips. Or air.


    ¡°Finally time for the status ritual, eh? You ought to get a few levels. I¡¯m surprised you managed to wait this long.¡±


    Tyron rolled his eyes. Of course he was impatient, but there was good reason for dying this long.


    ¡°Performing the status ritual inside the rift is a bad idea. Every yer will tell you the same,¡± Tyron defended himself as he continued to nibble at some cheese. ¡°Changing the way your body feels, or gaining new abilities that change the way you fight, is a terrible idea while surrounded by enemies on all sides. yers will only do it if the situation is desperate.¡±


    In his case, it would have taken time for him to adjust to his new self, time he couldn¡¯t afford to waste. Between the research, work, and fighting he¡¯d been doing, he couldn¡¯t afford the luxury. Also, he¡­ hadn¡¯t exactly been in his best mind for thest few weeks. Making permanent decisions about one''s future in such a state wasn¡¯t something he would rmend.


    ¡°Let me know when you find a spot,¡± he told her, then settled in to finish his recovery, ignoring Filetta¡¯s muttered insults.


    Over the next hour, he gradually began to feel better. The headache retreated as he slowly rehydrated himself, and the hunger pangs faded with continued nibbles of cheese and smoked meat. The pain in his limbs faded away and he started stretching himself as best he could in the moving carriage, feeling the life return to his body.


    ¡°Found a spot,¡± Filetta announced. ¡°Give us a few minutes to get the carriage off the road.¡±


    Tyron felt his heart rate pick up as the moment of truth came closer. He¡¯d made incredible progress, and he was sure the Unseen would be generous with its rewards. He hoped to have at least one of his mysteries upgraded, but he didn¡¯t let himself to expect too much. Mysteries lived up to their name; nobody could say for certain when or how they would improve, or exactly what they would do.


    He could still recall, barely, pieces of the vision that had assailed him after Filetta had been raised. No sooner had hepleted the ritual than his consciousness had been swept away. shes haunted his subconscious still, glimpses of death, vast fields of skulls, pirs of ck smoke kilometres thick rising into a storm of power, words rumbling upward from the wormy earth.


    And spirits, so many spirits, wailing in agony and despair as they slowly melded into the darkness.


    The vision had shaken him, but even though he couldn¡¯t recall much of what he saw, he remembered his visceral reaction.


    <em>That will never be me</em>.


    By the time the carriage finally rattled to a stop, he had paper and a knife prepared.


    The moment the carriage bed was finally still below him, he cut a neat slice in his thumb, pressed it to the page, and held his breath, eyes wide as he stared at the page.


    Blood flowed, trailing across the paper, then curling into letters that soaked in,bining to create the words of the Unseen.


    Eager, Tyron¡¯s eyes raced down the page as things began to fall into ce. There was a lot there. A <em>lot</em>. He didn¡¯t let himself dwell on the individual skill notifications, but homed in on what was most relevant.


    First, the levels. Lord of the Ossuary had reached level fifty-three, a gain of five. Considering how slow the levelling process became at this point, he was shocked and pleased with the result. Perhaps it was to be expected, considering most teams that travelled through the rifts would be teams of four or five. Splitting their gains between them, they¡¯d leave with a single level each. As a Necromancer, he¡¯d been able to take everything for himself.


    Two more ability choices and another feat to choose. That was excellent. Eager to see more, he continued to read.


    Perhaps unsurprisingly, he didn¡¯t gain nearly as many levels in his Forbidden One Sub-ss. The only way to improve it was to do the work of the Scarlet Court, Dark Ones and Abyss, and he hadn¡¯t done a <em>whole</em> lot to advance their schemes as ofte.


    What he had done was apparently sufficient for another two levels.


    Death Mage had gained more than expected, but perhaps he shouldn¡¯t be surprised. It was still a low Level Sub-ss, and it would continue to grow rapidly until he advanced it. Still, another six levels was more than wee.


    Then came the message he¡¯d most been looking forward to.


    <em>Reaching for the unknown, refusing to settle for what is offered and daring to risk yourself for power are valuable characteristics. Your arcane prowess, mastery of magick and deep insight into the workings of Death are rare gifts. Continue on your path, and you will be rewarded. <strong>Mystery: Essence of Death, has grown to Emergent. Mystery: Soul Magick, has grown to Emergent. Mystery: Words of Power, has grown to Profound.</strong></em>


    Three?! Words of Power had grown?! Tyron boggled at the page. This would¡­ this would change many things! What sort of effect would this have on his spells? It was impossible to say. This level of support from the Unseen was <em>extremely</em> difficult to get.


    He was so shocked he almost didn¡¯t notice that he¡¯d gained a Race level as well. Perhaps spending time with and teaching the students had caused it? Was he more attached to them than he thought?


    Many of his Skills and Spells had improved over his stay in Nagrythyn, especially his new selections. The repeated experimentation and use in battle had been fruitful indeed. Enhanced Minion Commander had reached its max level of twenty, as had Bone Forging <em>and </em>Bone-Soul Melding.


    A new Skill had also appeared: Spirit Flesh Formation. A result of his breakthrough in creating a medium a soul could inhabit along with its skeleton.


    In addition, Spirit Binding had changed to Advanced Spirit Binding, its maximum level increasing by ten. Clearly, his control over spirits had warranted reward.


    Many of his Skills, and his Spells as well, were hitting their caps, which meant he would need to prioritise pushing those higher so he could continue to progress. An ability stuck at level ten wasn¡¯t nearly as useful as one that had reached twenty.


    Dimension Weaving had reached ten already, which made sense considering how much he¡¯d been messing with said weavetely. Several of his stubbornly stuck Enchanter Skills had also levelled, which was pleasing to see.


    He turned his attention to the Spells, going through them one by one.


    For his efforts, Raise Dead and Bone Animus had reached their max level, as had ck Miasma. His newer spells had increased in level, but even his frequent use of Greater Death Bolt and Death¡¯s Fist wasn¡¯t enough for them to reach the cap.


    Blessing of Bone and Blood Shield had seen a significant improvement as he¡¯d used them frequently duringrge engagements. His abilities had grown by leaps and bounds over the months-long period of intensebat and experimentation. Now he could select his new abilities and begin to exponentially expand his horde of undead.


    He felt almost giddy with excitement as he began to consider the possibilities. After everything he¡¯d done to allow himself to control more minions, the limiting factor had be his attention, rather than his magick. Oh, he could have utilised a thousand skeletons, but only crudely. To bring out the best of their abilities, he¡¯d needed to micromanage them. They weren¡¯t all that durable, after all. Left to their own devices, they would charge ahead blindly, or swing wildly, where caution was required.


    Splitting his attention in many ways would have meant his horde would berger, but the losses would have added up very quickly.


    Now, he had his wights plugged into the horde. They could handle the minutiae while he focused on the big picture. Even so, he still wished he¡¯d taken the Undead Leader option when he¡¯d had the chance. Sharing the mental load would enable him to increase his skeletal army further and further. He could only hope the same option, or a simr one, would appear soon.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Already pleased with his results, he turned his attention to his new selections, excited to see what the Unseen was offering him.


    He turned his attention to the Feats first. He had one to choose from Death Mage, and Lord of the Ossuary. Although there were several tempting options for Death Mage, one stood head and shoulders above the rest.


    Efficient Death <em>had,</em> in fact, reduced the cost of <em>all</em> his uses of Death Magick, including the drain of his minions. It was such an absurd bonus that he was unwilling to consider anything else in this slot.


    He ced a mark next to Efficient Death II and moved to Lord of the Ossuary.


    There were several choices here, but again, a few stood out. The feats that expanded or empowered the Ossuary in some way were interesting, but he believed he would be better served by stacking his existing feats to higher levels. In that department, he had two options: Bone Mastery II and Skeletal Focus IV.


    Likely, he would take both in time, but for now, he selected Bone Mastery. That would have a greater impact on his <em>other</em> project.


    Now for the ability selections. He moved to choose from his less important sses first, leaving Lord of the Ossuary forst. Forbidden One offered two new abilities: Rot¡¯s Endurance, or Expert Suppress Mind.


    Rot¡¯s Endurance was tempting, if vague. By utilising the spell, he¡¯d suppress his ability to feel pain and difort? That was certainly useful, if a touch grisly. Suppress Mind had proven to be incredibly useful, and empowering it further wasn¡¯t something he could gloss over. As little as he liked employing the spell, it was extremely potent when used correctly.


    After hemming and hawing for a bit, he selected Expert Suppress Mind and moved on.


    For Death Mage, there were three selections to make. Quickly, he decided to take Expert Death Magick and the upgrade to Shivering Curse. That was a curse he used frequently, and improving Expert Death Magick, the fundamental of fundamentals, was something he¡¯d passed overst time, but not again. That left him with one choice to make. Curse of Pain was a new option, and one he didn¡¯t like that much. It wasn¡¯t that causing pain to his enemies bothered him, he just worried it wouldn¡¯t be that effective in killing them.


    Eyes of Death and Hand of Corruption were simrly unappealing. If his enemies were close enough for him to touch them, then he was probably dead already. Eyes of Death was a specific and probably more effective version of the Eye Magick Dove had taught him, but he didn¡¯t feel it was needed. He¡¯d invented his enchanted ss to be able to track minute traces of Death Magick; he could make something simr to do the same job on arger scale.


    Instead, he selected the Curse Weaving Skill to empower his curses further. They were an effective way of levelling the ying field for his undead, and Death Mage was providing a significant number of curse-oriented bonuses so far, making it a prudent choice.


    Then, he turned his attention to the new offerings from Lord of the Ossuary. There were four new abilities to choose from, and he considered each of them in turn.


    Horde Conductor reced Undead Control and raised the maximum level by twenty. Quite a potent option. Undead Control improved the finer aspects of control over his minions, such as making them move in specific ways. If he wanted a skeleton to angle its shield to deflect a blow, it was Undead Control that helped him form those instructions. Horde Conductor appeared to do the same thing, but applied on a wider scale. This was an interesting option, but he wasn¡¯t certain it was what he needed right now. Directly controlling his minions was something he was hoping to move away from, after all.


    Field of Death created an area that constantly drained life from the living. From the description, that would include himself if he was foolish enough to put himself within the effect. If it applied to a wide enough area, this could be effective, but how effective was it? If the drain was too slow, then would it have any effect at all? Did the spell only do damage, or did it heal him as well? He¡¯d be healed a little regardless, thanks to his Sap Life Feat.


    Death Nexus was another option. The description said it would ¡®create a lodestone that connects to all nearby undead, sharing its power with them¡¯. It sounded useful, but Tyron was close to creating something that essentially did the same thing. His cauldrons already fed Death Magick to his minions, empowering them, and came with the ck Miasma spell bound into them to boot. It was possible this spell would do something his constructs didn¡¯t, but he couldn¡¯t tell from the description, and he¡¯d hate to waste a selection.


    Speaking of ck Miasma, the next selection was an upgrade. Cursed Miasma would raise the level cap on the ability by twenty, which was <em>excellent</em>, and also would alter the Miasma to carry curses within it. At least, that¡¯s what the description seemed to suggest.


    If that were true¡­ he could spread his curses over an even wider area by pushing the miasma further out. Of course, this woulde with limitations. If someone were able to counter the miasma, disperse or dispel it in some way, then his curse would go with it. Also, the effect carried by the miasma was sure to be weaker than the curse itself. Nheless, this could be a powerful effect if utilised correctly.


    He considered his options for a while, going back and forth until he eventually settled on Field of Death and Cursed Miasma.


    It was disappointing not to see anything more directly minion-rted, but it was possible he¡¯d trumped the Unseen by creating wights on his own. Doubtless, the Lord of the Ossuary would offer him more skeleton-rted abilities over the next four selections.


    Grinning widely, Tyron ended the ritual and felt the absurd rush of power flow into him. Once he got back to work, everything was going to change.


    <em></em>


    <em>Name: Tyron Sterm.</em>


    <em>Age: 23</em>


    <em>Race: Human (Level 21)</em>


    <em></em>


    <em>ss:</em>


    <em>Lord of the Ossuary (Level 53) </em>


    <em></em>


    <em>Sub-sses:</em><ul><li><em>Forbidden One (Level 32) </em></li><li><em>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</em></li><li><em>Death Mage (Level 12)</em></li></ul>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Racial Feats:</em></strong>


    <em>Level 5: Steady Hand.</em>


    <em>Level 10: Night Owl.</em>


    <em>Level 15: Well of Magick.</em>


    <em>Level 20: Arcane Renewal.</em>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Attributes:</em></strong>


    <em></em>


    <em>Strength:</em>


    <em>88</em>


    <em>Dexterity:</em>


    <em>145</em>


    <em>Constitution:</em>


    <em>216</em>


    <em>Intelligence:</em>


    <em>332</em>


    <em>Wisdom:</em>


    <em>247</em>


    <em>Willpower:</em>


    <em>192</em>


    <em>Charisma:</em>


    <em>101</em>


    <em>Maniption:</em>


    <em>117</em>


    <em>Poise:</em>


    <em>145</em>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>General Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Concentration (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Cooking (Level 4)</em>


    <em>Sling (Level 3)</em>


    <em>Swordsmanship (Level 2)</em>


    <em>Sneak (Level 3)</em>


    <em>Butchery (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Engraving (Level 5)(Max) </em>


    <strong><em>Sculpting (Level 5)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Weaving (Level 5)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Dodging (Level 3)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Running (Level 3)</em></strong>


    <em>Skill Selections Avable: 1</em>


    <strong><em>Necromancer Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Corpse Appraisal (Level 20)(Max)</em>


    <em>Corpse Preparation (Level 20)(Max)</em>


    <em>Advanced Death Magick (Level 20)(Max) </em>


    <strong><em>Enhanced Minion Commander (Level 20)(Max)</em></strong>


    <em>Undead Control (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Minion Modification (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Bone-Soul Melding (Level 20)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Death Infusion (Level 8)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Bone Forging (Level 20)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Spirit Flesh Formation (Level 3)</em></strong>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Anathema Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Abyss Tongue (Level 6)</em>


    <em>Spell Concealment (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Dimension Weaving (Level 6)</em></strong>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Arcanist Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Expert Magick Scripting (Level 30)(Max)</em>


    <em>Channelling (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 19)</em>


    <em>Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 19)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Expert Network Formation (Level 30)(Max)</em></strong>


    <em>Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 20)(Max)</em>


    <em>Advanced Core Sense (Level 16)</em>


    <em>Expert Power Control (Level 28)</em>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>General Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Sleep (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Necromancer Spells:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Raise Dead (Level 40)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Bone Animus (Level 40)(Max)</em></strong>


    <em>Commune with Spirits (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Shivering Curse (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Death des (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Empowered Bone Armour (Level 14)</em></strong>


    <em>Minion Sight (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Advanced Spirit Binding (Level 14)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Death Fist (Level 14) </em></strong>


    <strong><em>Anoint Dead (Level 9)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>ck Miasma (Level 10)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Greater Death Bolt (Level 15)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Summon the Ossuary (Level 7)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Bone Lance (Level 7)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Ossuary Vent (Level 4)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Blessing of Bone (Level 6)</em></strong>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Anathema Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Pierce the Veil (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Appeal to the Court (Level 5)</em>


    <strong><em>Dark Communion (Level 3)</em></strong>


    <em>Advanced Suppress Mind (Level 20)(Max)</em>


    <em>Repository (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Fear (Level 5)</em>


    <em>mour (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Advanced Invasive Persuasion (Level 12)</em>


    <em>Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 8)</em>


    <em>Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Blood Shield (Level 6)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Death Mage Spells:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Sap Life (Level 6)</em></strong>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Necromancer Feats:</em></strong>


    <em>Skeleton Focus III</em>


    <em>Magick Battery II</em>


    <em>Bone Mastery</em>


    <em>Spirit Mastery </em>


    <em>Undead Specialist</em>


    <em>Awaken the Altar</em>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Anathema Feats:</em></strong>


    <em>Repository</em>


    <em>Wall of Thought II</em>


    <em>Drain Life</em>


    <em>Stormwise</em>


    <em>Bewitching Gaze</em>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Arcanist Feats</em></strong>


    <em>Magick Thread Control II</em>


    <em>Compact Sigils II</em>


    <em>Conduit Seal II</em>


    <em>Core Networking II</em>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Death Mage Feats</em></strong>


    <em>Efficient Death I</em>


    <strong><em>Mysteries:</em></strong>


    <em>Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20</em>


    <em>Words of Power (Profound): WIS +50 CHA +50</em>


    <em>Essence of Death (Emergent): INT +8 WILL +8</em>


    <em>Soul Magick (Emergent): WIS+8 CHA +8</em>


    <em></em>


    <strong><em>Lord of the Ossuary has reached Level 53. Choose two additional Skills or Spells:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Corpse Divining - Deepen your connection to the dead, allowing you to understand them more fully. Will rece Corpse Appraisal and raise its maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Corpse Singing - Enhance your ability to empower remains, cleansing and purifying them. Will rece Corpse Preparation and raise its maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Horde Conductor - Reces Undead Control and raises the maximum level by 20. </em>


    <strong><em>Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Skeletal Sacrifice - Detonate a skeleton to shower your foe in shards of bone.</em>


    <em>Field of Death - Create an area that constantly drains life from the living.</em>


    <em>Death Nexus - Create a lodestone that connects to all nearby undead, sharing its power with them.</em>


    <em>Cursed Miasma - Reces ck Miasma and increases its maximum level by 20. Cursed Miasma will carry your curse magick within it.</em>


    <strong><em>Forbidden One has reached level 32. Choose one additional Skills or Spells:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Corrupting Presence - Subvert the Will to resist from those around you.</em>


    <em>Crone¡¯s Gaze - Sense the inner motives of another when meeting their gaze.</em>


    <em>Raven Speech - Communicate with the children of the Old God.</em>


    <strong><em>Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Advanced Bewitch - Reces Bewitch and increases the maximum level by 10. </em>


    <em>Flesh to Power - Sacrifice your own body, or the body of another, to generate magick.</em>


    <em>Rot¡¯s Endurance - Employ the unending hardiness of Rot, who feels no pain and suffers no injury to impede him.</em>


    <em>Expert Suppress Mind - This ability will rece Advanced Suppress Mind and increase its maximum level by 10.</em>


    <strong><em>Death Mage has reached level 12. Choose three additional Skills or Spells:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Curse Weaving - Enhance your capacity to manipte curses.</em>


    <em>Expert Death Magick - Reces Advanced Death Magick and raises the maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Life Draw - Improve your ability to steal the vitality of the living.</em>


    <em>Sense Living - Your senses are tuned to hunt the living.</em>


    <strong><em>Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Wilting Curse - Weaken and enfeeble your foes.</em>


    <em>Advanced Shivering Curse - Reces Shivering Curse and increases its maximum level by ten.</em>


    <em>Curse of Pain - Cause intense pain in an area to those who defy you.</em>


    <em>Eyes of Death - See the flow of Death Magick with the naked eye. </em>


    <em>Hand of Corruption - Cloak your hand in an aura of death that can harm those you touch.</em>


    <strong><em>Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 50. Choose an additional Feat:</em></strong>


    <em>Ossuary Extraction I - Increase the amount of Death Magick avable to the Ossuary.</em>


    <em>Ossuary Expansion I - Increase the size of the Ossuary.</em>


    <em>Ossuary Infusion I - Increase the efficacy of the bone receptacles.</em>


    <em>ss Focus I - Choose two ss Skills or Spells and raise their cap by 10.</em>


    <em>Skeleton Focus IV - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.</em>


    <em>Bone Mastery II - Empower all Bone rted Skills, Spells and Minions.</em>


    <em>Half-Dead - Allow your own bones to be infused with Death Magick.</em>


    <em>Bone Sculptor - Improve your ability to mould and shape bone.</em>


    <em>Bone Animator - Empower your constructs.</em>


    <strong><em>Death Mage has reached level 10. Choose an additional Feat:</em></strong>


    <em>Efficient Death II - Your mastery will allow you to achieve more with less.</em>


    <em>Empowered Death I - Your mastery will strengthen your spells to greater heights.</em>


    <em>Prating Death Bolt - Your Death Bolt will pierce. </em>


    <em>Death Conversion - You will be faster when converting normal magick to Death Aligned magick.</em>


    <em>Curse Tuner - You can apply curses to a wider area, or increase their effect.</em>


    <em>Death Sense - Detect nearby sources of Death Magick.</em>


    <em>Deaden Self - Your sense of pain will grow dull.</em>


    <em>Eyes of the Grave - You will see as the spirits see.</em>


    <em>Rot ws - Your hands will generate Death Magick in your nails.</em>


    <em>Fallen Shadow - You may store Death aligned energy in your shadow.</em>

 Chapter B4C28 - City of Darkness

    Chapter B4C28 - City of Darkness


    The great wall of Kenmor loomed in the distance, so wide it was difficult to see the curve as the carriage approached. Tyron sat, tense, eyes darting from his hands folded in hisp to the open window. Rain drizzled down, spattering through the opening and onto his cloak, but he paid it no mind.


    There was a pall over thend, a shadow that didn¡¯t seem to solely be due to the low-hanging clouds. The side of the Emperor¡¯s Way, the road that ran through the centre of the city, was lined with people. Some travelling in groups, moving away from the capital, others huddled in small tent gatherings, looking lost and hopeless.


    The purge was ongoing, and nowhere were the effects felt more strongly than here, in the beating heart of the province.


    Tyron could see it in the hollow expressions of the people as his carriage rolled past. These were people who had lost loved ones, lost homes, been driven out from theirmunities by fear and false usations.


    In each and every one of them, Tyron saw a potential soldier. Right now, they were fearful, terrified, aimless. They had suffered at the hands of the empire, but couldn¡¯t imagine striking back against it. They sought to ride out the trouble, or endure it, as best they could.


    It wouldn¡¯t be long now until the word of rebellion spread across the province. What would happen to these people then? Would they continue to cower? Doubtless many would, but some, some would fight.


    ¡°Not much further to the checkpoint, Master Almsfield,¡± the carriage driver called back.


    ¡°Thank you, driver,¡± he said, and took a deep breath to steady himself. Getting back into the city wouldn¡¯t be easy, but he¡¯d expected that. Had nned for it.


    Nothing about his return had been easy. It had been a terrible risk to use the rift from Cragwhistle and return to the Oldan estate, but neither could he afford to travel for weeks across the province. Emerging from the ritual site had been nerve-wracking, but thankfully, he hadn¡¯t found any marshals, or a small army of priests waiting for him on the other side.Getting from the estate to a vige where he could hire a carriage had been another thing entirely. The house was likely nothing but a smoking ruin at this point, and he wasn¡¯t so foolish as to try and see it. Instead, he¡¯d had to pick his way through the forest, for days, emerging to the south and finally managing to connect to a road.


    He heard the driver slowing the horses, pulling back on the reins and Tyron steadied himself. It wasn¡¯t long until there was a knock at the side of the carriage and as antern was held to the open window, shining a light inside.


    ¡°Mind stepping out of the carriage, sir?¡±


    ¡°Lukas Almsfield, Arcanist.¡±


    ¡°Master Almsfield, if you would.¡±


    Tyron nodded and the marshall stepped back, allowing him to emerge into the rain. The checkpoint straddled the highway, a series of hastily constructed buildings on both sides of the road. Teams of marshals, with priests mixed in amongst them, moved from carriage to carriage, inspecting every individual, every pack and every parcel.


    Interestingly, there were far more people moving <em>out</em> of the city than into it.


    There were four marshalls outside his carriage, each of them tense, hands never far from their weapons. Tyron noted their shaky nerves with interest. Something was driving these men and women, pushing them to the edge of their nerves.


    ¡°Status ritual please, sir.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    Masking his nerves, Tyron pulled back his cloak to reveal the knife sheathed at his waist. When it was indicated he could withdraw it, he did so and made a neat slice on his thumb.


    He was presented with a page pinned to a thin te and noted how the water ran off the paper without soaking in. Enchanted, and in quite a clever way. As he pressed his thumb to the paper, he didn¡¯t bother trying to disguise his professional curiosity.


    ¡°Is the array on the back of the te?¡± he asked as his blood flowed onto the paper.


    The marshal shrugged impatiently.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know anything about it except that it works, sir.¡±


    ¡°Can I take a look after?¡±


    ¡°No, we need to keep the line moving.¡±


    When his status was finalised, they withdrew the te. Two marshals watched him as the other two took the sheet away and inspected it closely under a burning torch. After a few moments, they returned.


    ¡°Everything seems to be fine. Just wait here a moment and a priest will be along shortly.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°A priest,¡± the marshal repeated impatiently before waving over another officer to watch him as the four moved down the line to the next carriage waiting.


    Fighting to maintain his calm, Tyron stood in the rain, hands sped inside his cloak as he watched the bustle around the checkpoint. Fires guttered in the drizzle, and he spotted a few arcane light sources here and there, bobbing through the dark as people walked with them attached to something or other.


    Soon, a white-robed figure approached, a Priestess of Lofis, judging by the leaves embroidered on her robes. With a staff in one hand, she trudged through the rain, a disgruntled look on her face.


    ¡°A good evening to you, Priestess,¡± Tyron said, bowing to hide his wary expression.


    ¡°Yes, blessings of Lofis be upon you. Let¡¯s get this done.¡±


    Without any further words, she raised her free hand, which began to glow softly as she closed her eyes, as if listening to something. Tyron tensed. He hadn¡¯t anticipated something like this. Were the Divines themselves inspecting every wagon heading into the city? Impossible. Whatever was happening, he hoped The Three were covering him. Otherwise, he might be in real trouble.


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    Surreptitiously, he began to gather magick, forming sigils within his robes as he watched the Priestess.


    After ten seconds or so, she lowered her hand and the glow faded.


    ¡°You¡¯re fine to go through. Take this pass and show it to the guards further up. Go in the light of the Five.¡±


    No sooner had she handed him the pass and spoken her blessings than she was off, pulling her robe up out of the mud and striding to the next carriage.


    Unsure what had just happened, Tyron let his magick disperse as he looked down at the pass. It was a palm-sized metallic rectangle, stamped with an intricate pattern of interlocking circles and the symbols of The Five. Not sure what else to do, he climbed back into the carriage and signalled the driver to continue.


    Despite the majority of traffic flowing out of the city, there was still a significant line of people trying to get in. They waited an hour before they finally reached the outskirts of Shadetown, where a second checkpoint sat astride the road. Feeling nervous, Tyron handed over his pass, which the guard took from him, threw into a waiting box filled with others just like it, and waved them through.


    The carriage rolled on and he finally allowed himself to rx a little. He¡¯d been worried his pass would mark him as a heretic and the dozens of guards would jump him the moment he¡¯d handed it over.


    The rain continued to drip and drizzle as the carriage pushed into Shadetown, the wall looming high ahead. If the signs of despondency and fear were clear on the road, they were practically a shout here, just outside Kenmor.


    The streets, usually full of people, and traffic, and trade, were a shadow of their former selves. Not even the dismal weather could exin the small number of furtive people, making their way across the streets at a hurried pace. Every person he saw seemed to have their shoulders hunched, as if a weight had been ced on their back, or they sought to avoid the gaze of someone.


    Everyone, except the marshals, that is.


    Almost like gangs, there were groups on street corners, and others moving between the houses and storefronts, clearly with a target in mind. The tense atmosphere hung over the entire city like a nket.


    Tyron kept his head down and tried not to stare at anyone as the streets rolled by. Eventually the carriage driver pulled to the side, and Tyron thanked the man before paying him. With his bag in hand, he made his way through the roads, making a beeline for his shop.


    Everywhere he looked, stores, inns and taverns that had thrived not long ago were boarded up, the upants having been taken by the purge or fled the city in fear. When he approached the market, even that normally bustling part of Shadetown, filled withmerce, discussion and haggling was quiet, with barely anyone out of their homes. When he arrived at Almsfield Enchantments, to his shock, that too had been boarded up, the entrance dark and dusty.


    He fished his key out of his bag and opened the door to find the interior hadn¡¯t been disturbed, but a fineyer of dust told the story of neglect. Nobody had been here in weeks, perhaps longer. Wondering what had happened, Tyron locked the door behind him and cast a light orb, letting the soft glow of magick fill up the dark shop floor.


    The cabs were undisturbed, the disy pieces still in their ces along with the descriptive cards alongside each of them. Moving behind the counter, he found the safe still intact, the coins stacked neatly inside. They hadn¡¯t been robbed, and there was no damage, or sign of struggle. So what had happened?


    Confused, Tyron continued to inspect the store, letting his light rest above his right palm as he checked the back rooms. The tools and equipment were still there, along with boxes of cores, already engraved and waiting to be set. More and more puzzled, he checked to make sure there was no sign the entrance to his study had been tampered with or discovered and found none.


    Even more baffled, he made his way upstairs. His feet heavy on the wooden steps, he thought he heard a muffled conversation cut off as he approached the door at the entrance to the second floor. Was there someone in his rooms?


    On guard now, he raised his hands and prepared a Death Bolt in one hand and the Dominate Mind spell in the other. Was someone lying in wait for him? Had Yor decided to push the issue?


    Anger pulsed in his temples and he forced it back down. He needed to be calm, in control. Making too much of a scene would give himself away, raise suspicion when he could least afford it.


    With smooth movements, he opened the door, took three strides down the corridor and flung open the entrance to the upstairs workshop.


    There was a scramble inside, a body dove under the worktable as Tyron flung his light glove into the room and hunted for a target.


    Raising his foot, he kicked over the table, sending it onto its side with a crash. A figure cowered below, but Tyron allowed them no time to recover, mming his mind into the other¡¯s and crushing it in an instant.


    The figure went limp, rolling to the side, and only then did Tyron recognise who it was.


    ¡°Flynn? Bone and Blood, what are you doing?¡±


    His apprenticey flopped onto his side, unable to move, and Tyron stared down at him in consternation.


    ¡°And where the hell are your pants?¡±


    ¡°M-m-master Almsfield?¡± a timid voice called from deeper into the room. ¡°Is that you?¡±


    ¡°Cerry?¡± Tyron asked, sending his globe higher.


    Wrapped in a nket, his former store attendant saw him in the dim light and burst into tears, her loud sobs filling the workshop.


    Only then did Tyron notice the changes in the room. A pallet and bedding, a chamber pot, water and food tucked away in the corner. Clearly, something had happened here.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to my room,¡± he announced wearily as he released his grip on his apprentice. ¡°Flynn, put your dick away and make yourselves presentable. Then we can talk.¡±


    His own room was just as dusty as downstairs, and Tyron cursed as he resigned himself to tidying the ce up. At least none of his possessions had been messed with. Since the ce appeared abandoned, it was almost a miracle it was unrobbed. Even the reputable parts of Shadetown weren¡¯t above a little petty crime when the opportunity afforded itself.


    Ten minutester, a clearly embarrassed Flynn and Cerry joined him just as he finished wiping down his small table and chairs. With a gesture, he invited them to join him as he sat with a sigh.


    ¡°Let¡¯s not waste time,¡± he stated. ¡°I can see that something has gone very wrong, which led you to close down the store and take up residence upstairs. Out with it. You wouldn¡¯t have hidden here if you didn¡¯t want me to help you.¡±


    Flynn, shame faced, looked down at hisp, and it was Cerry, barely holding back her tears, who spoke first.


    ¡°I-I-I¡¯m sorry, M-m-master Almsfield. I j-j-just d-didn¡¯t know where else to turn!¡±


    She broke down again, sobbing into her hands, and Tyron turned to Flynn impatiently.


    ¡°What happened, Flynn? Talk to me.¡±


    The young man gathered his courage and slowly brought his eyes up to meet his teacher¡¯s.


    ¡°It was¡­ <em>ahem</em>¡­ it was Cerry¡¯s¡­ ah¡­ Awakening. She¡­ She was g-given¡­ an illegal ss.¡±


    Tyron¡¯s eyes sharpened, then he sighed and softened his gaze. He brought up a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. This was his fault¡­ in a loose sense. The Old Gods had unleashed chaos when they¡¯d decided to interfere with the Awakening stones, right as a purge was under way. Clearly, Cerry had been caught up in the crossfire and Awakened something the Priests would <em>not </em>have wanted to see. So, they¡¯d closed the store and had been hiding her here ever since.


    ¡°I¡¯m amazed you weren¡¯t found. Hasn¡¯t anyone checked the store?¡±


    Flynn nodded.


    ¡°A few times, but we managed to hide Cerry in the supply crates.¡±


    ¡°Ah, they needed you for the keys. You knew when they wereing.¡±


    Again, his apprentice nodded.


    ¡°Well,¡± Tyron muttered, ¡°this is going to be a pain. Let me say this first, I¡¯m not going to turn you in, Cerry.¡±


    Both of them stared at him, hope and surprise warring on their faces.


    He smothered a wry smile.


    ¡°It would be difficult for me to do so, considering what <em>I</em> am.¡±


    He pushed himself up from the table.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make some tea. This might take a while.¡±

 Chapter B4C29 - Living in the Shadows

    Chapter B4C29 - Living in the Shadows


    Tyron sighed as he sat down on his bed. It had been a risk revealing himself to Cerry and Flynn, but it was a measured one. Who were they going to reveal him to? The moment Cerry popped her head above the parapet, she was going to get it taken off, and Flynn wanted to marry the girl, putting her at risk was not something he could handle. For better or worse, his apprentice had chosen his side the moment he¡¯d helped Cerry hide from the authorities.


    The Necromancer leaned back and pinched his brow. He was tired; the travel had been long and arduous, draining even his own formidable reserves of endurance. At times, he¡¯d felt he wouldn¡¯t make it back into the city at all, but now that he was here, he could feel the danger pressing in all around him.


    Here he was, in the seat of power for the Duke, the Divines, the Magisters, all of them. At any moment, they could break down his door and sweep through the store. If even the slightest trace of Death Magick was found, they¡¯d break through his floor and eventually find his study, with all the evidence of his activities.


    Adding Cerry and Flynn on top of his existing concerns wasn¡¯t something he wanted, and if her ss hadn¡¯t been so unique, perhaps he wouldn¡¯t have bothered.


    The ability to calm the spirits? A Spirit Speaker? What¡¯s more¡­ the ss description said she could grant them release from their suffering. Did that mean she could move them on from their aimless wandering on this ne after death? In that case¡­ where did they go?


    If he worked with her, it might be possible for him to finally locate the realm he had been searching for: the Land of the Dead.


    It <em>had</em> to exist. Dove was able to summon creatures from there; his ss description stated as much. Also, Tyron had long harboured suspicions as to the origin of the dense Death Magick that flooded the Ossuary. Where else would there exist a nigh endless source of such potent energy?


    This was the secret knowledge the Abyss had promised him, in exchange for a truly terrible price.


    If he were able to find it¡­ if he could go there¡­ the possibilities were endless. An infinite supply of spirits, powerful yers of old, heroes of legend, and an endless river of Death Magick with which he could empower his constructs.If he could tap the energy of that realm and siphon it into his minions, he could sustain an undead army of unprecedented size.


    And perhaps¡­ just perhaps¡­ he might be able to find the souls of Magnin and Beory.


    He had no idea where their souls had gone, just that they¡¯d made some sort of arrangement to ensure they were beyond the reach of their enemies, and beyond his own.


    No matter what deals he¡¯d offered any of his ¡®patrons¡¯, none were willing to give an inch when it came to his parents. The Abyss had rejected him despite the abundance of souls he¡¯d been willing to offer. The Scarlet Court had rebuffed him, despite the blood ves and favours he had desperately proposed. He¡¯d done everything shy of offering himself to them on a tter, but they wouldn¡¯t budge. The Old Gods had refused to even hear his pleas,pletely uninterested in anything he could give them.


    It was maddening. He¡¯d been driven into a wild rage, but now¡­ now he might have a way forward. There was no evidence their souls could be found in the Realm of the Dead, but at the very least he could rule it out.


    Thoughts and emotions swirling in his head, Tyron forced himself up. Rest wouldn¡¯te easy in this state, and there was still so much to do. Before he allowed himself to sleep, he needed to make sure he was secure, which meant going down to the study and checking his wards.


    He took his time as he moved through the store and into the backrooms, inspecting every nook and cranny to ensure everything was exactly as he¡¯d left it. When he triggered the mechanism to reveal the hidden staircase, his eyes sought every rune and enchantment he¡¯d built into it to ensure it was neither found nor disturbed. Finding nothing wrong, he breathed a small sigh of relief and made his way down into the underground cer.


    It had been months since he¡¯d been here, but as far as he could tell, there had been no change to the room at all. His wards were intact, the sigils engraved into the stone walls were functional, and not a trace of Death Magick remained in the air.


    Just as he began to allow himself to rx, he did notice one difference. On his desk sat a rolled up sheet of paper bound by a single thread of twine, ced exactly in the centre. Tyron stood and observed for several minutes, as if it were a deadly viper reared back to strike. Eventually he moved toward it, but didn¡¯t pick it up, instead subjecting it to every manner of magickal test he could think of or devise in the moment. Unable to find anything wrong with it, he finally picked up the paper, broke the string and unwound it.


    The page contained a short message, written in a neat, uplicated hand. Tyron scanned it once, twice, then ced it down, a contemtive look flitting across his face.


    This¡­ was anotherplication. What he needed to figure out was if it would tilt things in his favour, or against.


    ~~~


    Yor had <em>not </em>been having a good night.


    ¡°Get that <em>undisciplined </em>wretch below or I¡¯ll cut off her head myself,¡± she whispered harshly into the ear of her confidant.


    Her voice was filled with wrath, but she didn¡¯t allow it to touch her face; a serene, coy expression yed across her exquisite features, leaving all who saw her thinking that slight smile was for them alone.


    ¡°I have no idea how she got up here, mistress,¡± Carlotta begged.


    The vampire tightened her grip around the thrall¡¯s arm until it was painfully tight.


    ¡°I don¡¯t <em>care</em> how it happened. Get. Her. Down. <em>Now</em>.¡±


    Finally, she managed to cut through the terror that gripped the useless woman. Carlotta nodded before stumbling toward the back room where the¡­ incident had taken ce.


    For her part, Yor continued to y the room. A word here, a touch there, she kept everyone yearning for more, eager to stay, but ever so subtly, she made sure that none moved into the deeper rooms.


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    ¡°Oh no, please stay in your seat,¡± she purred to one gold yer, ¡°I¡¯ll have someone fetch you a drink. I couldn¡¯t <em>bear</em> to see you move out of my sight.¡±


    She signalled one of her staff, another thrall, of course, to tend to the man¡¯s needs before casting her gaze around the room. Everyone appeared settled, happy to remain where they were and indulge in their vices. Hopefully, they¡¯d remain so for at least a few minutes so she could attend to the¡­ situation herself.


    With a final nce, she turned her back on the darkened lounge and moved down the corridor. More of her people were here, standing nonchntly, leaning against the walls, but in position to block ess to any who would seek to walk through.


    In the back room, she could hear the disturbance. Someone was thrashing, limbs iling and scraping against the floor. Yor growled under her breath as her fangs extended in response to the anger boiling up inside her.


    And because of the rich scent of blood that filled the air.


    In the back room, Carlotta was sobbing, attempting to pull a hunched figure off the ground, but could only watch as they slurped and sucked at the blood pooling on the floor. Still seated at the table sat what had not long ago been an esteemed customer, now missing his throat.


    With a blur of motion, Yor crossed the floor and sank her slippered foot into the side of the prone vampire with a sickening crunch. The creature tried to unleash a howl of outrage, but Yor was already there, her hand pressed around the throat too tight for air to pass through.


    She stared with blood red eyes into the gaze of the other, dominating the fledgeling with her superior will.


    With an almost animalistic whimper, her victim slumped in defeat, goingpletely limp in Yor¡¯s grasp.


    With contemptuous ease, she threw the defeated vampire to the side and turned her gaze on Carlotta, who cringed back from her mistress.


    ¡°She will be docile now,¡± Yor stated softly. ¡°Take her below before there is any further <em>unpleasantness.</em>¡±


    How had a fledgeling broken out of their rooms? It was <em>not</em> supposed to happen, not <em>now</em> of all times!


    A question forter; right now, she needed damage control.


    ¡°Someone fetch Vincent. Have him clean up this mess and find out who <em>that</em> was,¡± she said, gesturing toward the still-gushing corpse sitting at the table, a blissful smile still etched on his face. ¡°Ensure that none of our guestse back to this room for the rest of the night.¡±


    The nearby thralls nodded, and two of them dashed off to find her trusted right-hand man. At least there was <em>someone </empetent she could rely on in moments of crises.


    ¡°If you¡¯re looking for Vincent, I think he¡¯s right here,¡± a voice said from the doorway.


    A familiar voice.


    Yor turned slowly to the entrance and saw Tyron Sterm, smiling at her with dead eyes, one hand ced on the shoulder of a vacant-eyed Vincent.


    ¡°He¡¯s been very amodating, haven¡¯t you Vincent?¡±


    No words were spoken as the vampire¡¯s zed expression didn¡¯t shift. Tyron shook his shoulder a little, and other than causing Vincent to sway on his feet, nothing changed.


    Yor felt her temper re, but she mastered herself quickly. She hadn¡¯t lived as long as she had in the Scarlet Court without learning how to control her mental state. In the Court, even blinking at the wrong time could lead to a gruesome death. Byparison, this realm was a child¡¯s yground.


    ¡°Tyron, how <em>lovely</em> to see you again,¡± she said, caressing every word in the way she <em>knew</em> caused his hackles to rise.


    As expected, disgust flickered over his features and Yor, not for the first time, wondered why he was so immune to her charms.


    ¡°I wish I could say the same,¡± he replied evenly, stepping around the dominated Vincent to enter the room. He took a close look at the deceased at the table, shaking his head.


    ¡°I hope this one wasn¡¯t a Priest. That could prove a little difficult for you to brush under the rug.¡±


    ¡°Are you worried about me, Tyron? How <em>delightful</em>. I take this to mean our rtionship is fully mended?¡±


    ¡°Hardly,¡± he scoffed, taking care to step around the still growing pool of blood. ¡°Is someone going to take care of this? I don¡¯t suppose having your customers discussing the room filled with blood as they go home would go over well in the current environment?¡±


    Yor wanted to snarl, but only tilted her head toward one of her thralls. For once, one of the creatures proved capable of thinking for itself.


    ¡°I¡¯ll fetch Perior,¡± he stated before dashing off down the corridor.


    A good choice. Another of her coven, tasked with managing one of the upstairs lounges. He could leave that post for an hour or two without issue.


    She turned back to Tyron, who continued to examine the deceased with almost professional curiosity.


    ¡°Would you like to take our discussion to another room? One with a more <em>pleasant</em> atmosphere, perhaps?¡±


    A little edge crept into her voice. She hadn¡¯t called him out on his less than subtle threats, but she would only allow him to push her so far.


    He ignored her.


    ¡°I¡¯ve started to figure it out, you know.¡± He raised a finger and tapped it to the side of his head. ¡°What your mistress did to me. At first, I thought it was about anger. I was losing my temper more and more. A constant, bubbling rage, always there, just simmering under the surface. Quite distracting.¡±


    Yor listened silently as Tyron spoke. He didn¡¯t look at her, just continued to step around the deceased, picking at the dead man¡¯s clothes, his hands, even his pockets.


    ¡°But that¡¯s not all it was, was it? Of course, it had to be something more insidious, more subtle than that. It¡¯s a moreplex maniption of my emotions. Some have been deadened, but others heightened. More anger, less remorse. You tried to strip mypassion, my guilt from me. Turn me into something more like you.¡±


    The vampire allowed herself a small smile.


    ¡°Quite the gift the Mistress has allowed you. Do you not feel yourself to be more fit for the purpose you haveid out for yourself?¡±


    To her surprise, Tyron nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°Perhaps. There may be a grain of truth to what you say, but then, how might I have thought of it before that spider sunk her ws into my head?¡±


    Yor¡¯s gaze sharpened. Spider? Where had he heard <em>that</em> from? Perhaps it was a coincidence.


    ¡°At any rate, I didn¡¯te here to go over my old grievances. I came to make an introduction.¡±


    ¡°An introduction?¡± Yor looked around the room mockingly. ¡°To whom?¡±


    In response, Tyron reached into the inner pocket of his cloak and removed arge, malformed rat.


    Seething anger exploded in Yor¡¯s chest as she red at the hideous creature.


    A voice emanated from the rodent, amused and superior at her visible rage.


    ¡°Whore,¡± it said.


    ¡°Dog,¡± she replied.

 Chapter B4C30 - Coven to Coven

    Chapter B4C30 - Coven to Coven


    ¡°Isn¡¯t this nice?¡± Tyron said with false joviality. ¡°Me, a humble Necromancer, bringing my betters together at the table. You must be so pleased to have a chance to talk together atst.¡±


    For a moment, he¡¯d thought Yor was just going to try and rip his head off. She may very well have seeded too; he wasn¡¯t sure precisely what the vampire was capable of, or how much she could get away with. Fortunately, his head remained on his shoulders and the two of them¡­ or three of them, had retired to another room for more privacy.


    ¡°I warned you not to get involved with them,¡± Yor said, her entire demeanour ice cold. She didn¡¯t even look at the rat, focusing her attention on Tyron instead. ¡°You¡¯ve made it difficult to justify for my Mistress to offer you any more assistance.¡±


    He scoffed at her.


    ¡°Do I <em>want</em> more of your assistance? After our recent entanglements, I¡¯m no longer convinced. Besides, why should I choose <em>your</em> faction over theirs? Why should I have any position regarding vampire politics at all?¡±


    ¡°We have invested in you,¡± Yor said snippily.


    ¡°I¡¯ve paid you back many times over,¡± Tyron replied, blunt as a hammer.


    ¡°I¡¯m feeling wounded here. Are you really going to ignore me, bitch?¡±


    The voice emanating from the rat was¡­ strange. The rat¡¯s mouth and throat were moving, it literally was the rat speaking, but it was mimicking the speech of another. Hearing that guttural, at times animalistic voiceing from the small creature was off-putting, to say the least.Yor sneered.


    ¡°Crawl home with your tail between your legs before I rip you in half. Does that suit your needs?¡±


    The rat <em>tsked</em>.


    ¡°You thought you could keep a realm this juicy all to yourself? It¡¯s full of blood and just <em>teetering</em> on the edge of a full fucking copse. That fat spider must have anticipated quite the haul when everything went to shit. Oh no, we are going to get a slice of this, bitch, and I don¡¯t care if I have to bite your hand off to get it.¡±


    Judging by the glint in her eye, Yor¡¯s Mistress had been expecting exactly that.


    ¡°Always, your appetite runs ahead of your ability, Valk. What can you do, skulking in the sewers and touching the rats? This realm will belong to my Mistress, not to the mutt you serve.¡±


    ¡°You were here first, and what do you have to show for it?¡± Valk replied with contempt. ¡°An infested den of depravity, just so you don¡¯t miss home. Yorin, you are going to fail here, and it won¡¯t be <em>me</em> your mistress hollows out when all is said and fucking done.¡±


    The vampire and the rat snarled at each other as Tyron watched, entirely bemused. So Yorin was her real name?


    ¡°You two seem to know each other very well. I didn¡¯t realise this would be a meeting of such old friends,¡± he drawled.


    Both turned hate-filled gazes upon him, and he irrationally felt the urge to burst outughing.


    ¡°Valk¡­ I presume that¡¯s your name. Don¡¯t try to stare me down with the rat, I can¡¯t take it seriously.¡±


    ¡°If he had some courage, he would havee himself,¡± Yor sniffed.


    ¡°As if you would let me walk out alive. Treachery is your way of life.¡±


    Tyron brought his hands together sharply, cutting off both vampires before they could descend into bickering again.


    ¡°As fun as it is to listen to you two snipe at each other, I have other things to do with my time,¡± he stated. ¡°I imagine there is a purpose to this conversation other than insults, Valk; otherwise, you wouldn¡¯t have paid me so much.¡±


    ¡°If he wants to negotiate, you will need to leave, Tyron,¡± Yor said. ¡°You have no need to listen in on matters rting to the Court.¡±


    ¡°Except I do,¡± Tyron said, leaning over to rest his chin on one hand. ¡°That was my price for facilitating this get-together.¡±


    ¡°You¡­!¡± Yor turned her enraged re down at the rat, who upied itself with its whiskers. She sighed, the emotion draining out of her face and leaving only the emotionless monster behind. ¡°If you want to talk, then talk, Valk. What do you want?¡±


    ¡°Nothing too dramatic,¡± he replied easily. ¡°We have a great big city to operate in, plenty of space for both of us. I felt as if we shoulde to an in-principle agreement about which areas will belong to who.¡±


    ¡°I could hunt you down and drink your soul, Valk,¡± Yor said inly, ¡°then I wouldn¡¯t have to share it at all.¡±


    ¡°You want to chase us down? You know better than most how hard it is to root us out once we get our ws into a realm. A disturbance like that would risk exposure, for all of us. Doesn¡¯t seem like that would be in your best interests.¡±


    ¡°It would hardly be the first time my Mistress burned everything to the ground to prevent your Master from touching something she wanted,¡± Yor countered, folding both hands in herp.


    ¡°And it cost her dearly. For how long can she keep ying the game that way? Eventually, she needs a win.¡±


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    ¡°Underestimate the spider at your own peril.¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s going to be ¡®I win or we all lose¡¯, then we are all going to lose, Yorin. I only hope that when it all burns down, I get to mix your fucking ashes into the ruins.¡±


    They continued to bicker back and forth, threatening their lives, souls, and all they held dear almost every other sentence.


    Tyron wondered if this was how all negotiations between rival covens were conducted. If so, it was a wonder the Scarlet Court has risen to be as powerful as it had be. He¡¯d learned a little from Valk in their brief interaction after he¡¯d epted the vampire¡¯s offer to meet, and from what he could gather, the Court was closer to a hell than a paradise, even for the deathless creatures who lived there.


    It was ying out right in front of his eyes. Ack of trust was one thing, but it went much deeper than that. Both parties in the negotiation knew, deep down, that the other would betray at the first opportunity. It was difficult for mutual cooperation to exist between two people who actively wanted to kill the other.


    The Court was divided into many factions, but there were a dozen major ones, each led by a truly powerful, truly ancient vampire. All they seemed to do with the eternity of time afforded to them was try and bring the others down and advance their own interests, trying to seize a throne that was impossible to hold.


    When Yor said her Mistress would dly cut off her own nose to spite her face, she was deadly serious. The various factions would dly light themselves on fire if the mes made the others vaguely ufortable.


    Such an exhausting way to live. Listening to them go back and forth, like two starving dogs in a fighting pit, taught Tyron a valuable lesson about their kind. Regardless how much they hated each other, there was an uneasy level of respect there. They recognised that the other had the capacity to hurt them, which was not something they believed about the humans they depended on for food. To the vampires, the people of Kenmor were like bottles of wine. Items that they wanted, but wouldn¡¯t be upset if a few of them broke. Or a lot of them broke.


    It didn¡¯t bother him, even if he recognised that they fundamentally thought of him in exactly the same way. He was food. Protected food, but food nheless. Which was why they were so surprised when he cleared his throat, cutting off their negotiations and bringing their attention to him.


    ¡°This has been very productive,¡± he said, ¡°but it''s clear you can¡¯te to an agreement. Why don¡¯t we save some time and agree that both of you are going to work for me? For the near future, anyway.¡±


    There was a moment of total silence in the room as both Yor and the Valk-possessed-rat stared at him, a mild frown on their faces.


    ¡°Is this some sort of¡­ joke?¡± Yor asked, her voice as chilled as ice.


    ¡°No,¡± Tyron replied. ¡°I¡¯m not very funny.¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡± Valkughed harshly. ¡°You could have fooled me.¡±


    It was interesting to note, now that they had amon enemy, how well they fell into line together.


    ¡°Let¡¯s stop wasting time,¡± Tyron said. ¡°The reason you are talking to each other at all is because of the purge. Both of you are at constant risk of exposure, and unless I miss my guess, the situation is fairly dire for both of you. Unless, of course, you have blood-starved vampires ripping the throats out of your customers every other night, Yor.¡±


    He let the unspoken question hang in the air, and epted her silence as sufficient answer.


    ¡°And Valk, I haven¡¯t known you long, but I gather your coven would rather slit their own throats than cut a deal with Yor and her kind. So why exactly are you here?¡±


    He paused to take a deep breath of the musty, smoke-filled air.


    ¡°Smells like desperation in here. In fact, I can practically taste it.¡±


    ¡°You need to be <em>very</em> careful, Tyron,¡± Yor warned him, her face a t mask. ¡°The Scarlet Court is not to be trifled with.¡±


    ¡°Unless your Mistress,¡± he turned to the rat, ¡°or your Master are going toe here, to this realm, then I don¡¯t think I have much to worry about. Until they do, and so long as the threat of the purge is hanging over your heads, it seems that both of you are going to have to do exactly what I tell you to.¡±


    ¡°I could kill you here and now,¡± Yor told him, leaning across the table, not bothering to conceal the animalistic hunger she felt burning in her veins. ¡°I could turn you into one of us, bound by blood. Is that what you want?¡±


    Tyron smiled and brought up one hand.


    ¡°Unless you want me to vent Death Magick into the ground floor of this establishment, I suggest you don¡¯t make the attempt. I can assure you, it would be so potent the Priests would sense it from their dorms in the cathedral.¡±


    ¡°You cast a spell inside my parlour? Are you insane?¡±


    ¡°Just a little ritual,¡± Tyron shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m almost certain nobody noticed, but it¡¯s difficult to be certain of anything in these trying times.¡±


    Yor stared at him, the beast within raging in her eyes, and Tyron looked coolly back, his hand held in the air.


    ¡°You might have her over a barrel,¡± Valk hissed, ¡°but not us. You have no idea where to find my coven and no way to threaten us.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have to,¡± Tyron said, still holding Yor¡¯s gaze. ¡°If I reveal <em>them</em>, what do you think is going to happen when the empire¡¯s done burning their way through this ce?¡±


    He raised a brow at the rat, who remained silent.


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what will happen: they¡¯ll tear the city apart looking for more vampires. Brick by brick, they¡¯ll rip their way through every building and every sewer. Eventually they¡¯ll find me, and my little basement, and that will lead them straight to you.¡±


    He shrugged in an exaggerated manner.


    ¡°You can take the risk, obviously. Maybe you¡¯ll be able to avoid detection. Better yet, perhaps you can scurry back to the court with your tail between your legs.¡± He smirked. ¡°I presume your Master is more forgiving of failure than Yor¡¯s Mistress?¡±


    Unless he missed his guess, they would be ripped to pieces if they failed their tasks and returned empty-handed. The Court demanded blood and ves, an ocean of both, and the empire could provide for a long time.


    Neither Yor nor Valk spoke into the silence that hung in the air; instead, they red daggers at him. It was easy to imagine them thinking of tearing into his throat with their fangs and ripping out his soul.


    He ced his hands t on the table and spoke clearly.


    ¡°So, for the duration of the purge, you will agree to do what I ask you to do, when I ask you to do it. It won¡¯t be anything too burdensome, a few chores here and there. In return, I¡¯ll help provide what you need to survive this period of heightened danger, and I won¡¯t reveal your presence and have you all painfully destroyed. Does that sound reasonable?¡±


    Yor red at him, animalistic bloodlust seething in her eyes.


    ¡°We have a deal,¡± she said, her voice so low it was almost a growl, ¡°but you <em>will</em> die for this, Tyron. When the danger is passed and you can be safely disposed of, you¡¯ll be left to bleed out in an alley. The Court will demand it.¡±


    The rat nodded and bared its fangs at him. Clearly, Valk agreed.


    Tyron sighed as he pushed himself up from the table.


    ¡°That¡¯s the problem with you, Yor. You¡¯re always thinking three or four steps ahead, always calcting the next angle.¡±


    He brought up a thumb and tapped it to his chest.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have any more steps to make, or more angles to y. You want to kill me when the crisis is over? As long as my goals are achieved, why the fuck would I care?¡±

 Chapter B4C31 - Golden Wings

    Chapter B4C31 - Golden Wings


    ¡°Are you sure this fuckhead is any good, Fee?¡± MacReilly said doubtfully.


    ¡°You were full of confidence when we left the Birdcage,¡± she replied, not slowing her pace.


    ¡°I was just happy to be out,¡± he admitted. He cast a doubtful eye to the shabby buildings around them. ¡°Would a highly qualified Arcanist really be living in a ce like this?¡±


    Feolin rolled her eyes.


    ¡°Is that snobbery I hear? From the great MacReilly? Hero of the people? Rough and tumble man''s-man from the great northern mountains? If the people living here aren¡¯t good enough for you, I suppose we can turn around and go back to the cage empty handed.¡±


    She made to turn around but her old friend grabbed her arm with a scowl.


    ¡°Are you trying to ruin my reputation, woman?¡± he growled. ¡°You know exactly what I¡¯m trying to say! No fancy pants Arcanist is going to be caught dead in a neighbourhood like this!¡±


    She shook his hand off, or, he let it go when she moved, and kept walking deeper into the tangle of narrow streets.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t heard of this guy either, but he was an apprentice of Master Willhem, so he can¡¯t be <em>too</em> bad.¡±¡°We wouldn¡¯t even be here if they let us keep our old weapons,¡± MacReilly grumbled, not for the first time.


    <em>As if they would let the golds keep their arms and armour inside the Birdcage,</em> Feolin thought to herself bitterly. Surrendering their precious, hard won gear had been one of the conditions of entry. Feolin had sold hers, and MacReilly had sent his back to his family in the north, bothmon options for the gold ranked yers in the capital.


    After a few more twists and turns, Feolin grew frustrated and turned to the two handlers following in their wake.


    ¡°Are you sure the shop is around here? The streets grow more confusing the further out we go!¡±


    The two Magisters sneered almost in unison, and she was forced to stifle a surge of anger. Being around these¡­ people¡­ had always rubbed her the wrong way, and now that she was finally out of the cage, it grated having her leash be held in such a brazen manner.


    <em>Hunting dogs set against the kin. That¡¯s all we¡¯ve ever been to them.</em>


    ¡°You¡¯ll find Almsfield Enchantments near the market, as was exined to you before,¡± one of the Magisters said with naked contempt.


    ¡°Master Almsfield has done work at the Tower,¡± the other sniffed. ¡°If he is good enough for us, then he is certainly good enough for you.¡±


    ¡°That knocks him down a few fucking pegs in my estimation,¡± MacReilly muttered.


    Feolin warned him to silence with a nce before she returned to marching through the streets. It wouldn¡¯t do them any good to antagonise the Magisters, not when they were so close to having the first sniff of freedom in years.


    <em>To think I fought so hard to escape the rifts, and now find myself so desperate to get back to them. I¡¯ve been such a fool. We are all fools.</em>


    When they finally came upon the market, she was almost surprised. She¡¯d expected it to be loud, bustling, filled with people and noise. The reality was so startlingly different she almost didn¡¯t realise she¡¯d reached her destination when it was right in front of her. There were people, but far less than she expected to see at midday. Storekeepers still advertised their wares, and customers haggled over prices, but everything had an element of furtiveness, of fear.


    The terror inflicted by the purge hung over the entire district like a pungent scent, so thick it almost formed a vapour she could see with the naked eye.


    MacReilly sensed it just as she did. He snorted and curled his lip, his hands clenched into fists by his side. She¡¯d been so preupied thinking of escaping the cage she hadn¡¯t considered just what the purge had meant to the ordinary people in the province. After all, she almost never got to see them.


    For the first time, she got a sense of just how bad it was, and it shook her.


    ¡°The store is that way,¡± indicated one of the Magisters, bored.


    Again, she suppressed a sh of anger, and followed the directions down one of the side streets. A few doors down, on her left, she found an impressive-looking building, with a thin, blond haired man out front, sweeping the porch in front of the door.


    He was so focused on his cleaning, he didn¡¯t seem to notice them approach.


    ¡°Hello,¡± she called, and the young man startled, turning toward them with wide blinking eyes. ¡°Sorry to disturb you,¡± she said, ¡°my friend and I were hoping to speak to Master Almsfield. Is he in today?¡±


    The young man stared at them for a few moments, then beyond them, to the two Magisters several paces behind. She could practically hear the gears turning in his head.


    With a sigh, he turned toward the door and pushed it open.


    ¡°Come inside,¡± he said. ¡°Please don¡¯t mind the state of the store. We¡¯ve only just reopened.¡±


    So saying, he stepped through the threshold, and after a moment of hesitation, Feolin and MacReilly followed, their chaperones close behind.


    Once within, she could see exactly what he meant. The interior of the store was clearly unkempt, with a thinyer of dust coating many of the surfaces. She frowned as she looked around. The state of the ce was one thing, but the contents of the disy cabs were another. Water purifiers, heating stones, filters, chillers. These were the sorts of trinkets and gadgets middling households purchased to make their lives morefortable, not the kind of weapons and arms yers would carry into battle.


    Was this Arcanist really up to the task?


    ¡°Is Master Almsfield present? I would like to speak to him in person if at all possible,¡± she said.


    The young man turned toward her and blinked owlishly once more. After a moment, he seemed toe to a realisation.


    ¡°Oh! Yes of course you can speak to him. I mean¡­ you have spoken to him already¡­. That is to say. <em>Ahem</em>. I am Master Almsfield. It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you.¡±


    Feolin¡¯s face tightened, but she managed to keep her disappointment off her face. MacReilly was not so disciplined.


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    ¡°Fucking waste of time,¡± he barked and turned his back.


    A rude thing to say, though not incorrect.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Feolin said, and offered a short bow, ¡°I don¡¯t think you are quite what we are looking for.¡±


    She turned to leave irritated at wasting her precious time out of the cage, but the young man spoke before she got far.


    ¡°A pair of gold yers, out of the Birdcage with Magister chaperones, have decided to visit my store. It would be a shame if I let you leave just like that. Why not stay a little longer? I¡¯ll serve you some tea and we can discuss your needs. I promise it will be worth your time.¡±


    Feolin halted mid-turn. There was something different about his tone. She nced back towards him, and for a moment, Master Almsfield appeared almost as a different person. The absent-minded expression on his face was gone, reced by harsh lines and a cold, calcting look. Gone was the wide-eyed, blinking youth, reced by a predatory, hard-edged veteran.


    Then it was gone, as swiftly as it hade, and once again the affable, bookish youth stood before her, smiling gently.


    She reached out a hand to tug on MacReilly¡¯s shirt.


    ¡°Come, old friend. Let¡¯s give him a chance.¡±


    The northerner snorted, but allowed himself to be pulled around. Seeing their eptance, Almsfield beamed at them and gestured for them to sit at the sole clean table in the store. He ran to fetch refreshments for them, nattering the entire time.


    ¡°I apologise for the state of the ce. I was travelling recently, and, well, with the roads being what they are at the moment, as well as¡­ <em>you know</em>¡­ it was quite difficult to get around. I found myself quite dyed and by the time I finally managed to return, well, you can see for yourself just how badly things have gotten out of hand. My apprentice appears to have disappeared along with the rest of my staff. At least they did me the courtesy of locking the store behind them and not robbing me blind. Would you like tea? Do you take sugar? I¡¯ve just started getting things back in order, but it''s quite difficult at the moment. Suppliers don¡¯t want to supply and customers don¡¯t want to buy.¡±


    He didn¡¯t stop talking until they were all seated with a steaming cup of tea in front of them. He even rustled up a few slices of cake, which he offered to the Magisters first, both of whom epted before sitting on a bench to the side of the store floor, within earshot of the table.


    ¡°Now,¡± he said, sitting across from the two yers and folding his hands together, ¡°what can I do for you?¡±


    ¡°Weapons,¡± MacReilly grunted, out of patience. He squinted down at the tea distrustfully, sniffing at the herbal blend before pushing it away slowly. ¡°We want enchantment work done on gear for the field. Are you up for that,d?¡±


    ¡°Call me Lukas,¡± the young Arcanist said, his smile never touching his eyes.


    ¡°You look like you''re barely old enough to be sweeping chips off the floor of a proper enchanter¡¯s store,¡± MacReilly said bluntly. ¡°I¡¯m not filled with confidence looking at you, to be frank.¡±


    Again, Feolin frowned. It was far more direct than she would have phrased things, but she didn¡¯t disagree with the sentiment. However, there was something¡­ unnerving about this young man.


    As if sensing her thoughts, Lukas Almsfield met her gaze, and for a fraction of a second, she was struck by just how cold those eyes were.


    <em>There is something not right about this person.</em>


    With a flick of the eyes, the Arcanist assessed the two Magisters, who were too busy drinking, eating and chatting with each other to pay much mind to what went on at the table. When he nced back at the yers, his demeanour shifted again.


    ¡°Let¡¯s be honest. If you had options, you wouldn¡¯t be here. All the big names are either not doing business, or are booked solid working for the nobles. Right?¡±


    He waited impatiently until Feolin nodded. The change in him was so stark, it was almost as if she was sitting at the table with more than one person.


    ¡°So you ask around and find out there¡¯s a little store in Shadetown run by someone who apprenticed with Master Willhem. That¡¯s me. But I¡¯m younger than you expected and don¡¯t service yers, so you don¡¯t expect much. Fine.¡±


    He held up a single finger.


    ¡°This is the number of apprentices who¡¯ve had their store endorsed by Master Willhem personally.¡±


    He turned the finger until it was pointing back at himself.


    ¡°And this is him.¡±


    He allowed the hand to drop to the table with a soft <em>thud</em> and turned to stare at MacReilly.


    ¡°Good enough for you? If not, fuck off.¡±


    The grizzled northerner was silent for a moment, then barked a harshugh, causing the two Magisters to swivel their heads in his direction.


    ¡°I find myself <em>liking</em> this one, Fee. He¡¯s got a little dog in him.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a northern expression,¡± Feolin hurried to exin. ¡°They breed enormous mastiffs to help fight the kin and value them for their grit.¡±


    The Arcanist merely raised a brow.


    ¡°I¡¯m aware.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    After a moment of awkward silence, Master Almsfield ced his palms t on the table.


    ¡°If I¡¯m to bepletely candid with you, much as you suspected, the kind of enchanting you want done isn¡¯t the sort of thing I usually do. However, you wouldn¡¯t be here if you had ess to the specialists. So if we temper our expectations, I believe we can reach a point where both of us can be satisfied with the oue.¡±


    ¡°That sounds reasonable,¡± Feolin nodded cautiously, ¡°what sort of conditions did you have in mind?¡±


    The young man leaned back in his seat for a moment as he considered.


    ¡°First, I would need to know where you expect to be deployed.¡± He held up a hand to forestall them, and the Magisters behind from protesting. ¡°I¡¯m not good enough to make something that will perform well in any environment. Depending on the rift, they could be fightingpletely different types of kin and be exposed topletely different environments.¡±


    ¡°It seems reasonable to me,¡± MacReilly stated, twisting in his seat to re at the Magisters. ¡°Does it really matter if he knows we¡¯re going to ckrift?¡±


    ¡°Shut your stupid mouth!¡± barked one of the mages.


    ¡°Oh, shit. Cat¡¯s out of the bag I guess,¡± MacReilly shrugged. ¡°My mistake.¡±


    Lukas appealed directly to the Magisters in an attempt to calm their anger.


    ¡°I <em>have</em> been cleared to work on the tower itself by the Noble Lady Recillia Erryn. Surely this won¡¯t be too much of apromise.¡±


    At the mention of <em>that</em> name, the two settled back onto their bench, though neither looked pleased with this turn of events.


    ¡°We will have to report this when we return to the tower,¡± one stated, ring at the unrepentant northerner.


    ¡°Of course,¡± the Arcanist nodded before he turned his attention back to the two yers. ¡°The only other thing I require is that you provide the base weaponry. I don¡¯t deal with Smiths or Forgers, so you¡¯ll have far better odds securing the kind of things you want than I will. Give me a list of what you want enchanted and the list of effects you want to see. We can negotiate over those items before you leave, since I may not be able to provide everything you want.¡±


    The two gold yers exchanged nces, then shrugged. It wasn¡¯t what they wanted, but it was better than nothing, which is what they¡¯d found everywhere else.


    They spent the next hour considering their requirements and discussing the possibilities with Master Almsfield, who proved surprisingly knowledgeable about the rifts, kin, and the needs of yers despite not selling to them. He wasn¡¯t afraid to tell them when he simply didn¡¯t know how to do something, or if he felt their requirements for a particr piece of gear were bing moreplex than he was confident of handling.


    After a great deal ofpromise, negotiation and discussion, they had a finalised list in front of the Arcanist and he read through each item carefully. Finally, he nodded.


    ¡°This is doable,¡± he decreed. ¡°I have more than enough cores on hand for this, so I can begin the moment your selected items are delivered to the store.¡±


    ¡°Excellent,¡± Feolin pped her hands and sprung up from the table. She hadn¡¯t had much hope when they¡¯d approached this store, but things were going to work out reasonably well in the end.


    Even the price was good, which was important. Gold yers in the cage generally had to take training jobs to earn money, and neither she nor MacReilly had ever had the appetite for it.


    They shook hands on the deal, and the young Arcanist smiled.


    ¡°If you know any others heading out on deployment who need some help securing enchantments, don¡¯t hesitate to send them my way. My usual clientele aren¡¯t buying at the moment, so I could really use the business.¡±


    ¡°Aye, I think we can do that,¡± MacReilly agreed easily before Feolin could say anything.


    Again, there was a momentary glint in the Arcanist¡¯s eyes before it was gone again, and he appeared as genial and affable as he had when they¡¯d first met.


    ¡°Until we meet again, then,¡± he said, and gestured for them to head outside.

 Chapter B4C32 - Waste Management

    Chapter B4C32 - Waste Management


    Priest Balwyn Galloway had a headacheing on.


    ¡°You can¡¯t possibly be serious,¡± he groaned. ¡°How are they running out of capacity <em>again</em>?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re understaffed,¡± his useless aide, Crillian, told him, ¡°or at least, that¡¯s what they¡¯re iming. Many of their workers have fled. Supposedly.¡±


    Galloway grit his teeth, anger and fury building within him until it eventually petered out, leaving him drained and trembling. Fatigue warred with fear in him as he slumped face first into his desk, the walls of his tiny office hemming in around him.


    ¡°A-are you all right, Priest Galloway?¡± Crillian hesitated to ask.


    ¡°Shut up,¡± the Priest groaned, ¡°I¡¯m trying to think.¡±


    The purge was, of course, a massive undertaking, logistically. So many moving parts were involved, so many <em>people</em>. The great machinery of the bureaucracy was screeching as it fought to shake off the rust that had built up over the centuries, pushing everything to breaking point.


    So it wasn¡¯t that surprising, all things considered, that some of the¡­ less glorious aspects of the Duke¡¯s crusade weren¡¯t run as well as perhaps they should have been. Galloway was grateful for the role he upied, since it kept him tucked away in a small office in the capital, rather than trudging through viges looking for crones to abduct, but he truly hadn¡¯t expected it would be <em>this</em> difficult to dispose of the¡­ refuse.


    ¡°How is it possible that every crematorium in Kenmor is <em>full</em>?¡± he muttered into the solid wooden surface of his desk. ¡°All they do is burn people. That¡¯s it! How long can it possibly take?¡±¡°Do you actually know what goes on in a crematorium, father?¡± his aide asked.


    The Priest frowned, still not bothering to raise his head.


    ¡°You know perfectly well I don¡¯t. After praying and applying the blessing, I don¡¯t have anything to do with a corpse in my role as a Priest. Is it really thatplicated? They get wood, they stick them in an oven or something and¡­.¡± he shuddered¡­ ¡°<em>cook</em> them.¡±


    ¡°I would say roast rather than cook,¡± Crillian said, ¡°to be urate. You have the right idea, but it''s a lot harder than it sounds. The amount of wood required is staggering, and the logging camps are <em>also</em> short of manpower. Then there¡¯s the difficulty of bringing the lumber into the city, which takes forever thanks to the checkpoints and inspections. Merchants and Wagoneers are in short supply as well, since most are unwilling to travel at the moment. Delivering the ashes to the families of the bereaved is another nightmare. Nobody can be found, and half the time, the bodies haven¡¯t been properly identified.¡±


    As his assistant ticked through the many issues Balwyn was facing in his attempts to put the dead to rest, the Priest slumped even further into the table, a feat which had seemed impossible only moments ago.


    ¡°Yes, thank you for reminding me of the many difficulties I face in the course of my work.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°I was being sarcastic.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    With immense effort, Father Balwyn picked himself up, his forehead noticeably red from being pressed into the table for so long. If he didn¡¯te up with a solution, and soon, there was going to be a serious problem.


    ¡°How many¡­ uh¡­ ¡®clients¡¯ are we required to rehouse per day, Crillian?¡± he asked, attempting to centre himself and focus on the problem.


    ¡°It varies day to day,¡± the assistant hedged, fishing around on the desk for some papers the Priest had scattered. ¡°At worst, a thousand, at best, a few dozen.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not talk about the thousand,¡± Balwyn shuddered.


    He did <em>not</em> want to be reminded about <em>that</em> particr incident.


    ¡°And what is the current capacity of the city''s crematoriums?¡±


    ¡°Right now, it¡¯s dropped to¡­ about a hundred a day.¡±


    Which meant they were one bad day away from disaster. Bodies piling up in the streets. Foul Magick would begin to umte and the dead would begin to walk shortly after. If an infectious zombie got loose in a city of millions¡­


    It didn¡¯t bear thinking about.


    ¡°Has the pce responded to our requests for more expedited cremations?¡±


    That was the phrase he used to describe mass funeral pyres, which they had been forbidden to use on the city¡¯s citizens.


    ¡°The reply came in today, Father,¡± came the answer.


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°They refused. The potential for civil unrest is considered too high.¡±


    The same reasoning as before. The popce was terrified and angry. The poor and disaffected citizens had no recourse when it came to their lost family members. What were they going to do,e forward and ask for the remains? Outing themselves as rtives of cultists in the process?


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    Those bodies could be safely tossed into the fire. It was the more well-to-do citizens where delicacy was required. If those wealthy, influential members of the city found out their cousin, or parent, or child, was dumped into a mass grave along with the ashes of a hundred others¡­ they wouldn¡¯t be pleased, to put it lightly.


    ¡°There is a possible solution¡­ father.¡±


    ¡°Your mysterious benefactor again?¡± the Priest scoffed. ¡°You want me to believe someone just stepped out of the shadows to help us out of the goodness of their heart? How did they even know we were in a pinch?¡±


    The young assistant shook his head.


    ¡°Madam Yor is a sessful businesswoman in the city. She happened to hear of the difficulties the city was facing and offered a potential solution.¡±


    ¡°And just what type of business does this ¡®Madam Yor¡¯ run? Hmm?¡±


    Crillian blushed furiously and the Priests eyes narrowed.


    ¡°If you think I will turn over the hallowed dead of this city to some whore¨C¡±


    His aide shed him a spirited re, face set in a mask of defiance.


    ¡°Madam Yor is <em>not</em> a whore,¡± he dered hotly.


    Father Galloway raised his brows and his aide coughed, embarrassed by his passionate outburst.


    ¡°Besides,¡± the young man continued, trying to brush the moment under the carpet, ¡°she didn¡¯t offer to help us <em>herself</em>, but to introduce us to someone who could.¡±


    ¡°And who might that be?¡± Father Galloway sighed.


    To think he would ever find himself this desperate¡­


    ¡°I believe his name was¡­ Elten. Elten Priorus.¡±


    ~~~


    ¡°That is indeed my name,¡± said the man, bowing at the waist as he swept back his cloak in a serviceable bow. ¡°Elten Priorus at your service.¡±


    ¡°A pleasure to meet you, sir,¡± Father Galloway said, taking a measure of the man before him.


    Elten presented as quietly wealthy, his clothes and cloak all made of fine materials, but fashioned in an understated style. Modest, almost to the point of severe, he was dressedrgely in dark colours which matched the tousled head of ck hair on his head and the deep grey of his eyes. Thin in the face, he appeared as a cautious and reserved person. The Priest was warming to him already.


    ¡°And this is?¡± he asked, turning to the figure that stood just behind Elten¡¯s right shoulder.


    ¡°My employee, Mr Ratly Underwood.¡±


    ¡°Ratly? That is an unfortunate name, sir.¡±


    ¡°As you can see, he was born with rather narrow features which, sadly, stayed with him into adulthood.¡±


    The man in question twitched slightly, which had the unfortunate effect of making him look even more rodent-like. He did indeed have a rather unusually shaped face.


    ¡°Well, I apologise if I caused any offence. Please, step inside and we can discuss the purpose of your visit.¡±


    Luckily, Crillian had remembered to book a morefortable sitting room. If four people had tried to cram into his office, they would have been packed in like fish in a barrel.


    When they werefortably seated and a young attendant had brought them refreshments, the conversation began to flow.


    ¡°I must confess, I was surprised to find you were not operating out of the cathedral,¡± Elten said. ¡°Considering the work you do¡­¡±


    ¡°It is precisely <em>because</em> of the work I do that I have been ced away from the rest of the Priesthood,¡± Galloway replied smoothly. ¡°It is best not to taint the sacred spaces with the less¡­ seemly consequences of the Duke¡¯s great mission.¡±


    ¡°As you say,¡± Elten bowed his head, ¡°I hope I have not overstepped.¡±


    ¡°Not at all. Now, as much as I would like to continue to chat, I¡¯m afraid our business is most pressing.¡±


    ¡°So I understood from the haste in which this meeting was arranged. I am at your service, and by extension, the Duke¡¯s, Father.¡±


    ¡°How soon would you be ready to begin processing?¡± the Priest asked bluntly.


    ¡°We can begin tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Balwyn asked, surprised.


    Elten smiled slightly.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t so surprising as that. I own several warehouses and facilities in the city and Shadetown that, due to the current state of the province, sit empty, my workers idling with nothing to do. As it just so happens, I also have a contract with some loggers north of the city. They¡¯ve recentlye into the possession of somend and want to get started, but are having difficulty moving the processed lumber. If you allow us to assist, you will be helping to keep many people employed, Father.¡±


    The Priest frowned. Wood was almost impossible toe by right now, but this man had a surplus?


    ¡°Can you borate on your wood supply?¡± he invited the gentleman to speak.


    ¡°Of course. Though, I must speak in confidence, if that is alright?¡±


    ¡°Naturally.¡±


    ¡°You are aware of the scandal at the Oldan estate?¡±


    Almost involuntarily, Balwyn Galloway shuddered. There had not been a scandal, but a massacre.


    ¡°I am,¡± he said hurriedly.


    ¡°Thend was naturally seized by the Empire in the wake of the incident, and, as I¡¯m sure you are aware, there is arge forest included in the estate. However, despite the desperate need for wood¡­¡±


    The Priest shared a look with his assistant and both of them grimaced. If thend was in the hands of the Empire, then it would take the officials forever and a day to get around to doing anything with it. With everything they had on their tes, logging rights were low on the list of priorities.


    ¡°It just so happens that I was able to make just the right connections to create some movement in this specific instance,¡± Elten said humbly, a satisfied expression on his face.


    ¡°You mean¡­?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, I was able to secure the logging rights and ce them in the hands of a trusted subsidiary. Everything is in ce so that we might give the hallowed dead of the Empire the respectful end they deserve and return their remains to their families. Heretics or not, it¡¯s the least we can do.¡±


    ¡°I assume you want the Duke to pay you the same rate as what we pay the other crematoriums in the city? Or should we reduce the rate in light of your patriotism?¡±


    A pained expression flickered across Elten¡¯s face.


    ¡°As much as I would love to cut the rate, I wouldn¡¯t be able to buy the wood or pay my workers. I¡¯m sure you understand, Father.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I do, very well.¡±


    He sighed. Making a snap decision, he stretched his hand across the table and Elten leaned forward to shake it.


    ¡°We can work out the exact numberster, but whenever the crematoriums are at capacity, we will send the excess your way.¡±


    ¡°I am most grateful, Father Galloway. You will not regret this,¡± Elten smiled, thenughed.

 Chapter B4C33 - The Frozen Peak

    Chapter B4C33 - The Frozen Peak


    Brom Innson shivered. Even here, within the thick, stone walls of Skyice Keep, the cold was piercing. No matter how manyyers he wrapped around himself, it seemed to stab deep into flesh, driving shards of unspeakable chill right into his bones.


    ¡°By the gods, I hate this ce,¡± he muttered to himself.


    At least, he intended to keep it to himself.


    ¡°Stop whining, old man,¡± the fieryss in front of him scowled, her green eyes stabbing him just as fiercely as the weather. ¡°Some of us have been here more than a few days, and we manage to put up with it just fine.¡±


    Not wanting to be impolite, Brom dipped his head to show his apology and wrapped his hands a little tighter around his steaming mug of tea. Even for the grizzled, gold ranked scout, there was something about Skyice that seemed to break right through his defences. Normally, he was fine in the cold. He¡¯d spent many a freezing night on watch, up a tree or knee deep in muck, and he¡¯d survived.


    It was magick, of course. The answer was always magick. Some people were more susceptible to it than others. Warmbloods, the local yers called them, those people who just couldn¡¯t seem to endure the relentless cold of the mountain.


    ¡°I don¡¯t mean any disrespect. It¡¯s just a little unnerving to feel this way after being a scout for so long. I¡¯ve endured terrible conditions beyond more than one rift. It¡¯s¡­ odd¡­ to be so vulnerable here.¡±


    Green eyes assessed him carefully as thess turned his words over a few times before she found no fault with them.


    ¡°That¡¯s all well,¡± she said, taking a long sip of her tea.Even someone like her, well adapted to the local conditions, was rugged up, a thick, fur-lined outeryer over the top of her armour underneath. Judging from the sound she made as she moved, there was a full mail shirt under her coat, which seemed excessive to be wearing inside the keep.


    Little details. But put enough little details together, and they told a story. Every scout learned that early on, or they didn¡¯t survive long. After leaving Cragwhistle, having spoken to the Stermd, he¡¯d continued his journey south to make contact with the yers stationed here, at Skyice.


    It was the furthest Keep from the capital in the entire province. High up the unnaturally formed mountain known as ¡®the Spear¡¯, it was also one of thergest Keeps in the province, a full garrison of yers stationed here at all times.


    Since he¡¯d arrived, things had been¡­ slow. The yers had been secretive, unwilling to talk much, despite the letters of introduction he¡¯d brought from Rurin and Timothy back at Woodsedge.


    One didn¡¯t need to be a gold ranked yer to see that something had happened in the Keep. The signs of tension were clear to see in the faces and posture of every one he¡¯d seen, and that hadn¡¯t been many people. They were keeping him isted, tucked away in a small corridor with a couple of empty rooms, making sure he didn¡¯t see anything they didn¡¯t want him to.


    To make sure he wasn¡¯t sneaking off anywhere, he hadpany almost constantly. Thanks to his heightened senses, he knew they were keeping watch even at night. This level of caution told him just about everything he needed to know, but it was all for nothing if they didn¡¯t trust him.


    ¡°Sera, have you had any word when I might be able to speak to the leadership of the Keep?¡± he asked.


    He carefully didn¡¯t say ¡®Magister¡¯ when talking about the person in charge. Both he and the fiery woman in front of him knew they weren¡¯t running the show any more, but the yers of Skyice Keep were being exceptionally cautious.


    Sera put her rough, earthenware cup down, eyeing him over the low table that sat between them. All the furniture in Skyice was simple, almost crude. Stone for the most part, since a lot of wood couldn¡¯t stand up to the cold, and everything was covered in fur. Fur rugs, fur throws, fur lining on the chairs, fur bedding and fur clothing. Remarkable stuff, too, the local rift was the only source. yers could make a good living off of selling furs alone. Made killing the kin more difficult, which meant more dangerous, since killing the beasts without damaging the rich, dark fur was quite the challenge.


    ¡°It shouldn¡¯t be too much longer,¡± she demurred.


    He¡¯d heard the same thing several times before.


    ¡°I¡¯vee from Woodsedge, where we¡¯ve overthrown the Magisters and entered a state of open rebellion. If there¡¯s a movement here to do the same¡­¡±


    He maintained the polite fiction that it hadn¡¯t already happened.


    ¡°... then you need to join hands with us as quickly as possible.¡±


    He remained patient as heid out the obvious yet again. Scouts were nothing but patient. Sitting in a tree for two days waiting for a kin to twitch a leg was nothing to him.


    Sera opened her mouth, doubtless to give him the same sort of reply he¡¯d heard half a dozen times already, but she was cut off before she could even start. The heavy door banged open to reveal a heavy-set, fur-coated man with a shock of a beard and thunder-grey eyes.


    Brom stood up slowly, his hands folded over each other, showing no sign of aggression. He¡¯d heard the neer approaching, of course. His earlier words had been for this man¡¯s benefit more than Sera¡¯s, and judging by the sh of annoyance that flickered across her expression, she knew it too.


    ¡°Brom Innson, wasn¡¯t it?¡± the new arrival rumbled, though he didn¡¯t step forward and extend a hand. ¡°I¡¯m Darrious Hammerhand, but most folks call me Darry. Silver ranked yer.¡±


    Brom cocked his head to one side.


    ¡°Silver? I don¡¯t think so,¡± he said quietly.


    One <em>could</em> interpret his words in such a way that he was suggesting Darry was bronze, but everyone in the room knew that wasn¡¯t the case.


    ¡°Gold knows gold,¡± he followed, with a short wink.


    There was silence in the room for a beat, then Darry burst out with a guffaw.


    ¡°Aye, you aren¡¯t wrong. Gold knows gold. Just something else we¡¯re figuring out along the way.¡±


    The burly man grinned widely, revealing a few missing teeth before he finally approached and offered Brom a proper wee.


    ¡°So your father was an innkeeper? Unlikely for you to wind up in the ying business,¡± he noted as the two shook hands.


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    ¡°My grandfather,¡± Brom corrected. ¡°My da was a field medic. I grew up bouncing from keep to keep. I think I was bound to be a yer.¡±


    ¡°Aye, I can see that,¡± Darry said as he pped a hand onto Brom¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Well,e along, then. We¡¯ve finally decided what we¡¯re going to do with you.¡±


    <em>That doesn¡¯t half sound ominous. </em>


    Even if he felt disquieted, Brom didn¡¯t allow it to show on his face. He simply smiled politely and allowed himself to be led by the other man, noting that Sera fell in easily behind him.


    Even for a Gold ranked scout, breaking out wouldn¡¯t be an option. Not that he intended to. As an illegal gold, he was a dead man already. He would see the rebellion through to the end, no matter what.


    For his part, Darry kept up a steady stream of light chatter as they moved through the narrow, icy corridors of the keep.


    ¡°How are you handling the cold?¡±


    ¡°Poorly. It seems I¡¯m a little warmblooded for the Spear.¡±


    ¡°Shame. I¡¯ve been here for years, and I swear there¡¯s no rhyme or reason to it. I¡¯ve seen some hardened killers from up northe here and just start shivering in their boots. They say it¡¯s like getting stabbed in the gut.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t feel that way to you?¡±


    ¡°It does, aye, but perhaps I¡¯m just crazy enough not to care all that much. You¡¯d have to be mad to stay in a ce like this, after all,¡± he chuckled, theugh rumbling low in his chest.


    ¡°This is the spot,¡± Darry announced, bringing them to a halt.


    Brom paused, confused. There was nothing here, only a long stretch of corridor, with a tall window beside them. It was for this window that they hade here, apparently, since his guide grabbed hold of the frosted metal handles with his bare hands and began to pull it open.


    Ah.


    Getting tossed out a window from atop the tallest mountain of the Empire wasn¡¯t how Brom had imagined he¡¯d go, but it was better than whatever the Magisters would do once they got ahold of him.


    Resigned to his fate, he squared up to the window as Darry pulled it open, sting all three of them in the face with shockingly frozen air.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look so grim, you aren¡¯t going out there. Just want you to lean out and have a little look.¡±


    Brom cocked a brow at the man, who only grinned his gap-toothed grin back at him. With nothing to lose, he leaned out over the parapet and looked down.


    To say the drop was precipitous would be an understatement. This part of the keep must have sat right on the edge of the Spear, and Brom felt he must have been staring down into the Abyss. Dark clouds rolled beneath him like an ocean whipped into a storm. The wind was so cold and sharp it felt like razors against his skin.


    But that wasn¡¯t what they wanted to show him.


    Hanging from twenty feet of rope secured onto the ledge were five bodies, each wearing the distinctive robes of the Magisters.


    ¡°There was some discussion about how much we could trust you. People are jumpy, which I think is understandable. But the Priest said you¡¯re alright, and we decided there ain''t much point rebelling if we aren¡¯t going to take a few chances with it.¡±


    ¡°Well, I appreciate it,¡± Brom said wryly, pulling his head back in. ¡°I¡¯d also appreciate it if you could close that window, quickly.¡±


    He shivered.


    Darry rumbled his deepugh again as he obliged, pushing it shut and snapping the steel locking mechanism into ce.


    ¡°I¡¯m d you decided to work together. If we don¡¯t support each other, then we will surely die in vain.¡±


    The bulky hammerman stroked his beard thoughtfully.


    ¡°I don¡¯t disagree, but there are many voices, with many opinions. We hate the Magisters, which is about the only thing we can agree on. How to fight back? Do we defend, hole ourselves here in the keep and die heroically, or attack, take the battle to the nobles? Trying to get a castle full of people who kill kin for a living to agree on anything is difficult.¡±


    ¡°What about the Priests? The clergy of The Three? Have they offered to organise and help?¡±


    Sera grumbled behind him, but Brom kept his eyes on Darry, who considered his words.


    ¡°I will take you to meet the Priest,¡± he said finally, and held up a hand to forestall the protest that had begun to burst out of Sera. ¡°I know what you want to say, sister. The others didn¡¯t agree to this, but until they are willing to show their faces, what can they say?¡±


    So there were at least a few more Gold ranked yers in the keep, but they were hesitant, to the point of refusing to be seen by outsiders, lest they be identified. A wise precaution, perhaps, but it wouldn¡¯t do anything to save them from the Magisters. They were branded, and that was the end of it.


    Without another word, Darry turned on his heel and began to set a brisk pace, which Brom kept up with easily, the two men gliding around corners with long, easy strides. A privilege of their advanced Status. Sera kept up with some effort, which she fought to conceal.


    Again, the corridors were curiously empty, and even to his superhuman hearing, too quiet. Just how far had they gone to ensure secrecy while Brom was walking the halls? A ban on <em>speaking</em>? They knew he was a scout, so it wasn¡¯t <em>that</em> surprising, but even so. Even now, after exposing their own rebellion, there remained a level of hesitance that was most surprising.


    Through the narrow, twisting passages they went, each colder than thest, until Darry turned toward another, thickset door, no different than any of the dozens they had passed.


    ¡°In here,¡± the hammerman said gruffly.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t¡­ing in?¡±


    ¡°Nah. I don¡¯t much like the faith. Makes me uneasy.¡±


    ¡°Yet the gods have their eyes on you, Hammerhand,¡± a thin voice rattled from behind the door. A momentter, it swung open to reveal a surprisingly young man, though just as reedy as his voice had suggested. He red at Darry, then snorted with wry humour before turning to Brom.


    ¡°Ah. I¡¯m so d to see they didn¡¯t throw you out the window. Brom Innson, wasn¡¯t it? I¡¯m a Priest of The Three, as you expect. Of the Crone, to be specific.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re¡­¡±


    ¡°Older than I look? Oh, yes.¡±


    Figured. Brom wasn¡¯t fullyfortable with The Three himself, but not to the extent he avoided them. One of the most ufortable features of the clergy were the various ¡®blessings¡¯ they received, including extended life.


    Without showing his mixed feelings, Brom stepped into the Priest¡¯s room and sat at his host''s invitation.


    ¡°I apologise for your rough wee here. The yers of Skyice aren¡¯t as timid as you might be thinking, they just can¡¯t agree on anything. Half of them want to rush down into the ins and start killing every Marshall they see, curse be damned, the other half want to hole up here and train brandless yers. Until they settle on a course of action, they¡¯re determined not to leak any word of the rebellion, hence the secrecy.¡±


    Put that way, the excessive caution made some sense. Even so, they were moving too slow, and Brom said so.


    ¡°I don¡¯t disagree. Oh, but I haven¡¯t introduced myself. Ender is my name, Father Ender, if you want to be technical.¡±


    ¡°Ender?¡± Brom raised a brow. ¡°Isn¡¯t that somewhat, ominous.¡±


    The Priest shrugged.


    ¡°My father had a strange sense of humour. Now, before we continue our discussion, I wanted to ask you something.¡±


    Brom shrugged.


    ¡°Ask away.¡±


    ¡°Fantastic. I believe you said you travelled down from Woodsedge? You did? Wonderful. Am I correct in understanding that you ran across a Tyron Sterm in your travels?¡±


    Brom was so surprised, he twitched. How could this man know that?


    ¡°I did,¡± he replied, slowly. ¡°How is that relevant?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s very relevant,¡± Ender smiled. ¡°Not the man, so much, but his <em>name</em>, matters a great deal. The yers here are struggling to find unity. They need a banner, a rallying cry. We don¡¯t even need the person, but his <em>name</em> is enough. There is a great deal of power in a name like that.¡±


    Brom frowned, troubled.


    ¡°You want to use Tyron Sterm as some sort of figurehead?¡±


    ¡°Of course. We need something to bring the yers together. Can you think of anything better than the child of Magnin and Beory?¡±


    He didn¡¯t like it one bit, but Brom couldn¡¯t disagree with the logic. When it came to the respect of yers in the Western Province, there was no name better than Sterm.


    ¡°Tell me what you¡¯re thinking,¡± he said heavily.

 Chapter B4C34 - Terrible Alchemy

    Chapter B4C34 - Terrible Alchemy


    ¡°He¡¯s moving too fast,¡± one voice hissed in the darkness. ¡°The mortal has been possessed by madness. No risk is too great for him and he puts us in danger at every turn. You need to rein him in.¡±


    ¡°Rein him in? You think he listens to me?¡± another replied, no less vexed. ¡°After I fulfilled the Mistress¡¯ demand and brought him to her, he hasn¡¯t trusted a single thing I¡¯ve had to say!¡±


    ¡°You have to try, you frozen bitch! He¡¯s going to get all of us staked out in the sun, if we¡¯re lucky.¡±


    ¡°He could do it anyway. If we fail in our work, he can burn both of our covens down to the ground in a matter of hours.¡±


    ¡°Are they really so capable?¡± the first voice sneered. ¡°How strong could they be, the dogs of this city? We could rip their fucking throats out if they came for us.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t underestimate them,¡± the second voice warned, the tone cold and stern, ¡°they are stronger than you think. We could kill dozens of them, sure, but there are <em>hundreds</em>, perhaps <em>thousands</em> of them. And even if we survived that, which we wouldn¡¯t, more woulde, the real strength of this empire, jumping over the border from the central province, and they would hunt us down without fail.¡±


    Valk and Yor, the two leaders of rival vampire covens, stood in the dank sewer beneath Veil Street. Thetter shuddered with revulsion as foetid water dripped from above and onto her midnight ck sable coat.


    ¡°Is it really necessary for you to cower in these wretched sewers?¡± she snapped. ¡°Your coven is already exposed. The least you mutts could do is find a kennel above ground.¡±


    Valk shed his fangs in a toothy grin, which failed to mask the anger and contempt burning in his eyes.¡°We Hounds have our ways, <em>bitch</em>,¡± he said. ¡°While you indulge in unnecessary shit, we are hunting the only thing that matters: sustenance.¡±


    ¡°While smelling like shit,¡± Yor sniffed.


    ¡°You really want to bicker about this Court bullshit, <em>now</em>?¡± Valk growled. ¡°This little get-together was <em>your</em> idea!¡±


    Yor mastered herself with difficulty. Millennia of backstabbing and blood-soaked rivalry existed between every faction in the court. Every member was indoctrinated into the endless conflict upon joining, Valk and Yor were no exception. They had crossed des more than once across the long decades. Being this close to the vampire was enough to make her fangs itch.


    Icy cold indifference took hold of her face and she forced herself to push her grudges aside.


    ¡°Both of us don¡¯t want this situation to continue, correct?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Valk snorted. ¡°You think I enjoy being under the thumb of an insane blood bag? I¡¯ve hardly seen him eat or sleep. I¡¯d suspect he was already a lich if he didn¡¯t stink like blood. All the while, he works us like servants. I hate every part of this fucking mess.¡±


    ¡°Are you in any position to contact the Court?¡±


    A heavy silence fell between the two as Valk eyed the other vampire with intense dislike.


    ¡°Are you trying to push the risk onto my coven? You think I would just nod my head and agree? Are you out of your fucking mind?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just asking the question,¡± Yor hissed. ¡°I <em>know</em> it¡¯s a risk, which is the only reason I haven¡¯t done so already. All I¡¯m asking is if you are in a better position to enact the ritual than we are.¡±


    ¡°Oh you¡¯d love that,¡± Valk growled. ¡°You think you can bat your sculpted eyshes at me and I¡¯ll jump to do your bidding like a filthy mortal? Who do you think shaped that flesh of yours? It has no effect on our kind!¡±


    Yor closed her eyes as she rubbed the point between her eyes. Vampires didn¡¯t suffer from mortal ailments like headaches, but some habits took centuries to die.


    ¡°I should have known this would be a waste of time,¡± she sighed.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Valk agreed, ¡°you should have.¡±


    The only way either of them was going to be free of Tyron was if they killed him, but they <em>couldn¡¯t</em>. Both factions were still interested in recruiting the insane mage. Yor¡¯s Mistress had been interested in him for a long time, and likely wouldn¡¯t allow Yor to murder him. Valk¡¯s Master was most definitely interested in stealing a talent who another faction had shown interest in, but was more likely to permit his death.


    A clean and quiet death for the Necromancer would allow both covens to escape detection and ride out the rest of the purge in rtive safety. However¡­ making contact with the Court was risky, <em>very</em> risky. With the heightened security and air of paranoia rife in the city, any meddling with the dimensional weave could be detected, and instantly spell doom to the vampires.


    Of course, neither one was willing to take the risk, preferring the other coven make the attempt.


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t matter <em>who</em> cast the ritual, you know,¡± a third voice echoed out down the tunnel, and both vampires shed around, ws out and fangs extended.


    From the darkness, two purple eyes watched them from within the hollow sockets of a skull. Even in the dim light, the two undead could see the neer perfectly well.


    ¡°Wight,¡± Valk spat, ¡°what are you doing here?¡±


    His tone was aggressive, but Yor could read the underlying emotions of her fellow night dweller. He was rattled, and truth be told, so was she. How had Tyron known?


    ¡°If one of you performs the ritual and gets caught, all of us die. The city will be torn apart until they find all of you bloodsucking leeches.¡±


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    The wight stepped forward, revealing a lighter armour, with a midnight ck dagger of bone on either hip. The skeletal undead raised a hand and snapped its fingers. On that totally unnecessary signal, more than a dozen undead rose up out of the sewerage, their purple eyes zing in the darkness.


    ¡°You think you can meet down here and he won¡¯t know?¡± the wight mocked. ¡°How many centuries have you been alive? This level of intrigue is almost¡­ <em>childish.</em>¡±


    ¡°How about I rip you apart with my bare hands and drink your soul?¡± Valk growled, eyes burning a deep crimson as he drew on the blood. ¡°Will your master really throw his revenge away over you? I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s find out,¡± the wight replied, spreading their arms wide. ¡°Come and get me. I¡¯m delicious.¡±


    Tension hung heavy in the air, and Yor silently hoped that Valk would go for it. It would be valuable to learn how far they could push Tyron, and it would be to her benefit if the other vampire was the one to take the chance.


    Valk seemed to sense this, and hesitated.


    Cold, humourlessughter rattled out of the wight. When she spoke, her eerie voice, that seemed toe from halfway beyond the veil, echoed in the narrow sewer tunnel.


    ¡°Something interesting I¡¯ve noticed about your kind is just how <em>timid</em> you are. When you have eternity to live, risking your life takes on that much more weight, I suppose.¡±


    With a wave of her hand, the skeletons pulled themselves out of the sewerage and up onto the stone walkway on either side of the channel.


    ¡°That¡¯s why Tyron was able to control you so easily. He threatened the only thing you will <em>never</em>promise on: your endless lives. And you can¡¯t really threaten him back because, in his mind, he¡¯s already dead. He doesn¡¯t give a flying fuck about his life. The only thing he cares about is his vengeance, and if you put the tiniest, teeniest little dent in those ns, he will burn you to the fucking ground and dance on the ashes. And you know it.¡±


    ¡°When I am free of his control, you will suffer torment beyond your imagination, ve,¡± Valk promised. ¡°A spirit can be kept in perpetual pain for an eternity. Your screams will be my music for a thousand years.¡±


    ¡°I look forward to it,¡± the wight said. ¡°But only when you are free of his control, right?¡±


    Along with her lesser undead, the wight marched off into the darkness of the sewerwork, but not without leaving one final parting shot.


    ¡°What makes you think you will <em>ever</em> be free?¡±


    ~~~


    Tyron felt as if his mind was on fire. The weakness of his flesh was a distant thought, a sorrowful wail that he no longer heeded. How could he when he was <em>so close?</em>


    The anger and hate and pain that he had tried to suppress for so long were held back no longer and formed a raging congration in his heart. It drove him forward, fuelled him, as he pushed and pushed and <em>pushed</em> towards the day his vengeance would be realised.


    Things had moved quickly once he¡¯d secured the vampires¡¯ help. Yor and her unparalleled ability to manipte mortalkind were invaluable, opening doors and putting Tyron in touch with the people he needed. Valk and his coven preferred to act in the shadows, and their mastery of the sewerwork and stealth had enabled Tyron to bring his full undead horde into the city.


    With every step he took, his revenge drew closer, but the risk became greater.


    There was another powerful emotion that rattled through every fibre of his being: fear. One mistake, one slip, and everything he¡¯d worked toward would be ripped out of his grasp. The thought of the world continuing to exist with the killers of his family unpunished was intolerable. Inexcusable!


    It couldn¡¯t be allowed to happen, it just <em>couldn¡¯t</em>.


    Inside his mind, a terrible alchemy held sway, a fusion and mixture of powerful, rampaging emotions that left him swaying like a leaf on the inside, but as cold and imcable as a cier outside.


    Another set of skeletons was done. The bones were perfectly prepared, the weaving of their spectral sinewspleted. All that remained was to cast the ritual that would raise them to unlife, but Tyron chose not to perform it immediately.


    Even if he did, the next set of remains wasn¡¯t ready toe into the Ossuary, so there wasn¡¯t any rush. Instead, he ordered the undead he kept with him to tidy up the Altar and the rest of his workspace before he turned and exited the pocket space, returning to his study beneath Almsfield Enchantments.


    The rat was there, as it always was. Communicating with Valk was as simple as speaking to the warped rodent, but again, he chose not to do so. He¡¯d been pushing the vampires hard, and they had achieved a lot for him in a short span of time, but he had to be prudent. The storm within urged him to push harder, move faster, but today, temperance was the victor, and he stayed his hand.


    He wasn¡¯t ready, yet. The time wasn¡¯t right. It wasing, though; he could almost feel it in the air.


    Upstairs, within the store, he found his apprentice hard at work, Cerry sitting with him. Both were downcast, subdued, but he didn¡¯t fail to notice the closeness between them. Despite the terrible things around the two, they tookfort from one another. That was good. They would need it.


    ¡°How did your work in the workshop go, Cerry?¡± he asked, his voice rough from disuse.


    ¡°Oh, Master Almsfield! I didn¡¯t hear youe in.¡±


    He turned and looked back toward the empty shop floor. It was night, and the store was closed, not that they were getting many customers off the street anyway. Almost all of the work being done was onmission.


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to call me Master Almsfield, Cerry. There isn¡¯t anyone here.¡±


    The young woman hesitated for a long moment.


    ¡°Master Sterm, then,¡± she said atst.


    She carefully avoided looking at him as she spoke, and he sighed. Cerry was clearly terrified of him, and had been ever since he¡¯d revealed the truth of himself. Ultimately, it didn¡¯t matter if she was afraid of him, only that she trusted him.


    ¡°Your work, Cerry. How did it go?¡±


    She blinked, her hand sought out Flynn¡¯s, and he held it gently.


    ¡°It was¡­ it went well, I think. The spirits are¡­¡± she paused and took a long, shaky breath, ¡°... they are very angry. Not that I¡­ not that I can me them¡­ I suppose.¡±


    There were many spirits in the city, but some clung to their remains, which meant they showed up when Tyron¡¯s ¡®workers¡¯ collected them from the Church.


    To learn more about her ss and gain levels, it was Cerry¡¯s job to soothe the angry ghosts. To employ her Skills and help them leave this realm. With more levels woulde more ability selections, and a clearer picture of just what her ss was capable of.


    ¡°Uh, Master¡­ Sterm,¡± Flynn spoke up, his voice quiet, and nervous. ¡°Would it be possible for Cerry to stay here tomorrow? I know¡­ I know she said she wanted to train her ss, and help the ghosts if she could, but I think it¡¯s been¡­ wearing on her nerves.¡±


    Tyron turned his eyes to the young apprentice, who wilted before his stare like a delicate flower. Tyron willed the storm in his mind to slow.


    ¡°That¡¯s fine. Of course it¡¯s fine. If you want to stop going, Cerry, just say the word. You don¡¯t have to do anything for me to keep sheltering you here.¡±


    He tried to speak gently, but the words came out dead and cold anyway.


    Without looking at him, she nodded into Flynn¡¯s chest.


    ¡°Thank you, Master¡­ Sterm.¡±


    Already pushing the discussion from his thoughts, Tyron turned and moved to trudge up the stairs to his rooms.


    How long since he¡¯d eaten and slept? He couldn¡¯t remember. A few hours now wouldn¡¯t hurt, but then he¡¯d have to get back to work. There was just so much to do.


    And that terrible alchemy¡­ it just never stopped.

 Chapter B4C35 - Plotting Gods

    Chapter B4C35 - Plotting Gods


    The Duke of the Western Province, Lion of the River Gate and hand of the Emperor, Raugrave Kenmor, strode the halls of his castle with dignity befitting his station.


    As the Oracles hadmanded, he had obeyed. Leveraging all the power of his station, the entirety of the province had been mobilised to hunt down and eliminate that which had displeased the gods. So far, things had been going well, yet the ramifications of failure were ever on his mind.


    Trailing in his wake, a train of Servants, Attendants, Priests and Nobles followed, their muttered conversations reaching his ears easily. The usual mix of petty machinations, dutiful toil and ignorant gossip. Even in this state of danger, there were some fools who still refused to see the noose slipping around everyone¡¯s neck.


    Should they fail¡­ the wrath of the Emperor would be swift, and final. Even the ruler of the Empire could do nothing but bow before the will of The Five.


    Ahead of him, two vast doors were pushed open by the golden-armoured guards who stood on either side to reveal thevish room lying beyond. The Duke did not spare a nce or thought for the details, only leading the procession of his court within as he walked around the long, gleaming table to take his ce upon the lower throne.


    He would have sat in the exact centre of the table, opposite the grand doorway he had entered through, were it not for the high throne to his right. In every province, a seat was maintained for the Emperor, even if the ruler of the Empire was almost never seen outside of the Central Province. Indeed, the favoured child of the gods was seldom seen outside the Divine Pce.


    The various nobles and functionaries filed into the room, each finding their name-tes in short order and taking their ces around the table. Without being obvious, the Duke kept an eye on these people, <em>his</em> people, nominally, but he would be foolish to believe there weren¡¯t any manoeuvres being made in the shadows. Even under the eyes of the gods, their descendants would bicker and fight for power.


    Normally, such machinations were in his favour, since it kept the various houses divided, squabbling amongst themselves. In the present circumstances, their bickering threatened <em>his</em> house and security, and so it could not be tolerated.


    On his left, the Seneschal, a loyalist from the house of Chirn, rose to begin the meeting.¡°The gods are watching,¡± he intoned, and gestured to the delegation from the Church of the Divines, who bowed solemnly. ¡°We are gathered by the will of the rightfully appointed Duke Raugrave Kenmor to discuss progress regarding the revtion of the Oracles. Let all speak and listen with open minds and open hearts.¡±


    His words hung, ringing in the air and sinking deep into the minds of all who heard them. Powerful oratory abilities such as these could have a miraculous effect on the unguarded, but none in attendance were so vulnerable. Still, the man¡¯s voice was extremely pleasant.


    ¡°Let us begin,¡± the Duke said. All eyes turned to him at once, and he acknowledged their gaze with a raised hand. ¡°Much has been done since the revtion of the gods, and I thank all of you for lending your full and unflinching support to the cause.¡±


    His eyes may have lingered on a few minor nobles who had been <em>less</em> than unflinching in their support, but the cowards would not meet his gaze.


    ¡°Despite our bright beginning, our work has only just begun. The rot has gone deep into this province, deeper than any expected, and it must be rooted out. I invite Mother Larily Chirn, the ranking member of the Church in the room, to speak.¡±


    At one end of the long, rectangr table, the various members of the church sat together, their long, coloured robes entuating the symbols of one god or another. Among them were several Cardinals, each with a five striped robe that honoured each Divine equally, one of whom rose to speak.


    ¡°I thank the Duke for his invitation and for the dedication he has shown to the words of the Oracles and his unwavering service to the will of the Divines.¡±


    The Duke inclined his head, pleased with the statement.


    <em>That¡¯s right, you snivelling curs,</em> he thought savagely toward the other nobles, though his face remained serene, <em>now is not the time for your fucking games!</em>


    ¡°Yesterday, the Oracles gave a new pronouncement,¡± Mother Larily said gravely.


    This caused a ripple of unease to pass down the table, but the Duke remained calm. He had heard this news already.


    ¡°The Western Province remains clouded by unholy influences,¡± the Cardinal continued, ¡°blocking the eyes of The Divines from looking upon their children.¡±


    There were audible gasps around the table at these words. That the Divines themselves would admit to weakness was¡­ unprecedented. It was like the ground was shifting beneath their feet.


    ¡°Until it is fully excised, the Divines are unable to bring their influence fully to bear within the province.¡±


    This content has been uwfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The Duke allowed these words to hang in the air, weighing down upon the Nobles and officials in attendance. When he spoke, his deep voice echoed throughout the room.


    A handy bit of enchanting work, not too heavy-handed, that helped reverberate any words spoken at his section of the table.


    ¡°I am permitted to reveal that the eyes of the Emperor are upon us,¡± he said gravely.


    Faces grew pale, others openly nched. Nobody wanted to fall under the gaze of the Emperor.


    ¡°The Empire is giving this threat its full attention. At this moment, we have not invited the Emperor to send the Imperial des to our aid, but I have been assured that such a request would be weed.¡±


    Not weed by anyone sitting at <em>this</em> table. If the Emperor''s soldiers came, they would tten half the province, and the Truth Seekers woulde with them. Every drop of corruption and disloyalty would be squeezed out, and the Duke himself would not be able to avoid their wrath.


    This statement was a warning to all assembled.


    <em>If we don¡¯t handle this ourselves, then the Emperor will do it for us, and we will not survive the aftermath.</em>


    Unable to contain themselves, muttered conversations broke out around the table as the attendees absorbed this information. He could already see the changesing over so many faces around him, and he silently cursed them again.


    The noble houses had held themselves back, each one eyeing the other, trying to position for advantage, and all the while the sword of the Emperor was dangling over their necks! Short-sighted fools, the lot of them!


    ¡°I hope you now see the full gravity of the situation,¡± he said, taking no small amount of pleasure in the fear that had clearly gripped several of the more obstinate nobles. ¡°What we are called to face is not something so small that we can afford to be divided, or fail to put forward anything less than our best efforts.


    ¡°Despite everything you have given so far, we need to do more to achieve the aims of our Divine Ancestors. Now, it is important that we have a frank and open conversation about our progress and capacities. Failure is not an option.¡±


    Imperiously, he scanned the faces around the table, and there were several who refused to meet his eye. Those were the cowards, the ipetent, and the pawns. The real power brokers in his court all met eyes coolly, calm and in control, like butter wouldn¡¯t melt in their mouths.


    ¡°Our Duke is wholly correct. When the Divines themselves have ced a task before us, it would be nothing short of sphemy to hold anything in reserve.¡±


    It was Contentia Shan who spoke into the silence around the table, offering her support. Not everything was as it seemed, however. Raugrave knew house Shan had withheld their Soldiers and kept them in reserve at their estate. Far frommitting all they had, they¡¯d been afraid another house would take advantage of the chaos tounch an assault, and so had moved to defend their ancestralnds.


    The Lady of House Shan looked around the table, full of icy confidence before she turned her gaze toward the Duke.


    ¡°Duke Kenmor. In your wisdom, you have gathered us here to ensure everyone was asmitted to the work of The Divines as they should be, which is only proper. But perhaps some among us would be morefortable speaking in a more private setting? Lest they be too ashamed to reveal theirck ofmitment.¡±


    She was so brazen, staring contemptuously around the table, that the Duke almostughed.


    ¡°The time when we could amodate delicate feelings has passed us by, I¡¯m afraid,¡± Duke Kenmor replied wryly. ¡°I am sure you would much rather we didn¡¯t discuss the loyal Soldiers of House Shan, and how they have remained at post within your estate, in such an open forum. However, I find under the eyes of the Emperor, my care for the dignity of my loyal Houses is less important than perhaps it was before.¡±


    In other words, you have nobody but yourself to me. With the threat of death hanging over the entire province, including the Duke himself, he would humiliate every Lord and Lady personally if that was what it took to stave off disaster.


    ¡°Before we fully embrace this open spirit of cooperation andy all our cards on the table. I believe it would be in the interests of the court, and the Duke, to give my niece an opportunity to speak.¡±


    stor Erryn bowed in his seat as he finished speaking. The Lord of house Erryn was seldom one to put himself forward at a gathering like this. Raugrave wasn¡¯t sure if he should be worried or intrigued by this development.


    ¡°Your niece has been the court liaison to the Magister¡¯s Tower, has she not? The Lady Recillia Erryn?¡±


    ¡°You are quite correct, my Duke.¡±


    Yes, he remembered her. A driven woman, and sharp.


    ¡°She may speak. I trust she is present?¡±


    ¡°I am, your grace.¡±


    Her voice came from somewhere behind her uncle, as she wasn¡¯t considered important enough to warrant a seat. The Duke would have to discipline his staff. She was the liaison to the Magisters! During a crisis such as this, how could she not be seated at the table?!


    ¡°Please step forward.¡±


    The Lady did so, and again he was taken aback by the hard edges she made no effort to hide.


    ¡°As you know, your grace, the Magisters have been lending their support to the teams in the field, sending mages to assist the Priests, Marshals and Soldiers making arrests.¡±


    ¡°Of course. The assistance of the Tower has been of great importance.¡±


    Lady Erryn bowed her head to acknowledge his praise.


    ¡°However, it hase to my attention that theck of personnel in the Tower has ced strain on several other duties the Magisters are expected to perform. In particr, monitoring the holy seals.¡±


    The holy seals. Another name for the brands ced on the yers. The Duke began to feel the first stirrings of concern.


    ¡°Has there been any problem with the seals?¡±


    She nodded, and he felt his stomach drop.


    ¡°It was brought to my attention onlyst night, and our investigation is underway, but there is reason to believe several Magisters may have been murdered. The possibility exists that there are unsanctioned Gold yers fomenting open rebellion in the far reaches of the province.¡±


    The Duke raised his fist and smashed it down onto the table.

 Chapter B4C36 - Momentum

    Chapter B4C36 - Momentum


    Elsbeth was marching down the corridor of Woodsedge Keep with apparent confidence. Internally, she was very stressed, but it wouldn¡¯t do any good to show that on the surface.


    ¡°What do I know about managing yers?¡± she muttered to herself. ¡°I¡¯m a Priestess, I¡¯m supposed to help people connect with their gods, not order human death machines about.¡±


    ¡°You need to be a little more careful what you say around us ¡®human death machines¡¯,¡± a voice said wryly from around the corner, followed a momentter by the form of Rurin Wilkin. The Gold ranked yer smiled, a little sadly as she continued: ¡°We tend to have excellent hearing, even the non-scouts. After enough time in the rifts, moving quietly and listening carefully are something that everyone cultivates. If they survive long enough.¡±


    Elsbeth flushed with embarrassment.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Ms Wilkin¨C¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me that, for the love of life. Call me Rurin, please.¡±


    Elsbeth took a breath to steady herself.


    ¡°I apologise, Rurin. I didn¡¯t mean to cause offence¡­ I just¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. I understand what you wanted to say. Come, walk with me.¡±Feeling abashed, the Priestess fell into step alongside the older woman as they strode down the hall together. Night was falling and the shadows had lengthened as the sun sank below the horizon. Not twenty minutes ago, the light had dyed everything she saw a bright, russet red, but already it was fading and the darkness was creeping in.


    It was at this time that Raven was said to be at his strongest, when day gave way to night. The origin of this belief supposedly came from ancient legends, before the time of the Five Divines, before even the rifts, and magick and the Unseen.


    They said theing of night was merely Raven¡¯s flock taking flight and covering the sky, putting the entire world under his gaze.


    Elsbeth shivered despite herself. She had felt the touch of the god¡¯s mind, and it had been alien, strange, and so, so overwhelming. It wasn¡¯t something she ever wanted to repeat.


    ¡°Are you cold?¡± Rurin asked. ¡°I sometimes forget you are more vulnerable to the cold than we are. Unless you are a higher Level than I¡¯m guessing?¡±


    ¡°Ah, no,¡± Elsbeth shook her head, a little embarrassed. ¡°I¡¯m almost a Silver. It won¡¯t be long until I reach Level forty.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Congrattions are in order, then,¡± Rurin smiled. ¡°I¡¯m not exactly sure what¡¯s involved when a Priestess advances in her ss, is it much different than it is for us yers?¡±


    It was a genuine question, and Elsbeth could see the curiosity in the other woman, so she decided to answer.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like for Priests of the Five. For us, we are offered a blessing, a gift, from the Three. Depending on whose gift you take, the changes to your ss can change to better suit the god you favoured.¡±


    ¡°This means you already epted a blessing? When you reached level twenty?¡±


    Elsbeth nodded.


    ¡°Nothing major,¡± she hastened to say. ¡°The blessings get stronger the more levels you achieve.¡±


    ¡°Hmm,¡± Rurin hummed as she processed this information.


    For a short time, they walked in silence. The Woodsedge Keep certainly wasn¡¯t thergest in the province, but it wasn¡¯t the smallest either. These days, it was a hive of activity. Raising new, unbranded yers wasn¡¯t an easy task, and everyone had their own opinion on the best way to get it done.


    If it weren¡¯t for Rurin and Timothy, Elsbeth, Munhilde and the other clergy would have had no hope at all of getting the unruly yers to work together.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ for what I said before. That¡¯s not how I think of you. Or the others.¡±


    Rurin looked at her with a brow raised, then scoffed.


    ¡°I know you don¡¯t. Of all the people I¡¯ve met, you have more sympathy for yers than most. Probably something to do with the folk you grew up with. We all get frustrated sometimes. I¡¯ve said plenty of things I didn¡¯t mean, and that¡¯s the truth.¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t have been that bad,¡± Elsbeth smiled, ¡°you always seem so in control of yourself.¡±


    ¡°Hah! Let me tell you a little secret. Behind every well put together old timer is a snotty brat who somehow lived long enough to learn from their mistakes. Experience teaches everyone to mind their tongue, eventually.¡±


    They both came to a stop outside a in wooden door.


    ¡°Thank you for walking with me,¡± Elsbeth said. ¡°I came to speak to Munhilde, so I hope you¡¯ll excuse me.¡±


    Rurin¡¯s eyes twinkled.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to speak to her as well. I didn¡¯t ask you to walk with me just for the lecture, we were going to the same ce.¡±


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    How many times was Elsbeth going to embarrass herself in front of this woman in the same day? In the same hour!


    Refusing to let it show on her face, she gestured to the door and stepped back.


    ¡°After you, then.¡±


    Not believing it, Rurin chuckled audibly, causing Elsbeth to blush, then knocked on the door.


    ¡°Come in.¡±


    Munhilde, much as she had been for thest few weeks, was seated behind a desk, going through seemingly endless lists. Everytime a team went out to the rifts, they were required to file paperwork upon their return. This was always the case, but now the clergy were handling those documents, rather than the Magisters, and for quite a different reason.


    ¡°Good evening, Munhilde,¡± Rurin said, ¡°mind if I sit down?¡±


    ¡°Not at all.¡±


    The Gold ranked yer pulled a spare chair over and plonked herself down in it as the older Priestess continued to sift through the stack of papers.


    ¡°How goes our fledgling army? Any progress?¡±


    Munhilde scoffed.


    ¡°Army? Rabble, more like.¡± She put down the pages with a huff and looked the rebel leader in the eye. ¡°There¡¯s progress, of course. Every time a kin is killed, we make progress. The problem is, it isn¡¯t fast enough. We don¡¯t have enough fighters, and they aren¡¯t high enough Level. Considering what¡¯s going to be brought against us, we need to move faster.¡±


    ¡°The more we push them, the more of them will die,¡± Rurin exined patiently. ¡°A dead rebel is a fuck ton less useful than a live one.¡±


    It was a conversation they¡¯d had many times before, and would continue to have in the future. In truth, the yers and their unbranded recruits <em>were</em> pushing hard, harder than they should. As a result, there had been idents, casualties. Inevitable losses when dealing with a rift, but every dead yer hurt them that much more when they were trying to fight the Empire.


    ¡°Well, I can finally shed some light on our situation. I received two messages via ro¡¯w this morning. Would you like the good news, or the bad news?¡±


    Rurin leaned back in her chair, surprised.


    ¡°News, finally? Let¡¯s start with the good news.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve heard from Brom. Skyice rebelled a little after you did, and have agreed to work together.¡±


    This was incredible news, and Elsbeth could see the fire roar to life in the yer¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Thank <em>fuck</em>!¡± she eximed, filled with relief. ¡°That¡¯s going to help a ton. Is Broming back?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s already on his way,¡± Munhilde nodded.


    ¡°The bad news must be absolutely tragic if it''s going to bnce this out,¡± Rurin observed, not bothering to smother the grin on her face.


    Elsbeth was much in the same mind. The only chance the yers had of achieving anything at all was if they banded together, and this was a major first step.


    ¡°On to the bad news, then,¡± Munhilde stated dryly. ¡°Our source in the city has been in touch.¡±


    <em>Tyron.</em> Elsbeth was sure it was him.


    ¡°The Magisters have sounded the rm about the rebellion. Someone over there finally woke up and started doing their job, realised there were dozens of the bastards that had died out in the far reaches. The Duke has already started mobilising.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Rurin said, ¡°that <em>is </em>bad news.¡±


    Munhilde shrugged.


    ¡°We had more time to prepare than we should have gotten. It was nothing but dumb luck that kept them ignorant for this long.¡±


    ¡°When will they be able to reach us?¡± Elsbeth wondered. ¡°Will theye straight for the Keeps?¡±


    Rurin frowned as she considered the question.


    ¡°They might,¡± she said eventually. ¡°If they take away the rifts, they make it harder for us to get stronger. At the same time, they tie up a heap of people who need to stay in ce and kill kin.¡±


    ¡°You can stay in the Keep and try to fight them here, but I wouldn¡¯t rmend it,¡± Munhilde said as she started picking through the papers on her desk again. ¡°It would be wiser to abandon the Keeps and head into the countryside. Meet up with the yers from the other rifts.¡±


    Elsbeth might not have been a fighter, but she could see the wisdom in what Munhilde was saying. Holed up in the Keeps, the rebels were easy to track down. Once they were found, it was only a matter of time until the Empire brought enough soldiers to bring them down. However, she also knew of the odd sense of responsibility that bound the yers together.


    ¡°We won¡¯t abandon the Keep until thest possible second,¡± Rurin said as she shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t even need to talk to my people to figure that out. We can¡¯t just abandon the rift and allow the kin to run wild. Thest thing the people of the Western Province need is another break.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s dangerous. It won¡¯t be easy to just slip out and go into hiding when the Duke''s forces are right on the doorstep,¡± Munhilde pointed out. ¡°If you want to achieve this, you need to start nning now, and whatever ideas you have, they¡¯d better be good.¡±


    A feeling of sadness welled up in Elsbeth. She thought she¡¯d resigned herself to the conflict that wasing, but now that it was so close, she found herself unexpectedly morose. The people of the Western Province were supposed to work together. The whole empire was supposed to work together, to try and keep their world in one piece and hold off the rifts. However, in a few short weeks, they¡¯d be killing each other. Outright fighting would break out across the province and many would die.


    ¡°Elsbeth,¡± Munhilde¡¯s voice broke into her thoughts. ¡°They¡¯ve been killing us for weeks now. The bodies are piling up in the cities, entire families get vanished, never to be heard from again. Even devout believers of The Five are living in terror.¡±


    ¡°I know that,¡± Elsbeth replied, trying to firm her resolve. ¡°The people need to be protected.¡±


    ¡°No. They need to rise up and protect themselves,¡± Munhilde disagreed.


    Rurin watched the exchange and shrugged.


    ¡°Much of a muchness, really. If someone is stepping up to defend their neighbour, they¡¯re protecting another, and themselves at the same time.¡±


    With a sigh, the old yer rose from her seat and stretched out her back.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s been nice talking to you, mydy Priestesses, but I suppose I¡¯d better go and start kicking a few yers right in the arse. We need to pick up the pace and n our withdrawal. Good evening to you both.¡±


    With a wink and wave, Rurin was off, closing the door behind her and leaving Munhilde and Elsbeth alone.


    ¡°You can¡¯t hold it off any more,¡± Munhilde said to her former pupil. ¡°I know you¡¯ve reached the required level. It¡¯s time to deepen your rtionship with the gods and Advance your ss.¡±


    Elsbeth drew in a shuddering breath.


    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right,¡± she replied. ¡°I just¡­¡±


    ¡°Am afraid of what blessings they may offer,¡± Munhilde nodded. ¡°I know. There are some which can change you in a fundamental way, but those aren¡¯t likely to appear at your level.


    ¡°Besides, putting it off any longer is going to be dangerous. You need all the strength you can get for what¡¯s toe. We all do.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Elsbeth nodded sadly. ¡°I know.¡±

 Chapter B4C37 - Endless Remains

    Chapter B4C37 - Endless Remains


    A thick aura of Death Magick permeated the Ossuary as Tyron continued his work. Words of power flowed from his lips and his hands weaved the arcane sigils required to give shape to the magick, each a necessaryponent of the intricate structure he was attempting to build.


    On one side of the Ossuary, recesses filled with bones writhed with energy as they mirrored the ritual he cast upon the bones resting on the altar. Power flowed from Tyron, from the hidden reservoir within himself, and into the remains before him as he continued the ritual. On and on it went, his focus never wavering in the slightest, until atst it was done.


    Faintly at first, then with growing strength, Tyron watched as the purple light within the eyes of the skull came alight. The ritual was a sess; a new skeletal minion had beenpleted.


    But not just one. From the recesses along the wall of the Ossuary, a full twenty more skeletons rose, all created to the same exacting standard as the anchor minion in front of him.


    Taking a breath, Tyron stepped back from the altar and turned to the table he kept within this sanctum. Upon the rough wooden surface sat arge mug filled with water and a small te of cheese and dried meat. He¡¯d been working for hours, and having something to soothe his throat after a particrly exacting ritual had proven to be a godsend.


    Feeling a little better, he turned and ordered histest minions to assemble before him. Freshly crafted, the link that bound them to him was clear and fluid, a pathway of crystal and gossamer threadpared to what he used to make. Using his enchanted ss, he looked over every inch of each minion, making sure they met his exacting standards.


    No errors were expected, but Tyron wouldn¡¯t feel satisfied unless he ensured they were wless. Well, as wless as he could make them. For all the progress he had made and all the lessons he had learned, he knew there was still a lot of improvement left in this process.


    Where it might be, he couldn¡¯t say. He¡¯d incorporated everything he knew about conduit magick. In fact, given his particr expertise and benefits regarding that branch of magick, he was confident nobody in the entire province could make them better. The bones were meticulously prepared, treated with expensive agents to cleanse, seal and harden the remains. Every corpse had been studied in depth to best determine its strengths and weaknesses, its conductivity with Death Magick assessed.


    With their simrly proportioned frames, these twenty skeletons were all suited to the same purpose, and they had been linked together, sharing the magick that each generated with the rest. The enchantments he had bound into each, using an array socketed within its skull, functioned perfectly, gathering and storing energy, converting it to death-aligned magick. Everything was perfect. With a thought, he directed the skeletons to gather their arms, already prepared from the wealth of bones he had in store. Who would have thought working with the Church of the Five Divines could have proven so profitable for a Necromancer?


    Shields and swords equipped, his minions looked fierce indeed. Each would be a capable soldier in his growing legion.


    ¡°Are they ready to go now?¡± a hollow voice called from the entrance.


    A slight frown came over Tyron¡¯s face, but he smoothed it away.


    ¡°Yes, they are. I¡¯ll bring them out.¡±


    He directed the undead towards the door of the Ossuary and followed after them as they made their way out. Entering his humble study beneath the shop, Tyron took a deep breath of the air. It may have been stagnant, foul air, but somehow it was better than what was within the Ossuary itself. That ce seemed to reek of death, even when there were no remains present.


    ¡°Where do you want these ones to go?¡±


    Laurel¡¯s voice was dull, t and emotionless, and the wight carefully avoided looking at Tyron as he emerged from the Ossuary.


    Even so, she managed to irritate him. It had probably been a mistake to bring her back, but she was at least someone he could tolerate and interact with. At least, he trusted her with the post of one of his wights. She would do anything to avoid going back to the silent drudgery of being a revenant. Even worse, he had threatened to turn her into a ghost, without even a physical form to interact with the world.


    ¡°When the next group is done, you can take all of them to Filetta. She knows what to do with them.¡±


    There was a moment of silence before Laurel spoke again.


    ¡°Is there a reason I¡¯m not being given the details of the undead deployment?¡± she asked softly.


    Her words only served to spark Tyron¡¯s anger, which he worked to tamp down. Yor had as much as confirmed that his anger was a result of the Court¡¯s maniptions, and he was doing his best not to let it influence his decisions. Even if Laurel was particrly deserving of his ire, he shouldn¡¯t let his emotions take control of his thoughts.


    ¡°Because there is no need for you to know at this point,¡± he replied, his tone curt. ¡°You are acting as a go-between for me and the other wights. When I have something else for you to do, I will tell you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like feeling purposeless,¡± she stated in that same, dead voice.


    ¡°Your purpose is whatever I damn well say it is,¡± he growled, before he managed to take hold of himself again. ¡°I¡¯m not interested in yourints,¡± he said finally. ¡°The moment you wish to return to a spectre without form or function, let me know. Until then, follow orders.¡±


    Laurel¡¯s form as a wight had changed significantly from when she was a revenant. Not only did she now possess the spirit flesh that housed her soul, but her armour and weaponry had been improved significantly. With her bow of moulded, ck bone, its string formed of woven Death Magick, she looked fearsome indeed.


    Her ss had changed upon her reawakening as a wight. She was now an Undead Ranger, her abilities infused with Death Magick and a greater emphasis on shadow and curses. So far, she had been loyal, doing as she was told, but the resentment Tyron felt toward her would never go away. Luckily for Laurel, she had proven to be useful,petent even, and he desperately needed his wights to perform, now more than ever.


    For someone who had desired freedom almost to the same extent as his parents had, being an undead minion must have been unbearable to Laurel, but Tyron didn¡¯t care. In truth, none of his wights were delighted to have be the generals in his growing legion, but such was their fate.


    ¡°You have a guest waiting for you,¡± Laurel said. ¡°I believe one of the Vampires hase.¡±


    Fantastic, someone else he had to work with that he couldn¡¯t stand being around.


    ¡°Is it Yor or Valk?¡±


    ¡°Technically neither. It¡¯s a rat.¡±


    Valk, then.


    ¡°Fine. Can you bring in the rodent, then take these skeletons where they need to go?¡±


    Weariness poked at Tyron, but no matter how his body protested, his mind refused to listen. Things were moving too quickly right now, and the work that needed to be done was endless. There would be a time for sleep, but not yet. Not quite yet.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    A few momentster, Laurel returned, arge, flesh-formed rat held in one ghostly palm. After depositing the creature on the table, she turned and left, taking the skeletons with her.


    ¡°What is it, Valk?¡± Tyron asked, flicking the rat on its nose. ¡°More whining?¡±


    ¡°I look forward to ripping out your throat. Your soul will be so sweet as it slides down my throat.¡±


    Even through the rodent, Tyron could hear the rage boiling within the undead. Valk seemed to struggle with being as cold and unfeeling as Yor; anger always simmered underneath the surface, much as with Tyron himself.


    ¡°Yes, the threats, always the threats. I¡¯m busy, Valk, what do you want?¡±


    There was a moment of silence, no doubt as the vampire struggled to maintain his temper so as to avoid yelling something truly regrettable through his puppet. While the vampires were still fearful for their safety, they would fall in line, but that didn¡¯t mean they wouldn¡¯t push boundaries.


    Both Yor and Valk had quickly learned that there were consequences for pushing boundaries. After he had dropped several breadcrumbs leading toward their respectiveirs, both covens had yielded, and now lived under an even greater level of scrutiny than before.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been told there are problems at the crematorium. Too much Death Magick is umting in the tunnels below the building. If it continues, your operation is going to get fucking rumbled for sure.¡±


    This wasn¡¯t what Tyron wanted to hear.


    ¡°I worked on the enchantments there myself. Any Death Magick should be passively dissipated.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just the fucking messenger,¡± Valk snarled. ¡°Message delivered, so fuck off.¡±


    So saying, the rat turned and leapt off the table before it scurried off into the darkness. The Necromancer folded his hands together and pondered what might have gone wrong. Were the vampires sabotaging his efforts? Surely they wouldn¡¯t be so foolish. Exposing his little bone harvesting operation would only put themselves in even greater danger.


    There had to be something else¡­ but what?


    He would have to go and inspect the tunnels himself, which could open him up to an ambush in the sewers. Killing him quietly and efficiently was still a decent way out of the trap for the vampires, even if Tyron put measures in ce to expose them if he died.


    Frustrated at the wasted time this would cost, he used his mind to tug on one of the hundreds of threads that connected him to his minions. It would take time for them to arrive, so he busied himself with a few necessities. He washed, changed his clothes, ate and drank before he performed some perfunctory grooming.


    Judging he¡¯d done more than enough, he returned to the study and waited impatiently until Filetta arrived.


    ¡°What?¡± she demanded, emerging from the sewer entrance.


    ¡°I need an escort. We¡¯re going to the tunnels under the crematorium.¡±


    ¡°Really¡­. If I knew I was going to spend my unlife crawling through the sewers even more than I did before I died¡­¡±


    ¡°You would have what, Filetta?¡±


    ¡°Comined about it more, I suppose.¡±


    It was odd, hearing such flippantmentsing from such an obvious undead being. Much like Laurel, Filetta looked dangerous, her moulded ck armour and helmet covering the spirit flesh protected within. On her hips sat two ck knives, each as long as a forearm. What was interesting, though, was that Tyron felt he had detected a¡­ deadening of her character, for want of a better term. Just as Laurel grew a little more wooden and emotionless as time went on, so too did Filetta.


    Was there something about being a wight in particr that weakened someone¡¯s personality or emotions over time? It was an interesting thought, but not one he had time to investigate.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get going,¡± he said, pulling a cloak around his shoulders.


    It was a long journey, from Shadetown outside the walls to the temporary crematorium Tyron had established in the north side of the city. Likely, the officials who saw to the administration of Kenmor and its sewerwork didn¡¯t even realise thework inside the walls had been extended to the market district of Shadetown at one point in history.


    The way wasbyrinthine, and several sections of the sewer had copsed, requiring hundreds of hours of work by tireless skeletons to clear a path. Now there was unobstructed connection from outside the city wall to within, but it wasn¡¯t exactly what Tyron would describe as smooth travel.


    Patrols of Marshals and other officials <em>did</em>e into the sewer, in fact, with increasing regrity since the purge had begun. Dodging them was paramount, so it was necessary to be cautious at all times. The tunnels under Kenmor were so much better maintained than those under Shadetown, which meant frequent trips from workers as well. Too much noise risked attracting notice from the streets above, and Tyron could never rule out that he would be attacked by his unwilling allies while moving through the darkness.


    All in all, it made for an ufortable journey.


    It took three hours to get there in the end, and by the time they¡¯d arrived, Tyron was regretting not going over the surface and taking a carriage. He was determined not to show his face around the crematorium, even under his various guises, to avoid risking exposure, but themute from Almsfield Enchantments was hellish.


    The warehouses he¡¯d rented had their own sewer channel, a narrow walkway that branched off the main tunnel for about thirty metres. It was the entire reason he¡¯d chosen these warehouses in the first ce. Expanding the sewer by digging out an underground room without the city realising had been the real challenge. He¡¯d spared no expense to ensure that no hint of vibration or whiff of construction would be found.


    The result was a rtively cramped, ten by ten metre chamber in which the ¡®work¡¯ was performed.


    In short, it was a charnel house where bodies were brought down from the warehouses above, stripped of their flesh and their bones removed. The meat and juice of the corpse, putting it crudely, were returned aboveground and fed into the furnace, along with a scattering of animal bones.


    So far, it had worked well. The church was satisfied that excess corpses were being thoroughly processed, and Tyron ensured his people went out of their way to return the ashes to their loved ones.


    As usual, the butchery room was a horrific sight. If his three students were to witness such a thing, they would undoubtedly puke up their guts for a week straight, but Tyron barely blinked. Four of his corpse preparation staff were in attendance, hard at work, their knives shing in the well-lit chamber. These were newly Awakened individuals the Priests and Priestesses of The Three had tracked down for him. Each had a corpse preparation ss and were willing participants in the rebellion.


    His foreman was also there, a Priest of Rot, who stood twisting his hands as he sweated nervously.


    ¡°Master Sterm, I¡¯m so pleased that you are here,¡± he said.


    ¡°Priest Inoss. What¡¯s this I¡¯ve been told about Death Magick umting? Such a thing shouldn¡¯t be possible.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ as you can see¡­¡± the Priest gestured somewhat feebly behind him, not quite willing to turn and face the grisly scene. ¡°We are¡­ processing more¡­ individuals¡­ than we anticipated. I believe the measures you put in ce may not be up to the task.¡±


    Tyron took a moment to withdraw his enchanted ss from his robe and look around the room. Indeed, it was slight, but there <em>was</em> Death Magick umting. It would be extremely difficult to detect it right now, even from nearby, but over time, even just a few days, it would be significantly easier to sense.


    ¡°You asked me to let you know the moment something was found¡­¡± the Priest said, still visibly anxious.


    How this man had lived as a heretic right under the nose of the Church was a mystery to the Necromancer. He seemed trapped in an almost constant state of anxiety. It was thest thing he would have expected from a follower of Rot, the most equanimous of The Three.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have to work on the arrays built into the walls,¡± Tyron said, calcting as he scanned the rooms with his eyes. It wasn¡¯t that difficult, but it had to be perfect. Making a cage wasn¡¯t hard; making one that not even a hint of air could escape was harder.


    This was going to take an entire day. Time he couldn¡¯t afford to lose.


    ¡°There¡¯s no choice,¡± he said, mostly to himself. ¡°I¡¯ll go back to the workshop and start preparing after I take a few measurements. I¡¯ll be back here in¡­¡± he thought for a moment, ¡°... twelve hours.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s cutting it a little close¡­ isn¡¯t it?¡± Inos fretted.


    ¡°I can¡¯t afford mistakes. Rushing the work will only lead to more trouble down the line. In the meantime,¡± he reached into his cloak and withdrew several small devices, each with a solid core embedded in the middle. ¡°Use these dampeners. They should absorb the ambient magick, but they won¡¯t be able to process it. If they take in too much, they¡¯ll act like a beacon to the mages, which isn¡¯t what we want. ce one in the room and swap them over every two hours. Store them in the sewers at least thirty metres apart, you understand?¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡±


    Tyron handed the small devices over to the Priest and turned on his heel without another word.


    There was work to be done.

 Chapter B4C38 - Frontier

    Chapter B4C38 - Frontier


    The kin was a small, chittering thing, the size of a dog much like the ones he¡¯d grown up around on the farm. Except this was no dog. Its face was covered in little ws, at least eight of them, each designed to hook into flesh so the little horror could go to work with its razor-sharp fangs. With six insect-like legs, the creature was fast and mobile, not easy to pin down.


    Difficult prey for a zombie, but Georg had found a few methods that worked.


    The kin advanced in stop-start motions, sensing the air and hunting for life to destroy. It smelled him, faintly, and it woulde towards him in time. All he had to do was be patient.


    Working as a farm hand was boring work. Back-breaking at times, mind numbingly repetitive almost always, so it was little wonder he and other young boys had sought out other pastimes in the little free time they¡¯d had. Jom Dream had been the first to really push them topete with the sling. His name hadn¡¯t really been Dream, of course, that was his nickname. Ma Gonnel called him an archer¡¯s dream, thanks to his fat head, and the name had stuck.


    All the boys would get together and challenge each other to various difficult shots with the sling. Hit a horseshoe from ten metres. Twenty metres. Knock a mug off a fence post around the cows.


    Georg had never been the best, but he wasn¡¯t the worst, either. Now he put that Skill to good use.


    Quietly, he lowered the sling by his side and fit the nice, egg-shaped stone he¡¯d found the previous day into the cup. Gripping it tight once more, he checked to make sure he had room, and started to whirl it. Slowly at first, but with growing momentum, he spun it until the sound of it cutting through the air became more and more audible.


    The kin heard it just a moment before he sprang up from behind the bushes and released the stone. It wasn¡¯t that difficult a shot, and his rock flew true, striking the creature hard in the side and knocking it over.


    From behind him, Georg¡¯s minions lurched forward, eerie moans emanating from their throats. The zombies certainly weren¡¯t quick, and the kin had managed to right itself by the time they reached it.The little beast threw itself at the nearest undead andtched onto the zombie¡¯s leg, hooking in with its ws and shredding the flesh as it swung wildly with its two ded arms.


    Unfeeling, Georg¡¯s zombie merely reached back with one arm before delivering a clumsy, stilted blow with the crude club he¡¯d given it. Not to be outdone, the other zombies crowded around, smacking the kin, and each other, with wild, disjointed swings until atst the kin was dead.


    Georg watched the whole fight from a safe distance, remaining in the spot he¡¯d thrown the stone, and couldn¡¯t quite keep the frown from his face.


    ¡°It was fine,¡± Richard said from a few metres away. ¡°There¡¯s no need to look like that.¡±


    ¡°I know it was fine. The kin is dead, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°If you think it¡¯s fine, then why do you look like you stepped in cow shit?¡±


    Georg raised a brow and turned toward his fellow student. Realising his mistake, Richard grimaced.


    ¡°Right, sorry. Farmhands probably don¡¯t care about stepping in cow shit.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not ideal,¡± Georg shrugged, ¡°but sometimes it can¡¯t be avoided. Why do you think we wear such tall, thick boots?¡±


    He stomped his feet for emphasis, which caused Richard to look down appraisingly. Now that he was no longer working on a farm, Georg could wear more practical,fortable shoes, but old habits died hard. Also, his current work was still quite messy, so the boots were quite appropriate as far as he was concerned. Judging by the thoughtful look on his face, Richard agreed.


    ¡°I just wish they wouldn¡¯t hit each other so much,¡± Georg eventually sighed, looking back toward his minions. ¡°It looks like they did more damage to themselves than the kin did!¡±


    Richard held up a hand and wobbled it back and forth.


    ¡°It¡¯s close, but I think the kin takes it.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, I feel so much better.¡±


    The studious young Necromancer wasn¡¯t very good at being sociable, or offering support, but he stepped up and pped Georg on the shoulder, and the former farmhand appreciated the gesture.


    ¡°Look, your control over the zombies and your ability to repair their flesh is only going to improve over time. They¡¯re already better than they were when you started, right?¡±


    ¡°They sure are.¡±


    Georg almost shuddered recalling how ungainly his first minion had been. It was a miracle the poor thing could walk at all. He¡¯d been reminded of a newborn foal, staggering and flopping about as it tried to figure out how to walk.


    ¡°But your zombies have something that separates them from skeletons. I don¡¯t think they¡¯ll ever move as well as our teacher¡¯s minions, but they can certainly take a heck of a beating. Way more than my minions can.¡±


    The two walked through the low bushes and approached the undead, who still stood over the unmoving form of the defeated kin. With a thought, Georg ordered them to line up, and watched, dissatisfied, as they staggered into position.


    ¡°Look at how badly this one got chewed up,¡± Richard eximed, gesturing towards its leg, ¡°and it''s still moving around, perfectly ready to fight. If this was a skeleton, it would be hopping to the next battle.¡±


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    ¡°It isn¡¯t much better,¡± Georg observed. ¡°It¡¯s not moving very well at all.¡±


    The kin had made aplete mess of the leg, ripping the calf muscle to shreds and taking chunks out of the bone. The zombie could still walk, but it wasn¡¯t pretty.


    ¡°But you can fix it. A hell of a lot easier than I can fix a skeleton. Can you imagine how much Briss and I would love to be able to heal damaged bone with a single spell?¡±


    ¡°You probably can, eventually,¡± Georg told him. ¡°And look there. You aren¡¯t the only ones who need a spell to repair bones.¡±


    Richard hummed in thought as he inspected the wound. ¡°I see what you mean. But even so, you can make do without it a lot better than we can,¡± the bookish young man replied seriously.


    ¡°Alright, fine, you¡¯ve made your point. Thanks, Richard, I appreciate your kind words.¡±


    His fellow student looked pleased and abashed at thepliment, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly as Georg knelt down and concentrated.


    Of all the magick he¡¯d learned, this was the one he was most proficient with: Flesh Mending. He spoke the words of power, performed the sigils, then maintained focus as the power began to flow.


    The process was slow at first, the damaged muscle barely moving. Then, slowly, it began to twitch, as strands of new dead flesh began to emerge, knitting themselves together. Sweat began to bead on Georg¡¯s brow as he maintained the flow of energy until the muscle was actively writhing, pulling itself back together and closing over the hideous wound that had appeared only moments before.


    ¡°It¡¯s so useful, but it looks¡­¡±


    ¡°Creepy as shit,¡± Georg finished the thought as he stood back up with a sigh.


    Ordering the repaired zombie to walk, he watched its performance and judged his repair had done enough to keep it in the fight, for now. All of his minions had various bits of damage, chipped bone and torn flesh, from where they¡¯d beaten the heck out of each other, but none of it was enough to render them unable to kill kin.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to keep hunting for a bit,¡± Georg said. ¡°Hopefully I can find one or two more of these before I head back.¡±


    He moved over to the kin, pulling his carving knife from its sheath on his hip as he went.


    ¡°What are you nning to do with the core?¡± Richard asked.


    ¡°Sell it.¡±


    ¡°You aren¡¯t nning on¡ª¡±


    ¡°Learning enchanting like Master Sterm? No chance of that, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    Georg butchered the monster with casual efficiency, extracting the core with a wet <em>pop</em>. He polished it on his pants leg before tucking it into a pouch attached to his belt.


    ¡°My hands have gotten nimble enough to cast spells, but doing that sort of thing is just beyond me. I¡¯ll be focusing my efforts in another direction. Besides, if one of you two can figure it out, I can just pay you to do it for me, right?¡±


    ¡°You think we¡¯ll just ¡®figure it out¡¯?¡± Richard asked, taken aback.


    ¡°Tyron did, right?¡±


    ¡°One, Tyron Sterm is a genius, and two, he studied enchanting under the best Arcanist in Kenmor!¡±


    ¡°So you need lessons. It¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    Georg chuckled as he checked to make sure he had everything he needed to keep hunting. He¡¯d learned quickly just how bad things could go close to the rifts, and being careless was the fastest way to end up dead. He was willing to work with the dead, not <em>be</em> one.


    ¡°What level are you, by the way?¡± he asked Richard in passing.


    ¡°Level seven. Why?¡±


    ¡°You prick. I¡¯m level six. When did you Level up?¡±


    ¡°Yesterday, after I raised my newest minion.¡±


    ¡°Damn you. How many is that now?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ six in total, but only three are still¡­ alive?¡±


    ¡°Probably not the right choice of word.¡±


    ¡°Probably not, no.¡±


    Georg himself had raised four zombies, three of which were still in fighting shape. He still couldn¡¯t handle more than that. As much as he would dearly like to try and make more, he needed more levels and more magick first.


    ¡°I might leave you to it, then. I take it you don¡¯t need more of my ster advice?¡± Richard asked.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. I appreciate youing out, and your words of encouragement. I mean it. Thanks.¡±


    Richard waved off thepliments, clearly embarrassed.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. We need to help each other, right?¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Georg nodded. ¡°But you should make sure you don¡¯t give up too much of your time. We all need to get stronger.¡±


    ¡°Says the guy with the lowest level.¡±


    ¡°Oi.¡±


    With a smile and a wave Richard retreated, heading back towards Woodsedge, his own undead emerging from the trees to protect him on the journey.


    It was easy to be jealous of Richard. The young man seemed so well suited to magick, with his studious and meticulous nature, but he was such a self-effacing and humble person that it was almost impossible to dislike him. Also, he was wound so tight it was extremely easy to make fun of him.


    Georg shook his head and pushed all such distractions from his mind. Out here, close to the rift, kin could appear at any moment. Any of therger monsters would be more than capable of slicing his zombies apart in seconds, and then doing the same to him. He had to be cautious at all times.


    One more time, he looked over the zombies to ensure they were in fighting shape, then ordered them forward. Shambling, poorly bnced and still emitting those ufortable groaning noises, the zombies were far from the ideal travellingpanions.


    Also, they stank, but Georg was more than used to working with a poor smell filling his nostrils. It didn¡¯t bother him at all, but both Briss and Richard hadined and insisted his poor zombies be kept far from their homes.


    Which he felt was a bit riching from people who were up to their elbows in human remains every other day. Did they really think they didn¡¯t smell?


    Senses alive to the slightest sound or hint of movement in the woods around him, Georg continued his hunt. He was on a wide sweep around the perimeter of the brokennds, and there were many teams between him and the rift itself. It would be unlikely for anything toorge to get through, but there was always a chance.


    It was far more likely for small critters like the one he¡¯d found before to get this far out. They were perfect for young yers like himself to practise their Skills on.


    It wouldn¡¯t be long until he was ready to fight something bigger. Georg was ambitious. With every level, he grew stronger, his control improved and his reservoir of magick increased. With more minions, he would be able to fight more often, increasing the speed at which he gained levels. The cycle would feed into itself, and it wouldn¡¯t be long until he reached the level twenty threshold and became a bronze ranked yer.


    But that would only be the beginning. For him, for Richard and for Briss, they would rocket up in power so much faster than most sses could ever hope to achieve.


    He could only imagine just what his teacher, Tyron Sterm was now capable of¡­.

 Chapter B4C39 - The Grand Design

    Chapter B4C39 - The Grand Design


    Lady Recillia Erryn sat, hands folded in herp, her posture unthreatening and cooperative, yet the look in her eyes revealed fire and ambition raging out of control within. The very picture of what a Noble should be, a child of The Five Divines and ruler of thends.


    She would never win any beauty contests, and had lost the allure of youth some time ago, yet that wasn¡¯t what waspelling about her. Dressed simply, almost inly, in a green dress with littlece or decoration, and only a few, well chosen pieces of jewellery that matched her striking ice-blue eyes, she still managed tomand attention with the force of her personality and her almost palpable iron will.


    The Duke regretted that she had nevere into his eye before. cing someone with her ability and ambition in charge of the Magisters had been a mistake. Such a position was usually a dead end appointment, something thrown to one of the houses as a sop that nobody truly cared about. Yet in this current emergency, the position had risen precipitously to a station of incredible value and power.


    Now this woman with eyes like a dragon sat in his council chamber, and he depended on her to survive this crisis. He wasn¡¯t happy about it.


    ¡°Is there anything else the Magisters can do to influence the rogue yers?¡± Duke Raugrave demanded. ¡°We curse each and every one of them, the expense of which is astronomical, mind you, yet you tell me you¡¯ve done all that you can?¡±


    The most senior Magister in the province stroked his beard nervously. Grand Magister Tommat Baln had never wished to live in such important times, and he was keenly aware of the fact he was failing to live up to them.


    ¡°It is difficult for us to determine which yers are responsible for the deaths of our brothers,¡± he said nervously.


    ¡°So activate all of them,¡± the Duke demanded impatiently. Lady Recillia nodded to show her agreement.


    The Grand Magister nched, almost yanking the beard from his chin as he was in the process of stroking it to calm himself.¡°Every yer in the province?¡± he gasped.


    ¡°Of course not, don¡¯t be daft, man,¡± the Duke dered impatiently. ¡°All of those who were recorded as present in the yer Keeps where Magisters died.¡±


    ¡°Well, their curses would have activated automatically, your grace,¡± the old mage said haltingly. ¡°The moment they enacted violence against a Magister, they would have been in excruciating pain. In some cases, it can be fatal. It¡¯s possible many of the perpetrators are already dead.¡±


    The Duke absorbed this in silence, staring daggers at the Grand Master sitting opposite him. In this moment of unparalleled danger, with the Emperor staring down at him, <em>this</em> was the most senior Magister in the province?


    ¡°Tell him what would have happened if the yers had reached gold rank before they killed the Magisters, Tommat,¡± Lady Erryn spoke up, her voice as cold and calcting as her gaze.


    The Grand Magister swallowed, and the Duke braced himself for further bad news.


    ¡°If¡­ if the yers increased their rank unofficially, then the curse would have a significantly weaker effect on them. As you know¡­ the brand needs to be reinforced every time they rank up.¡±


    ¡°What are the odds they <em>didn¡¯t</em> increase their rank to gold before they killed your brothers, Grand Magister Tommat?¡± the Duke asked, his patience hanging by a thread.


    ¡°I would say¡­ they are¡­ low.¡±


    ¡°Then why in the name of The Five are you wasting my time suggesting the culprits are dead?¡± the Duke demanded, ring across the table as if he wanted to throttle the old man using his own long beard. ¡°They <em>aren¡¯t</em> dead, they are unsanctioned golds, unaffected by the curse, and you are helpless to stop them! They¡¯ve had weeks. Weeks! To raise others into footsoldiers who¡¯ve never been touched by the brand at all! Weeks while monopolising the rifts!¡±


    ¡°The Magisters have beenx in their duties, blind in their watch over their charges and ipetent beyond belief, your grace,¡± Lady Recillia stated evenly and without emotion.


    Every usation caused Tommat to twitch in his seat, though there was nothing he could say to refute the ims.


    ¡°However dull a tool they have proven themselves to be, they are the tool we have avable, and thus we must put them to use,¡± she continued.


    ¡°Doing what?¡± the Duke rumbled. ¡°We already know they¡¯ll be less than fully effective against the rebels. What use are they?¡±


    ¡°They are not as useful against the rebels, though the brands <em>will</em> still have a serious effect, but there are many, many yers in this province who are <em>not</em> yet rebels.¡±


    That was true. ording to the report in front of him, only those keeps furthest from Kenmor had erupted into open revolt. The ones closest to the capital were still operating as normal, though signs of tension were reported everywhere.


    Signs that had gonepletely unnoticed by the Tower, apparently.


    ¡°What are you proposing, Lady Erryn?¡± the Duke said, his tone t. ¡°You are the one who has been responsible for the Magisters during this period of, as you say, catastrophic failure. So I suggest you make your suggestion a good one.¡±


    This threat was only partially real, and they both knew it. As the liaison, Lady Recillia Erryn <em>was</em> responsible for the Magisters, but the Nobles would alwaysy the me at the feet of the mages. No matter how hard he tried to pin the me on her, she would be able to wriggle out by directing the ire toward Grand Magister Tommat and his Council. Doubtless her uncle, Lord and head of the house of Erryn, would assist.


    ¡°Of course, I bear some responsibility for what has urred during my tenure,¡± Recillia said, then continued. ¡°However, I believe it will be trivial to show the rot set in long before I arrived at the Tower.¡±


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    Doubtless she had already gathered a wealth of evidence in order to secure her escape route against exactly these usations.


    ¡°It¡¯s necessary that we look with rity at what is going to transpire in the Western Province of the Empire. yers will fight against us, gold ranked yers. Marshals and Priests are going to be of limited use in a fight like that.¡±


    This was self-evident. Marshals were excellent at sniffing out the guilty and suppressing civilians. They had abilities that allowed them to take away the strengths of their opponents and counter attempts to avoid them. When fighting criminals and thugs, they performed extremely well, and that was what they were trained to do.


    Against yers, who fought against the beasts of the rifts? The Marshals would be little better than bags of Levels that their opponents would puncture with ease.


    ¡°Against the yers, it would be foolish to send anyone other than the professional soldiers of the houses. Getting them to work together will be a challenge that I don¡¯t envy, your grace.¡±


    The Duke permitted himself a small smile.


    ¡°You don¡¯t believe the threat of ¡®support¡¯ from the Emperor is enough to sway them into genuine support?¡±


    Recillia Erryn raised a brow and remained silent, which said everything that needed to be said.


    ¡°So you have another idea for securing an advantage against the yers? What is it?¡±


    The Noble Lady of house Erryn reached out with one hand and ced it on the shoulder of the Grand Magister sitting next to her. For his part, Tommat looked as though he had hoped the two had forgotten he was present.


    ¡°As I said, the Magisters are a wed tool, but they still have a use. We¡¯ve used them for generations to keep the yers in line and ensure they didn¡¯t rise against us. The brand is an effective method of control, this has been proven time and time again. I suggest we allow the Tower to perform its function to our benefit in this fight.¡±


    She smiled thinly, but there was no joy in her eyes, only the all-consuming fire of ambition.


    ¡°Who better to fight against gold ranked yers, than gold ranked yers? We have a ready supply of them here in the capital, after all.¡±


    Even the Duke was taken aback by this suggestion. Grand Magister Tommat didn¡¯t look surprised, so she must have spoken to him in advance, but he looked physically ill. Clearly, the man wasn¡¯t enthused by this n.


    ¡°You want to use the brand to force yers to fight against their own? What if they refuse?¡±


    ¡°Then we have sessfully identified rogue elements living right in the shadow of the Castle. They would be killed, of course, as is only right.¡±


    ¡°Are they likely to refuse?¡±


    Recillia allowed herself a slight smirk.


    ¡°I have tested this theory before bringing the idea before you, your grace. Be assured, the brand proved to be most persuasive in oveing any objections.¡±


    So she had already tortured a gold. Technically, the yers residing in the capital were privileged citizens, under the protection of the Duke himself. However, these were desperate times.


    He looked toward Tommat.


    ¡°Can you confirm this?¡± he asked.


    Almost against his will, the mage nodded.


    ¡°By supplying a specific magickal signature, we can activate the brand if we are close to the individual. It took¡­ a day, before the¡­ subject agreed to our terms. It is a draining and difficult process for the Magisters, requiring a great deal of power, so it would be necessary to pull my mages from¡­ other duties.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t you do it anywhere?¡± the Duke asked.


    ¡°For gold rank and above, yes, but that is a different process that requires the sympathetic arrays in the Tower, and a great deal more energy.¡±


    Talking about his craft, the Grand Magister was much morefortable, but any confidence he gained quickly leaked out of him the moment he finished speaking.


    The Duke considered for a moment.


    ¡°What about Magnin and Beory?¡± he asked.


    At the mention of the two legendary yers, both Grand Magister Tommat and Recillia Erryn stiffened in their seats. That had been a trial for everyone involved, and not something they wished to relive.


    Lady Erryn nodded to the Magister, indicating he should be the one to field this question, and the old man swallowed, clearly unhappy with the situation.


    ¡°They were¡­ exceptional individuals who put a great deal of time and effort into circumventing the brand. Despite our efforts to strengthen the curse on them, they proved to be more resistant than we anticipated. I¡­ I don¡¯t believe anyone else in the province could hope to do as they did.¡±


    Duke Raugrave grunted. He certainly hoped not. A rotating line of Magisters had been required to pour every drop of magick in their bodies into the curse for weeks before the two heretics had made any move at all. If the golds were capable of a fraction of that kind of resistance, this process would be impossible to manage.


    ¡°We¡¯ve already sent gold yers out of the city to reinforce the nearby keeps. Isn¡¯t that right?¡±


    Lady Erryn answered this time.


    ¡°That is true, but only two dozen or so individuals have epted our offer at this stage. Many remain in the capital that we can work on.¡±


    ¡°And you really believe you can torture them into obedience? Keep them loyal? I worry that they¡¯ll turn and run the first chance they get. Any yer you use this way will never be peaceful again.¡±


    ¡°That may be true, but their role in the province is fairly limited right now, and they won¡¯t be much missed. There are other yers who will be more than happy to provide the children we need. If the golds we choose need to be silenced when all is said and done, isn¡¯t that a small price to pay, considering what is on the line?¡±


    What was on the line was the Duke¡¯s own head. He would pay much more than that to secure it.


    ¡°In terms of securing obedience, I believe judicious use of the brand will be required. When they have been well and truly broken to the leash, only then can we risk allowing them into the field.¡±


    A brutal, inhumane strategy, but it would put to use two resources that were otherwise useless to the Duke. If the houses held back and didn¡¯t provide enough soldiers, then he <em>had</em> to find something else to use in the fight, something capable of defeating battle-hardened yers.


    The Magisters had been nothing but a disappointment, and after the rebellion was shut down, the Tower would be culled down to the bone before being built back up. Every ounce of rot would have to be excised, and he had no doubt Recillia Erryn would dly wield the knife.


    Gold rank yers served no purpose other than to soak up the Duke¡¯s money and bear the children who would rece them in the rifts. The children of yers were far more likely to Awaken abat ss, after all. Even now, with the Western Province on the brink of copse, all they did was drink and rut like dogs.


    His upper lip curled.


    ¡°You have my permission to pursue this,¡± he said, pushing himself up and ring at the two across the table. Grand Magister Tommat shrank back from his eyes, but Recillia Erryn met them coolly. She was built of sterner stuff. One to watch in the future, certainly. Perhaps she even saw herself as Lady Recillia Kenmor one day, stepping into the role over Raugrave¡¯s dead body.


    For now, he would have to rely on her. She could be quietly disposed ofter. An opportunity woulde. One always did.


    ¡°How many will you allow us to take?¡± she asked, rising also.


    Noticing the mage hadn¡¯t moved, she nudged him in the side, and the old man started like he¡¯d been hit with an arrow before leaping awkwardly to his feet.


    ¡°As many as you wish,¡± the Duke said, waving a hand. ¡°But bear in mind, if anything goes wrong with this scheme, it <em>will </em>be you who bears the me.¡±


    ¡°Of course, your grace,¡± the Lady bowed at the waist. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have it any other way.¡±

 Chapter B4C40 - Commune

    Chapter B4C40 - Commune


    ¡°Tyron,d,¡± Magnin said, shaking his head while his mother, sat nearby atop the stone fence, shook with silentughter. ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    Flushed with equal parts embarrassment and anger, Tyron waved his sword through the air.


    ¡°I¡¯m doing the exercise you showed me. What does it look like I¡¯m doing?¡±


    They hadn¡¯t been out long, but already his shoulders ached and sweat ran down his brow. How his father was able to do this for hours and hours at a time, he couldn¡¯t imagine.


    In truth, he hated it. But when his father was home, he would always agree to practise the sword as much as he was asked. After all, it wouldn¡¯t be long until Magnin and Beory were gone again. They couldn¡¯t stay longer than a month at a time if they tried. And they <em>had</em> tried.


    ¡°The exercise I showed you is a precise set of movements that require grace, bnce and power to achieve. What you just did was stab and sh the air like it owed you money. Look, here, watch me.¡±


    No matter how upset he was, he would always turn, immediately, whenever either of his parents spoke those words.


    Watch me.


    He knew that he would be about to watch something incredible. Something very few were ever lucky enough to see.Magnin drew his de in one smooth motion, gripped it tight in both hands, and assumed the first stance. Side-on, the hilt held up toward his back shoulder, the de perfectly horizontal, unwavering.


    With unspeakable grace, Magnin stepped, pivoted and swung, the sword shing in the light as it described a perfect, glimmering arc, the swing seeming to hang in the air long after the edge had passed, as if the space itself had been cut. Another wless pivot, another fast cut, another trail of glittering light.


    Tyron watched, mesmerised. In his ten years of life, perhaps his favourite thing was watching Magnin swing his sword. He loved his mother¡¯s magick, but that made sense to him in a way his father¡¯s sword just didn¡¯t. The way he moved, the way he cut, made his father seem like a different type of being, as if something truly wondrous was taking ce.


    His father went through the movements of the drill with azy smile on his face, as if this level of skill and precision was nothing to him. It probably was.


    When he was done, he sheathed his sword easily and smiled down at his son.


    ¡°<em>That</em> is what I want you to do.¡±


    Hands on his hips, he watched Tyron expectantly. The young boy looked down at his own sword, far too well made for his purposes, perfectly bnced, forged by masters of their craft in the yer Keeps. He picked it up in his hands, then looked at his father.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever be able to do that in my entire life.¡±


    Magnin¡¯s grin slipped and Beory burst outughing, doubling over on her perch atop the fence.


    ¡°Now, now,d. Don¡¯t say that. Little bit of practice is all it takes. A few lessons with your old man and you¡¯ll have it in no time.¡±


    Tyron furrowed his brow, looked down at the sword, then up at his father again.


    ¡°No,¡± he said slowly, ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    It just didn¡¯t seem possible. He couldn¡¯t move that way, had no idea how to begin. Even if he watched his father do it a hundred times, which he would happily do, he was confident it would make no more sense to him than it did in this moment. Thinking logically, anyone should be able to move a certain way, swing the sword, then go into the next motion. Yet, it just wasn¡¯t possible to do it like Magnin. He knew it as well as he knew his own name.


    Magick though, magick was easy.


    ¡°Come on, child,¡± Beory called, hopping down to the ground with a small grin. ¡°Let¡¯s leave this buffoon to swing his club and go work on something <em>serious</em>.¡±


    ¡°Club?!¡± Magnin roared, pretending outrage. ¡°How dare you, woman?¡±


    He turned to Tyron.


    ¡°I am going to chase your mother around the vige for an hour. Magick lessons are postponed untilter in the afternoon.¡±


    It was hard not to smile as, with a mighty bellow, Magnin charged, sword in hand, after Beory while she giggled and flitted away, carried by the wind like a fairy.


    What could he do other than shrug, collect his sword, and head back to the empty house and wait for his parents toe home. That¡¯s what he always did.


    ~~~


    Tyron woke with a start, snapping alert in bed. For one terrifying moment, he wasn¡¯t sure where he was, wasn¡¯t sure <em>who</em> he was. The dream had been so vivid, he felt that, if he stretched out his hand, he could still reach his father, still call him with his voice.


    Then the moment was gone, and reality snapped into ce around him. Tyron drew in a shuddering breath as he felt the cold truths reassert themselves.


    His father was dead. His mother was dead.


    The people responsible still lived.


    And just like that, the anger came roaring back. No, not anger, all-epassing <em>rage</em>. It burned so hot in his chest, he struggled to breathe, struggled to think. A congration so all-consuming it would ignite his flesh and turn his very bones to ash.


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    The sight of his father, dagger in his heart, looking so fondly at the corpse of his mother seared itself into his retinae anew.


    When the anger finally passed, Tyron was left drenched in sweat and trembling. He felt there was a hollow void in his chest where his heart had been, as if his emotions had been burned out of him.


    Slowly, he drew a deep breath, then another. Gradually, his shaking stopped, and the sweat on his body dried. He raised a hand to push the hair out of his eyes and felt a sh of pain in his head. He needed water, most likely. When was thest time he¡¯d drunk anything?


    That dream had felt so real. A memory he hadn¡¯t recalled for a long time. Magnin had been so desperate to teach Tyron the sword by the end, hoping his son would take <em>some</em> interest in the de. Eventually he¡¯d managed to earn the Swordsmanship Skill, and his father had acted as if he¡¯d won a prestigious tournament.


    They¡¯d feasted at Uncle Worthy¡¯s Inn, his father¡¯s face was filled with pride and he¡¯d boasted endlessly of ¡®his son''s incredible talent¡¯.


    Perhaps the memory should have brought a smile to his face, but instead, he only felt cold. The taste of that feast had turned to ashes in his mouth, and all that was left was the relentless drive to bring down those responsible for creating this world, this worthless ce that didn¡¯t have Magnin and Beory in it.


    When he felt like himself once more, Tyron stepped out of bed and began to prepare himself for the day. He ate a simple meal and drank his fill of water from the jug in his room before he washed himself. After scrubbing himself from head to toe, he dressed infortable clothing with a well-made robe over the top.


    It would be some time before he slept again, so he was determined to take care of himself while he could.


    When he descended the stairs, he found Flynn and Cerry also readying themselves for the day. The sun was barely creeping above the horizon, so it was safe for them to be out together, and the two often made the most of this time.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± Tyron called as he reached the ground floor.


    Both jumped in their seats before rxing once more.


    ¡°Sorry, Master Alms¨CSterm. You scared the life out of me,¡± Flynn said, cing a hand on his chest to ease his hammering heart.


    Cerry smiled, but her eyes were always clouded when they looked at him now. Gone was the innocent, trusting young woman he¡¯d known prior to her Awakening. She was much like himself, in that way. The Tyron who had existed before that moment was not the same person as the one who went on afterward. They had different dreams, different expectations, different futures. They didn¡¯t think the same way, didn¡¯t value the same things.


    It was like a small death, followed by a minor rebirth. Cerry too, was no longer the person she had been before. Yet, at least in her case, she was able to bring something with her into this new life.


    ¡°When are you two nning on getting married?¡± Tyron asked bluntly as he made his way over the counter.


    The safe was still ensconced in its ce, and he knelt to draw the pattern which would open the door. Behind him, Cerry and Flynn choked on their breakfast before stuttering out half-responses and protestations.


    ¡°I suppose it would be difficult right now,¡± Tyron mused as he fiddled with the safe. What was the symbol again? Ah, yes. With a soft snap, the lock opened and he pulled on the metal door, retrieving a few coins before he snapped it shut again. It was always sensible to carry a reserve of currency as he went about his business; this much should be more than enough for a week or two.


    He turned around to see Cerry and Flynn sitting red-faced at the table.


    ¡°What happened to you two?¡± he asked, frowning. ¡°It¡¯s a bitte to start thinking about marriage <em>now</em>. Surely it¡¯se up before.¡±


    ¡°Of course it has!¡± Cerry burst out, her face going an even deeper crimson. ¡°But things aren¡¯t safe right now. How would we even get married, I can¡¯t show my face in public.¡± By the time she finished her outburst, her voice had faded to almost nothing, and Flynn reached across the table to sp her hand.


    ¡°Just get a Priest of the Three to do it. I can bring one here if you want,¡± Tyron suggested with a shrug.


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be proper,¡± Flynn said, then blinked as he realised the hypocrisy of the statement. ¡°I mean¡­¡± he ploughed on doggedly, ¡°... I mean it would be better to wait until Cerry¡¯s family can attend. I don¡¯t want her to have a secret wedding, as if she had something to be ashamed of.¡±


    It was a good sentiment, and honourable, in its way. Tyron would have let it go, but his mind went back to the dream he¡¯d had the night before.


    ¡°This may sound odding from me, but don¡¯t take time for granted. You¡¯re right, things are dangerous right now. Uncertain. Either of you could die tomorrow, and the chance to wed will be gone forever. I know¡­ it isn¡¯t exactly a cheery thought, but you shouldn¡¯t assume you will have a chanceter.¡±


    The young couple turned their gaze toward him, Flynn looking thoughtful, Cerry sad.


    ¡°I¡¯m off to work. You know where to find me if you need me.¡±


    He gave them a perfunctory nod before he went into the back room and opened the underground stair. Soon enough, the interaction with the two young folk had left his thoughts entirely. His world shrank down to the lists, the experiments, the sheets of paper with half-formed thoughts and partly-constructed spellforms.


    It wouldn¡¯t be long now. He just had to keep pushing, keep pushing, keep pushing. More remains awaited his attention. His constructs needed work. Repairs on existing minions were long overdue. Bones to process. Enchanting work for the gold yers had to be finished. New methods brought to his attention by the Corpse Moulders needed to be tested. An endless amount of Bone Forging needed to be done, swords, shields, arrows, to supply his growing horde.


    A whirlwind of activity surrounded Tyron, hundreds of moving pieces tugging him in a thousand different directions, yet he sat in the middle of it all, ice-cold and focused. With precision, he moved from one task to the next, powering through more spellwork than seemed possible. Minions were raised. Bones were moulded and formed. Experiments conducted, results marked, and tests reset. Arrays were examined, evaluated, modified or discarded. Constructs continued to take shape, piece by piece. Tyron worked relentlessly, long past the point where exhaustion had set in, long past the point his head pounded and his throat was raw and dry.


    If he paused, even for a second, the dream would bubble up in his thoughts, and the pain woulde with it, so he didn¡¯t allow it to happen. He worked and worked until his eyes burned red and his vision swam, until his hands ached and his stomach howled.


    How long had he been at it this time? It was hard to tell.


    Surely it hadn¡¯t been a week already. It couldn¡¯t have been, he had orders due¡­ someone would have told him.


    When he reached this point, it was time to give up, he knew that. Pushing beyond this point wouldn¡¯t be productive. He let the pliance drop from his trembling hands to the table and raised his filthy hands to rub at his eyes. Even blinking hurt.


    The walk up the steps had never seemed so long, or so difficult. When he reached the ground floor and hid the entrance to the study, he staggered around in the dark until he stood at the base of the second flight of stairs, and almost gave up on the spot.


    Somehow, he forced his way up, head already drifting in a haze of half-sleep. Though he wouldn¡¯t remember when he woke, he took the time to wash himself, eat and drink. Someone had replenished the water in his chamber andid out a tter of preserved food. Cerry¡­ probably.


    When he was done, and couldn¡¯t stand any longer, Tyron fell face first into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, hisst thought still ringing in his head.


    <em>Please,</em> he begged, <em>please don¡¯t let me dream.</em>

 Chapter B4C41 - Dark Roads

    Chapter B4C41 - Dark Roads


    This wasn¡¯t the sort of assignment Leon had anticipated when his Commander at House Greyling had called him in. As was his habit after years of hard training, he scanned the surrounds, using his enhanced senses to search for any sign of danger, but found none. He hadn¡¯t expected any, not this close to the capital, but he was a professional Soldier, a warrior of the Noble Houses, and he would do his job.


    Not that he could trust the rest of the group to do the same. The Priests muttered amongst themselves, making unnecessary noise, while the Magisters¡¯ sour expressions and disinterest were in to see even in the dim twilight.


    At least the Marshals were on the job, clear-eyed and alert, but Leon trusted them in a fight as far as he could throw them. Weak. All of them were weak. He¡¯d trade the lot of them for another Soldier from his brigade.


    ¡°Is there a problem, Ser Leon?¡± a voice enquired, and he turned to his right to find Marshal Grady watching from a few metres away.


    ¡°Not at all, Marshal,¡± Leon replied, his voice low so as not to carry, ¡°I was merely considering how we might be best deployed to handle an emergency, should one arise.¡±


    Grady nodded in such a way that led the Soldier to believe he knew exactly what he¡¯d <em>really </em>been thinking.


    ¡°We aren¡¯t on par with what you might be used to, but I, at least, am truly grateful to have someone of your calibre along, Ser Leon,¡± the old Marshal said, knuckling at his thick grey moustache. ¡°We¡¯ve been heading out on these patrols for over a month now, and it''s reassuring to have someone of your particr skill set along.¡±


    Someone trained to fight and kill people, is what he meant.


    Hearing someone say it made Leon feel a little better about his assignment. He might not be happy to be here, but at least others were d of his presence, which meant it wasn¡¯t aplete waste of his time.¡°Whose responsibility is it to tell those Priests to shut up?¡± he asked.


    Grady blinked before he hid a slight smile behind his hand.


    ¡°Yours if you want it, Ser,¡± came the reply.


    Leon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hierarchy. What a pain in the backside. Of course ranks existed amongst the Soldiery, but they were <em>earned</em>, and every foot soldier knew he could trust the people in charge not to fuck up. Naturally, a Marshal couldn¡¯t give orders to an ordained Priest, but Leon sure as hell could.


    He gave Grady a quick nod and got a salute in return, before walking back to the gaggle of robed figures engaged in an aggressive whispered argument in the middle of the North Road.


    ¡°Begging your pardon,¡± Leon cut into their conversation cleanly, stepping right into their midst, ¡°I need all of you to shut the fuck up.¡±


    Outrage shed across the faces of several of the Priests and Priestesses, consternation and irritation at being interrupted by others, but when they looked to see who had spoken, their protests died in their mouths. He was a Soldier; he answered to House Greyling, the Duke, and nobody else.


    ¡°We are trying to move quietly down this road tonight, and if some heretics are trying to sneak up and cut our throats, I would like to be able to hear it. Does that sound reasonable to any of you?¡±


    If his words were not enough to impress upon them his desires, then his re said what his mouth hadn¡¯t.


    <em>Be quiet, or I will make you be quiet.</em>


    ¡°Of course, Ser Leon, we will refrain from speaking as we move down the road,¡± one of the robed figures, Father Astin, by the sound of his voice, spoke up before anyone else could.


    A smart one, Father Astin. While Ser Leon did not technically outrank anyone on this patrol, being a mere footsoldier in the service of Greyling, he also wasn¡¯t required to answer to anyone here. If he decided to enforcepliance by beating everyone senseless, they could certainlyin, but couldn¡¯t punish him.


    It was good to establish this in their minds early. He and his fellow Soldiers had been assigned to protect these patrols as they went about their duties, and he¡¯d be damned if he wouldn¡¯t do his job to the best of his abilities. That meant keeping these idiots alive, even if they were doing their best to sabotage that effort.


    Satisfied that there was now sufficient quiet, Leon returned to the head of the patrol and began to lead them once more. urichard Road, named after a famed general of House Baln, or moremonly as North Road, was unusually quiet, even for thiste time in the day. It connected the capital to Northwatch, thergest city in the region, and to the yer Keeps, ckrift and Undermist, beyond it. This patrol was headed to Broadmeadows, a middling town just below the massive Fallwood Forest. It would take many hours of walking, but they should arrive close to dawn, ready to begin their investigations.


    The Priests had been whining about not being provided a carriage for the journey, as they seemed to consider walking beneath their station. However, they had <em>also</em> been charged with questioning individuals they met on the road, which was difficult to do from a speeding conveyance.


    Without that constant noise in his ears, the Soldier was now better able to use his superior senses. For now, he heard very little, which was good. Regardless, he didn¡¯t allow himself to rx; he drew his de and kept it out, held loosely in his hand as he walked. The enchantments bound into the weapon would protect it from the cold and damp, and he wanted to be ready if anything happened.


    Conditions were cold and miserable, but after his earlier warning, there were noints. Considering everyone along for this patrol was at least bronze-ranked, they should be resistant to the temperature and fatigue anyway.


    Two hours away from the city, and night had truly fallen. There was no traffic at all now, reduced from the mere trickle they¡¯d seen at dusk. Leon remained at alert, though the same couldn¡¯t be said for the others. At least they were quiet.


    Suddenly, Leon¡¯s ears pricked, and he held up a hand, bringing the patrol to a halt.


    ¡°What is it now?¡± a Priestess groaned, but the Soldier ignored her.


    He could have sworn he¡¯d heard a footfall off the road, somewhere to their right, but it had been light, <em>very </em>light. They¡¯d moved beyond the well-fenced and organised farmholds that lined the road closer to the city, and now trees and bushes pushed right up to the edge of the cobbles in ces. Much better for an ambush.


    ¡°Light,¡± he barked, tense as he continued to sweep his eyes around their surroundings.


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    His vision was vastly superior to most in the dark, but that didn¡¯t mean it wasn¡¯t better in the light.


    After some grumbling, a sphere appeared over the heads of the patrol, casting back the darkness around them. Leon frowned, still listening.


    ¡°Brighter,¡± he barked, ¡°get some globes around us. Hurry up!¡±


    Perhaps warned by his tone, the two Magisters with the patrol rushed to throw up more globes, lighting up their surroundings for dozens of metres in every direction.


    There was nothing there.


    For several tense moments, they stood in silence. Leon slowly unlimbered the shield from his back and slipped his left arm through the loops before he tightened them. Just as he finished, another sound caught his ear, and he shed around to face further down the road. Footsteps, but different. These were normal.


    ¡°Ho, the light,¡± a voice called from the darkness.


    Some of the patrol rxed at the voice, but Leon did not.


    ¡°Approach so we can see you, then state your purpose, traveller,¡± he ordered, his tone unyielding.


    Momentster a cloaked figure stepped into the edges of the light, both hands held up to show empty palms.


    ¡°Hello¡­ Marshals? And Priests¡­ and Magisters? Oh shit.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re a patrol under official business. Answer our questions and you¡¯ll have no problem.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± the figure replied. Moving slowly, he pulled back his hood to reveal a young man with dark hair, and deep, fierce eyes.


    ¡°Are you well, traveller?¡± Leon enquired.


    Thest thing he wanted was some pox to start spreading. The young man was pale, and thin, but didn¡¯t look sick, per se. Better to be careful.


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m fine,¡± came the reply. ¡°Just weary. I¡¯ve been on the road for days, heading to the capital from Undermist.¡±


    The traveller took a few steps closer, but stopped when Leon raised his weapon.


    ¡°That¡¯s close enough. Give me your name.¡±


    ¡°My name? Well, let me think for a moment,¡± the traveller replied with a weak, lopsided smile. Leon wasn¡¯t impressed, and the young man raised his hands again. ¡°Just a little joke. I must be more tired than I thought. My name is Tyron. Tyron Sterm.¡±


    It only took Leon a second to process the name before he was charging, a blur in the light. A voice called behind him: ¡°Magick! He¡¯s¨C¡±


    But it was already toote. With that same lopsided little smile, the figure''s hands shed with impossible speed, and then a word was spoken.


    Leon felt that word in his gut, as reality itself seemed to vibrate with the impact. Darkness bloomed, boiling outward from the figure, but not before the Soldier reached his target. With cold precision born from thousands of hours of training, he thrust his sword forward, the de gleaming with energy.


    There was no change in the traveller¡¯s expression, in Tyron¡¯s expression¡ªif anything, he seemed faintly amused.


    A slight sound was the only warning Leon had. The moment it reached his ears, he acted on instinct, spinning his body and bringing around his shield to cover his head and chest.


    The impact was heavy, heavy enough to throw him off bnce and send him rolling in the dirt. He righted himself in an instant, back to his feet and running to rejoin the patrol.


    ¡°Father Astin! Talk to me,¡± Leon barked.


    He couldn¡¯t see a damned thing. The darkness was pervasive, filling his ears and muffling sound.The globes of light were still there, hovering overhead, but they were muted, barely illuminating at all.


    ¡°It¡¯s a magickal cloud of some kind,¡± the Priest replied, a note of panic in his voice. ¡°It will take us a moment to cleanse it.¡±


    ¡°We need a barrier,¡± Leon ordered.


    ¡°Why?¡± one of the Magisters replied, shaken.


    ¡°Because there are fucking archers out there,¡± Leon roared, ¡°why the <em>fuck</em> are you asking me why?! Do it, <em>now</em>!¡±


    The two mages nched and began to cast immediately.


    It was toote. He heard the sound again, not quite the familiar twang of bowstrings, but simr enough that he knew what it was. With a kick of one foot, Leon became a blur, shing through the air toe before the mages, shield raised.


    He was braced this time, and the impacts weren¡¯t enough to make him budge. Spooked by their brush with death, the mages continued to cast, wild-eyed as they stared out into the darkness.


    It took them five seconds to erect the barrier, and another ten seconds after that for the Priests to finally dispel the darkness.


    When they did, several cried out in fear at what they saw.


    The cloaked figure, Tyron Sterm, was still there, but there was now so much more.


    Undead, hundreds of them. des as ck as night were gripped in their skeletal hands, each one smoking with a dark energy. They were surrounded,pletely, yet Leon did not concede defeat. He wasn¡¯t going to be intimidated by skeletons, regardless how many there were.


    ¡°Surrender yourself,¡± Leon called. ¡°I can still make it painless.¡±


    There were no smiles from the traveller now, just a cold, dead stare.


    ¡°I can¡¯t make you the same offer,¡± he said. ¡°Fight, struggle and suffer. I need to know how well my servants will perform.¡±


    From the edge of the light, more figures emerged. d in ck armour, covered in ghost-like flesh, their purple eyes zed through the gaps in their helmets.


    ¡°Are you a Soldier?¡± the traveller enquired.


    ¡°Ser Leon,¡± he replied, ¡°of the House Greyling. That is who you make an enemy of today.¡±


    ¡°They became my enemy long ago,¡± the traveller waved a dismissive hand. ¡°Now. We may as well begin. Put up a good fight, I need the data.¡±


    No sooner had he finished speaking than his hands rose and began to sh through sigils once more, words of power mming into the air with the force of a hammer. This was no normal mage.


    The Marshals stepped forward, expressions grim, but the Priests and Magisters were white-faced and staring.


    ¡°Retaliate!¡± Leon roared. ¡°Cast or die!¡±


    He turned to the Marshals beside him.


    ¡°We charge the mage. If he goes down, the undead are useless. Can you bind his magick?¡±


    ¡°If we get close enough,¡± Grady replied from his left.


    ¡°I will get you there. Go!¡±


    No sooner had he started his charge than a sh of light speared out of the darkness towards him. Leon angled his shield, deflecting the projectile upward, but he felt the impact rattle his shoulder even so. Some sort of bone projectile? It hadn¡¯t sounded like metal on his shield.


    The Marshals were beside him, but the strange undead loomed ahead, weapons drawn. Spells were being exchanged behind him, and arrows continued to fly, spearing out of the darkness. Several were hit, but Leon pressed forward.


    His de was like a snake, twisting in the air as it shed and stabbed, seeking weakness in the armour as he bulldogged his way forward. This was what he was trained for, to get up close and personal, to dance in close quarters and use his short sword to best effect. With his shield, he battered away any de that drew near even as heshed out again and again, always pushing forward, no matter how the undead tried to press in around him. He roared with defiance, his voice tinged with his unyielding will, rallying his allies and driving back their fears.


    He twisted to the right, cut to the left, and then he was through. The Necromancer, for what else could he be, stood before him.


    His de shed through the air, but this time, it extended, a bar of gleaming light growing from the tip of the de. His sword bit into flesh, but in that exact moment, he felt an unstoppable force crash into his mind, halting all of his momentum.


    ¡°Impressive,¡± the Necromancer murmured. ¡°Silver rank, not bad at all.¡±


    He gestured, and Leon stepped back, against his own will. Another gesture, and he crashed to his knees on the cobbled road.


    ¡°What have you done?¡± Leon ground out.


    ¡°Preserved you,¡± the Necromancer stated, staring down at him with those cold, cold eyes. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want to risk any damage to those bones.¡±


    With every fibre of his being, Leon fought against the hold on his mind, trying to move, trying to take up his weapon and stab it through the eye socket of the man before him.


    ¡°Over my dead body will I serve the likes of you,¡± the Soldier spat.


    Tyron frowned and looked down at him.


    ¡°Of course. That¡¯s how it works.¡±

 Chapter B4C42 - Clash of Steel

    Chapter B4C42 - sh of Steel


    A ro¡¯w was, at its best, an ill-tempered brute of a semi-monstrous bird. It had a beak capable of cutting through steel mesh, ws that could shred a human''s flesh with casual ease, and tough,yered feathers that could stop an arrow. Combined with their surly attitude, they were a nightmare to train and keep. Workers in the rookeries were frequently injured, and it wasn¡¯t umon for there to be deaths, especially among the younger trainees.


    Yet, the beasts had many undeniable benefits. They were smart, <em>very </em>smart, and could be taught to deliver messages to several locations, making them extremely flexible. Due to their size and fearsome weapons, they were menaces to the predators of regr birds and would almost never be killed by hawks or falcons. Furthermore, they were fast and enduring. Once they reached maturity, a ro¡¯w could fly for a week without rest, and was fast enough to reach Kenmor from anywhere in the province in that time.


    Despite their usefulness, Rurin just wasn¡¯t a fan. They were noisy, bit everyone they could get their beaks on, and unleashed an unspeakable amount of foul-smelling shit. It smelled so acidic she swore it would melt through a sword given a little time. Alchemists went mad for the stuff, but they were just as useless in her eyes.


    ¡°All right, Meesha, I¡¯m here,¡± she announced, striding into the rookery. ¡°And why couldn¡¯t you just send it to me like usual?¡±


    ¡°Because,¡± the old woman''s voice echoed out from deeper in the rookery, ¡°all the runners decided to try and be yers, and because you asked me to send for you if a ck ringed message came in.¡±


    The acrid stink of the rookery was enough to wrinkle Rurin¡¯s nose just at the entrance, but she knew damn well Meesha wasn¡¯t going to meet her at the door. With a powerful sigh, she stepped further in, holding her breath.


    The Keeper of the Rookery was a wrinkled old woman who¡¯d worked there since before she was Awakened. She looked about two hundred years old and sounded like she breathed in smoke every day on waking. In short, she was as tough as leather boots and took less shit than Beory Sterm, despite being ankle deep in it.


    ¡°I¡¯ve entered your pce of bird crap, just as you wished. Can I have the message now?¡±


    Meesha reached out and went to drop the long, thin message-tube into her open palm, but pulled back at thest minute.¡°Have you idiots approved my request for more help yet?¡± she demanded querulously.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going to give it to me, are you,¡± Rurin stated, her eyes narrowed.


    ¡°Answer the damned question first.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t easy to keep something from a gold yer if they really wanted to grab it, and this proved to be the case now. In a blink of an eye, Rurin slipped around the Keeper and snatched the message.


    ¡°Like taking candy from a baby,¡± she grinned.


    Meesha graced her with a thunderous scowl.


    ¡°If you morons think you can run a rebellion out of this keep without a well functioning rookery, then you¡¯re even dumber than I thought you were, which would be the first impressive thing about you.¡±


    Rurin¡¯s smile slipped and she rubbed at the back of her head with the leather tube.


    ¡°Sorry, Meesha. Look, I know you¡¯re right, but we don¡¯t have enough people for anything right now, and working in the rookery isn¡¯t¡­ desirable?¡±


    ¡°What does <em>desirable</em> matter?¡± Meesha spat, pouring every ounce of scorn into the word it could possibly hold. ¡°It¡¯s <em>necessary</em>. Besides, I¡¯d take thepany of these prick birds over most people any day.¡±


    As if to take issue with her words, a nearby cage shook as the ro¡¯w inside decided to m against the bars, wing and shrieking like a mad thing.


    The Keeper just chuckled before she reached into a pocket in her filthy robe and withdrew a slice of dried meat, which she tossed into the cage. The bird inside dove on the treat like a starved beast, tearing the tough morsel to shreds in seconds.


    ¡°They get irritable when they¡¯re hungry,¡± Meesha stated, ¡°and irritable ro¡¯w cause a lot more problems than happy ones.¡±


    ¡°I take your point, Meesh. I¡¯ll make sure to get people in here to help, even if they end up rotating through.¡±


    ¡°Better than nothing,¡± the old woman snorted, then turned to look at Rurin more carefully. ¡°Are you still holding your breath?¡±


    The yer nodded.


    ¡°Weak as piss,¡± the Keeper snorted, turning away and heading deeper into the rookery.


    Finally freed, Rurin happily took herself away, breathing deep of the sweet, non-shit-filled air outside. Despite the relieving breath, she still felt the weight of responsibility press down on her shoulders. Another task that needed seeing to, another thing she needed to take care of.


    Only now that <em>she</em> was the person in charge did she finally realise how nice it was to have someone else to push all the responsibility onto.


    ¡°The things I do for you, Beory,¡± she muttered, looking up to the sky. ¡°Things you would have <em>never</em> done yourself.¡±


    Take responsibility? Beory, the war witch, had run from it at every opportunity. She and Magnin had been a perfect pair in that regard. It was what made them so impossiblypelling, how free they were, but also so endlessly infuriating.


    In her hand, the leather tube, with a solid ck line painted around one end, rested heavy. She needed to find Tim. Surprisingly, he was in his office working, which shocked her deeply. He looked up as she poked her head in the door and eyed him suspiciously.


    ¡°What?¡± he sighed.


    ¡°Are you doing your paperwork?¡± she demanded.


    ¡°Just because you don¡¯t see me do it doesn¡¯t mean it doesn¡¯t get done,¡± he said, his voice t. ¡°As a matter of fact, my work is usually done well in advance of yours, because I am <em>efficient</em>.¡±


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    ¡°And here I was thinking you were just cking off all the time.¡±


    ¡°Perish the thought. Now, can I ask what brings you to my office, dear leader?¡±


    ¡°Oh, no, do <em>not</em> call me that,¡± Rurin shuddered.


    ¡°Fine. Why are you here?¡±


    She held up the message tube, and a serious expression settled on the mage¡¯s features.


    ¡°Have you read it yet?¡±


    ¡°I was hoping we could share the moment.¡±


    ¡°Well, get to it.¡±


    Timothy leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if bracing himself. Rurin rolled her eyes and popped the cap off the end of the tube, sliding out the rolled paper within. Without any ceremony, she scanned over the page, rolled the paper up again, and fell into thought.


    ¡°Rurin¡­¡± Tim asked.


    ¡°Hmm?¡± she grunted, still thinking.


    ¡°You know you were supposed to read that out loud, right?¡±


    ¡°Mmhmm.¡±


    ¡°Why are you like this?¡±


    She threw the paper onto the table and the mage snatched it up, running his eyes over it quickly. There wasn¡¯t much there, only a few sentences, and he was through it in an instant.


    ¡°Is this source trustworthy?¡± he asked, frowning.


    Rurin looked up from her reverie, a hint of fire in her eyes.


    ¡°Never ask me that again,¡± she warned.


    Tim held up his hands.


    ¡°Alright, noted. So they¡¯ve reached Foxbridge.¡±


    ¡°They haven¡¯t just <em>reached</em> Foxbridge. We have people in that town. There¡¯s been <em>fighting</em> in Foxbridge.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    He knew. She could see that he knew. Even more obvious was the fact that he knew she knew that he knew. He was being a pain, as usual.


    ¡°It¡¯s the first direct conflict of the war,¡± she sighed, hands on her hips. ¡°Our people against thew. Against the Magisters.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a littlete to be reflecting on that now, don¡¯t you think?¡± Tim observed dryly.


    ¡°It just makes everything final,¡± she said, and shook her head. ¡°There¡¯s no going back now.¡¯


    ¡°There was never any going back,¡± Tim disagreed. ¡°The moment we advanced in secret, everything was set in motion. Our own deaths, and the deaths of every yer in Woodsedge.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t try and put too cheerful a spin on it,¡± sheughed, but didn¡¯t contradict him. ¡°I know you¡¯re right, but even so, this feels like it¡¯s changed something to me.¡±


    ¡°Well, if this was the first battle of the rebellion, at least we won,¡± Timothy noted, tapping the page with his hand.


    ¡°Of course we won,¡± Rurin scoffed. ¡°Do you have any idea who they were messing with in Foxbridge?¡±


    ¡°Obviously not,¡± Tim drawled, ¡°but they must be impressive to inspire such confidence.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s Worthy Sterm,¡± she grinned.


    Tim¡¯s eyes widened.


    ¡°Magnin¡¯s brother?¡±


    ¡°The very same.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t he only Silver?¡±


    ¡°Not anymore.¡±


    The mage whistled appreciatively.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not a small thing.¡±


    Worthy had been working with them for weeks. Suppliesing to Woodsedge always went through Foxbridge. The docks on the river handled almost all of the goods that travelled from the west to the capital, and everythinging the other way as well. It would have been impossible to keep the yer Keep running without someone helping to ess the market. Teams of people had been going to and from Foxbridge in a steady stream, and Worthy had helped to coordinate everything.


    However, that arrangement would likelye to an end now. The yers in town had been caught in a conflict with the patrol who¡¯d just arrived, and Worthy had involved himself to resolve it.


    ¡°It won¡¯t be long until Foxbridge is swarming with Priests, Magisters, Soldiers¡­ the works,¡± Rurin muttered.


    ¡°Which means our easy ess to supplies is gone,¡± Tim confirmed.


    Which meant they were reliant on locals and what they could secure for themselves.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have to abandon the keep soon anyway,¡± Rurin muttered. ¡°We should make sure we pile up all the supplies we can, tighten our belts. It¡¯ll be hard to get what we need once we¡¯re on the run.¡±


    ¡°We should notify the other rebel Keeps of this development,¡± Tim stated. ¡°Things are going to move fast now. We should arrange a ce to meet our allies once we abandon this ce and share whatever information we can.¡±


    Rurin nodded, then stiffened.


    ¡°Does this mean I have to go back to the rookery?¡±


    Timothy nodded solemnly.


    ¡°It means you have to go back to the rookery.¡±


    ~~~


    Tyron groaned as he staggered, not for the first time, and clutched at his side. He¡¯d bound the wound as best he could, but he wasn¡¯t capable of treating it with any level of skill. Also, he probably should have cleaned it before he¡¯de into the sewers.


    Blood and bone, that bastard had been <em>fast</em>. Who knew what abilities and Skill levels a Silver ranked footsoldier had, but that speed, strength, and strange sword Skill had been greater than Tyron had expected. His wights had beenpletely outmatched, but that was to be expected. They were still untested, in need of experience and levels.


    Without his armour, he likely would have been disembowelled. If he¡¯d been any slower with his spell, he might have lost his guts anyway.


    With his absurd Constitution, he was capable of absorbing inhuman amounts of punishment. Despite the deepness of the cut, it had already stopped bleeding, but he would need to have it stitched to ensure it healed properly.


    It was almost morning now, and the light was starting to creep through the grated drains overhead. His undead were already below ground, slipping through the water intake in the river to enter the sewer under the cover of darkness. Tyron himself had needed to find a different entrance, but he¡¯d been able to slip into Shadetown and find a sewer opening there.


    He kept walking forward. Once he got back to the store, he could patch himself up and rest after a sessful outing. One hand on the wall to help his bnce, Tyron extended the other hand in front of him, a globe of light bnced above his palm.


    Which is how he saw the vampire waiting for him.


    ¡°You¡¯re taking too many risks,¡± Valk growled.


    Tyron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Despite their power, the bloodsuckers were remarkably risk-averse.


    ¡°That¡¯s for me to decide,¡± he said.


    The vampire narrowed his eyes, a deep, burning hatred zing within. Tyron¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change, but he summoned his minions with a thought and prepared himself to cast at a moment''s notice.


    ¡°If exposure is guaranteed anyway, then killing you is no longer a risk,¡± Valk warned him. ¡°How many patrols did you hit?¡±


    ¡°Two,¡± Tyron answered honestly.


    Valk grunted.


    ¡°With any luck, you¡¯ll go out again and get yourself killed,¡± he inhaled deeply through his nose. ¡°Smells like you almost seeded this time.¡±


    ¡°What doesn¡¯t kill you makes you stronger,¡± Tyron shrugged. ¡°Now, if you aren¡¯t going to try and kill me, then I suggest you get the hell out of my way.¡±


    Valk red at him hatefully, his hands flexing into fists, before he stepped back and faded into the darkness, vanishing from the sewer, leaving Tyron to his thoughts.


    Doubtless, there would be a reaction to his outing; the roads near the capital would be swarming with troops. It would be a while before he was able to step out again, but he would have to. It was imperative that he give his wights opportunities to gain strength.


    Not to mention all the precious materials he¡¯d been able to gather¡­. No, he would have to go out again.

 Chapter B4C43 - Golden Glow

    Chapter B4C43 - Golden Glow


    ¡°Ah, that sweet, Undermist scent. Did you miss it as much as I did?¡± MacReilly asked.


    Feolin wanted to scowl and curse, but she was so pleased to see the Keep again she couldn¡¯t keep the smile off her face.


    ¡°I never thought I¡¯d be happy to see this ce,¡± she said. ¡°I mean, <em>really</em>, never.¡±


    ¡°I know what yeh mean,¡± MacReilly grinned. ¡°I was so happy to get away from this ce, I drank until I couldn¡¯t stand up.¡¯


    ¡°You drank like that every damn day.¡±


    ¡°Aye, but that was drinks ofmiseration. When we left, they were drinks of celebration! Very different.¡±


    Undermist Keep and the town that bore the same name were much the same as every Keep and settlement around the empire, walled bulwarks against the kin. They were designed to house, equip and stitch together the yers as they went about their duties. However, this rift, and this town, were a little different from the others, for one very specific reason.


    The two approached the Grave gate on the south side of the wall, so named for the cemetery they passed on their right. The two yers bowed at the waist toward the memorial, paying respect to the friends whose names had been carved into the gravestones within, even if their bodies did not lie in the soil beneath them.


    Security on the gate was tight, as was to be expected, given the current circumstances. No less than a dozen guards, with an attending Magister and Priest, upied the guard house, and every single one of them stepped out as Feolin and MacReilly approached.¡°Present your papers and prepare to be searched,¡± the ranking Marshal dered, holding up a hand to halt them on the spot.


    MacReilly rolled his eyes. He¡¯d never been good at dealing with the authorities, but that was fine. They¡¯d both agreed Feolin would be the one to handle these situations for the two of them.


    ¡°Hello, officers. I am Feolin Brightshield, and this is my associate, MacReilly.¡±


    The Marshal flicked his eyes to the yer with a slight frown.


    ¡°Is that it? No second name?¡±


    ¡°n name is all you get unless you want to be wed,¡± MacReilly drawled, waggling his thick eyebrows at the man.


    ¡°Northerner, then. You have identification on your papers?¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± the officer grunted, holding out his hand. ¡°I¡¯ll go through the documents while you report to Magister Deol over there for a status check.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    Feolin handed over her papers along with MacReilly¡¯s but waited rather than walking off at once. When the Marshal looked up to see what the dy was, she smiled ingratiatingly.


    ¡°I just wanted to check that you knew we wereing before we submit to the check, just so there aren''t any¡­ surprises.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± the officer asked warily.


    ¡°My associate and I havee from the capital, with special dispensation from the tower, toe and help here in the Keep. Have you been told of this?¡±


    The officer frowned for a moment, then his eyes widened in rm.


    ¡°Wait¡­ so you two?¡±


    The two yers nodded, being careful not to appear threatening, keeping their hands away from their weapons.


    ¡°Yes. The two of us are gold ranked. I just wanted to ensure there was no confusion on that front.¡±


    ¡°G-good decision.¡±


    The Marshal kept himself together, but he was clearly rattled at being in their presence. Not all of the guards were as controlled, with some staring at the two, fear written inly on their faces. Even the Magister looked uneasy at being in the presence of two golds, his hand wrapped white-knuckle tight around his stave.


    Feolin kept the smile stered to her face as if her life depended on it, desperate to appear unthreatening. Thest thing she wanted was for some idiot guard to panic and cause an incident which would get her and MacReilly sent back to the cage, never to escape.


    ¡°So, can we get that status check done now?¡± she said.


    ¡°Y-yes. Of course. Magister Deol?¡±


    Grimacing, the Magister stepped forward, tense as a coiled spring, eyes flicking from one to the other.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get to the guard post. N-no funny business. M-Move.¡±


    MacReilly sniggered at the¡­ admittedly pathetic attempt to soundmanding, but Feolin silenced him with a re. Ten of the guards apanied them back to the post, each one with their hands on their weapons, ready to fight at a moment''s notice.


    All very unnecessary, of course. The brand ced on golds was so much more potent than what the silvers put up with. Could Feolin kill these guards? Maybe, but the pain would incapacitate her for hours, if not kill her outright.


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    Offering no resistance and smiling gently the whole time, she didn¡¯t evenin when her arm was seized with far more force than necessary before being ced on the page. At least they were gentle enough with the needle.


    Status ritualplete, the Magister stared down at the page as if it might leap off the table and bite him in the neck.


    ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± he muttered. ¡°She really is gold.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s not the only one,¡± MacReilly said, walking forward and sticking his hand forward. ¡°Come on now,ds. Let¡¯s get this done, I¡¯ve got shit to kill.¡±


    The process was repeated with him, and his status sheet elicited the same reaction. It was almostical how the guards ringed around them and shuffled the two yers back to the middle of the road.


    ¡°Everything appears to be in order,¡± the Marshal said, handing them back their papers. ¡°The two of you are required to report to Magister Theolodis in the Keep before you can undertake any yer activities, as per your orders. Do you require any¡­ uh¡­ directions?¡±


    He¡¯d done so well, but faltered at the end, looking at the two of them.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be fine, thank you,¡± Feolin said.


    ¡°Been here before,ds,¡± MacReilly grinned.


    And just like that, they were back inside. The sights, the scents, the sounds. It brought back a flood of memories, not all of them pleasant, from their time in the field. Compared to the carefully tended gardens and immacte streets of the Gold District, this ce was rotten, covered in filth and grime, with the unshaven masses rubbing shoulders with their betters.


    Feolin found herself unable to exin why she had ever given it up. That gilded cage may have glittered brightly, but inside it was suffocating. Out here, she could breathe easy for what felt like the first time in years.


    ¡°Brose was so right,¡± she said sadly.


    ¡°Aye. That he was,¡± MacReilly agreed.


    The two moved away and headed toward the looming Keep that towered over the town, built atop a hill on the north side of the settlement.


    When they arrived at the gate, they saw a few yers heading out to the field and a few othersing back. Feolin didn¡¯t recognise any of them, but that was probably logical. Anyone who¡¯d been active in their day but hadn¡¯t reached gold was probably dead by now.


    How many could have remained as silver and survived for years in the rifts? Not many, surely. She hoped there were at least a few. There <em>had</em> to be some out there.


    For their part, the yers eyed them a little suspiciously, as if wondering just what these strangers were doing here. Too calm and confident to be rookies, but not properly equipped like veterans.


    The entrance to the Keep was a repeat of what they had experienced at the gate. Feolin was able to grin and bear it a second time, though MacReilly was visibly struggling by the end.


    ¡°Come on. You know security around the keeps was <em>always</em> strict. Given the current situation, did you think there would be <em>less</em>?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± he growled, ¡°I just don¡¯t have the patience for it like I used to.¡±


    Feolin choked out a strangledugh.


    ¡°Wh-what?! Since when did you ever have patience¡­ for anything?!¡±


    ¡°In my youth, I was far more tolerant,¡± MacReilly said, nodding sagely.


    ¡°In your youth you made it a point to get into a fist fight every day.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s true.¡±


    The inside of Undermist Keep was a tangled warren, much like all of the Keeps. Barracksyered on armouriesyered on supply storehouses and an endless knot of chokepoints and defensible corridors. The two of them navigated it easily, finding themselves in the administration section, waiting to see the Magister responsible for the whole keep: Theolodis.


    ¡°How long until Gen and the others are allowed out to join us?¡± MacReilly asked as they waited in the surprisinglyfortable seats outside the office.


    ¡°You think they¡¯lle just because you suggested they should?¡±


    ¡°No, I think they¡¯lle because they¡¯re right on the edge and need hope,¡± MacReilly said quietly.


    ¡°Really? I thought Gen was alright?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s better at hiding it than most.¡±


    ¡°Warra <em>had</em> been looking pretty rough. I thought she was down because Nora had¡­ died.¡±


    ¡°You know how it goes,¡± MacReilly stated heavily. ¡°Eventually you go down and just can¡¯t quite pick yourself back up again. I think that¡¯s pretty much where that crew had gotten to.¡±


    ¡°Well, now I really am hoping they took you up on your offer.¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡±


    The two fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, but thankfully they didn¡¯t have to wait long before they were allowed inside to see the Magister.


    Within thefortably furnished office, they found not one, but three Magisters, each working behind their own desk, each wearing the official robes of their order.


    Of course, being Magisters, one of the desks was muchrger and more borate than the others, so the two yers directed their attention to the mage sitting behind it.


    ¡°Magister Theolodis?¡± Feolin asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s me,¡± the Magister said, looking up.


    Theolodis was an older man, with a long grey beard that he¡¯dbed to the point it flowed down his chest in a silver wave. Combined with his kindly eyes and gentle demeanour, he looked like a friendly grandfather who snuck treats to his younger family members.


    ¡°Ah, yes. Our new gold ranked yers, I presume?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. I¡¯m Feolin, and this is MacReilly.¡±


    ¡°From the north! Men of the ns aren¡¯t thatmon in the west. It¡¯s assuring to have you with us.¡±


    ¡°Not many appreciate the unique talents of my people,¡± MacReilly grinned.


    ¡°Nothing of the sort here, I assure you.¡±


    Theolodis turned back to Feolin and smiled.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you are eager to get to work. There are only a few things we need to get through before I can give you clearance to head out to the rift. I hope you can indulge me?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Feolin said, put off bnce by meeting a polite Magister for perhaps the first time in her life.


    Theolodis went through their documents, confirmed their details, had them perform another status ritual to confirm their papers were urate, signed off on copies to be sent back to Kenmor and checked their equipment to ensure they were sufficiently armed and armoured to be effective.


    Through it all, he maintained his affable, elderly charm. Which made it even more shocking when they came to the end of their conversation.


    ¡°Last item on the list,¡± the Magister said, then without changing expression, he stated: ¡°we just have to check your brands to ensure they¡¯re working.¡±


    Feolin, caught off guard, blinked rapidly.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± she said.


    ¡°Won¡¯t take but a moment,¡± Theolodis said, still smiling. ¡°I¡¯ll ask Magistier Thirn and Magister Alder to perform the test. I do suggest you sit down.¡±


    ¡°Why would you need ta test the brand?¡± MacReilly growled. ¡°You Magisters are the ones who put them on us. Are you doubting your own work?!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s very unusual for golds such as yourself to be outside the capital like this. It¡¯s only sensible that we take every precaution. Now, brothers, if you would begin.¡±


    Feolin opened her mouth to protest once more, but her thoughts were obliterated in an instant by the pain. It was all-consuming, wracking every inch of her body, though it didn¡¯t originate from her flesh, but from her very soul.


    She had no idea how long it went on, or whether or not she was screaming. She couldn¡¯t think at all. Wasn¡¯t aware of anything except for the pain.


    When it finally faded, she found she was face down on the floor, sobbing, her voice hoarse and her fingernails bloody.


    She was dimly aware of MacReilly groaning and cursing behind her, his voice shaky and uneven.


    ¡°Well, that seems to be in working order,¡± Theolodis said in his gentle way. ¡°You are all clear to begin work. Congrattions.¡±

 Chapter B4C44 - Kinks in the System

    Chapter B4C44 - Kinks in the System


    ¡°Are you sure about this?¡± he asked for the third time.


    Yor red at him, her fingers flexing into ws.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said, her voice tight. ¡°<em>Yes</em>, I am sure.¡±


    ¡°I knew they were letting the golds out, but why are they taking them to the Tower? And how did you learn about this?¡±


    ¡°Via the usual methods,¡± she said tly.


    The issue with using the vampires as a source of information wasn¡¯t how well they were suited to the task. Yor and her coven were <em>exceptional </em>at getting into ces they weren¡¯t meant to go and extracting secrets they weren¡¯t meant to know.


    The issue was how far he was willing to trust what they chose to tell him. Naturally, they held things back, and it was almost impossible for him to realise it at the time, and difficult to prove what they¡¯d done afterwards.


    ¡°And there isn¡¯t more to tell? You aren¡¯t engaging in more of your <em>risk mitigation</em>?¡±


    Bare fangs were the only reply he got, so Tyron sank into thought. There weren¡¯t enough yers to manage the rifts at the best of times, but now there were even fewer, after the disaster at Woodsedge wiped out so many. Magnin and Beory had been plugging gaps and pulling rifts back from the edge of disaster for years, but they were gone too. It stood to reason that the Duke would be forced to loosen his grip on the most powerful yers, letting a select few out to fight in the Keeps.But sending them to the Tower was something else entirely. Tyron had worked with several of the golds, crafting equipment for them to take to the rifts, and none had mentioned being detained by the Magisters for any length of time. Yet now five golds had been taken in and not released for over a week.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like it,¡± Tyron muttered to himself.


    ¡°Too bad,¡± Yor snapped, and Tyron turned a re on her.


    ¡°Not you, the Magisters,¡± he said. ¡°A change from their usual patterns means they¡¯re up to something. Messing with yers is what they do professionally, but messing with <em>golds</em> is¡­ risky.¡±


    Those few who managed to achieve gold rank and retire into the luxury of the cage were highly regarded by the citizenry. They were heroes, valiant warriors who had triumphed against the kin and formed thest line of defence inside the capital.


    ¡°If people find out they¡¯re abusing the golds¡­¡±


    ¡°The key word, as always, is <em>if</em>,¡± Yor drawled. ¡°The Tower is one of the ces my people and I cannot prate, and no, we won¡¯t even try, no matter what you threaten me with.¡±


    Tyron raised his brows. He hadn¡¯t said anything of the sort. The vampire just red daggers before continuing.


    ¡°If you think about it, there aren¡¯t that many reasons for the Tower to take them in.¡±


    ¡°Which are?¡± Tyron prompted when she didn¡¯t continue.


    ¡°I said if <em>you</em> think about it,¡± she replied.


    Typical.


    ¡°You¡¯re being a little too uncooperative, don¡¯t you think? Are you sure there won¡¯t be consequences if you get in the way of my purpose?¡±


    Tyron gathered his magick to himself as he stared, eyes cold as ice, at the undead before him. Yor met his gaze with one just as frozen as his own.


    ¡°My coven has already drawn far too much attention in order to appease your demands,¡± she hissed. ¡°I won¡¯t die for your revenge.¡±


    Silence hung heavy in the air between them for a long moment. Tyron was the one to break the stalemate.


    ¡°Very well,¡± he allowed.


    It was a delicate bnce, the push and pull between himself and the vampires. With the threat of exposure hanging over their heads, they werepliant, to a point. Were he to push them too far, then the calction would flip against him. The moment Yor decided she would be safer with Tyron dead, he woulde under immediate attack, likely ambushed in the sewer, or killed in his sleep.


    Resolving not to push any further, he bid farewell to Yor and returned to his study. The sewers had be so familiar to Tyron at this point he was almost able to make his way inplete darkness. He¡¯d never thought he woulde to rely on the capital¡¯s waste management so heavily, yet here he was.


    Using them had be even easier recently. The staff charged with maintaining the subterranean tunnelwork had bex in their duties in recent weeks. To Tyron, it was another sign of the disintegrating conditions within the city.


    Shadetown had lost so many people as a result of the purge. Only a fraction had been taken by the authorities, but that had been enough to spread fear through the popce like a wildfire. In a tight-knitmunity such as this, everyone knew someone who had been taken away and hadn¡¯te back. They¡¯d fled in droves, seeking safety elsewhere in the province, further away from the seat of power.


    If Shadetown had suffered, then Kenmor itself was significantly worse.


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    Within the walls of the capital, the stench of fear was palpable. Traffic though the gates was heavily policed, so people couldn¡¯t flee, even if they wanted to. Fanatical believers of The Five Divines had taken to roaming the streets in packs at night, seeking heretics they could hand over to the Marshals, or deal with themselves.


    With so many of the Duke¡¯s resources now outside of the capital, moving town by town, vige by vige through the countryside, order in the city had been stretched to breaking point.


    Once the fighting broke out in earnest, tensions would ratchet even higher. How would the gold ranked yers feel, knowing that theirrades were locked in a battle to the death outside the city? Many of them would have family members who were active in the Keeps, especially sincebat sses often seemed to run in families.


    Tyron stopped dead, one hand on the dank stone wall of the sewer as an awful thought struck him. The gold yers <em>would</em> have family members and friends fighting against the Duke. It was an enormous risk to have them sitting in the city, brand or no brand. After all, the curse only took effect after they did something they shouldn¡¯t. How much damage could a gold ranked yer do in a single strike?


    A great deal.


    All of a sudden, he realised why the yers were being taken to the Tower. It was brutally elegant, in a sick sort of way. Why wouldn¡¯t the Duke want to solve two problems at the same time? They werecking manpower, already having to release retired yers out to the rifts, why not recruit a few more to fight? Naturally, they¡¯d have to be ¡®persuaded¡¯, but the magisters were experts at that sort of work. They¡¯d been doing it for thousands of years.


    The Duke was nning to turn the gold ranked yers against their ownrades.


    Disgusting, but also brilliant, in its own way.


    Tyron resumed his journey as his thoughts raced. He had to be careful of his footing out here. The sewer tunnels beneath Shadetown were not only smaller than those beneath the city, but less well-maintained. In ces, the grating that covered the sludge below had degraded, or fallen awaypletely. A slip on the slimy edge would put him in a very regrettable situation, but his mind was fully upied with this new thought.


    If there were golds in The Tower, being tortured at this very moment, what did that mean? Was there a way he could take advantage of them?


    If he¡¯d been cognisant of it, he might have felt a twinge of regret at the callousness of that thought. Magnin and Beory hadn¡¯t just been exemry yers, but had truly believed in the profession and the people who undertook it. They were so respected and beloved by their peers for exactly this reason.


    Their son had once felt the same way, but circumstances had burned that sentiment from him. The only thing he cared about was his vengeance; everything else was just a means to that end.


    If the people were to find out what was being done to their heroes, then they would be furious, so would it be possible to destabilise the Duke further by spreading this information around?


    He considered it, but dismissed the idea. There was too much fear. The popce, especially within Kenmor itself, werepletely cowed. If the Magisters, Priests, Marshalls and Soldiers hadn¡¯t been enough, the gangs of fanatics had been thest nail in the coffin.


    It would take something extraordinary to bring the people of the city to the point of open rebellion.


    He could leak word to the other gold ranks within the birdcage. That would surely rattle a few feathers. But would they even believe it? Even if they did, would they be willing to do anything about it?


    Although they were powerful, the golds were under the thumb of the Nobles. With theirfortable, indolent lifestyles, how many would risk that existence for rebellion and near certain death?


    Probably not many. Even though the Duke had called for volunteers to head back out to the rifts, disappointingly few had taken up the call.


    Well, what could he do with a handful of yers who, in the present moment, probably wished they were dead?


    The answer was so obvious he almost smacked himself in the head.


    If they¡¯d rather be dead, then he could certainly do them a favour. In return, he would ask a little favour from them. His skeletal horde was growing very rapidly at present, and he needed capablemanders to take on the burden of leadership.


    Getting to them would be impossible, at least for now. Doubtless they were being held deep in the heart of the Tower and under incredible levels of security. Being objective, there was almost no chance he would be able to ess the yers being held right now, but when they were eventually sent out into the field, the Magisters would bring in more of them, and then another group after that. So long as he eventually managed to get inside The Tower, which he had to do, somehow, to achieve his goals, there would be golds waiting for him.


    Still deep in thought, Tyron finally made it back to his study, pushed past the many constructs and projects scattered throughout the space and sat at his desk.


    He pulled his book of notes towards him and began to flick through the pages.


    Souls. That was the issue that arose to his mind. He¡¯d learned so much about them, but there was still a great deal that remained a mystery. Some souls were stronger than others, that was just a fact. Dove¡¯s soul had been totally unlike the farmers and brigands he turned into spirits.


    Was it merely rted to levels, or did something else contribute to the strength of a soul? The possibility existed that it was an inherent trait people were born with, but somehow he doubted it. He¡¯d already proven that the Unseen, for better or worse, had wormed its way into the souls of everyone in the realm, Tyron¡¯s included, so it made perfect sense that as it invested more and more strength into an individual, levelling them, ranking them up, the soul would receive more of its power as well.


    Or perhaps¡­ the Unseen was tied more closely to souls than even he had considered¡­.


    Yet another thing for him to ponder. More immediately, he had to think about turning gold ranked yers into minions. How powerful would their spirits be? Would he even be capable of binding such powerful individuals to his service? As far as he knew, there was no way for someone to resist the limitations he ced upon them when turning them into undead, but he was hardly an expert on all of the possibilities. After all, he was self-taught! Everything he knew about Necromancy hade directly from the Unseen, or he¡¯d figured it out himself. He couldn¡¯t say with any sort of certainty what would happen as he tried to create more and more powerful servants.


    No matter how he tried to twist it, there was only one way for him to ensure anyplications were minimised: he had to reach gold rank himself.


    He¡¯d been creating so many minionstely, and his efforts at hunting down patrols had been extremely fruitful, in experience as well as materials.


    However, would it be enough? It had been some time since he¡¯dst performed the status ritual. He was attempting to push himself as far forward with his current abilities as he could, and achieving his next advancement seemed so far away that he hadn¡¯t felt the need to push for it.


    Now¡­ things might have changed.


    To get that many levels¡­ creating undead simply wasn¡¯t going to be enough, and he didn¡¯t have ess to a rift. That left him with only one option. He would have to find people to kill.


    A lot of people.

 Chapter B4C45 - Unfortunate Souls

    Chapter B4C45 - Unfortunate Souls


    ¡°I had no idea it was going to be so cold up here,¡± Timothy shivered.


    Rurin eyed her fellow rebel leader with disbelief.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t think it was going to be cold? In the Barrier Mountain range? These things scrape the fucking sky and you can see them from Woodsedge on a clear day. Are you out of your mind?¡±


    The Mage glowered at her, which didn¡¯t appear all that fearsome since he tugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders at the same time.


    ¡°I said I had no idea it would be <em>this</em> cold, not that it would be cold,¡± he corrected her.


    ¡°Oh, this is nothing,¡± Georg assured them from nearby, ¡°it¡¯s going to get a heck of a lot colder than this.¡±


    The young man was striding along, covering the rocky and uneven terrain with ease while wearing a short sleeve shirt and a pair of rough trousers. This was essentially what he always wore,e rain or shine.


    ¡°How much colder?¡± Timothy asked, eyeing Georg carefully.


    ¡°Much. Up on Cragwhistle, the locals rmend you never piss at night if you can help it.¡±¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°It freezes.¡±


    ¡°After you¡¯re done¡­ right?¡±


    Georg just stared at him.


    ¡°I cannot believe a gold ranked yer is whining about the cold,¡± Rurin said, shaking her head. ¡°Compared to an unawakened person, you¡¯re practically immune to the cold! I don¡¯t even feel it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a brute with a constitution measured in the hundreds,¡± Timothy pointed out, ¡°and for thest time, it isn¡¯t that I¡¯m incapable of enduring the cold, I simply don¡¯t like it. It can¡¯t be so surprising that someone prefers to be warm.¡±


    He looked around and then pointed at Munhilde, who also wore a thick cloak, along with a shawl.


    ¡°See, I¡¯m not the only one, the Priestess clearly prefers warmth over this,¡± he waved a hand irritably through the air, ¡°chilly nonsense.¡±


    Munhilde red at him, unhappy at being singled out.


    ¡°The cold is bad for my joints,¡± she snapped.


    ¡°You sound like my mother,¡± Rurin chuckled, ¡°but she¡¯s like¡­ eighty.¡±


    Walking beside her fellow Priestess, Elsbeth nched and quickly looked away, not wanting to be drawn in. Munhilde was¡­ prickly¡­ when it came to her age.


    ¡°For some of us, eighty years is still considered quite young,¡± Munhilde said tly, pulling her shawl a little tighter about herself.


    Rurin absorbed this in silence, then nodded.


    ¡°Fair enough. I will say no more.¡±


    Elsbeth breathed a sigh of relief and looked back over her shoulder. They were only in the foothills of the Barrier Mountains, but already they were able to look out over the tterndid out before them like a tapestry of farms and woond. For the yers, it wasn¡¯t so difficult to cover the rough terrain, they walked up and down the hills all day long without trouble, but it was a bit more difficult for her and the other Priests and Priestesses to keep up.


    Which was probably why they hadn¡¯t been asked to carry any of the supplies.


    ¡°Are they really going to be able to defend against the rift with the things we left them?¡± she asked, not for the first time.


    ¡°What things?¡± Rurinughed. ¡°We cleaned that ce out!¡±


    It was Timothy, as usual, who answered her.


    ¡°We aren¡¯t convinced they¡¯re going to police the rift at all. The Duke doesn¡¯t care about protecting the people, and the Magisters certainly don¡¯t. Rather than dedicate resources to it, they may simply ignore Woodsedge and hope they can deal with us before another break urs. Even leftpletely unattended, it will take months for the rift to build up to that point.¡±


    She could only shake her head. Deep down, Elsbeth didn¡¯t want to believe they would be so callous. Sure, there wouldn¡¯t be a break any time soon, but without yers killing the kin who emerged, there was only one ce for the monsters to go: further into the province.


    Many families had only just begun to resettle the homes they¡¯d abandoned because of the break, or only just finished burying their dead. The people who lived in the far west couldn¡¯t afford to absorb another tragedy.


    By her side, Munhilde could read her thoughts.


    ¡°If they protect the people or not is up to them to decide,¡± she stated, ¡°it isn¡¯t our responsibility to govern properly. This rebellion wouldn¡¯t even be happening if they could be trusted to work in the best interests of the citizens. Even The Three haven¡¯t turned away so thoroughly.¡±


    That statement brought a frown to Elsbeth¡¯s face. Before she could say anything, Munhilde cut her off.


    ¡°It¡¯s undeniable that Raven, Rot and Crone turned their backs on us to some extent, girl. Not even they would argue about that. At least now, they¡¯re paying attention again.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re doing a bit more than that,¡± Elsbeth muttered.


    It was difficult sometimes for Elsbeth to fully understand where the others who served the Old Gods wereing from. In <em>her</em> experience, The Three were very present and engaged, moving their believers and shaping events with an active hand. She had heard them speak, in some cases, directly to her!


    For the others, this simply wasn¡¯t the case. They could remember decades where prayers went unanswered, where the Gods were silent. Their followers had been praying to be liberated from the Empire and the false divines for thousands of years, and not once had The Three bothered to intervene. To say their experiences differed was an understatement.


    ¡°Oh, did I tell you, Elsbeth?¡± Rurin called over her shoulder from her ce at the head of the procession. ¡°Worthy Sterm and his wife are going to meet us at Cragwhistle. He sent word just before we left.¡±


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    That had been days ago¡­. The absent-minded nature of the rebel leader had struck again. Still, the news was too exciting for her to be mad about it.


    ¡°That¡¯s great news,¡± she beamed, genuinely happy to hear it. Worthy and Meg had been Tyron¡¯s aunt and uncle, but they¡¯d all but been the same for her as well. When she¡¯d finally left her parents¡¯ house and her father¡¯s judgement, Worthy and Meg had taken her in. She couldn¡¯t wait to see them again.


    ¡°Do they know¡­ about Tyron?¡± she asked hesitantly.


    Rurin snorted. ¡°Hell if I know, but probably. Be a bit difficult for our people <em>not</em> to talk about it with him.¡±


    Elsbeth felt saddened. Doubtless, both Tyron¡¯s Aunt and Uncle had been deeply hurt by the fact their nephew was still alive and had chosen not to let them know. Knowing Worthy, she wouldn¡¯t want to be in Tyron¡¯s shoes when they finally met each other again.


    ¡°So how far is it to Cragwhistle?¡± Rurin asked, again.


    ¡°A long way,¡± Timothy replied, frustrated. ¡°We only left Woodsedge four days ago. It¡¯ll be at least another week before we get there.¡±


    ¡°Even at this pace?¡± Rurin asked, surprised.


    They were setting a good pace, with the higher ranked yers carrying the supplies. These weren¡¯t exactly normal humans, for the most part, and they were able to move faster, and for longer, than most.


    ¡°These mountains really are enormous,¡± Rurin muttered, staring up at the towering peaks of the Barrier Mountain range. They were colossal, literally scraping the sky, as she had said earlier, a wall of jagged cliffs, ice and snow. ¡°Wait¡­ is someone waving to us from over there?¡± she asked, and pointed.


    Elsbeth and the others turned to look as well, but couldn¡¯t make out what she was seeing. Not surprising, given that their eyes weren¡¯t as good as hers. Whatever she saw seemed to being their way, however, and a few minutester, Timothy was able to pick them out.


    ¡°I see them,¡± he confirmed. ¡°Looks like someone¡­ wearing a robe or cloak. They¡¯re definitely waving. And they¡¯re definitely on the thin side. Have they been ranging around up here since the break? They must be starving.¡±


    ¡°Not sure about that?¡± Rurin refuted. ¡°Whoever this is, they seem full of beans. Look at them hop about.¡±


    ¡°Should we stop and wait for them?¡± Elsbeth asked.


    ¡°Of course not! We don¡¯t stop for random vagabonds. The march goes on!¡±


    And it did, but the cloaked figure continued to approach, hopping down the treacherous slope, stumbling frequently and drawing ever closer.


    Eventually they were close enough to call out.


    ¡°Hey!¡± a thin voice reached them. ¡°Wait a fucking minute!¡±


    ¡°Rude,¡± Rurin huffed, not bothering to turn around.


    ¡°Oh, <em>fuck</em> you,¡± the figure called again when they saw the group hadn¡¯t slowed.


    Angry now, the figure doubled its efforts to reach them, running dangerously across the slope as Elsbeth watched, heart in mouth.


    ¡°I think they might really hurt themself,¡± she said, worried.


    ¡°Sounds like their problem,¡± Rurin shrugged, still looking ahead. ¡°We¡¯ve got a rebellion to fight and I¡¯m not slowing down because of some vagabond. When they catch up, we can talk.¡±


    ¡°If they can keep up,¡± Elsbeth pointed out.


    ¡°If they can keep up,¡± Rurin agreed with a wolfish grin.


    For the next twenty minutes, the Priestess couldn¡¯t stop herself from turning her head to look at the distant stranger as they continued to risk life and limb in their headlong rush down the cliff. Every now and again, she saw they were about to fall, crashing face first into a rock and splitting their skull, or breaking a limb. She was on edge, expecting to hear a shout or scream at any moment, but that moment never came.


    Whoever they were, this person was shockingly light on their feet. Perhaps not especially graceful¡­ or coordinated¡­ but they were able to correct their bnce and continue the plunge from almost any situation, no matter how dire it appeared.


    It was honestly impressive.


    Finally, the robed figure arrived just a few dozen metres away. They stood, shrouded by tattered cloth, with the hood pulled low to cover their features. It was a mysterious, vaguely threatening scene, which had the tension drained out of it the moment they spoke.


    ¡°Rurin, you gods-cursed <em>bitch</em>. I should have known!¡±


    Even now, the yer didn¡¯t break stride, walking past the mystery person with nothing more than a roll of her eyes.


    ¡°I recognise that voice,¡± she called over her shoulder, ¡°I wish I didn¡¯t, but I do. Keep up if you want to talk, otherwise go jump off a cliff.¡±


    Somewhat deted, the mystery figure slumped for a moment, then straightened and sprinted to get ahead of them again, posing dramatically atop a rock.


    ¡°You might know who I am, but were you aware of <em>this</em>?!¡±


    With a dramatic flourish, the figure threw off their robe, revealing apletely ck skeleton wearing simple yet battered armour formed of bones. Spreading bony legs wide, the stranger struck a pose that seemed to emphasise the¡­ modifications they had made to the armour covering the pelvis.


    Again, Rurin marched past with barely a blink.


    ¡°Dove,¡± she said, ¡°did you really attach a snake skeleton to act as a pretend dick?¡±


    ¡°I did!¡± he dered, full of pride. ¡°My python has never been healthier! In a certain sense.¡±


    Many of those gathered had never met this person before, but to Elsbeth¡¯s surprise, quite a few of the yers did. There were calls from behind her, some of greeting, some curses and insults. Dove gave all of them a rude gesture then waggled his snake bones at them suggestively.


    ¡°For some reason, I¡¯m not surprised being dead has only made you worse,¡± Rurin noted with a wry grin. ¡°Tyron told me a little of your story.¡±


    ¡°He left out the best bits, I don¡¯t doubt,¡± the skeleton dered, rushing to catch up to Rurin so he could walk alongside her. ¡°Elsbeth, how are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m well,¡± she replied.


    ¡°Still looking ravishing. Gods I wish I¡¯d had blonde hair like that. Yours looks like golden silk while mine looked like mouse piss.¡±


    ¡°You never washed it,¡± Timothy noted, sounding weary.


    ¡°Tim, you fucking pansy. I¡¯m shocked to see you¡¯re still alive! How¡¯s things?¡±


    ¡°Better a few moments ago.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s life. Or unlife.¡±


    ¡°I was wondering if you were going to show up,¡± Rurin said. ¡°Tyron said you parted ways in Cragwhistle. Have you just been hanging around there this whole time? Doing what? Levelling your new ss?¡±


    ¡°He even told you about that, did he?¡± Dove mused, rubbing at his chin. ¡°I was there for a while, but then I got bored and desired a greater challenge! I¡¯ve been up there,¡± he gestured to their right.


    They all turned, but there was nothing up there except the forbidding mountains.


    ¡°Up where?¡± Timothy asked.


    ¡°Up there! In the fucking mountains! Where did you think I was pointing?¡± Dove demanded waving his skeletal arms in the air.


    ¡°Why would you go there?¡± Rurin asked. ¡°As far as I know, there¡¯s nothing, hardly even any kin. Did you want some time to yourself?¡±


    ¡°Of course not,¡± Dove retorted, somehow managing to look offended. ¡°I would never deprive others of my presence without good reason. No, I was interested in finding something that nobody else had ever found.¡±


    ¡°Your dignity?¡± Tim asked.


    ¡°A way through to Granin,¡± Dove dered.


    He emphasised the statement by grabbing the dangling snake skeleton and throwing it around his neck like a scarf, even though it was still attached to his pelvis.


    ¡°Did you actually find one?¡± Munhilde asked, sounding interested.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to hear about my tales of adventure? My daring acts of bravery and skill? The incredible highs. The terrifying lows? It¡¯s incredibly good shit!¡±


    ¡°Not really,¡± Rurin shrugged, ¡°but I¡¯d love to know if you managed to get through.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no way he did,¡± Timothy groaned. ¡°Dove is just wasting our time.¡±


    ¡°Hey, did I shit in your breakfast or something, Tim? Don¡¯t be so negative,¡± Dove huffed.


    ¡°Well?¡± Rurin asked, somehow remaining unruffled. ¡°Did you find a way?¡±


    ¡°As a matter of fact, I did.¡± Dove threw his arms up once again. ¡°Behold me! The first sort-of person toy eyes on the fallen kingdom of Granin in five hundred years!¡±

 Chapter B4C46 - Engineering

    Chapter B4C46 - Engineering


    Tyron had never expected that choosing to specialise in skeletons would require him to be such an expert in physiology. It was entirely possible there were medical professionals out there who knew less about muscles and ligaments than he did. Bleary eyed, he stared at the diagram in front of him, covered in intersecting lines, each representing a thread of magick of a specific thickness and tension. For the extreme levels of force these magickal joints would need to bear, his measurements couldn¡¯t be off by a hair. It had taken a great deal of iteration to arrive at this design, and his initial tests had been promising, but would they really stand up under the weight? He was still sceptical.


    ¡°Is it really necessary to go to these lengths?¡± Filetta said from over his shoulder. The wight leaned forward to inspect the sheet, shaking her head as she beheld theplexity of it. ¡°Just looks like nonsense to me.¡±


    The Necromancer frowned, irritated at the interruption.


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s necessary. Without all of the work I¡¯d put into learning these things, you wouldn¡¯t be able to move half as well as you do now. If I want to create something better, then I need to push the design further.¡±


    ¡°So why do you have all of this¡­ meat?¡± she asked, gesturing with one skeletal hand toward the rest of his table.


    On the stone surface was a scattered assortment of bloody remnants, chunks of meat and bone that wouldn¡¯t look out of ce in a butcher¡¯s shop.


    ¡°They¡¯re joints from various animals. Horse, cow, bull¡­ I think that one was a tiger.¡±


    ¡°Where did you get <em>that</em> from?¡±


    ¡°Trader from the south.¡±¡°What. They were selling tiger parts?¡±


    ¡°No. They were selling a tiger.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    Filetta absorbed that in silence for a moment.


    ¡°You¡¯re a sick pup, Tyron. You know that?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not out here cutting up animals for no purpose. I am <em>attempting</em> to learn.¡±


    ¡°About what? Bodies? Didn¡¯t I teach you everything you need to know about those?¡±


    It wasn¡¯t possible for a skeleton to smirk, but her tone managed to convey everything it needed to.


    ¡°Taught me a lot of things I <em>didn¡¯t</em> need to know,¡± Tyron muttered.


    ¡°What was that?¡±


    ¡°Nothing. Look, all of these animals put more force through their joints than a person does. I wanted to see what structural differences there might be in the hopes I could learn something that could be applied to my project.¡±


    ¡°And were there?¡± Filetta asked idly, poking about the various detritus on the table.


    ¡°Do you care what the answer is?¡± Tyron said, exasperated, finally leaning back. Clearly, Filetta wasn¡¯t going to let him work until she¡¯d said whatever she wanted to say. He may as well get through it quickly. ¡°Yes. These might be four-legged creatures, unlike us who are bipedal, but their muscture in particr was an interesting study. None of it was <em>directly</em> applicable, but useful nheless.¡±


    ¡°Huh,¡± the wight grunted, and he couldn¡¯t help rolling his eyes.


    ¡°Filetta. I need to work. What is the problem? Are you bored? Do you need something to do? A new purpose in life? If so, go find it on your own, I have things to do.¡±


    ¡°Very charming. Very helpful,¡± Filetta drawled. ¡°That¡¯s your solution to a possible existential crisis? Deal with it?¡±


    ¡°Filetta, you were a thief,¡± Tyron said, pinching his brow. ¡°I am not trying to be offensive, but questioning the meaning of living, or unliving, and any sort of moral quandary involved therein would be profoundly out of character for you.¡±


    ¡°I may have grown a conscience with all this free time I have on my hands now.¡±


    There it was.


    ¡°So you¡¯re bored. What do you expect me to do about it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not bored, you ice-cold prick! I¡¯m worried about you!¡±


    Tyron blinked. Then blinked again. For a moment, he worried that he may have misheard. Perhaps he¡¯d been working too hard.


    ¡°You¡¯re wondering if you misheard me. Aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± Tyron deflected, brow creased. ¡°I was¡­ just thinking why in the world you would be worried about me.¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re killing yourself! You¡¯re working yourself to death. I understand you¡¯re determined to annihte your enemies, I guess, and achieve vengeance, but does it matter if you achieve all that if you die in the process?¡±


    This story has been uwfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    She walked over and after an awkward pause, ced a hand on his shoulder. It was nofort, given how cold and dead her bony fingers were. Tyron sat, feeling like a hostage in a moment he desperately didn¡¯t want to be a part of. There were so manyyers here that he didn¡¯t understand that made it almost impossible for his head to get ahold of it. He felt as if he were grasping after a spell from a discipline he wasn¡¯t familiar with. The structure of it was there, but the specifics werepletely nk.


    ¡°By the Gods, you¡¯re awful at being human,¡± Filetta said. ¡°It¡¯s almost a miracle that you reached human level twenty at all. I can see you running a bunch of nonsense through your head. Look, just stand up. Turn around and face me.¡±


    Tyron considered resisting, but didn¡¯t bother in the end, and was pulled to his feet and spun around. He found himself facing Filetta, the wight, in all her undead glory, spirit flesh and all, with one hand on either shoulder. There was no human emotion left to see in her face or eyes, there was nothing but the bone of skull, and nothing but the light of magick in her hollow sockets.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t thatplicated. I might be dead, but you aren¡¯t, and even though you killed me, I kind of hope that you might have a happy ending. In a non-sexual way. That¡¯s not too hard to grasp, is it?¡±


    ¡°It is a bit.¡±


    ¡°Shut up. I just want to know what¡¯s going to happen when this is done. Let¡¯s say you kill the Duke, you destroy the Magisters. The whole province falls into chaos and despair. What happens to you afterwards? Is that the end of your story?¡±


    It was difficult to process this, but one thought struck Tyron immediately. He shook his head.


    ¡°Filetta. You are a lot nicer than I thought you were.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you.¡±


    Was he some sort of failure of a Necromancer, being pitied by his own minions? What was he even supposed to say? That he nned to live a long, happy life after bringing the Empire to its knees and putting the entire realm on the brink of extinction? Or that his own survival was any sort of priority?


    He had the option to pretend he intended to survive his vengeance on the Western Province, because he did, but only so he could continue to the rotten core of the Empire and bring down the seat of power of the Five Divines themselves.


    Instead, he decided to be honest.


    ¡°I have no idea,¡± he replied, not bothering to conceal his bone-deep weariness. ¡°How this will end, and whether or not I¡¯ll survive, I have no idea. We¡¯ll find out when we get there. At the very least, I know it¡¯s not umon for people in my particr line of Magick to wind up as some sort of lich, but I have no ns in that direction.¡±


    Filetta observed him through the burning orbs of purple light that were her eyes.


    ¡°That was a more honest answer than I expected.¡± She patted him on the shoulders with each hand. ¡°Good job.¡±


    She turned back to contemte his handiwork.


    ¡°So¡­ when are these things going to get moving?¡±


    <em>I really need to go to sleep</em>.


    The change of topic was too quick for his brain, it took him a moment to catch up.


    ¡°As soon as I figure out how to properly form their leg joints, they should be ready.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you done?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure¡­ there are a few elements¨C¡±


    ¡°Bah. You¡¯ve been scribbling away at those pages for days. Have some confidence! I thought you were good at this stuff.¡±


    It was awfully tempting to point out that developing entirely new magick in just a few days was quite a remarkable feat, but there wouldn¡¯t be any point. In a sense, she was right. He was ny-five percent of the way there, but pushing to achieve that final little smidge of improvement would take him just as long as he¡¯d spent on the project already.


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll get started on it, then. If it stops you from nattering at me.¡±


    ¡°Nattering? How dare you? I didn¡¯t live long enough to be old enough to properly <em>natter</em>. Thanks to you.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. I¡¯m awful. Now be quiet.¡±


    He¡¯d been working on this particr construct for months, off and on. His darkness cauldrons had been the pinnacle of his achievements in the field of creating Death Magick constructs so far, but they were rtively simple in the grand scheme of things. What he was attempting to make now was immensely moreplex, to the point he had probably been <em>too</em> ambitious for his second project in this field.


    So far, his testing had consumed an unfathomable amount of bones, but thankfully only those which had performed poorly on quality testing.


    It almost felt strange to be in a position where he had so many materialsing in he could afford to reject some. An incredible amount of wealth, from a Necromancer¡¯s perspective.


    All the pieces needed to assemble the construct had been built andy about the study on the floor. Each was as refined as he could make them, and fully enchanted, the arrays and cores embedded on each. That had been the easy part, rtively speaking.


    Throwing thest of his concerns away, Tyron grasped twoponents and brought them to his work area. He stared hard at the two pieces, constructing the image of what he needed to aplish in his mind.


    ¡°What happens now?¡± Filetta asked in a hushed voice.


    ¡°What happens, is that you be quiet, so I can concentrate,¡± Tyron stated, his gaze unwavering.


    A momentter, he brought up his hands, ghostly threads dangling from the tips of his fingers, and he began to weave.


    The patterns required a wide variety of threads, some thicker, some thinner, each bound together in an intricate knot that would form a functional connection. His hands danced and spun for over an hour as Filetta watched from the side, asionally offering a snidement that he didn¡¯t even hear.


    When it was done, he cut off the threads, lowered his hands, and leaned forward to inspect his work.


    ¡°Is it¡­ is it finished?¡±


    ¡°I think so,¡± Tyron replied, frowning as he tried to pick out as many details as he could. It looked as if he¡¯d been sessful in replicating his design, and there weren¡¯t any obvious errors that he could detect. Hopefully it worked as well as his tests indicated it would.


    ¡°So, what does it do?¡±


    The Necromancer turned to her, puzzled.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ you¡¯ve been working on this for a long time, right? Now that it¡¯s done¡­ what does it do?¡±


    He looked back down at the surface in front of him.


    ¡°It bends,¡± he said.


    Filetta looked shocked.


    ¡°That¡¯s it? It <em>bends</em>?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a <em>knee</em>,¡± he said, exasperated, ¡°what else is it going to do?¡±


    The wight cocked her head to one side then looked down again.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that a bit big for a knee? If those are leg bones, then this thing would be¡­¡±


    ¡°Large,¡± Tyron confirmed. ¡°Very, veryrge.¡±


    He turned and took in the rest of theponents scattered around the study, then sighed.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to take a long time to put this thing together.¡±

 Chapter B4C47 - Great Changes

    Chapter B4C47 - Great Changes


    Trenan Ebert, leader of the Hooligans yer team and bronze ranked Hammerman, was not quite sure how to react to the scene in front of his eyes.


    It could have been the skeleton with the snake bones dangling from his pelvis that had him so off-bnce, but likely not. After all, he¡¯d met Dove before, in a limited capacity. Perhaps it was therge gathering of heretical priests and their followers, openly praying to their three dreadful gods on the outskirts of the town. He¡¯d never been overly devout, but such open disregard for the Divines still made him ufortable.


    Or was it the massive number of yers, many of whom were silver rank, some even gold ranked, more than he¡¯d ever seen in one ce at one time? They¡¯d arrived early in the morning and were still in the process of erecting a massive camp outside the town walls. It was organised chaos down there, with friendly and not so friendly bickering in equal measure as yers jockeyed for position amongst themselves, trying to get the best spots for themselves and their teammates.


    Beside him, Brigette appeared to be going through the same emotions as he was, looking out at the scene with aplicated expression.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never been to a yer keep,¡± she said. ¡°Is this what it¡¯s like inside? So many of us all gathered in one ce?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know,¡± he replied. ¡°I¡¯ve never been inside one either.¡±


    That was it. The reason he felt so odd. He was used to being a minority, with only a few others who shared his purpose nearby. Going from that, to suddenly being surrounded by people who, more or less, understood him and his work was¡­ odd, yetforting.


    Ortan approached from behind them and Trenan turned to greet him.


    ¡°Leadership wants to see you,¡± therge man stated.There was a level of resignation on the man¡¯s face that Trenan had grown ustomed to. So many strangers appearing in his sleepy little vige, week after week, month after month, and now this.


    ¡°So when is the keep going to be finished?¡± Trenan joked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. ¡°You¡¯re going need somewhere for all these killing machines to go.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t even start,¡± Ortan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. ¡°I¡¯ve got priests and priestesses chasing me asking when we¡¯re going to build a ce of worship devoted to The Three already. Are we really expected to house all these yers as well?¡±


    ¡°When <em>are</em> you going to build them a church?¡± Trenan asked out of curiosity.


    ¡°Probably after everyone living here has an actual roof to sleep under,¡± Ortan replied, scowling.


    ¡°Seems fair,¡± Trenan nodded. ¡°Where are we meeting these people?¡±


    ¡°And <em>who</em> are we meeting?¡± Brigette cut in, stepping up beside him. ¡°Who¡¯s even in charge of this mess now?¡±


    Now that she mentioned it, that was a good point. Trenan hadn¡¯t even considered that. For so long, the leadership of Cragwhistle had meant the local council, Ortan himself, or the priesthood. It hadn¡¯t mattered much to Trenan and the others; as long as they were able to deal with the rift on their own terms, what did they care for city administration?


    ¡°You think anyone in town is going to argue with whoever brought the army of monster yers to our doorstep? Whoever is running <em>that</em> mess is in charge as far as I¡¯m concerned,¡± Ortan grunted. ¡°I¡¯m sure as shit not going to argue with them. They¡¯re waiting for you just outside the gate.¡±


    Trenan turned and looked down again, only to find the skeleton looking up at him, swinging his snake bones in a slow circle with one hand.


    It took a few minutes to get down from the wall and head to the gate, where he was met by a group of a dozen mixed figures. Unfortunately, Dove was amongst them.


    He did his best to ignore the¡­ person¡­ as he tried to work out who was in charge, but that quickly became apparent. An older woman with shoulder length hair, more grey than brte, and warm eyes approached him hand extended, which he grasped in greeting.


    ¡°yer Trenan, is it? I¡¯m Rurin, Rurin Wilkin. Nice to meet you. I hear you¡¯ve been having fun battling a brand new rift up here? How¡¯ve the kin been treating you?¡±


    ¡°Poorly,¡± he replied dryly. ¡°It¡¯s cold as death up there and the monsters are endless.¡±


    Rurinughed and pped him on the shoulder and he tried not to wince. Holy <em>hells</em>, this woman was strong!


    ¡°That¡¯s how it goes,¡± she grinned. ¡°As for cold, the delegation from Skyice should be here in a few days, you canpare notes with them. Between you and me, I think they¡¯ve had the worst of it. It''s cold enough up there to rattle your bones.¡±


    ¡°Did someone say bones?¡± Dove dered, stepping forward dramatically.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°No, they didn¡¯t,¡± Rurin replied, not bothering to turn her head. ¡°So, there are three teams here on the mountain, right? All bronze ranked?¡±


    He and his team were close to silver now, only a few levels away. Hopefully they¡¯d still get a shot at the rift, but he couldn¡¯t help but doubt it. With this many yers here, there would be enough wanting to keep their skills sharp that ess would be hard toe by.


    ¡°Uh¡­ yes, that¡¯s right. My team, the Hooligans, team Starfire, and team Weaver. Well, what¡¯s left of them.¡±


    ¡°I heard about that,¡± Rurin shook her head. ¡°Foolishness.¡±


    That was one way to describe it.


    ¡°Are you really going to ignore me?¡± Dove demanded.


    ¡°As much as I can,¡± came the reply.


    ¡°Bah! Why do I bother helping you people? I should go where my talents are more appreciated!¡±


    ¡°Hell?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not even sure there is one. I¡¯m about thirty percent convinced that there¡¯s a heaven, so long as you¡¯re willing to pay the price of admission.¡±


    The skeleton leaned towards Trenan and followed up with a loud stage whisper.


    ¡°It¡¯s <em>really</em> fucking expensive.¡±


    Unsure what to say, Trenan just turned back toward Rurin.


    ¡°Can I ask, ma¡¯am¨C¡±


    ¡°Holy shit. Call me Rurin, <em>please</em>.¡±


    ¡°Rurin, then. Can I ask what your n is for the rift?¡±


    ¡°Always mindful of your duty,¡± she said, smiling. ¡°This is a <em>real</em> yer right here. There¡¯s going to be a lot of yers going through the rift over the next few days. It¡¯s important that everyone who fights is a higher rank than they were when receiving their brand. Since you¡¯re still bronze, that includes you and your team.¡±


    A wee surprise. The others would be pleased, especially Samantha. She¡¯d been desperate to get her team to silver before anything happened, so they¡¯d be in a better position to protect themselves.


    ¡°Does ranking up really negate the effect of the brand?¡± he asked.


    He¡¯d heard it did, but he hadn¡¯t really believed it all that much.


    ¡°Hah! I wish. It helps, I¡¯ll say that much. At the very least, you¡¯ll be able to fight against the enemy without copsing into a writhing heap on the ground.¡±


    ¡°And afterwards? The town needs to be protected.¡±


    ¡°We will have yers here at all times,¡± she assured him, ¡°have no fear about that.¡±


    She looked around at the camp stilling together behind them.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be here for a few days, a week at most. Once the Skyice yers have arrived, we can finalise the camp as a semi-permanent base of operations and figure out what our next moves are going to be. Tim¡¯s going over the maps right now, trying to figure out our best way to kick off this war, think about where the Magisters are likely to try and hit us.


    ¡°Until then, we¡¯ll be sending teams through the rift a few times a day. You¡¯re wee to be a part of that rotation, we can even pair you up with a few silvers to help elerate your growth, if you want. I know better than most the cost of messing with team dynamics, so think it over before you ept. After that, you need to prepare to go into battle. It¡¯s going to get messy, and soon.¡±


    ¡°Is that really it?¡± Brigette asked. ¡°Are we really expected to just fight and die against the Nobles and Marshals?¡±


    ¡°This is Brigette,¡± Trenan quickly introduced her, ¡±she¡¯s a member of my team.¡±


    Rurin nodded and gave the blonde swordswoman a direct look.


    ¡°As matters stand, you have two options going forward. You can fight and die against the Nobles and Marshals, or you can just die. They¡¯reing here, and they will kill everyone, and I do mean <em>everyone</em>, here in Cragwhistle. The men, the women, the children, the babes in their cribs, all of them. When they¡¯re done, not one stone will rest upon another, and your memory will be erased from this realm, as if you were never born.


    ¡°Now me, I¡¯m not the sort of person who would let that happen without a fight. Let me know what sort of person you are after you¡¯ve had a think about it.¡±


    A heavy silence hung over the gathering when she finished speaking, each person contemting her words and the inevitable end that awaited them when their struggle was done. Brigette stood with her fists clenched and jaw set, eyes hardening by the second.


    Of course, it was Dove who broke out a bout of insane soundingughter.


    ¡°You lot are <em>hrious</em>. I can¡¯t get enough of it, the passion, the grim eptance of death. I¡¯m so d to be back among the living. Well, the non-monstrous living. Are kin alive? Technically?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s so funny, Dove?¡± Rurin asked tly. ¡°Enlighten us.¡±


    ¡°Two things,¡± the skeleton said, putting his hands on his hips and deliberately chattering his onyx jaw at them. ¡°First, you talk as if the oue of this war is already decided, when it is anything but. Unlike thest few times the yers have tried this sort of nonsense, we actually have something going for us.


    ¡°In case you didn¡¯t know, Tyron Sterm is <em>really</em> good at magick, like, <em>super</em> good. I¡¯m fairly confident he¡¯s going to find a way to bust into the Magisters¡¯ tower and break the brands. If that happens, we instantly win. The gold ranks rotting in the city will tear the ce down around them in a fit of rage and general angst.¡±


    ¡°You think he¡¯s good enough to do something that no one has done in thousands of years? Actually figure out a way to counteract the brands?¡± Rurin asked, her brow raised.


    ¡°No! Of course not. He¡¯ll just find a way to <em>break</em> them. Much easier. Besides, that¡¯s only the first thing that¡¯s hrious about you.¡±


    ¡°Alright then. What¡¯s the second?¡±


    ¡°The second is the most important of the two!¡± the skeleton proimed, gesticting wildly. ¡°It points to your fundamental misunderstanding of the reality in which you live.¡±


    He pointed a single bony digit at them usingly.


    ¡°Too blinded by your own experiences to see the truth.¡±


    ¡°Out with it, Dove,¡± Rurin snapped, finally losing patience. ¡°Say your piece or shut up.¡±


    The skeleton grinned at them, the light burning within his hollow sockets.


    ¡°You are still caught in the delusion that your death is in some way meaningful, or important.¡±


    He raised a hand, turned it around and pointed a finger directly at himself.


    ¡°Do you really think death would be the end for you?¡± he asked, then cackled madly at the look on their faces.

 Chapter B4C48 - Guard Duty

    Chapter B4C48 - Guard Duty


    Not for the first time, Preston wished he were out fighting. He turned his head away from the empty road in front of them toward the Soldier beside him, a footman named Rt, with the tannedplexion of someone from further south.


    Probably exined his odd name.


    ¡°Do you think the heretics will attack us here?¡± he asked.


    Not for the first time, Rt scowled behind the visor of his helmet and gripped the haft of his spear tight.


    ¡°Preston, you are on duty at the Jorlin family estate. You¡¯re a professional Soldier, so <em>act</em> like it, or I will tell the sergeant how <em>distractible </em>you are. I assume he¡¯ll have even less patience for your whining than I do!¡±


    With a mighty <em>thud</em>, he mmed the butt of his spear into the cobbled road, putting an end to the conversation. For his part, Preston merely rolled his eyes, which luckily his fellow Soldier couldn¡¯t see, and returned to the task at hand: watching the empty road and field.


    Putting up with guard duty was painful at the best of times, but he¡¯d always managed it in the past. He was, after all, a professional warrior in service of the Noble Houses, the descendants of divinity. He trained hard, diligently worked on his Skills and abilities, and was good at what he did.


    But things were different now. Most of the Soldiers were absent, taken out of the estate and sent into the field to fight against the heretics, while he was made to remain here and perform even more mind-numbing guard duty than before!


    Why? Was he not worthy? Preston had ced in the top half of all Soldiers in thest duelingpetition, he <em>knew</em> he was good enough! The thought of being left out grated at him, but the thought that he might have been considered not good enough grated at him even more. ¡°Is that Theo¡¯s wagon?¡± Rt asked.


    Keen for something to do, Preston turned his Unseen-blessed eyes upon the road to see the distant smudge rolling toward the gates.


    ¡°I think so. He¡¯ste,¡± Preston said.


    The estate ran on a strict schedule, even more so during the current troubles, and deliveries were supposed to be done before lunch. Morning shifts were much more entertaining for this reason. Dozens of deliveries, each needing to be inspected, lots to do, plenty of back and forth. The second shift, literally nothing happened. But, Theo <em>was </em>running well behind, it was mid-afternoon, and it would still take the better part of an hour for the wagon to arrive.


    ¡°Theo¡¯s neverte,¡± Rt stated.


    ¡°Could have just broken an axle or something,¡± Preston reasoned.


    ¡°We¡¯ll y it safe. I¡¯ll notify the sergeant.¡±


    ¡°About ate delivery?¡±


    The protest fell on deaf ears since Rt was already moving. He turned and marched to the gatehouse just inside the wall, entering a momentter. With his enhanced senses, Preston could hear the muffled conversation taking ce inside, but he merely shook his head. He <em>wished</em> something nefarious would happen; at least then he¡¯d have something to do.


    There were a hundred things that could have caused the grizzled wagoneer to bete on his delivery, each more dull and uninteresting than thest. The casks hadn¡¯t been loaded on time. The roads were degraded. The vineyard had been behind preparing the wine and cheese. A minuteter, Rt returned to his post and resumed his silent contemtion of the road and fields. When the wagon had covered half the distance toward the estate, Preston was surprised to find the sergeant had emerged from the gate house to join them, peering into the distance.


    ¡°That¡¯s not Theo,¡± the sergeant observed.


    ¡°What?¡± Preston said, and looked again, closer this time.


    Theo made a delivery every week, so he was familiar to almost every Soldier who served on the estate. Where Preston expected to see an old, ginger-haired man with a bristling moustache, he instead saw a wiry, pale-faced youth with sandy blond hair inexpertly guiding the horses before him down the road.


    ¡°That¡¯s definitely Theo¡¯s wagon, though, right?¡± Preston asked, holding a hand over his eyes to block the sun to get a better view.


    ¡°It is,¡± Sergeant Keens agreed. ¡°We¡¯ll need to do a full inspection when they arrive, along with a truth reading.¡±


    ¡°A truth reading? Is that necessary?¡±


    Surely, that was excessive for a delivery of wine and cheese for the family.


    ¡°Protocol, Footman Preston. Unless any of you recognise this individual, then this is their first visit to the estate. We go by the book. I¡¯ll get the Priest.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll be happy.¡±


    ¡°Father Olthis serves the Children of Divinity. I¡¯m sure he will be pious enough to fulfil his duty.¡±


    <em>Unlikely</em>.


    Not only did Father Olthis <em>serve</em> the Jorlin¡¯s, he <em>was</em> a Jorlin. Because of course, what Noble family would trust some random Priest with the protection of their estate? None, of course. Better to keep such matters within the family.


    It was an open secret that second and third children sent off to the Priesthood tended to have mixed feelings about the post, at best. They went from being the Hand of the Gods, to the Servants of the Gods.


    Quite the demotion.


    As it was, Father Olthis arrived looking none too pleased about being pulled from his chapel, but nevertheless, he waited patiently alongside the rest of them as they watched the wagon cover thest few kilometres.


    When it finally arrived, the young man holding the reigns drew the wagon inexpertly to a stop, already apologising before the wheels had finished turning.


    ¡°Sorry about beingte, my lords. There¡¯s been some unexpected difficulties today.¡±


    ¡°So I see,¡± Sergeant Keens grunted from behind his visor. ¡°Hop down from there so we can speak eye to eye.¡±


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    ¡°Oh, of course!¡±


    Clearly nervous, the young man climbed down from the driver''s seat andnded heavily in front of them, wincing a little as his boots met the stone road.


    ¡°Do you have your documents?¡± Keens asked, holding out a hand.


    ¡°Yes, absolutely. One moment¡­¡±


    The wagon driver reached into his worn, brown coat and started rummaging through his pockets.


    ¡°Ah, here is a letter from Wagoneer Theo Fetterman, exining his absence today. Broke his foot, poor man. Here¡¯s the letter of receipt from the Baln Brooks Vineyard and¡­ I¡¯m sure I have them here somewhere¡­ ah! Here are my papers.¡±


    The sergeant epted each of these, running his eyes down each page rapidly while Preston put himself in position to rush the young man should the need arise, trying to look nonchnt as he did so.


    ¡°Mister¡­ Booker?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my lord. Frederick Booker. I keep the ledgers for Mr. Theo, driving wagons isn¡¯t exactly one of my Skills, but there was nobody else, and Mr Theo wouldn¡¯t dream of missing this delivery.¡±


    ¡°I imagine not,¡± Keens grunted.


    Not with the rates the houses paid.


    The sergeant finished reading, folded the pages up and tucked them inside his armour.


    ¡°Rt, inspect the wagon. Father Olthis, if you please.¡±


    With a scowl, the Priest stepped forward, raised one hand, and began to chant. Soon, his hand emitted a soft, ethereal light that he held towards the wagon driver, who looked at it apprehensively.


    ¡°Answer my questions, that the gods might judge your answers to be true,¡± the Priest intoned. ¡°What is your name?¡±


    ¡°M-my name? Ah! My name is Frederick Booker, my lord. Father.¡±


    ¡°Did Theo Fetterman break his foot?¡±


    ¡°Y-yes. His ankle. This morning.¡±


    ¡°Did you collect these casks from the Jaln Brook vineyard?¡±


    ¡°I did. Father.¡±


    The Priest turned to the sergeant, his hand still held aloft.


    ¡°I trust that is sufficient?¡±


    ¡°Does he speak the truth?¡±


    ¡°I would have told you if he did not,¡± the Priest said, his tone clipped.


    ¡°Thank you for your time, Father Olthis,¡± sergeant Keens bowed. ¡°We are grateful for your assistance.¡±


    With a scoff, the Priest lowered his hand, letting the glow fade, and strode away, robes fluttering in the breeze. Meanwhile, Rt was carefully moving among the casks loaded onto the back of the wagon, a crystal array held in his hand.


    ¡°What does the crystal do?¡± the wagon driver asked, eyes wide with curiosity.


    Keens didn¡¯t bother to answer, but Preston chuckled at the young man¡¯s naive attitude.


    ¡°The array emits a light that breaks illusions. Making sure some nasty mage isn¡¯t sneaking something into the estate that they shouldn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Frederick said, though it was clear he did not.


    ¡°Come with me,¡± sergeant Keens said. ¡°We will perform a routine status inspection in the guardhouse, then you¡¯ll be clear to enter the estate.¡±


    ¡°Oh, thank you.¡±


    Rt inspected every inch of the wagon, going above and beyond what was expected while Preston watched from the ground. Dedication was one thing, but this was bing excessive. Still, he said nothing as the inspection was finished and the sergeant returned with the clerk turned wagoneer in tow. By this time, the sun had begun to dip over the horizon, and even if his fellow Soldiers weren¡¯t, Preston was quite eager for the shift to end.


    ¡°Ah, quick question, if you don¡¯t mind,¡± Frederick said, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his head. ¡°Is there any chance you could put me up in the stable overnight? I¡¯m not all that good at steering the horses, as you¡¯ve seen. It¡¯ll be pitch ck long before I make it back to the city.¡±


    An unorthodox request, but not unheard of.


    ¡°There¡¯s spare rooms in the barracks,¡± sergeant Keens told him. ¡°No need to use the stable.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s very generous of you,¡± Frederick smiled. ¡°I¡¯ll get this wagon unloaded and make my way back here once the horses are stabled. Will you still be on duty?¡±


    ¡°For two hours,¡± Keens confirmed.


    ¡°Again, thank you. I was terrified I¡¯d be caught out there in the dark,¡± Frederickughed nervously. ¡°It¡¯s rather dangerous to be alone on the roads these days.¡±


    With another awkwardugh, the young man climbed back into the driver''s seat of the wagon and began to guide the horses forward. There would be further inspections and questioning once he reached the storehouse, then more again at the stable.


    Preston shrugged his shoulders and returned to his duty, staring out once again to the darkening field of nothing before the gate. Shortly before their shift ended, a flustered-looking Frederick appeared, bowing and apologising until Keens grew irritated and told him to stop. They took him over to the barracks and had the housekeepers put him up in one of the empty rooms.


    His shift finally over, Preston headed straight to the drill yard, hoping to work out his frustration. After a few drills and several duels, three of which he won, two which he lost, he went straight for the bathhouse to soak his cares away before he retired to prepare for another day.


    Just because night had fallen didn¡¯t mean nothing was happening in the barracks, however. There would be two shifts overnight, the guardhouses, walls and watchposts manned at all hours of the day and night. For now, that was someone else¡¯s problem, and by the time he finally found his bunk and rolled in, Preston was already half asleep.


    Frederick Booker, however, was not asleep. He stood, alone in his room, arms pressed into the wall on either side of the mirror, gaze fixated on the reflection staring back at him.


    A subtle light flicked in his eyes, and he blinked feverishly. Gradually, his expression began to shift and his gaze hardened, until, finally, he drew a deep, shuddering breath.


    ¡°That was¡­ unpleasant,¡± he muttered to himself, running a hand across his face as he shuddered.


    He had learned <em>just</em> enough about magick from his mind-affecting spells to get himself into trouble. It had seemed like a trivial thing, to manipte his own mental state, but he hadn¡¯t appreciated just how¡­ <em>disturbing </em>it would be. He had honestly believed that he had been Frederick Booker. If his construct hadn¡¯t timed out correctly, would he have lived the rest of his life that way?


    Eventually what he¡¯d done to Theo would havee undone, and the man would have realised he had never met Frederick Booker and had handled his own finances his entire life.


    After another deep, steadying breath, he passed his hand over his face and watched as the false face wavered, then dissolved, revealing his true features beneath. It was not an improvement. He looked gaunt, almost haggard, and he¡¯d probably lost weight, again. Thankfully, the staff had been friendly and fed him a full meal. A kindness they would soon doubtlessly regret.


    As the night deepened, Tyron went to work. He withdrew a stick of chalk and bag of sand from his pack, innocuous enough items they would pass unremarked, but were capable of being used as a ritual medium. As quietly as he could, he used the chalk to draw arrays of runes around the room. Starting in the corners, he then moved to the centre of each wall, then the floor and ceiling. He worked at a smooth and steady pace, his hand never wavering as each intricate pattern and design waspleted wlessly on the first attempt. When it was done, he took the small knife from his pack and drew the de in a long, shallow line down his arm.


    It wasn¡¯t easy to cut into his hardened flesh, but he managed it eventually, though the process was more messy than he would have liked. Using his fingers, he felt around until he located what he was looking for, withdrawing the slivers of crystal from within the wound. These he cleaned in the washbasin before drying them and binding them into his arrays.


    Slowly, they began to absorb scraps of ambient magick, emitting a soft glow while Tyron bound his wound. He watched the cores carefully, assessing the strength of the light they gave off, until atst he was satisfied. Taking the sand, he began to draw the ritual circle on the floor.


    He¡¯d stepped out of the space, and though it was close, there would be enough room for his purposes. Dove had once called him a madman for performing a ritual in conditions simr to these, but what choice did he have? Attempting to bring even the simplest of magickal tools or ritual aids would have given him away instantly.


    Besides, it was in conditions like this that he truly thrived.


    With a confident hand, he swept from rune to rune, widening the circle as he went. Sigil after sigil, array after array, until finally, it was done.


    Within the Jorlin estate, surrounded by deadly foes, Tyron Sterm raised his hands, and began to speak.

 Chapter B4C49 - Nothing Runs Rampant

    Chapter B4C49 - Nothing Runs Rampant


    Herath Jorlin stirred in his sleep. Something tickled at the edge of his awareness, a touch as light as the fluttering wings of a butterfly brushing against his cheek. He would never have noticed at all, left to his wine-induced slumber, if only it hadn¡¯t persisted.


    His brow furrowed in his sleep as the subtle feeling of <em>wrongness</em> continued to grow, to poke against his magickally sensitive mind.


    Restless, he began to toss and turn, until finally he started awake, bolting upright in his bed, silk sheets spilling loose.


    ¡°What in the Divines¡¯¡­¡± he mumbled as he blearily grasped at the strange feeling that had roused him.


    His head hurt, his mouth was dry as a bone and he felt vaguely ill. Just how much had he drunk before bed? Fumbling for the nightstand, he conjured a globe of soft light with a flick of his wrist and took hold of the ss of chilled water the staff had left for him.


    Halfway to his lips, the ss slipped from suddenly numb fingers as the Magister realised just what he was sensing.


    ¡°No!¡± he cried, leaping from the bed, all thought of his poor condition driven from his head.


    He barely had the presence of mind to throw on his night robe before he burst out into the corridor, wild-eyed and shouting.


    ¡°Attack! We¡¯re under attack! Someone is casting a ritual in the estate!¡±Where were the family wards? They should be <em>screaming</em> right about now!


    As if conjured by his thoughts, light bloomed throughout the manor house and the wider estate, followed by a loud, sustained trumpet call. What had taken them so long?


    The previously dark and deserted corridor of the family wing transformed in a matter of seconds. Doors flew open as cousins, aunts and uncles burst from their rooms, each demanding answers or shouting for help. The staff arrived momentster, followed by the guards, who stormed in, weapons drawn, only rxing a hair when they saw the Jorlins were unharmed.


    ¡°What is the danger?¡± the officer, easily identified by the red plume rising from their helmet, demanded.


    ¡°You tell us!¡± Aunt Patricia shrieked, white-faced, her two young children clutched in her grasp. His two young cousins managed to hold themselves together, though both appeared on the edge of tears.


    ¡°There¡¯s a ritual being conducted on the grounds!¡± Herath eximed.


    ¡°Impossible! The wards¨C¡±


    ¡°Well they aren¡¯t bloody working,¡± Herath said. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ that way!¡±


    ¡°Do you know the form of the spell?¡± the officer demanded even as he directed his troops to rush toward the ritual site.


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s¡ª¡±


    Like scissors snapping shut on a thread, Herath could hear the moment the veil was torn open, and he could sense the endless hunger that dwelt upon the other side.


    ¡°¡ªtoote¡­¡± he groaned. ¡°They tore the veil. An abyssal is going toe through!¡±


    He had to give it to the officers, they were calm under pressure. A slight widening of the eyes was the only sign he had that this Soldier knew exactly what Herath was talking about.


    ¡°How long?¡± the officer demanded.


    ¡°No time,¡± Herath shook his head, ¡°it¡¯s alreadying through.¡±


    Expression grim, the Soldier turned and rattled off more orders, his followers racing off to get their tasks done, then he turned back to Herath.


    ¡°Are you able to reassure the family and get them moving to the bunker, my lord?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a high level mage, you need me,¡± Herath refused. ¡°Let me grab my items and I¡¯ll be back.¡±


    ¡°We have our own mages, my lord. My lord!¡±


    But Herath wasn¡¯t listening. He raced back to his rooms and ripped into his wardrobe, flinging the various shirts and state-robes onto the floor until he found his enchanted Magister robes and staff, pulling them on as quickly as he could. It took a little longer to get his jewellery on. Insidious, unintelligible whispers had started to nibble at the edge of his awareness, and his hands were shaking by the time he managed to get his rings and amulet in ce.


    When he emerged again, the family was beginning to fall into some sort of order. Guards were busy escorting them out of the corridor and down into the secure bunker using the emergency staircase concealed in this wing. They tried to get him to go as well, but he refused, pushing his way past and then took off running toward the site of the ritual.


    That¡¯s when he heard it. An Abyssal didn¡¯t make sound, not really, they weren¡¯t made in a way that let them interact with the world the way even the kin were. Even so, he heard it.


    A scream of utter <em>wrongness</em> reverberated through the estate, shivering in the air and twisting in Herath¡¯s gut. He staggered, but quickly righted himself, and continued to run.


    The scream didn¡¯t end. It merely grew more intense, along with the whispers.


    With his enchantments in ce alongside his mental training, Herath was able to resist the worst of the effects, but many in his family weren¡¯t. If the children didn¡¯t make it to the bunker soon...


    He grit his teeth and forced such considerations out of mind. If the creature wasn''t contained, and soon, it could do unbelievable damage.


    <em>It¡¯s in the barracks!</em>


    How in the world had someone managed to summon an abyssal while surrounded by the Jorlin family Soldiers?! It beggared belief! Adjusting course, he rounded a corner, and there it was.


    The room in which it had been summoned was no more, the walls, the roof, even chunks of the stone foundation had been <em>unmade</em>, eaten out of existence by the abyssal. The creature itself was a nightmare vision, despite there being nothing to look at. Despite the grounds being fully illuminated by the wards, the abyssal was a creature of pure darkness, like ink. It pooled and writhed,shing out with thousands upon thousands of limbs, some as thick as a tree trunk, others as thin as a wire. The scream rang out as the creature tried to consume the hated <em>stuff</em> that surrounded it, even as it was unmade in the act.


    Soldiers had already begun to form ranks around it,bining their Skills to form a wall of light that tried to ward off the abyssal and keep it back. Orders were being barked, men shouted and screamed, some had already copsed to their knees, blood streaming from their noses, while others wed at their ears, wailing as the whispers drove into their minds.


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    Armoured mages had gathered two dozen metres from the beast, chanting in unison as theyunched fire and bolts of magickal energy at the writhing monstrosity.


    Herath rushed towards them.


    ¡°Spread out!¡± he yelled. ¡°Spread out now! It can sense your magick!¡±


    Some turned to stare at him, clearly unsure as to who he was, while others recognised him immediately and began to put some distance between each other.


    Not a moment too soon, as a blotch of darkness arced overhead and stabbed down amongst them. One mage, too slow to react, was caught as thin limbs spidered out from the blotch andtched onto his leg. He barely had time to scream before the ck stuff of unreality raced up his body and wrapped itself around him. In moments, he was unmade, armour and all, vanished from the face of the realm.


    ¡°Cast and move! Cast and move!¡± Herath shouted at the other mages. ¡°If it touches you, cut off the limb <em>immediately</em>. You have a second or two maximum.¡±


    Then he turned and raised his staff, uttering the words of power. Red light manifested at the tip of his staff before he thrust it forward, sending a sizzling beam of dark light into the abyssal. Sticking to his own advice, he immediately ran to a new location, ignoring the screams all around him.


    The thing continued to chew through the barracks,tching globs of itself on the walls and dissolving them, but more and more it was reaching out, trying to find the people around it in order to consume them. The Soldiers had formed a half-circle, hemming the creature in and trying to press it into the barracks, content to let it eat the stone building and keep it away from the manor, but the footmen and women, despite their exhaustive training, were still more vulnerable to the mental attacks of an abyssal than the mages were.


    As he sted the monster with his next spell, he saw one soldier go down, screaming and holding her hands to her ears. For a moment, the wall of light flickered in that area as a gap was formed in the line. A moment was all the abyssal needed, stabbing out with a limb and catching a few soldiers around their arms.


    One was fast enough, bringing their de around in a glittering arc and severing their hand at the wrist; the other was not.


    More and more of the remaining Soldiers arrived, throwing themselves into the battle against the creature. If only the full garrison still remained, they would have been able to deal with this so much more easily.


    Herath cursed the summoner, cursed the heretics and cursed the Duke while he was at it. They must have known that the best of their Soldiers had been sent out of the estate, why else would they attack now?


    Gritting his teeth, he took a risk and nted his feet, raising his hands and beginning a longer cast. He watched closely as the magick built, each word giving shape and purpose to the power that dwelt within him. An orb of ominous, dark red light began to form above his head, growing brighter with each passing moment.


    Sweat poured down his face as he continued the spell, expecting ance of pure darkness to stab out towards him at any moment. As he reached the final words, he was almost shouting, his voice shaking from the strain.


    He directed the orb forward before he turned and dove to the side. Springing up, he broke into a sprint, looking over his shoulder to see a puddle of darkness connected by the finest of strings back to the main body. The orb floated forward,ing to a stop just above the writhing monster and discharging a beam of destruction straight down.


    If possible, the scream emanating from the <em>unthing</em> grew more intense, rattling against Herath¡¯s mind. Dozens of soldiers cried out in pain, and several were lost as they slipped in the deployment of their Skills.


    ¡°Wear it down!¡± Herath shouted above the fray, using magick to enhance his voice. ¡°It can¡¯t be injured, only diminished! Keep striking until there is nothing left!¡±


    An Abyssal would rampage until it was no longer able to hold itself together, at which point it would copse and dissolve, its body eaten away by the material realm.


    All they could do was hasten the process by battering it with whatever they had. More mages were starting to follow Herath¡¯s lead. Moving further away from the creature and taking time tounch more powerful spells.


    Time and time again, the abyssal hurled itself at the shield wall, trying to get closer to the mages and the magick it could senseing off them, but was repelled. In rage, it struck and screamed,shing against the wall of light, which red and rippled with power every time it was struck.


    ¡°Hold the line, damn you!¡± their officer bellowed. ¡°Fall back and let someone else take your ce if you can no longer stand!¡±


    That was someone Herath recognised: Janus, co-captain of the Soldiers and the highest ranking officer left in the estate. At least he was still alive. As one of the highest levelled soldiers, he projected an aura of surety and confidence. Everywhere he walked, the troops stood taller, their minds hardening against the whispers.


    At least the break in the weave was no longer of their concern. The Abyssal had obliterated the remains of the ritual in the act ofing through, removing the magick that had opened a path for it in the first ce.


    When he judged it to be safe, Herath measured his distance and raised his hands again. Though it tried, the Abyssal wasn¡¯t able to get to him before hepleted the spell. Once again, the orb flew forward and discharged its light directly into the inky centre of the creature.


    With a shuddering scream, the creature shrank in on itself before once more starting tosh out.


    ¡°It¡¯s starting to break apart!¡± Herath yelled. ¡°Don¡¯t relent!¡±


    His words rallied the Soldiers, and a rain of magick began to arc overhead before pouring down on the beast, who railed and writhed, smashing itself into the shield wall again and again but failed to break through.


    In desperation, the Abyssal whipped its limbs around, slipping past the edges of the shield wall and catching the outer footmen off guard. Several were lost in a few seconds, but that was all it took before Captain Janus was in position, nting his tower shield and bellowing defiance at the beast.


    With one final barrage, the Abyssal copsed yet again. It gave one final screeching wail, forcing Herath to clench his teeth against the pain, then began to dissolve, drifting into the sky like ash from a bonfire.


    The moment it no longer held itself together, the scream and the whispers finally ceased, causing many to copse from sheer relief. All around the courtyard, Soldiers stood, knelt or had copsed entirely. Herath took a deep breath, then another, letting his jangled nerves settle a little.


    Captain Janus strode through his men, offering a word of encouragement here, a tap on the shoulder there, but quickly found his way to Herath.


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have been out here, my lord,¡± the Captain groused.


    ¡°I¡¯m a Magister, Janus. I can fight a nightmare creature from beyond the veil if I want to. If my brother Nostas were out here, <em>then</em> you¡¯d have something toin about.¡±


    ¡°We are here to protect the Jorlins, not let them fight alongside us,¡± Janus said, eyes steady. ¡°You are not to risk yourself unnecessarily.¡±


    ¡°Alright, fine,¡± Herath said, holding up his hands. ¡°I¡¯ll head to the bunker like a good little lord. I¡¯ll leave the glory of catching the villian to you.¡±


    ¡°As it should be,¡± the Captain grunted. ¡°Though we may need your help afterwards. The family wards should have blocked any ritual taking ce within the estate.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right, they should have,¡± Herath nodded, looking up to the peak of the manor.


    A dome atop the house contained the many powerful arrays that could be deployed in the defence of the estate. The magick suppression should have kicked into effect the moment the ritual had begun.


    He opened his mouth to say something, then froze halfway.


    ¡°Another ritual,¡± he whispered.


    ¡°What? Where?¡± barked the Captain.


    ¡°Inside the manor! Follow me!¡± Herath yelled, taking off at a sprint.


    ¡°Get in the bunker, you fool!¡± Janus shouted from behind, but quickly turned to roar at his troops.


    Much faster than he, the Soldiers were on his heels in an instant, but all Herath could think of was <em>how</em>. How had someone managed to defeat the wards, not once, but twice? Even he had barely managed to sense the rituals until they were almostpleted!


    Inside the building, past weeping maids and white-faced pageboys, Herath ran until he came to a skidding halt just outside the ballroom.


    Janus and another officer crashed into the grand doorway with their shoulders lowered.


    The doors sted open to reveal an arch of bone upying the centre of the floor, a door lodged in the middle.


    And a man, lowering his hands.


    ¡°Herath Jorlin?¡± the unknown mage said, turning towards them. ¡°Your friend Poranus told me about you. I¡¯ve been wanting to speak with you for some time.¡±


    Then he reached out and opened the door.


    From within emerged a skeleton, but not just any skeleton. It was enormous, as if the bones of a giant had been used to craft it. Twice as tall as a man, it had to hunch low to squeeze itself through the door. Silent as a tomb, it stepped toward the soldiers, a ck de that trailed dark smoke clutched in one hand.


    ¡°Let¡¯s chat, shall we?¡± the mage said.

 Chapter B4C50 - The Tide of Death

    Chapter B4C50 - The Tide of Death


    Following the bone giant, a horde of smaller skeletons emerged, some bearing cauldrons of bone that they nted on the ground and began to activate.


    ¡°Charge!¡± bellowed Captain Janus. ¡°Don¡¯t give them time!¡±


    Following his own words, the high level Soldier sted forwards, sword aglow with bright light, but even he wasn¡¯t fast enough. Clouds of darkness boiled out of the cauldrons and filled the ballroom in moments. Herath, frozen in ce at being called by name, and by the mention of his colleague, blinked as he became enveloped in the cloud.


    ¡°It¡¯s magick,¡± he said on instinct. ¡°It probably doesn¡¯t affect the undead.¡±


    ¡°Dispel it!¡± Janus roared. ¡°Advance into the darkness and fight, they¡¯re only skeletons!¡±


    But how many were there? Within the cloud, it was impossible to tell, Herath could barely see his hands in front of his face, but he began to work on a counterspell, as did several other mages. The footmen once again formed their line, walking step by step into the unknown with their shields up.


    A spear of bone glowing with an ethereal purple light shed past Herath¡¯s head and smashed into the wall behind him, sending shards flying in all directions. The spell died on his lips and he frantically recovered before the magick could copse, but began to hunch down lower.


    Bolts of darkness began to fly, along with more spears, until it became obvious that there were far too many spells to be cast by a single man. An odd creaking noise filled the room before a massive de emerged from the darkness to crash down on the shield wall, which red with light and bounced back the strike.


    Then it came again. Then another massive de, but from a different direction. Each time, the wall held, but Herath was nervous. They had just finished battling against an Abyssal. Would the Soldiers be able to hold?He finished his counterspell and thrust his staff forward, directing the magick into the cloud that surrounded them.


    Immediately, it began to disperse in the area around himself, but stubbornly persisted elsewhere. The spell contained too much magick to be eliminated by his spell alone, but thankfully Herath wasn¡¯t by himself. Other magespleted their own spells, and the cloud was driven back, revealing the still advancing Soldiers, but also the wall of skeletons arrayed before them.


    Amongst them stood a strange figure, covered in green, ghostly flesh and bedecked in dark armour. Holding a de and shield, it took its ce amongst the undead.


    ¡°Come,¡± it said, ¡°bring me a final death.¡±


    With a roar, Janus lunged forward and the two shield lines crashed into each other. Herath expected to see the skeletons crumple before the strength of the house Soldiers, but to his shock, though they were driven back, they held. Again, the two giants stepped forward, swinging their enormous des down from behind the line of skeletons and mming them into the shield wall.


    Several Soldiers staggered as they gave their all to maintain the barrier, but still, the light held, and the footmen began to exchange blows against the skeletons at the front. The more they traded blows, the clearer it became just how outssed the skeletons were. Against the polished and high levelled sword Skills of the Soldiers, the undead were wholly inadequate, but each time one fell, another would step forward to take its ce.


    Then came the words of power.


    Herath had never heard anything like it. Each syble resounded in the air like a hammerblow. He could <em>feel</em> it in his chest! It was difficult to cast, difficult to think. Just what was happening?


    The answer came in the form of a cold that pierced straight to the bone. In seconds, the Magister began to shiver, his breath a dense mist every time he exhaled.


    ¡°Dispel? Mages, are you awake?!¡± Janus roared.


    The Captain had cut down a dozen skeletons and pressed his way to the front where he¡¯d now locked des with the strange, speaking undead. Even in the face of Janus¡¯ Skills, the strange creature held its ground, aided by the magickal frost.


    Snapping back to himself, Herath frowned, gathered his thoughts and ran back to the other mages.


    ¡°Form a shield!¡± he yelled. ¡°We need cover from the spells. Three mages on counterspell. The rest of us cast offensive magick. Alright?¡±


    The mages, still rattled from their harrowing experience against the Abyssal, nodded and gripped their staves. At that moment, an arrow whistled through the air and smashed against the wall just above their heads.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get that shield up,¡± he urged the others.


    In the freezing cold, it was difficult for the mages to form sigils, but they endured. It took a precious few minutes before they were finally able to stand against the hail of spells and arrows being sent their way. Two minutes in which the Soldiers fought against the undead while the cold sunk into their flesh and pierced their bones.


    When the frost was finally dispersed, the battle in the dining hall had ground to a halt. Herath was dipping deep into his pool of magick, conjuring the destruction beams and globes, trying to snipe the ghostly skeleton or bring down the giants. His attempts were frequently thwarted, the spells crumbling before they were halfway to their targets or shot out of the air with counter-magick.


    More Soldiers had arrived to bolster the lines, but there didn¡¯t seem to be any shortage of skeletons either.


    Then that voice rang out again. Herath could feel his blood pounding in his ears along with the rapid beat of the words of power.


    ¡°Prepare counter-magick!¡± Herath yelled, clutching his staff.


    But the spell wasn¡¯t aimed at them. Towards the edge of the shield wall, the skeletons pounced on the outermost soldier, six of them raining blows upon him. They forced him out of the wall, and then the spellpleted.


    At once, the Soldier copsed, screaming, as a stream of bright red blood streamed through the air and deep into the ranks of the undead. When it reached its destination, it began to pool and spread, as if it had touched an invisible, spherical barrier.


    Except there wasn¡¯t, Herath realised, the blood <em>was</em> the barrier.


    Surrounded by the shifting sphere of blood, he could finally pick out the mage from amongst the crowd. At some point, he¡¯d donned armour, the same ck bone-like material the undead wore, a helm covering his features.


    ¡°Bring down the mage!¡± Janus roared. ¡°He¡¯s controlling all of them!¡±


    In response, the Necromancer, for that is what he had to be, raised a staff and began to speak once more.


    Words of power thundered, and reality bent.


    Dark power began to emanate from the des of the undead.


    Words of power thundered, and reality bent.


    The skeletons became empowered, infused with ck magick, moving faster, striking harder.


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    Words of power thundered, and reality bent.


    Once more, the cloud of darkness bloomed, filling the hall in moments and blinding the mages and footsoldiers alike.


    ¡°Counterspell!¡± Herath demanded. ¡°We need an anti-magick field in ce!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re trying!¡± one of the armoured mages called back.


    ¡°Try harder,¡± someone said.


    Herath turned to the source of the voice, and came face to face with a ghostly face masked in bone armour. Heshed out with his staff, but the undead spun away, and then the skeletons were amongst them. The Magister roared in defiance and sted the undead in front of him, scattering the bones with a bolt of magick, but another took its ce. Soon, the gathered mages were fighting desperately to hold off the waves of grinning skeletons who shed at them with their smoking des.


    How had they even gotten here, Herath wondered. The answer came to him almost immediately, and he cursed himself for not thinking about it earlier. There were two entrances to the ballroom, one on either end. The Necromancer had simply sent his servants out the other door and looped them around to hit them in the back, using the cloud of darkness to cover their approach.


    Desperate, Herathshed out with all the power he had left, trying to force the undead away, or at least destroy as many as he could. Every now and again, he would catch glimpses of the strange, speaking undead as it darted in and out of the fight, striking at the mages through the gaps in their armour, shing their limbs or trying to slice their arteries before spinning back into the darkness,ughing all the while.


    He¡¯d only been in this close quarters fight for a few minutes, but it felt like hours. His breath came in desperate heaves as he conjured up the dregs of his magick, trying to force more power through his body for just one more spell. He¡¯d just used a beam of destruction to obliterate the skull of one skeleton when suddenly, captain Janus was by his side, emerging from the dark cloud, bleeding from a gash on his temple.


    ¡°You need to get out of here, now!¡± the captain bellowed, shoving at his side.


    ¡°What? We are fighting here!¡±


    ¡°We are losing! Your safety isn¡¯t guaranteed. Retreat to the family bunker, <em>now</em>.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t!¡± Herath replied hotly, his frayed nerves pushing his temper to the limit.


    Janus span, catching an attack that slipped out of the shadows square on the face of his shield as if he¡¯d known it wasing all along. The captain shed out, too fast for Herath''s eyes to see, and another undead crumpled.


    ¡°You bloody <em>will</em>,¡± Janus said grimly. ¡°Our duty is to the family above everything else.¡±


    Without any further argument, the powerful Soldier grabbed hold of Herath and tossed the protesting mage over his shoulder. No matter how the Magister cursed, kicked or threatened, Janus ignored him, cutting his way through every undead who tried to bar his way, finally bursting out of the ballroom, out of the dark cloud and leaving the desperate sounds of fighting behind.


    ¡°We have to go back!¡± Herath shouted. ¡°Those are your people fighting back there!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re doing their duty,¡± Janus replied. ¡°As am I.¡±


    ¡°My brother will hear of this!¡± Herath railed, still trying to break himself free. It was hopeless, but he had to try. Physically, he was no match for the veteran Soldier, and unless he was willing to attack with magick, there was no way for him to free himself.


    ¡°Good. He¡¯ll agree with me.¡±


    Janus found the hidden entrance and began running down the stairs, causing Herath to jostle painfully against his armour. When they reached the bottom, the Magister was finally set on his feet.


    ¡°Down this corridor. The door will be closed, but they¡¯ll open it for you. Go, now,¡± Janus demanded.


    Before he couldin, the captain turned and raced back up the stairs, his grim expression causing the final words of protest to die on Herath¡¯s lips. Head spinning, unable to process what had happened, and how quickly, he staggered down the narrow corridor, clutching his staff.


    There were several entrances to this undergroundwork of tunnels, but they all eventually converged on the bunker, the refuge for the family when the manor was under attack. The great doors were reinforced and enchanted to withstand just about anything, the space behind stocked with enough supplies andforts to abide the Jorlins for several days if need be.


    Shaking and defeated, Herath staggered forward before he raised a hand to hammer on the door.


    ¡°It¡¯s Herath!¡± he called. ¡°Let me in!¡±


    He hung his head and waited, a thousand questions swirling through his head. Who was this mysterious mage? How had they gotten ess to the estate? How in the realm had they managed to subvert the wards? None of it seemed possible. Was this the doing of another of the houses?


    That was possible. Certainly more usible than a rogue Necromancer overthrowing the estate single-handedly. After a while, he emerged from his thoughts and realised the door hadn¡¯t opened. Once again, he pounded on the surface with one fist.


    ¡°Hello? It¡¯s me, Herath Jorlin! They¡¯re still fighting out there, let me in!¡±


    Again, stony silence was all he got in return. Could they really not hear him from inside? That shouldn¡¯t be possible.


    A cold realisation began to grow in his heart.


    ¡°Now that, I didn¡¯t expect,¡± a voice said from behind him.


    Herath spun and found the mage standing a dozen metres behind him. With his gaunt, pale face, and d in his armour of ck bone, the invader looked like a spectre of death itself.


    Before he could raise his staff to cast, Herath became engulfed in a cloud of ck magick that resolved itself into a fist, crushing him within its grasp. He cried out in pain as he felt his bones grinding against each other. Everywhere the spell touched him burned, as if it were eating his flesh away.


    ¡°Herath Jorlin,¡± the Necromancer stated. ¡°I¡¯m very pleased to make your acquaintance.¡±


    ¡°I wish I could say the same,¡± the Magister grated through clenched teeth, trying to hold himself against the pain.


    The Necromancer ced his staff to one side, then raised his hands to lift the helmet from his head. Dark haired, and much younger than Herath had expected, the mage watched Herath struggle with infinitely cold eyes.


    ¡°I had the opportunity to spend some time with your colleague, Poranus. I spent an enlightening afternoon rummaging through his memory.¡±


    ¡°Impossible!¡± Herath ground out.


    ¡°Not so. For instance, I learned that you were one of the Magisters who was tasked with bringing Magnin and Beory Sterm to heel. Isn¡¯t that right?¡±


    The Sterms? Why would this mage even bother asking him about the Sterms?


    In his chaotic state of mind, it took some time for the realisation to finally break through.


    ¡°What¡­ is your name?¡±


    The mage watched him with icy, glittering eyes.


    ¡°I am Tyron Sterm. That was my mother and father you tortured to death.¡±


    In that moment, Herath realised that he was dead. No, that wouldn¡¯t even be the end of it. Death would only be the beginning of his suffering. Divines only knew what the Necromancer was capable of doing to his soul. Eventually, the bastard would be caught and defeated, allowing Herath to find his final rest, but until then¡­


    ¡°You have me,¡± Herath said, ¡°you don¡¯t need the rest. Take me, and leave. If you don¡¯t run soon, you¡¯ll be caught. Leave the rest and go.¡±


    Tyron cocked his head to the side, as if puzzled by what he was seeing.


    ¡°Why would you think I would ever leave them? They are just as guilty as you are.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s children in there!¡± Herath spat, incredulous. ¡°In what way are they guilty?¡±


    If this maniac wanted to take out his anger against his aunts and uncles, fine. But the children? What would be the point?!


    ¡°They are Nobles,¡± Tyron shrugged. ¡°Born with the blood of the Divines running through their veins.¡±


    ¡°So they were born guilty? That¡¯s insane!¡±


    At that, Tyron finallyughed, a wry chuckle as he shook his head. Caught in the grip of the fist, Herath could do nothing but tremble with rage. He couldn¡¯t even hear fightinging from above, which meant everyone was already dead.


    ¡°How many thousands of children have been purged in thest few months? Or better yet, let¡¯s think bigger. How many <em>millions</em> have been ughtered over the centuries for the crime of not worshipping The Five? You¡¯re outraged at the death of a handful hiding beneath their family estate? Why? Because they¡¯re rted to you?¡±


    Tyron tsked.


    ¡°Bitte to find your empathy, isn¡¯t it, Magister?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re mad,¡± Herath spat. ¡°It won¡¯t be long until you¡¯re put down like a dog. When word of this spreads, the entire Nobility will hunt you down and crush you beneath their boots.¡±


    The Necromancer stepped forward and began to examine the door, running a hand along the reinforced steel surface.


    ¡°Well¡­ who¡¯s going to tell them what they saw? I¡¯m sure there will be many traces of the Abyssal, and signs of death magick all over the ce, but sadly, they¡¯re going to struggle to find any witnesses. This really is quite the door.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean no witnesses?¡± Herath said.


    ¡°I mean everyone on this estate, excluding you and whoever is behind this door, is already dead.¡±


    The staff? The maids? The gardeners and cooks and page boys and their families?


    ¡°Are you even human?¡± Herath whispered, slumped in defeat.


    For the first time, Tyron stepped forward and touched him, taking a fistful of Herath¡¯s long, blonde hair and yanking up his head so he could stare him in the face.


    ¡°You helped torture my parents to death. You tell me.¡±

 Chapter B4C51 - Walk in the Dark

    Chapter B4C51 - Walk in the Dark


    Tyron took onest nce behind him at the Jorlin manor. There was little he could do to fully conceal his presence there. The signs of the Abyss, the ritual magick he¡¯d performed, and the stench of death magick would remain, hanging thick in the air for any mage to find. The better ones might even be able to discern the types of spells he¡¯d used in the fighting, at least in a general sense.


    But there were no witnesses remaining, none that remained alive, at any rate.


    He¡¯d gathered up and stored every spirit he could find, but something had happened which he hadn¡¯t quite expected. Some of the souls, notably, those of the noble descendants, though not all of them, had vanished after he¡¯d killed them. It appeared the idea that a heaven of some sorts may actually exist for the followers of The Five Divines may actually be true. Those souls had gone <em>somewhere</em>, and he doubted they¡¯d been able to cross over to the realm of the dead so quickly.


    It had been grating to miss out on those spirits, but he had the ones he¡¯d <em>really</em> wanted, and more than enough to pay his tolls.


    The skeletons had been stored away safely in the Ossuary, though it was a good thing they didn¡¯t care too much about beingfortable, along with all the materials he could bring with him. It was time to go. He turned back to face forward and, just as the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, Tyron stepped through the whispering hole in the Veil and vanished from his home realm.


    The moment he was through, he ended the ritual and allowed the entrance to close behind him, leaving himself surrounded by the endless dark.


    Creatures of the Abyss already surrounded him, their whispers tugging at the threads of his sanity, trying to pick them loose and worm themselves into the gaps. He could understand them so much better now, but he wasn¡¯t sure that it helped. The secrets they offered were dark, twisted things, knowledge that mortals were not meant to possess. If he allowed himself to listen, to be tempted by what they offered, they would infect him with their madness that way, and im him all the same.


    Extending a hand before him, Tyron ignited a globe of <em>unlight</em>, and the voices retreated, unwilling to be touched by its rays. It didn¡¯t illuminate much, if that was even the right word, but it showed enough that Tyron had finally realised the Abyss was not nearly as empty as it first appeared. He didn¡¯t understand this ce as much as he would have liked, he was always short on time. It was his most precious resource by a considerable distance.


    Studying the Abyss and trying to extract, safely, whatever was useful to him could have been the pursuit of a lifetime, decades at the least, but that was time he couldn¡¯t afford.He strode forward, the globe held above his upward-facing palm. The whispers were quieter now, but not gone. The denizens of this ce were endlessly hungry for any taste of the material realms they could get. It was likely there was nothing he could ever do to chase them away entirely.


    That didn¡¯t mean there weren¡¯t <em>other</em> things that could drive them back.


    The deeper he walked into the Abyss, treading the strange and un-real paths of that ce, the softer the whispers became, as he drew nearer and nearer to something the Abyssals were not willing to approach.


    Its presence was so impossibly vast, it wasn¡¯t possible for Tyron to grasp the sheer scale of it. If the Abyssal who had attacked the estate had been a river fish, then this creature was the Empire. Were they even the same species at that point? Did they share the same origins at all? He didn¡¯t know. What he did know was that this entity was truly ancient, older than Rot, Raven and Crone, who had been born when his realm came into existence, and immeasurably powerful. Should this creature find a way to breach the Veil and enter his realm, it would be snuffed out in moments.


    A wall of darkness <em>shifted</em> before him as the being became aware of his presence. To avoid angering it, he snuffed out the light and quickly rummaged through his robes for what he had promised.


    As he grasped hold of the stones and held them out, the entity focused its attention on him, and he felt it reach out.


    An instantter, Tyron fell to his knees, screaming as blood poured from his ears and eyes. His hands rose to w at his face, to try and dig the crawling whispers out from under his skin, but he stopped himself just in time.


    The presence retreated, leaving Tyron to heave and shudder in the darkness as he tried to still his thoughts.


    <em>I heard nothing I know nothing I heard nothing I know nothing I heard nothing I know nothing.</em>


    He repeated the mantra on a loop until his mind had stilled, allowing him to gently push the memory of what he had felt in that moment away into the recesses of his mind. If he wanted to remain sane, he needed to avoid ever analysing those thoughts too closely.


    When he believed he had control of himself again, he stood, only to flinch back when the presence drew closer once more. However, this time it had managed to calibrate itself more appropriately to his tolerance.


    Void Speech wasn¡¯t trulynguage, not the way that Tyron understood it, anyway. It was thoughts, bent around themselves into shapes that conveyed meaning to the recipient. The Abyssals couldn¡¯t <em>talk</em>, but they were able to reach into each other''s minds and weave borate chains of thought and memory that allowed them tomunicate. He wasn¡¯t especially proficient at it, but if the entity wanted to speak to him, there was nothing he could do to prevent it from cing its thoughts into his head.


    The entity expressed frustration.


    ¡°I¡¯m a fragile little mortal,¡± Tyron told it, ¡°too delicate to engage with you on almost any level at all.¡±


    Had it tried tomunicate with him when he¡¯d been at level one, even this, squeezing its thoughts down to the smallest and simplest form it could manage, would have boiled his brain inside his head. He¡¯d grown many, many times stronger since then, but it was nothing in the face of this creature.


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    The entity demanded the payment that had been agreed on, and Tyron held out the stones.


    ¡°Take these, and then I will fetch the rest.¡±


    He still didn¡¯t know why this being craved souls the way it did. As far as he knew, Abyssal¡¯s didn¡¯t need to eat, so it wasn¡¯t consuming them for sustenance. There was a great deal he¡¯d managed to learn about souls, that they could be containers and conduits for magick, for example. A suspicion had grown within him that this was the exact reason the being desired them. Souls were not <em>stuff</em>, so they were able to exist within the Abyss, but they could contain things: thoughts, memories, magick, perhaps more. It was possible he was smuggling something to this creature that it couldn¡¯t get any other way via the medium of souls.


    As his offerings were drawn away, screaming into the void, Tyron carefully avoided listening to their horrified pleas and withdrew the next batch of stones. Those souls too, were drawn away, vanishing within the entity, never to be heard from again.


    The creature wasn¡¯t satisfied, it could never be satisfied, but it understood that Tyron had upheld his end of their bargain. To his surprise, it did not withdraw itself immediately, but remained, a tiny fment of its mind connected to his own.


    The entity was curious if the sacrifice had been sessful.


    ¡°Yes. Your¡­ child¡­ performed admirably. It killed many and consumed much before it was destroyed.¡±


    The entity withdrew for a moment, but not before Tyron had sensed the edges of the bottomless hunger that had surged upward at his words.


    It hadn¡¯t been easy to negotiate with the creature to obtain exactly what he¡¯d wanted, but somehow they¡¯d been able to reach an agreement. The Abyssal that had attacked the estate hadn¡¯t actually been a ¡®child¡¯ of this being, Tyron had no idea how or if they reproduced, but that was the closest word to approximate how they felt about it. He¡¯d needed a weak Abyssal to cross over, as a regr one could have possibly torn the entire estate to shreds, especially given the majority of the House''s Soldiers, and their strongest, were absent from the estate.


    Such a weak Abyssal would never have a chance to cross over under normal circumstances, pushed away from the tear in the Veil by those stronger than it. The entity had intervened to ensure the weaker creature made it through, and guaranteed Tyron would not be harmed by it.


    The presence returned once more, and the entity expressed curiosity.


    ¡°I am willing to trade,¡± Tyron said, ¡°should the right cause arise.¡±


    This had be a pattern with the entity. It was unwilling to let him leave without extracting a promise to return with more souls, and Tyron wasn¡¯t in any position to deny it. If he tried, he felt he may be consumed on the spot, his own soul ripped from his body and devoured by the impossible creature before him.


    Flickers of thought came to Tyron, glimpses, whispers, hints of secrets and knowledge that tempted him sorely. Mysteries of life, death, ess to distant realms, ways to breach the nes, the nature of magick itself and even the hidden nature of the Unseen, all were offered to him, if only he were willing to pay the staggering price.


    Tyron could feed this creature millions upon millions of souls and still not scratch the surface of what it knew.


    By the realm, how he wanted to.


    The Abyss was the only ce that was equidistant from every point of reality. It was as close to Tyron¡¯s realm as it was to every other, and the creature before him had the power to peer through the Veil and see all of it, though it could never cross over.


    With enough souls, he could learn the secrets held by The Divines themselves, find the way to bring them down from wherever they dwelt and wring the immortal life from their bodies.


    Almost choking with desire for all that was offered, Tyron shook his head slowly.


    ¡°I am not in a position to pay,¡± he said. ¡°Perhaps something smaller?¡±


    The entity wasn¡¯t angered by this. It was ancient beyondprehension, and knew exactly what it was doing. Tyron could not, or would not, pay such a price now. Butter? When he¡¯d been driven to a corner and exhausted his other options? When he¡¯d tried again and again to find his own way and failed every time?


    Perhaps then, the temptation would grow too great.


    So instead, Tyron listened as the being offered trinkets instead of the diamonds it had shown him before. Slivers of knowledge, individual runes of power, a sigil he might find useful, a piece of a spell, the cost would only be dozens of souls, not hundreds, or thousands¡­ or more.


    Tyron agreed to pay to learn of a sigil that dealt with energy trantion, and though he could afford the price right now with the many souls he had harvested and stored in the Ossuary, he did not offer to pay. If he did, the entity would only refuse to let him leave once more until he had agreed to another deal.


    Finally, the entity withdrew entirely, leaving Tyron alone once more in the darkness. He felt great relief.


    Conjuring his strange globe once more, he set off in another direction, navigating the bizarre paths of the Abyss until he came to the ce he desired. It was still marked, just as he had left it, though he hadn¡¯t expected his sigils to survive. Perhaps it <em>was</em> possible to create something here, though the cost would be¡­ unpleasant.


    Another ritual was performed, and the Abyssals gathered around, driven wild by the sense of the Veil growing thin, but here also, Tyron was protected by the great being. With its gaze upon him, none dared to rush forward and devour him before forcing their way through the narrow way he had created. With a final shudder, Tyron stepped through and closed the Veil behind him, almost sighing aloud as the final fingertips digging into his mind released their hold, dragged away against their will.


    Tyron stood, once again, in the warehouse which he had left, well to the west of Kenmor. It would be a journey of several hours to return to the city; hopefully the carriage driver was waiting as he¡¯d agreed to do.


    Carefully, he stripped off his clothes and scrubbed himself with the wash basin and soap he¡¯d prepared, burning the discarded clothing until not a shred of it remained. He also pulled off the enchanted rings and bracelets he¡¯d prepared, tossing those too into the fire and feeding the fire array with magick until they werepletely destroyed, the cores ruined beyond recognition.


    Only then did he dry himself and dress once more in clean and untainted garments.


    He emerged into the early dawn light to find that his rented carriage had indeed waited through the night for him. A blessing. Walking to the main road and gging one down would have taken him a day.


    ¡°Hello there, Master Almsfield. Find what you were looking for?¡± the driver started as he saw Tyron approach, once more wearing the kinder, gentler face of the enchanter.


    ¡°Very much so, Master Wilox.¡±


    ¡°Please, Master Almsfield, I beg you. I drive a carriage for a living. If my associates heard you call me ¡®Master¡¯ I¡¯d be kicked in the plums every morning for a week. Arn is fine.¡±


    ¡°As you say, Arn. Are you prepared for the journey back to the capital?¡± Tyron asked as he settled himself inside the carriage with a sigh.


    ¡°Not a problem, Master Almsfield. I went and picked up a pastry for you from the nearby vige as well, if you don¡¯t mind. Tasty little thing, if I do say so myself, though perhaps not to your standards.¡±


    Tyron looked about and found a small te with a golden crusted treat sitting atop it next to him. He gathered it up, and though it was mostly cool, it still had a pleasant warmth when he bit into it. The taste of gravy, minced beef and roasted vegetables filled his mouth as he deliberately chewed. He did need to eat more.


    ¡°You just earned yourself an extra gold, Arn.¡±

 Chapter B4C52 - Welcome Strangers

    Chapter B4C52 - Wee Strangers


    Rurin felt the sh of her de against another person¡¯s for the first time in her life and found she didn¡¯t like it.


    The Soldier was good, well trained and equipped, with a shining steel breastte and helmet that radiated with enchantments. They blocked her sh and immediately moved to riposte, de flickering through the air, almost seeming to ignore the intervening space.


    However, they were not gold.


    With one gauntleted fist, Rurin bashed the strike to the side, crouched low and leapt forward. Even her enhanced vision wasn¡¯t enough to prevent her sight from blurring as she sted forward at ridiculous speeds. Her de, perfectly weighted and aimed with inhuman precision, punched through that shining breastte with ease, her monstrous, Unseen-enhanced strength, and her Skills, designed to pierce even the toughest of kin, were simply too much.


    Her brand red into life, burning and searing at her nerves, forcing Rurin to clench her teeth and shut her eyes against the unbelievable pain. If she hadn¡¯t advanced beyond the strength of her curse, she would have been brought to her knees, unable to move.


    Rurin watched the light fade from the eyes of her opponent, then lifted her sword with one hand, the body rising along with it. With a flick of her wrist, she sent it tumbling away.


    ¡°I hate this,¡± she groaned.


    Just because she hated it didn¡¯t mean she had any option but to keep going. The fighting continued all around her, and her people were outmatched. She could see it in the way they coordinated, the way they tried to fight, instinctively, as if they were facing kin.


    yers didn¡¯t bunch up, that just made them easy targets. They spread out, trying to bnce aggression with caution, always alert to the dangers confronting their teammates and ready to intervene. The Soldiers didn¡¯t behave that way. They fought in tight formations and moved as a single unit. If an individual yer approached, they would turn as one, confronting the opponent with a wall of shields and a flurry of des.Other members of the team would fly in to relieve the pressure on their ally, only to be rounded on in turn. The tactics that worked against the beasts were not as effective against trained humans, and it was showing.


    It was a good thing she was there.


    She flicked her de again, sending the blood still marring the steel flying into the grass as she sized up their opponents. The Soldiers had formed a solid frontline, with Magisters and Priests behind, providing spell support along with divine blessings and healing.


    The smart thing to do would have been to circle around and try to find an angle to assault the weaker backline. If she managed to get amongst them, she could rip the mages apart in moments, but she suspected that it may be a trap.


    Marshals were notorious for their ability to lock people down, rob them of their strongest Skills, even reduce the physical stats of their foes. If she charged in, there was a chance she¡¯d find herself cursed, bound and weakened as a dozen different spells and abilities rained down on her.


    Instead, she chose to do things the simple way, which was generally her preference anyway.


    She was a Vanguard. An Ascended Vanguard now, and she did her best work up close and personal.


    Rurin rushed forward faster than the eye could follow, lowered her shoulder andunched herself directly at the shield of the Soldier in front of her. He spotted hering, which wasn¡¯t easy, and managed to brace before she got there, which was even more impressive, but she wasn¡¯t going to be denied.


    With Momentum active, and her absurd physical strength, she struck the shield like a Titan¡¯s hammer, crunching the metal and sending the Soldier flying back. Rurin grinned as the others rounded on her, all preparing to strike at her exposed frame.


    She lifted a foot and sent it crashing down into the earth, activating her Resounding Strike as she did.


    The ground rumbled as the incredible force rocked the dirt beneath their feet, sending a shower of sod flying in every direction and knocking half the troops around her to the ground. Even her own people caught within the st weren¡¯t able to keep their feet.


    Rurin bellowed and waded forward,ying about her with her de. She wasn¡¯t the most deft with a sword, she was no Magnin Sterm, who could make steel dance like a fairy and strike like lightning. She wasn¡¯t a technician, she was a workhorse, and that¡¯s what she did.


    An overhead sh that brought her opponent to their knees when they attempted to block it, followed by a swift kick to the chest that sent them flying backwards. She parried a thrust then clubbed the Soldier on his left shoulder with her gauntlet. The bone broke with an audible <em>crack</em> before she reached forward to grasp the straps at the back of his breastte and twisted to hurl her victim into the path of her next challenger.


    The two collided heavily, and Rurin had a tiny bit of space, enough for her to charge.


    The Vanguard was a ss that operated simr to Defenders, Or Shield Guards among the yers. Frontline fighters who wanted to be the focus of the kin¡¯s attention as much as possible. They had to be fast, to put themselves between their allies and the enemy, they had to be durable, to absorb tremendous amounts of punishment, and they had to be a threat, otherwise they¡¯d be ignored by the kin.


    A Vanguard typically didn¡¯t bother with a shield, they protected their allies by turning themselves into a living battering ram, and Rurin had knocked the wind out of monsters asrge as a house on the charge.


    That was when she was silver.


    Like a grey-haired, grinning meteor, Rurin mmed into the nearest Soldier, who once again did an admirable job trying to brace for the impact, but found themselves hopelessly outmatched.


    She punched into the regrouping formation of the enemy and began toy about herself once more. Her de was a simple one-hander, short, weighted to the tip and forged of the hardest metals the magick-forges could produce. It was designed to work up close and personal, which was exactly how she liked it.


    Rurin didn¡¯t remember outmatching the bronze ranks when she¡¯d been promoted to silver, but as a gold, she felt she stood head and shoulders above the lower rank. The Unseen had empowered her to an absurd degree, to the point she wondered if she was even truly human any longer.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    To fight a gold rank, they would need to bring another gold rank. There had to be one here somewhere, and she intended to wreak havoc until they deigned to show their face.


    A flicker from the corner of her eye was all the warning she got. Caught off bnce, Rurin kicked off the ground, sending herself ten feet into the air. She spun to avoid the arrows that tried to pick her off beforending a dozen metres away from where she¡¯d leapt, looking at someone who, on the surface, didn¡¯t appear all that different from the other Soldiers.


    Yet she could tell the difference. It was impossible for her not to see it.


    ¡°How¡¯s the brand, ve?¡± the Soldier said, shaking out her sword hand.


    ¡°Hurts like shit,¡± Rurin replied cheerfully. ¡°Going to be a lot worse when I cut your head off.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think there''s much chance of that, dog. These are thest moments of your miserable life.¡±


    Rurin lowered her stance, de held loosely to the side, her grin never faltering.


    ¡°You talk too much, princess. Come and fight.¡±


    The rest of thebat reformed around them, as if both sides had decided to give the golds their own space by unspoken agreement. If one of them was able to triumph over the other without sustaining major injury, then the battle wouldpletely tip towards their side.


    The gold ranked yer was used to fighting with such stakes on the line, she held her teammates'' lives in her hands every time she went out to the rifts, just as they held hers. Just how muchbat had this loyal pet of the Empire seen? She was eager to find out.


    The Soldier made the first move. Equipped as the others were, with a sword and shield, she executed a predictable move, charging forward with her shield held high. The difference was the speed and power behind the move.


    Rurin dug in her heels and leaned into the blow, and still was pushed back, her feet tearing through the ground as she endured the charge. Her bones rattled and muscles screamed as she pushed back, finally grinding to a halt. Which was the moment a sword snaked out from the shield. Three thrusts, each so fast they may as well have struck at the same time, each aimed at her vitals. The Vanguard dodged one, knocked another aside with her gauntlet and caught the third with her own de.


    Needless to say, her opponent''s swordsmanship seemed a little more refined than her own, but that didn¡¯t bother Rurin too much. That wasn¡¯t how she won her fights.


    She swept up a leg and managed to catch the contemptuous look on the Soldier¡¯s face as she adjusted her shield. That expression didn¡¯tst as the shield collided with Rurin¡¯s shin with enough force to lift the Soldier from the ground.


    Rurinughed, crouched andunched herself forward as if she¡¯d been shot from a ballista. Her opponent managed to angle her shield just enough to deflect Rurin to the side, leading to a ncing sh that sent both of them tumbling.


    Then the brand ignited in pain. Rurin hissed furiously as the curse red to new heights, far and above the constant pain she¡¯d been pushing through the entire fight.


    Where were they? She nced around quickly and found her target, a Magister, staff raised and hand extended towards her. The prick was manually feeding the brand, and with a gold ranked opponent in her face, there was precious little Rurin could do about it.


    ¡°Regretting your choices, dog?¡± the Soldier taunted, striding forward, shield raised.


    Teeth clenched and hands shaking, Rurin gripped her de tight and prepared to engage again, only to find her legs were suddenly heavier than before, her limbs drained of their strength.


    It was going to be like this, apparently; they were going to tip the scales in their favour. She couldn¡¯t really me them, she¡¯d do the same if she could.


    Like a predator circling a wounded deer, the Soldier approached with caution, but Rurin wasn¡¯t in the mood to wait. Despite the pain and everything else weighing her down, she did what she did best: she charged.


    What met her was an immediate stab, aimed to punch through her armour and core her heart. A perfectly timed, perfectly weighted attack along the perfect line, there was no way she could possibly dodge. Luckily, she had no intention of dodging, it wasn¡¯t really her style.


    The shock of pain as the de pierced through the meat of her forearm was almost a wee distraction from the curse, a new source of suffering for her to focus on. She threw her arm to the side, directing the sword away from her body and mmed into her opponent, who wasted no time twisting her de to widen the wound.


    Nasty bitch!


    Rurin bit back a scream and dropped her own weapon, using the free hand to take hold of the de. The edge of the enchanted steel bit onto her fingers even through the gauntlets, but Rurin had an absurdly high constitution, her flesh was more like stone. Rotating her body, she pulled the weapon from her opponent¡¯s grip and brought up her back foot to nt a furious kick which was deftly caught on the shield.


    Minus her weapon, the gold ranked Soldier wasunched ten metres backwards, only tond deftly on her feet. She smiled from behind her visor as she drew her second, shorter de. Rurin pulled the other sword from her arm, throwing it to the ground. Blood poured from the wound, a gaping hole in the meat of her arm. At least the bone hadn¡¯t been cut. At least, she thought it hadn¡¯t been cut. A little healing and she¡¯d be right as rain. Perhaps the Priests would oblige?


    ¡°It¡¯s not looking good for you, dog,¡± the Soldier taunted. ¡°How are you going to fight with your arm like that?¡±


    Rurin only shook her head and sighed.


    ¡°You young-folk, always want to talk in a fight. Ruins the atmosphere. I¡¯m not going to fight anymore.¡±


    There was a deafening roar followed by the sound of a thunderous collision. Dirt and dust flew everywhere, obscuring what had just happened. Rurin grinned.


    ¡°He is,¡± she said cheerfully.


    Then she copsed onto her backside, groaning. The Magisters hadn¡¯t let up on her curse, and whatever was sapping her strength was only getting stronger over time.


    ¡°You look awful,¡± a gruff voice said.


    ¡°Want me to tell you how I feel?¡± she offered.


    ¡°No thanks, I can guess.¡±


    Worthy Sterm approached her, greathammer slung over his shoulder, a look of mild concern on his face.


    ¡°Magisters are activating my brand,¡± she said.


    The Hammerman winced in sympathy.


    ¡°I think they¡¯ll be too busy to bother with it soon enough,¡± he assured her, rolling his shoulders.


    ¡°Then get to it,¡± she said, shooing him away, ¡°everyone wants to talk today.¡±


    Worthy rolled his eyes and began to stride away, his every step radiating the strength and power he contained within him. She wasn¡¯t sure exactly what ss he had now, but she doubted it was anything ordinary. The Sterms had to feed their children something along with their mother¡¯s milk. They were made of different stuff.


    Beory had dismissed the usation sternly, saying her genes would produce the greatest yer of all time, she had no need of Magnin¡¯s.


    Thinking of her murdered friend, Rurin let herself fall backwards into the dirt. The bulk of the fighting had moved away, and if some silver ranked idiot decided to try and finish her off, she would deign to rise and teach them a lesson.


    Perhaps the history books would record this as the first real battle of the rebellion, if they mentioned it at all. A meaningless scuffle at a crossroads with less than a hundred on either side.


    At least it was a victory for their side, but even someone like her could tell it wouldn¡¯tst for long. The currency of this war would be in gold ranked fighters, and soon, the Duke would bring more of them to bear than the rebels could hope to match.


    It was a lost fight from the beginning. Without a miracle, they couldn¡¯t hope to win. All they could do was inflict as much damage as possible while they were still alive.


    The pain of the brand finally faded, and she groaned with relief. With any luck, Worthy had smashed the Magisters¡¯ heads in before they managed to switch targets to him.


    ¡°Stupid Sterms,¡± she sighed, ¡°they¡¯re a bad influence on me.¡±

 Chapter B4C53 - Rage of the Survivor

    Chapter B4C53 - Rage of the Survivor


    The door to the Duke¡¯s study burst open as a golden-haired young man stormed through in a rage. Duke Raugrave looked up, managing to keep his features smooth only thanks to the forewarning he¡¯d received. He stood and folded his hands together, offering a short bow of the head in respect.


    ¡°Lord Jorlin. Wee.¡±


    However, the young Lord of house Jorlin was not willing to stand on formality, not this day.


    ¡°They¡¯re <em>dead</em>, Raugrave! Half of the Jorlin bloodline has been <em>erased</em>! What do you have to say for yourself?!¡±


    Nostas Jorlin stormed to the Duke¡¯s desk and mmed his fists down on it so hard he cracked the reinforced surface. Papers went flying, secretaries and staff members, minor lordlings anddies themselves, gasped and pushed themselves back against the walls, looking for an escape.


    The Duke raised his head and eyed the young man before him. It was clear Nostas had let his emotions run away with him. Red eyed, red faced, his grief and fury wereid bare to the world with no attempt being made to control or conceal them. His father would never have allowed himself to bepromised like this, not even in dire circumstances such as these. At some point, the old had to make way for the new, and it had only been a few years since Restas had made way for his eldest son. Now it fell on the young, inexperienced Lord to lead his house in this time of crisis.


    ¡°Are you insinuating the assault on the Jorlin manor was my doing? My responsibility?¡± Raugrave said, the warning clear in his tone.


    ¡°Our best Soldiers were away from the estate in answer to <em>your</em> call! House Jorlin demonstrated our loyalty and look at the result!¡±


    ¡°It is not my purview to ensure the security of any family¡¯s private holdings.¡±He didn¡¯t say the quiet part out loud, though he hinted at it. It was none other than Nostas who was responsible for ensuring the safety of his family. If their estate was left in a vulnerable way, he had nobody to me but himself.


    Despite his anger, it was clear Nostas was able to interpret his meaning. The Lord¡¯s face grew darker still as he smashed the desk once more, the wood audibly splintering beneath his fists.


    ¡°The security of the province <em>is</em> your responsibility! You want to me <em>me</em>. How dare you! When the Houses hear what I have to say¨C¡±


    As Nostas turned to leave, Duke Raugrave reached out and sped hold of his forearm.


    ¡°Don¡¯te in here, scream at me, destroy my furniture and then think you can leave without letting me say my piece,¡± Raugrave growled. ¡°Sit down so we can discuss this issue like Lords. You think I don¡¯t care when so much of the blood is spilled? I take my mandate seriously, and your father is one of my closest friends. I grieve with you. Now sit. Let us talk.¡±


    At least some of what he was saying managed to get through to Lord Jorlin. Nostas visibly wrestled with himself before gaining some level of control over his emotions. With a tight nod, he agreed and stiffly drew a chair back and sat down.


    ¡°Leave us,¡± Raugrave dismissed his staff with a wave of his hand before he resumed his own seat.


    The terrified men and women made their exit, taking only the bare minimum of time to bow on their way out the door. The Duke didn¡¯t particrly me them. Though descended from the Noble Houses, they had not inherited the divine will but knew very well just how dangerous it could be. Just because it was illegal to use that Will on Nobles, didn¡¯t mean it never happened. How else was one to keep their distant rtives loyal?


    ¡°When did you find out?¡± Nostas asked, his voice still raw with emotion.


    ¡°I heard this morning,¡± Raugrave replied. ¡°I assure you, every avable effort is being made to locate the parties responsible. My investigators are only waiting for your permission to enter the grounds of the estate.¡±


    ¡°They have it.¡±


    ¡°A moment,¡± The Duke activated an array built into his desk and murmured a few words into it. Thankfully, the fine work of the Arcanists hadn¡¯t been destroyed by the young Lord¡¯s outburst.


    A ro¡¯w would be sent within a few minutes and reach his teams in the field in less than an hour. The best mages, Marshals and most senior Diviners from the church had been gathered to sniff out the culprit. No one could act against the Divine Blood and get away with it. This was the first and highestw of the Empire.


    ¡°Whoever is responsible for this disgraceful offence will suffer the full wrath of the Empire. You have my word,¡± Raugrave assured him.


    ¡°Even if it was another House?¡± Nostas demanded, his eyes sharpening.


    So, he <em>did</em> suspect another House. What secrets did Jorlin hold that another House would be willing to break such a sacredw? The Duke had been too lenient with the Houses, he could see that now. All sorts of barely legal practices had flourished in thex environment he¡¯d created.


    ¡°If it was, then I will petition the Emperor to Extinguish the bloodline,¡± Duke Raugrave stated gravely.


    Nostas¡¯ eyes grew wide and he settled back in his chair. He hadn¡¯t expected the Duke would be willing to invoke such a severe punishment. To destroy an entire bloodline was rarely done, only a few times in the history of the Empire.


    In the momentary lull in the conversation, the Duke leaned forward and folded his hands together.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°I know you are suffering, and what has happened to your family is terrible, but I must think of the province. Of course, no effort will be spared to enact vengeance, but at the same time, there are many dangers to us that must be taken into consideration. You have lost many members of your family, but many still remain. Avenging the dead is important, but protecting the living is more important.¡±


    ¡°Our manor in the city has been under lockdown sincest night,¡± Nostas said, ring, ¡°and I have recalled our senior Soldiers from their duties elsewhere in the province.¡±


    The Duke¡¯s features tightened, but he let it go withoutment.


    ¡°If you wish, I will allow any member of House Jorlin to live within Kenmor Castle for the next year. They will have my personal guarantee of safety.¡±


    Another unexpected offer. Kenmor Castle was the most secure location in the entire province.


    ¡°I will take that into consideration¡­. Thank you, Duke Raugrave.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± Raugrave said, waving a hand. As I said, your father is a close friend of mine. I would be pleased if the old goat was willing to spend some time in mypany.¡±


    ¡°I will let him know.¡±


    ¡°However, let us not forget, there are threats not even I can protect your family from.¡±


    Even without being stated, they both knew exactly what he was talking about.


    The Emperor.


    If the Divine Court took matters into their own hands, there would be aplete and total purge of the western province. Not even the Nobles would be spared. Nostas himself may find himself the only surviving member of his entire family, a breed horse kept in stock to preserve the Blood, shipped off to the central province and put out to pasture.


    ¡°If we don¡¯t seed in putting down the rebellion andpleting the mission given to us by the Divines, then it¡¯s over, for all of us,¡± the Duke stated bluntly. ¡°I will be tortured and burnt at the stake, if I¡¯m lucky, but the fate of your father won¡¯t be all that different.¡±


    Nostas grit his teeth and visibly fought against his anger.


    ¡°I¡¯m aware,¡± he said tightly, ¡°though it is difficult to think of such matters in the face of my loss.¡±


    <em>Preserve what you have left, then worry about what you lost.</em>


    The Lord¡¯sck of experience could be the death of them all at this point.


    ¡°I will speak inly. If the rest of the Houses be spooked and withdraw their support from our work in a shortsighted attempt to protect themselves, then we are doomed. That goes for your House as well.¡±


    ¡°What do you want me to do? Just sit back and act as if my Aunts and Uncles haven¡¯t been brutally murdered?!¡±


    ¡°Of course not! If I must be blunt, what I want is for you to publicly affirm yourmitment to the divine mission and <em>not</em> to pull your Soldiers away from their tasks.¡±


    ¡°You ask a lot.¡±


    ¡°I ask for the only thing that will keep us alive,¡± Raugrave stated tly. ¡°I¡¯m sure the other Houses are already recalling their Soldiers and preparing to bunker down in their estates. It¡¯s idiocy that will result in all of our deaths.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not idiocy to want your family to live.¡±


    ¡°Then it <em>is</em> idiocy to get them killed!¡± the Duke roared. He nearly mmed his own fist down on his desk, but stopped himself at thest moment. The repairs were already going to cost him a fortune, and he liked this desk. ¡°We have been ordered by the Divines themselves! If we fail to fulfil their wishes, then nothing can save us! Any of us!¡±


    There was a loud disturbance at the door, muffled speech that quickly transitioned to raised voices, then open shouting as someone began to pound on the door.


    ¡°What in zes is going on out there?!¡± Duke Raugrave bellowed.


    For the second time within the hour, the door burst open to reveal something of a scrum that had formed just outside the door. The Duke¡¯s personal guard had tangled with members of his staff who had been trying to prevent members of the clergy from bursting through.


    ¡°A Divine Revtion, Duke Raugrave!¡± the Priest called from within the pack. ¡°The Oracles have spoken! A Divine Revtion, my lord!¡±


    ¡°By the Gods, let the man through,¡± Raugrave shouted. ¡°Let him in here and get the hell out!¡±


    ¡°I bring word from the Temple, Duke Raugrave Kenmor, Lord Nostas Jorlin,¡± the Priest stated, red faced after the scuffle to get inside had finally resolved itself. ¡°Only minutes ago, the Oracles came out of a trance andmunicated the words of the Divines.¡±


    The Duke¡¯s gut tightened painfully as he braced himself. The Ancestors could have said anything, condemned him and the entire province for their poor response to their orders, for example. He desperately hoped he would be given more time, things were finally starting to turn around. Given a few more weeks, the rebellion would be crushed, he was certain of it. They just had to hold out a little longer.


    ¡°It rtes to the attack on the Jorlin Estate, which is why I was sent immediately,¡± the Priest heaved.


    Nostas rose in his seat, eyes ring wide.


    ¡°What have the Ancestors said? Tell me immediately!¡±


    ¡°The Oracles have stated that the sight of the Divines is no longer obstructed, and sees the face of their enemy.¡± The Priest almost couldn¡¯t help but begin to intone as he passed on the words of the Oracles. ¡°The Unholy Disease that has burrowed into the heart of this province is the spawn of the Sterm heretics!¡±


    At first, the Duke felt relief, he wasn¡¯t dead, not yet. Then the confusion came.


    ¡°Who? The Sterm boy? He isn¡¯t dead?¡±


    ¡°Indeed not, my Lord. It was he who assaulted the Jorlin estate, the Divines themselves assure us. He has been hidden from their sight by unholy influences, but they have seen his face atst.¡±


    What was his name?


    ¡°Tyron?¡± the Duke tried to recall. ¡°Tyron Sterm, wasn¡¯t that his name?¡±


    He remembered the business with the Sterms. An unfortunate affair, but one they had brought upon themselves. Now their brat was running around massacring Nobles? What was wrong with that family?


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t he a Necromancer?¡± Nostas said quietly. ¡°Are you telling me a <em>Necromancer</em> murdered my family and carted off their remains?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± the Duke demanded, head snapping to the young Lord. ¡°There weren¡¯t any bodies?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Nostas forced through gritted teeth, still staring at the Priest.


    ¡°He was. Is,¡± the Duke said, remembering. ¡°He was a Necromancer. He was supposedly killed years ago. He¡¯s been alive all this time?¡±


    How strong could a Necromancer be in that much time? Strong enough to assault the Jorlin Estate single-handedly, apparently. The more he thought about it, the worse the situation became. This madman, possibly a gold ranked Necromancer already, now had ess to Noble flesh? Noble souls?


    Raugrave felt the noose tighten around his neck with every second that passed. This was a disaster. The Emperor would want to know, and he would. The Oracles would send word soon, all Divine messages were ryed to the Divine Court.


    ¡°We have to find him,¡± the Duke ground out. ¡°We have to exterminate him, <em>immediately</em>.¡±


    ¡°Allow me to take the lead,¡± Nostas said, rising from his seat, face tight with fury. ¡°I will avenge my brother and retrieve his spirit, along with those of my family, if it¡¯s thest thing I do.¡±

 Chapter B4C54 - Prepare to Rise

    Chapter B4C54 - Prepare to Rise


    It almost felt unnatural to be sitting alone in his study as if nothing had happened. An entire Noble estate, every man, woman and child within, dead by his hands, but here he was, sitting in the brick-walled room beneath his shop as if he¡¯d never left.


    Yet he had.


    He thought he¡¯d feel more than he did. His goal all along had been to take vengeance on the Nobles, the Magisters, everyone who had yed a part in the deaths of Magnin and Beory, and a small slice of that had been achieved at the Jorlin estate, yet he wasn¡¯t satisfied. Not even remotely.


    Some of the guilty were gone, yes, but so many remained. Until they were <em>all</em> gone, every one of them, until each and every descendant of the Divines was dead, along with their servants, the Magisters, he wouldn¡¯t stop, he <em>couldn¡¯t</em> stop.


    No, there was no sense of victory, but neither was there any guilt. Perhaps this was the work of the Vampires in him, but he was unmoved entirely by the desperate pleas of those he had killed, nor did he care about their suffering in death.


    In a way, he would have liked to have known if he were capable of this level of detachment without having been manipted. Perhaps he always was able to do this, but he almost felt robbed of the chance to prove he¡¯d have been able to stomach the process of his vengeance just the way he was.


    There was no use being angry about it now. What was done was done, and there was still so, so much to do.


    Things were going to elerate now, and quickly. He didn¡¯t doubt the Divines would interfere to ensure he was killed. After everything they¡¯d done to corner his mother and father, they surely weren¡¯t above getting their hands dirty to finish the job.


    Which meant he didn¡¯t have much time. They would find him eventually, there was no doubt about that. He wasn¡¯t so naive as to believe that his countermeasures would be enough to protect him from the full might of the Empire. Before then, he had to extract all the gains he possibly could, make his final preparations, then ascend to gold.Everything would hinge on what he was able to gain from that advancement. With the right ss, the right benefits and abilities, he could transform his undead army into a formidable force, strong enough to achieve his aims. If his options failed to meet his expectations, then he would find another way. It would take longer, but he would still seed in the end.


    In his hands, Tyron rolled a small, smooth, round stone from hand to hand. It was unnaturally cold, the chill of the grave, as he was starting to think of it.


    Who could say why the divines had decided not to protect the soul of this scion? Whatever the reason, Tyron had him now, and he would take great pains to extract every ounce of knowledge he could. Before then¡­ he had to process the remains, and there was a great deal to do. Some of the work he could pass off to those working for him in the city, but some of it he could not.


    Not that he minded. Wielding the knife himself was the only way to ensure the work was done to his own exacting standards.


    Of course, even before that could begin, there was another issue that needed taking care of. He was here, waiting for them to arrive, since he knew they would distract him, so he didn¡¯t want to be engrossed in his work with a disturbance on the way.


    But they werete.


    ¡°What is taking those blood suckers so long?¡± he muttered to himself, idly poking at the pages on the table in front of him. He¡¯d expected Yor and Valk toe running the moment they learned what he¡¯d done. More than that, he wouldn¡¯t have been surprised if there was a violent confrontation.


    Despite their differences, both Vampires hated being forced to operate in the open, greatly preferring to remain secret and hidden. With his actions, there was no doubt the entire city was about to be overturned. He¡¯d kicked the hos'' nest, and the Nobles would stop at nothing to hunt him down, regardless of the disruption to the rest of the province. The purge was one thing, a Divine Mission to hunt down the heretics, but mass murder of Nobles? Spilling the Divine Blood?


    They would move heaven and earth to bring him down.


    And in so doing, they would eventually find the Vampires nestled right in the heart of the capital. Just as his discovery was inevitable, so was theirs.


    What was taking them so long?


    Tyron frowned, irritated. Should he start working after all? No, something was definitely off. They should be here already, so the fact that they weren¡¯t¡­. Either they¡¯d fled, abandoned the capital and sought refuge in one of therger rural cities, or¡­


    ¡°You¡¯re already here, aren¡¯t you, Yor?¡± he sighed.


    There was no response, but he stood and turned away from his desk anyway. The study was much as it had always been. Dimly lit by the globes of light he¡¯d created. It was slightly less messy than before, as he¡¯d finallypleted and cleared up theponents he¡¯d created for his skeletal giants. Even so, bones, pages and other detritus were loosely stacked about the ce, much of it disturbed in his rush to get ready for his assault on the Jorlin estate.


    In the corners, the shadows seemed to gather, thickening into a deeper darkness. It could have been natural. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, or maybe his mind was ying tricks on him, but he doubted it.


    He raised his hands.


    ¡°I can force you out, Yor. You know I can. Why don¡¯t you just reveal yourself and we can discuss your betrayal like sensible people.¡±


    ¡°A betrayal?¡± her voice echoed out from nowhere in particr and bouncing off the walls. ¡°Just <em>who has</em> betrayed <em>whom</em>?¡±


    ¡°You think I betrayed you?¡± Tyron asked, feeling genuinely surprised. ¡°I told you what I was going to do years ago. This shouldn¡¯te as a surprise. In fact, it would be baffling if it were. In fact, aren¡¯t you only taken aback by the fact I would actually attempt to do what I told you I would?¡±


    The unnatural darkness streamed together and resolved itself in the outline of a humanoid shape, before finally Yor emerged, statuesque, dressed all in ck, a stark contrast against her porcin white skin. She did not look pleased. In fact, her expression could only be described as ¡®thunderous¡¯. Even so, she was stunning.


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    Tyron frowned and shook his head. He shouldn¡¯t be thinking about her appearance; was she manipting his thoughts somehow?


    ¡°Come to tell me about your intentions to flee the city? Where did you establish your little getaway? Havercroft?¡±


    She narrowed her eyes slightly as she watched him.


    ¡°So you knew about that as well.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m an observant person.¡±


    Both Yor and Valk had been preparing their escape for months. Beings as cautious as they were, they likely had backups for their backups. It was only a matter of time before their preparations wereplete and they vanished. It hadn¡¯t been easy to uncover these ns, but they¡¯d needed mortal help somewhere along the line, and mortals were vulnerable to exploitation, even ones who had been enraptured by a vampire.


    The two watched each other for a moment, each trying to read something from the other.


    ¡°Personally, I always knew you would go through with it,¡± she said, ¡°but my opinion wasn¡¯t shared by others. They believed you would¡­ put your vengeance aside, eventually. The lure of power would be too strong, and you would inevitablye to us of your own ord.¡±


    ¡°You do know more about the undead than anyone else,¡± Tyron said, ¡°even more than the Abyss. I would havee to you for knowledge eventually, that much is true.¡±


    ¡°But you would never have abandoned your vengeance.¡±


    ¡°Of course not.¡±


    Such a thing was unthinkable. It simply wasn¡¯t possible.


    ¡°I¡¯m starting to believe my Mistress may have erred in her intervention,¡± Yor said softly, ¡°though I would appreciate it if that thought never made its way back to her.¡±


    ¡°Are you willing to tell me what she did? Did she really do nothing other than deaden my emotions?¡±


    Yor eyed him, her eyes as dark as midnight.


    ¡°Would you believe me if I told you, no?¡±


    ¡°Of course not.¡±


    ¡°Then why ask the question?¡±


    ¡°Good point.¡±


    Despite the congenial tone of the conversation, Tyron was ready for violence to erupt at any moment. The Vampires might be fleeing the city, but that didn¡¯t mean they would ever forgive what he¡¯d done to them. If Yor felt she was in a position to kill him and get away with it, then she probably would.


    ¡°When it¡¯s over, there won¡¯t be much left of this province, Yor. It doesn¡¯t matter how far you go, or how well you hide. Eventually the Emperor wille, and nothing will remain of this ce. You should prepare to flee.¡±


    ¡°Advice? From you? How <em>delightful</em>,¡± she purred. ¡°I¡¯m shocked that you of all people would care to ensure my survival.¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°You misunderstand me. I have no intention of dying along with this province, so I will flee. If you are forced to remain on this ne, then your only hope is toe with me.¡±


    He smiled slightly.


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you to make sure you are prepared to make it worth my while.¡±


    Her eyes glittered darkly as she watched him, fingers flexing ever so slightly, as if she were thinking of tearing his throat open.


    ¡°That is only the case if you seed, which can only happen if you survive,¡± she pointed out, baring her fangs in a toothy grin. ¡°Nothing is guaranteed, and if I get the chance, I may just tip the scales one way or the other.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you already have,¡± Tyron said, his brows raised. Then he turned and nced over his shoulder at the notes, books and projects waiting for his attention. ¡°This has been pleasant, Yor, but if you aren¡¯t going to try and kill me, then I would appreciate it if you saw yourself out. There¡¯s a lot for me to do, and not much time left to aplish it.¡±


    ¡°I presume you mean your ascension to gold?¡±


    He hesitated for a second, then offered her a tight nod.


    ¡°A gold ranked Necromancer, finally a taste of real power,¡± she said. ¡°Of course, not nearly as much as you would enjoy as one of <em>us</em>, but you seem too attached to your living flesh to entertain that offer.¡±


    ¡°Who knows,¡± Tyron shrugged, ¡°I may end up a lich in the end.¡±


    Yor curled her lip, somehow managing to look wless even with such open disgust on her face.


    ¡°Inferior creatures,¡± she said. ¡°Lacking in <em>elegance</em>.¡±


    ¡°They can stay awake during the day,¡± Tyron drawled, ¡°which is a plus.¡±


    ¡°A Lich is a mage who was terrified of death. A Vampire is a being who has embraced immortal life. We are not the same. However, I believe the night is fading. As you suggested, I will take my leave. Should you seed, you will see me again, before the end.¡±


    ¡°How ominous,¡± Tyron murmured, but she was already gone, fading into darkness and sliding away, down into the tunnels and then beyond his reach.


    When morning came, her entire coven would be out of the city, he had little doubt. Doubtless they¡¯d taken the time to prepare safe havens along the route to sleep away the day on their way, well concealed along the roads. The loss of his undead helpers would hinder him significantly, but it was possible to proceed without them now. The groundwork had beenid, now he just needed to follow through.


    Stepping away from his desk, Tyron moved around the study, checking his wards, activating some arrays, shutting down others. Some weren¡¯t needed, now that the confrontation with Yor had ended without conflict, but he ensured they were still functioning, ready to be switched on at a moment''s notice.


    Just because Yor and Valk <em>said</em> they were gone didn¡¯t mean they wouldn¡¯t hang around and try to ambush him in the tunnels, or assault his study once they thought he was tired. Every precaution had to be taken; failure couldn¡¯t be permitted.


    Satisfied everything was functioning as intended, he nodded, satisfied, then reached out to his undead, concealed in the nearby tunnels. With a mentalmand, he spread his wider, trying to ensure he couldn¡¯t be caught unawares by an attack through the sewers. In truth, he was far more vulnerable to an attack from above ground than below, but the Vampires struggled to work that way. Their thralls, though¡­


    Nothing he could do about it now.


    He returned to his desk and sat, fingers drumming on the stone surface as he considered his next steps. His next ss Advancement was the fulcrum around which everything would turn, and he needed to be prepared. The death he¡¯d dealt at the Jorlin estate was possibly enough to propel him all the way to level sixty, which meant he could no longer perform the status ritual until he was ready.


    Until then, there was a lot he needed to achieve. Ensuring all the core abilities were as fully levelled as he could get them and all the relevant techniques as well developed as he was capable of. That meant research, testing, developing his theories and putting them into practice, which took time he didn¡¯t have.


    Somehow, he would have to find a way. Alongside that came processing the materials he¡¯d gathered, another massive undertaking. More undead to prepare, which meant more enchanting, more refining, more bone weapons and armour to be crafted, more revenants and wights to be created.


    ¡°Going to be difficult to find the time to sleep,¡± he muttered to himself, still tapping idly with his fingers.


    Well, that was never really a concern, was it?


    He was close¡­ so, so close¡­ all he¡¯d had was a tiny little taste of his vengeance, and now he hungered for more. A few months, maybe only a few weeks, and it would all be over.


    Or, in another way, it would only have begun.


    After the Red Tower, the Nobles and the Duke, waited the Emperor, and three other provinces. Above all of that, the Divines themselves, four usurpers who had personally demanded Magnin and Beory be put in their ce.


    All of it would crumble to dust before Tyron would be satisfied. The provinces, the Empire, the Gods themselves.


    He couldn¡¯t wait.

 Chapter B4C55 - Heart of Gold

    Chapter B4C55 - Heart of Gold


    Worthy Sterm had never felt so tired. He was stronger than he¡¯d ever been in his life, much more powerful than when he was an active yer, but even so, he felt an exhaustion that went down to his bones. It had started ever since Tyron went missing, and had really set in when he¡¯d heard the boy was dead. Ever since, it had grown, like a sickness for which he had no cure, and even this rebellion wasn¡¯t enough to fully shake the mise.


    ¡°Sit down for a minute, Wor,¡± Meg said, stepping beside him and rubbing at his shoulder. ¡°All this pacing isn¡¯t going to help.¡±


    Nothing was going to help, and they both knew it, but Worthy didn¡¯t say anything. His wife was suffering just as much as he was, if not more. She hadn¡¯t known Magnin and Beory all that well, but Tyron was like a son to her. His ¡®death¡¯ had been devastating, and learning he was alive and killing himself somewhere far from her hadn¡¯t helped.


    ¡°I will,¡± he promised, reaching up and sping her hand with his own. ¡°I just need to speak to Rurin first, then I¡¯ll be back. Are you cooking for the camp tonight?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a beef stew over the fire.¡±


    ¡°With potatoes?¡±


    ¡°Of course with potatoes.¡±


    ¡°Have I ever told you I love you, Meg?¡±


    ¡°Only every day.¡±¡°You say that like it¡¯s not enough.¡±


    ¡°It isn¡¯t.¡±


    They both chuckled as he pulled her into a one-armed embrace. They¡¯d repeated those words back and forth to each other so many times, it was less a habit and more like a ritual. It brought them bothfort.


    One final squeeze, though Worthy was careful to control his strength, and then he was out the door. It was a simple timber structure, but it stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of canvas around it. Since Meg had decided toe with him, he¡¯d had no choice but to build something for them to stay in. There was no way he was going to make her sleep on the ground without a proper roof over her head.


    Many called out to him as he strode through the rows of tents, while many more just stared. They knew he was a Sterm, had seen him fight and now treated him as something more than he was.


    He hated it.


    <em>Just keep walking</em>, he told himself<em>, it¡¯s no business of yours.</em>


    Rurin, Timothy and the leaders of the rebellion from Skyice could usually be found in the centre of the camp around the fire, when they weren¡¯t out fighting at least. It was a fairly casual arrangement, one that suited the yers, though he found the constant presence of the Priests a little disconcerting.


    ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t Worthy Sterm, hammer of the rebellion and champion of the people,¡± Rurin called, raising her mug cheerfully.


    The Hammerman scowled and she burst outughing.


    ¡°I have no idea how you stay so cheerful,¡± Worthy growled, walking up and taking a seat on the log beside the grizzled yer.


    ¡°What else is there to do?¡± she replied with a grin. ¡°These are our final days, Worthy. You¡¯ve known me for a long time, did you really think I¡¯d die miserable and cold? Fuck no. I¡¯m going out with a smile on my dial and a cup in my hand. Besides, we get to kill <em>Magisters</em>. If that doesn¡¯t put some pep in your step, then you aren¡¯t a yer.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a yer, I¡¯m an Innkeeper,¡± he huffed, rolling his shoulders and staring into the fire in front of him. ¡°Best damn Inn in Foxbridge.¡±


    ¡°You have your wife¡¯s cooking to thank for that,¡± Rurin said, nudging him in the side and the Hammerman swatted her away.


    Except¡­ he wasn¡¯t a Hammerman, not any more, not since he¡¯d advanced to gold. Now he was a Hammerlord. The title still didn¡¯t sit right with him.


    There was some truth in what she¡¯d said, Meg was a Cook, and a damn good one, but Worthy <em>had</em> been a damn good Innkeeper in a way that Levels and Skills couldn¡¯t really define. He was just good at it, he was suited to the role. It was something he could do well, something in which nobody wouldpare him to his younger brother. A thought struck him.


    ¡°Do you think Magnin would have been a good Innkeeper?¡± he asked.


    Rurin looked at him as if he were insane.


    ¡°What? He would have been awful, and you don¡¯t need me to tell you that.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I always thought too.¡±


    ¡°Even if he weren¡¯t awful at it, unless the Inn could fly, he would have abandoned it in a month or two anyway.¡±


    ¡°Aye, that he would have.¡±


    <em>I don¡¯t like standing still, Worthy,</em> Magnin¡¯s face shed into his mind, soft smile on his face and light dancing in his eyes, <em>always feels like I¡¯m wasting time.</em>


    <em>What about when you¡¯re here with your kid?</em> Worthy had asked him. <em>Is spending time raising your son a waste of time?</em>


    That smile had slipped, just a little, but then it was back, same as ever.


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    <em>Ty understands. I know it¡¯s hard on him, but he understands. I love my son, Worthy.</em>


    <em>He knows. That¡¯s why it hurts him so bad.</em>


    Thatst sentence had gone unsaid, but now he wished it hadn¡¯t. He wished he¡¯d punched Magnin for every day of his damn life he¡¯d spent away from that boy.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I can stay here much longer,¡± Worthy said, still staring into the fire.


    Rurin lowered her mug and sighed.


    ¡°I thought something like this might happen. Got the itch to start moving, like your brother?¡±


    Worthy snorted.


    ¡°I am <em>not</em> my brother. No matter how much these fools want me to be.¡±


    ¡°I was wondering if that was starting to bother you,¡± Rurin said. ¡°I can tell them to piss off, if you want. They don¡¯t mean anything by it¡­ it¡¯s just¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just that Magnin and Beory were the best damn yers this province has ever seen, and now they see a fraction of that glory in me,¡± he growled. ¡°I¡¯ve been dealing with it my entire life. That¡¯s nothing new.¡±


    It had never bothered him that Magnin had been so famous, so well known and so revered. In fact, he¡¯d been Magnin¡¯s greatest supporter. Since the time his little brother could swing a sword, everyone could see how gifted he was. Worthy had trained him hard, and had felt nothing but pride when he could no longer provide a challenge in the training yard.


    What he hated was some of that renown falling onto him when he didn¡¯t deserve it. He¡¯d been a good yer, maybe even great, but he was respected far more than he¡¯d deserved, all because of his surname. It hadn¡¯t been so bad working at the Inn, but now, back among all these yers, it was worse than ever.


    ¡°So why do you want to leave?¡±


    Worthy was silent for a long moment, unsure what to say. Eventually, he just said what he felt.


    ¡°I need to find the boy,¡± he said, shrugging his heavy shoulders. ¡°I need to see him, make sure he¡¯s okay. I should have gone as soon as I learned he was alive, and even now I don¡¯t know why I didn¡¯t.¡±


    Rurin shook her head gently.


    ¡°Because I told you that you¡¯d die before you made it anywhere near him. Because we need you in the fight. Because I said I wasn¡¯t sure if he even <em>wanted</em> to be saved. Your nephew has grown hard and cold, Worthy. When I met him, he was like a block of ice, and if what I¡¯m hearing from around Kenmor is true, he¡¯s probably gotten worse.¡±


    ¡°What are you hearing?¡± Worthy demanded.


    The old yer didn¡¯t reply immediately, but took another long pull from her mug.


    ¡°Gah. This stuff tastes like yak piss.¡±


    ¡°Talk to me, Rurin.¡±


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯m getting word of¡­ patrols going missing¡­ dead Marshals found on the side of the road. Recently, an entire Noble estate went quiet. I think Tyron¡¯s been putting in a shift down there, and I don¡¯t mean at his shop.¡±


    Worthy surged to his feet.


    ¡°Damn boy is going to get himself killed,¡± he growled and turned to walk away. Rurin¡¯s hand shot out and caught him by the elbow, stopping him in ce.


    He could pull away easily if he wanted to; she might be tougher than him, but he was far stronger. He turned back to face her, his frown morphing into a re.


    ¡°Why are you stopping me?¡± he asked quietly.


    Rurin met his eyes and released his arm.


    ¡°I just¡­ I just don¡¯t want you to waste what¡¯s left of your life. I¡¯ve always thought of you as a friend, Worthy, even if you never saw me the same way.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t. Rurin was Beory¡¯s friend, and Magnin¡¯s by extension. Worthy deliberately separated himself from Magnin¡¯s friends. They had unrealistic expectations.


    Reading his expression, Rurin shook her head and chuckled to herself.


    ¡°Alright, ouch, but I¡¯m serious. Tyron is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to do, and we need you here, fighting with us.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re doing fine,¡± he rumbled.


    ¡°Things are going to change, and soon,¡± she warned him, an angry look in her eye. ¡°We had a group range out as far as Weighbridge. They came staggering back yesterday, what was left of them.¡±


    She took a shaky breath.


    ¡°The Magisters are sending golds against us.¡±


    ¡°Gold what? Soldiers? We¡¯ve been fighting them on and off for weeks.¡±


    ¡°Not Soldiers,¡± she replied, eyes hardening.


    Worthy looked at her, the blood draining from his face.


    ¡°You don¡¯t mean¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she nodded. ¡°They broke them and sent them in to fight against us. Jessul said they had chains around their necks. <em>Chains</em>.¡±


    She was too angry to continue, and Worthy could understand why. He was filled with shock and rage himself.


    The gold ranked yers, the ones who reached the pinnacle they were allowed to achieve and retired in glory. They were heroes of the province who¡¯d put in over a decade of service, battling in the rifts with barely a break, keeping the realm from being overrun. The thought the Magisters might pit them against their formerrades had never even entered his mind.


    ¡°You¡¯re sure about this?¡± he demanded.


    ¡°We¡¯ll know for sure soon enough,¡± she told him. ¡°If they were in Weighbridge, then they¡¯ll being further west, and soon. If it¡¯s only a few now, it¡¯s going to be more soon enough. We¡¯re going to have to kill them ourselves, Worthy. Don¡¯t make me do it alone.¡±


    He stared at her and could see the depth of her pain in her eyes. Rurin was old, way older than most yers ever lived to be. She¡¯d refused to Advance and remained out on the rifts longer than almost anyone. Just how many people had she seen go on to be gold and retire? How many friends was she going to see over the battlefield in the next few weeks?


    ¡°I¡¯m leaving,¡± he said, and turned away.


    ¡°Arsehole,¡± she growled at his back, but there wasn¡¯t much feeling behind it. ¡°At least talk to Tim before you leave!¡± she yelled at his back. ¡°He might have a way to smuggle you into the city! If he doesn¡¯t, try the Priests! Idiot!¡±


    All she got in return was a rude gesture over his shoulder, but Rurin merelyughed to see it. At least he¡¯d had a little life in his eyes, which was more than she could say about himtely.


    Worthy trudged back through the camp, not even hearing the voices that called out to him, not even seeing the hero worship in the eyes of the younger ones. What Rurin had said about the yers filled him with rage. What she¡¯d said about Tyron filled him with fear. Yes, they would needr him to fight, but he had to put his family first. He should have always put the boy first.


    When he returned to the small cabin, he found Meg ambling around, gathering up bits and pieces from her herb stocks, preparing to head to themunal cookhouse and check on her stew.


    The moment the door mmed shut, she turned to look at him, smiling just a little, but could immediately tell there was something different about him.


    ¡°I¡¯m heading out, Meg,¡± he said, standing by the entrance. ¡°I¡¯m going to get Tyron.¡±


    Immediately, tears sprang to the Cook¡¯s eyes, and she nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯m d,¡± she said. ¡°I thought you¡¯d never leave.¡±


    She spread her arms wide and Worthy stomped forward before he enveloped his wife in a crushing embrace.


    ¡°Bring our boy home,¡± she whispered in his ear.


    ¡°Aye,¡± he replied. ¡°He¡¯ll get here.¡±

 Chapter B4C56 - Burning the Light

    Chapter B4C56 - Burning the Light


    ¡°I have three more for you today,¡± Tyron announced as he walked into the room abruptly.


    Cerry flinched at the sudden disruption, but Tyron didn¡¯t pause, cing down three stones upon the table in the middle of the room. Flynn eyed them, looking vaguely ill, though he chose not to say anything.


    ¡°This makes ten souls over thest few days,¡± Cerry murmured, half to herself. ¡°Just how many have died recently?¡±


    She didn¡¯t expect to get an answer, in truth she was only partially aware that she¡¯d even spoken aloud, but she had, and Tyron addressed her query.


    ¡°Not enough,¡± he said.


    In shock, Cerry looked up at him and almost immediately looked away. His eyes were ice cold, as were his tone and entire demeanour. It was almost impossible to reconcile this man, this Tyron Sterm, with the Lukas Almsfield who had run Almsfield Enchantments. Were they really the same person? It seemed impossible, yet she knew it was true, had seen him transform his face with her own eyes.


    There was a pause, then a sigh. Tyron walked around the table and sat, close to Cerry, but not so close that she would feel ufortable. At least, that was his aim; judging by her reaction, he hadn¡¯t been sessful.


    ¡°Cerry, you don¡¯t have to like or approve of what I¡¯m doing. In truth, I wouldn¡¯t expect you to. I don¡¯t ask that you pretend to befortable around me, or that you pretend not to see what I¡¯m doing.¡± He gestured to the three stones on the table. ¡°These are the souls of people I killed recently, just as the others I gave you were. I¡¯ve judged that they have nothing to answer for, and thus would like you to use your abilities to put them to rest, but you don¡¯t have to. If you refuse to help me, you are still wee to stay here, and I will still protect you and Flynn as best as I can.¡±


    He was being sincere, she knew that, but it was still difficult to ept what he said. At times, she felt like he wasn¡¯t even human, as if he were some kind of monster with a human skin, putting on an act, being <em>just</em> human enough that others wouldn¡¯t notice what he really was.It wasn¡¯t fair to think of him this way, Cerry knew that, after everything he¡¯d done for her, and for Flynn. She¡¯d be dead, or worse, if Tyron hadn¡¯t protected them. Even so¡­


    She took a deep breath to steady her nerves.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright. I-I¡¯m happy to use my abilities. Letting the dead go on to rest is¡­ is a good thing. Are any of these¡­ are any of these children?¡±


    Tyron shook his head.


    ¡°No children, not this time.¡±


    ¡°O-oh.¡±


    She almost hadn¡¯t been able to breathe when she¡¯d called out the spirit trapped in a stone and a young boy had emerged, cold and afraid, crying for his¡­


    No, best not think about it. She shook her head to chase the memory away. That soul was at rest now, she¡¯d done what she could.


    ¡°I know it¡¯s distasteful,¡± Tyron said evenly, ¡°but it¡¯s necessary.¡±


    She didn¡¯t want to reply, Divines knew, she didn¡¯t want to, but the words slipped out against her will anyway.


    ¡°How can it be necessary?¡± she demanded, hot tears burning in her eyes as she looked up to re at her former employer. At the killer. ¡°They¡¯re <em>children</em>.¡±


    ¡°They aren¡¯t just children,¡± Tyron replied, looking back at her, his eyes devoid of sympathy, ¡°they have the blessing of the Divines. Of all the people in the Empire, they are the only ones who can inherit the Noble ss. Do you have any idea how powerful that is? The things they can do?


    ¡°If a Noble were to ask you to cut Flynn¡¯s throat and then gut yourself, you would. If they asked you to smother your newborn in its crib and eat it, you would. They are the Voice of the Divines, and they have absolute power over everyone who lives here. I¡¯ve learned things over the past years that would make your spirit weep were you to hear them, things that Nobles do tomoners, to yers, to <em>anyone</em>. They don¡¯t even think you¡¯re the same species as them, Cerry. Try to imagine what that justifies in their minds.¡±


    His voice neither rose nor fell as he spoke. This was no impassioned plea, merely a statement of fact and an appeal to reason, but now, a real spark of anger ignited within him as he continued.


    ¡°But that doesn¡¯t really matter. Not to me. I¡¯m going to exterminate every Noble line in the Empire because vengeance demands it. When I¡¯m done, none of them will remain.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s madness,¡± Cerry told him, tears running down her face. ¡°Just because they can inherit the ss doesn¡¯t mean they deserve to be killed! They haven¡¯tmitted any crime. They weren¡¯t the ones who killed your family.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to discuss this any further,¡± Tyron said, his eyes growing cold once more. ¡°If you don¡¯t object, I¡¯d like to watch you work with the first of the souls. Would that be alright?¡±


    She didn¡¯t reply immediately, and Flynn, bless his timid heart, sensed her distress and came around the table to fold her in a gentle embrace. He didn¡¯t like conflict, and was particrly reticent around his former Master, but he was always there for her when she needed him the most.


    ¡°Fine,¡± she said after calming down. ¡°Just the first one¡­ please.¡±


    ¡°As I said,¡± Tyron nodded, withdrawing a small notebook from a pocket and flicking it to the appropriate page. In moments, he¡¯d produced pen and ink and sat, waiting for her to begin.


    Somehow, he seemed more alive in these moments than any others. There was something about the study of things he didn¡¯t understand that made him seem¡­ more like Master Almsfield. Her ss continued to be a fascination to him, and its connection to the Realm of the Dead was of immense interest. Thankfully, he didn¡¯t push her more than she wasfortable, though he could force her to use her abilities if he truly wanted to.


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    In the end, it wasn¡¯t so bad, because Cerry <em>liked</em> using her abilities. At first, the ss had seemed grim and unpleasant, but guiding souls toward the afterlife, or at least bringing some level offort to them in their suffering was¡­ good. It felt like she was helping.


    When she felt ready, she gave Flynn a little nod and he returned the gesture with a slight squeeze on her shoulder before moving away to give her space. Cerry focused on the closest of the three stones and reached within herself, activating the primary ability of her ss: Spirit Speech.


    <em>Come out and talk to me,</em> she said.


    ¡°It¡¯s fascinating everytime I hear it,¡± Tyron muttered, scribbling furiously in his notebook. ¡°It¡¯spletely unintelligible, but <em>I </em>can speak with ghosts using a ritual and perfectly normal speech.¡±


    The ghost within was feeling resentful, and somewhat stubborn; Cerry could tell they weren¡¯t willing toe out immediately. Another benefit of her ss. As soon as shemunicated with a spirit, a¡­ bond was established, giving her insight into the spirit¡¯s emotional state.


    It helped her speak to them, but it wasn¡¯t always pleasant. Every ghost she¡¯d talked to had been angry, despairing, filled with grudges or worse.


    <em>It¡¯s safe out here, and I can help you</em>, Cerry said. <em>If youe out, you can talk to me. I¡¯ll listen to whatever you have to say.</em>


    <em>No!</em> The spirit rasped back. <em>I¡¯m dead. Leave me be!</em>


    No matter how many times she heard it, the voice of the spirits always sent a shiver running down her spine. A rasp and wail, a scream and a whisper, it sounded like it was right next to her ear and from far, far away, all at once. Eerie and unsettling were wholly insufficient words to describe it.


    <em>There must be something you¡¯d like to speak about, </em>Cerry weedled, <em>do you have any grandchildren you want me to pass a message on to?</em>


    This was definitely the spirit of an older person. They were often most interested in their surviving family, although not always in a good way.


    <em>My family is dead. I want to tell the bastard responsible to burn in the hells forever, and that¡¯s it!</em>


    Hearing that, Cerry winced. Of course, this would have to have been someone who had their whole family working on the Estate. Many of the servants had been that way, loyal families who¡¯d worked for the Jorlins over multiple generations.


    <em>You can tell him yourself if you want. He¡¯s here.</em>


    The spectre hesitated, caught between terror and rage. As was often the case with the ghosts, rage won out, and the spirit billowed forth from the stone screaming in anger.


    <em>Beast! Vile Fiend! Evil, cursed shit-prick! Die for my children! Die! Die! DIEEEEEE!</em>


    Despite the shrieking and wailing that, to Cerry, was almost ear splitting, neither Flynn nor Tyron reacted to the ghost at all, because neither of them could see or hear it. This was another thing the Necromancer found interesting. Whereas he needed a ritual to substantiate the ghost, she didn¡¯t, allowing her to speak to them in their natural state.


    The ghost swiped angrily at Tyron, and at Flynn, also at Cerry a few times. It was difficult for them to perceive the living. As far as she could tell, it was almost impossible for the dead to tell the living apart in any meaningful sense.


    Of course, without the influence of Magick, the ghost waspletely harmless and unable to interact with the material world in any way.


    <em>I could tell you which one is the right one, </em>Cerry suggested, getting a little irritated at being attacked.


    She told herself to be patient, this person had suffered a very traumatic death.


    <em>You will lie!</em> Came the screeched reply as the spirit continued to twist and circle around the room swiping and screaming at everything and everyone.


    <em>I have no reason to lie,</em> she said, trying not to get exasperated.


    She had no idea why ghosts tended to be so¡­ unpleasant. It was as if a part of theirpassion or humanity was severed the moment they were no longer living.


    Of course, trying to be calm in the presence of the person who killed you <em>was</em> asking for a lot.


    <em>I won¡¯t ask you to believe me right away, but I want you to know that I can help you. With my help, you can pass on much quicker than you otherwise would. I can¡¯t force you to agree, but it''s something you can consider.</em>


    Another quirk of her ss. Cerry couldn¡¯t <em>force</em> a spirit to serve, it had to be voluntary. Only then was she in a position to do anything for them.


    Sadly, the spirit was too busy screaming and cursing to be sure that she¡¯d even been heard. Cerry sighed and hesitated a moment before she gave Tyron a gesture. He raised a brow at her.


    ¡°Already?¡± he asked.


    ¡°This particr person isn¡¯t¡­ all that happy with you? They¡¯re too upset to speak with me at the moment.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to tell them I was here¡­¡±


    ¡°It was the only way I could get them out of the rock.¡±


    With a few gestures and words, Tyron seized control of the spirit and banished it back into the stone, where it would remain until she awoke it or he summoned it out once again.


    ¡°Well that wasn¡¯t very sessful,¡± Cerry sighed, rubbing at her temples.


    ¡°Why is it that your ss shows such a divergence from every other that deals with the dead?¡± Tyron mused aloud. ¡°Necromancy is about binding andmanding the dead, whereas you are actively required to seek their cooperation. Forging a rtionship of mutual benefit. It¡¯s¡­¡±


    ¡°Nice?¡± she suggested, a little tartly.


    ¡°Different,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s very different.¡±


    ¡°How many more of these do you have, Master¡­ Sterm?¡± Cerry finally sighed, feeling exhausted. ¡°Dealing with regr spirits who died without violence is difficult, but those who were killed are <em>extremely </em>hard to persuade. They hold onto those grudges with a¡­ uh¡­¡±


    ¡°With a death grip?¡± Tryon finished her sentence. ¡°Not that many more. No, I can¡¯t give you an urate count. I need to vet them before I bring them to you, and I¡¯m not finished going through them all.¡±


    He capped his pen and put away his ink before snapping the book shut and slipping it back into his pocket. Standing from the table, he looked down at Cerry and Flynn for a moment before he sighed.


    ¡°I want you both to consider my earlier offer to leave the city very carefully. It¡¯s much more dangerous to be here now than it was before. Besides, if you were to stay much longer, then I¡¯m worried for Cerry.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡± she asked.


    Tyron tilted his head a little to the side before he straightened again.


    ¡°Because it won¡¯t be long until this ce is overrun with angry spirits,¡± he told her tly.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t mention this before,¡± Flynn said,ing to Cerry¡¯s side once more.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure of it before. Unlike Cerry, I can¡¯t see them normally. Right now, Kenmor is overflowing with <em>very</em> angry ghosts, and I do mean overflowing. They¡¯re starting to spill out into Shadetown. If they find out there¡¯s a Spirit Speaker here, they maye in droves.¡±


    The city¡­ was filled with ghosts?


    Seeing her look of confusion, Tyron chuckled to himself.


    ¡°You think <em>I¡¯ve</em> been a monster? When ten thousand little ones ughtered in the purge descend on you, will you be able to think of me as in the same ss as them?¡±


    Leaving his question hanging in the air, Tyron gave the two of them a nod, and walked out of the room.

 Chapter B4C57 - Quiet Moments

    Losing oneself to magick was such an easy process for Tyron. Perhaps he was addicted to it. There were all kinds of addicts in Kenmor; people unable to function without drink, or women, or gambling, or any number of things. Master Willhem could be thought of as an addict. If he weren¡¯t able to work with cores and create, Tyron genuinely thought the old man would simply fade away.


    There was something about the sigils, the arrays, the runes, the words, that Tyron found endlessly fascinating. There was nothing greater than time spent plumbing the possibilities, trying to build the same sigil array in new ways, rearranging a sequence to squeeze out any sort of gain.


    Dove had often railed against those who believed spellcasting was akin to music, a blend of instinct and knowledge that produced something artful. To Dove, magick was construction, building, engineering. Was there something artful about a delicate and well-built structure? Certainly there was, but in the end the only thing that mattered was the function.


    To Tyron, magick was even more fundamental than that. Magick was mathematics, magick was logic,nguage and sequence.


    Every sequence could be formed dozens and dozens of ways, and each of those had advantages and disadvantages. Which one worked best for the particr purpose you had in mind? What trade-offs were you prepared to make? Whichponents most suited your purpose?


    Whenever he learnt new sigils, there was always an extensive process of working backward through all of his mostmonly used sequences and trying to construct something new that would perform the same role in a better, or at least different, way.


    The way the sigils interacted with the words could change based on the context they were used as well. With the right sequence, it was possible to make one plus one equal three, but that came with drawbacks all of its own. There were infinite possibilities, and perhaps some mages believed it was their artistic expression to select the right ones, or to specialise in certain patterns, creating their own unique blend of magick.


    To Tyron, that was almost offensively foolish. Specialise in certain patterns? Combine sequences based on feel? That wasn¡¯t magick, that was clumsy and inefficient. He knew he was a gifted mage, although gifted may not have been the right word, but the choices of others were so confusing to him sometimes.


    Why would you limit yourself to certain sequences? Learn all of them, then choose the best, most appropriate one. What need was there to focus on reliable patterns, when one could simply craft arrays using the tools avable.Were Dove with him, he¡¯d be able to answer those questions. Because most mages found it difficult to master the proper pronunciation of the words of power, or the precise formation of sigils. So they mastered solid, generic patterns that they could perform under pressure and apply to many different spells. Not everyone could practise a sigil a few times and then perform it perfectly for the rest of their lives. Not everyone could wlessly memorise the thousands upon thousands of variables eachbination of sigils could send awry and bnce them out in their head on the fly.


    For someone who <em>could</em> do all of those things, the practices of other mages were baffling. Had Tyron been a regr mage, doubtless he would have ticked off an enormous number of people by criticising their work. At least, as a Necromancer, he was forced to teach himself, and there were no orthodox practices for him to rail against. His methods and designs for his craft were entirely of his own invention, and when he thought of his students, hopefully studying and levelling up in the west, he was pleased to know they were learning magick the <em>right</em> way.


    With a final scratch of the pen, hepleted histest re-write and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. His trusty notebook had gone through a lot over the years, and was finally in danger of running out of pages. Idly, he flicked to the earliest entries and smiled at the horrible, half-formed ideas and arrays scrawled in messy writing all over the paper. He hadn¡¯t known anything then, and had been forced to figure out whatever he could on the fly. The end result was that a lot of his scratchings and ideas ended up going nowhere, abandoned only half-formed when he realised they were dead ends.


    He turned over the pages, moving forward in time and found it pleasant to see how his thoughts became (generally) more organised, more focused on the right concepts. The spellwork was still terrible, amateurish by his current standards, but that wasn¡¯t entirely his own fault. He¡¯d needed time and space to develop his craft, neither of which he¡¯d had back then. Now he had carefully crafted sequences, tried and tested, along with ess to far more sigils and words of power, courtesy of the Unseen.


    With the final pages in the book, he¡¯d been writing histest revisions to the fundamental methods of the Necromancy ss. Several versions of the Raise Dead ritual, the best of his techniques for preparing corpses, along with detailed descriptions and diagrams regarding weaving methods. It was helpful for him topile this information, solidifying the fundamentals in his own mind, but in his heart of hearts, he knew that wasn¡¯t why he¡¯d done it.


    The entire city was in an uproar. The Nobles were howling for blood; now that so much divine ichor had been spilled, they demanded an ocean be filled in rpense. Brutality was everywhere, the fear that had gripped the streets before had been reced with white-knuckled terror.


    And they were getting closer. It was only a matter of time before he was found and forced to abandon Almsfield Enchantments for good. A knock on the door coulde at any second, and only Tyron¡¯s wards would warn him when they broke in. That was why Flynn and Cerri had to leave, and he was d they¡¯d finally listened to him.


    Everything woulde to an end soon, and so he¡¯d taken the time to write down the one thing he hoped would survive in the event of his death: his magick.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    There had to be some way for him to smuggle the book to the rebels at Cragwhistle. It wasn¡¯t perfect, but the book would certainly help his students develop their Skills and make proper Necromancers of themselves. Even if they didn¡¯t get it, the contents would be useful for any of the undead-rted sses.


    He frowned. This wasn¡¯t the right way to think. He wasn¡¯t going to die, that¡¯s what he needed to tell himself. He would seed, his enemies would be destroyed, and he would return to the west and deliver the book to his students with his own two hands. Only that future would be eptable, none other could be allowed toe to pass.


    Feeling resolved, he pushed the book away and stood up. His study had been mostly cleaned out now, all of his current projects were held within the Ossuary, where he couldn¡¯t lose them, but there were still a few bits and pieces lying about, including a few Repositories he¡¯d been working on.


    Tyron strode up to the closest, cocked his head for a moment, then began to work his magick. Soon, the spirit was conjured forth from the stone, a shrieking, gasping spectre, barely visible within the fog that surrounded it.


    ¡°Herath, time for another chat,¡± Tyron stated.


    The spirit screamed and tried to w at him, but the confines of the ritual bound it, and the limitations of its form prevented it from harming him in any way.


    <em>You will get nothing from me!</em>


    Every time with this.


    ¡°You know I will,¡± Tyron said patiently. ¡°All you do is make things more difficult for yourself. Why do you insist on wasting time?¡±


    <em>Murderer. I will suffer if it means taking even a second from you.</em>


    The ever-present rage boiled to the surface and Tyron clenched his teeth before it erupted. Being called a murderer, by this person in particr, was infuriating.


    ¡°The stench of hypocrisy is so thick around you I can barely stand it,¡± Tyron grated. ¡°After what you did to my family, you think you¡¯re in any position to criticise?¡±


    <em>Magnin and Beory deserved to die,</em> the spectre hissed viciously, <em>and I am proud of my service to the Empire.</em>


    With a single, extended breath, Tyron pushed all the heat of his anger away until only ice-cold rage remained.


    ¡°Now you will serve a new master,¡± he promised.


    <em>Never!</em>


    ¡°You don¡¯t get a choice, Herath.¡±


    With a gesture, he ended the ritual and banished the Noble¡¯s soul back into the stone before he snatched it up and strode toward the Ossuary. The arch of bones remained in the centre of the room, anchored to a ritual circle that he would soon need to dismantle, lest the Magisters study and learn from it.


    He pushed open the door and stepped out of one realm and into another. Face as hard a stone, he ced the rock down on the altar as he ordered his minions to gather the materials he wanted. With dozens of skeletons on hand, it didn¡¯t take long before the carefully prepared remains of Herath Jorlin had been assembled on the altar.


    Tyron strode around the raised tform several times, running his expert eye over every centimetre of the bones, ensuring everything was as perfect as possible. When he was finally satisfied, he moved to stand by the skeleton¡¯s feet and began to weave.


    Lost in the work, even his anger faded away as his hands danced and fingers flickered above the remains. Threads of pure magick were spun with dizzying speed as he perfectly recreated the methods he¡¯d designed and mastered. Each joint, each muscle, took shape under his discerning eye, any errors corrected before they could truly form.


    The feet were difficult, intricate, with many tiny bones working together. Not all were necessary for a functional, walking skeleton, but Tyron insisted on perfection wherever he could. From there he moved up the legs, paying particr care to the ankles and knees. These joints were the most important for a properly mobile undead, and experienced the most wear.


    The hips, spine and ribs followed, until he reached the shoulders. Connecting the vicle, scap and humerus was difficult, but less important for a mage archetype. Herath wouldn¡¯t be swinging any swords, after all.


    But the hands, the hands were incredibly important. Tyron took a second to concentrate, pausing in his weaving as he summoned the correct structure of weave in his mind. It was intricate, multiyered and incredibly fine, but without it, the undead wouldn¡¯t be able to properly form the spells required of it.


    It took an hour on each hand before he was satisfied with his work. Only when he was fully confident each digit would be fully articte and precise in its movement did he finish the rest of the skeleton. Of course, that wasn¡¯t the end. He inspected his work again, top to bottom, and finding no error, he moved to the next step.


    With the stone in ce, he raised his hands and began to speak, invoking the Raise Dead ritual.


    Time slipped by as Tyron worked. Forming eachponent of the ritual with meticulous care and wless spellwork, he carefully constructed the prison which would house Herath Jorlin, made of magick and his own bones. When he reached the final step, he called forth the spectre trapped within the stone and forced it, wailing and shrieking, into its new form, merging the spirit with the weave, pouring it like liquid metal within its own hollow bones until it took root.


    Then began the final work, as he bound the ghost to himself, cing walls and barriers around the soul that would make Herath unable to disobey. Considering he was working on a former Magister, Tyron took extra care, buildingyers of protection and control that would ce the mage entirely within his grasp at all times, and leave him unable to even consider bringing harm to his new master.


    When it was all done, the ritual came to a close, and the now familiar dark light bloomed within the hollow sockets of the skeleton.


    There was a long moment of silence.


    <em>What have you done to me?</em> Herath wailed.


    Tyron waved a hand, and the revenant could no longer speak.


    ¡°You¡¯ve begun your service to a new master. I wonder if you¡¯ll take pride in bringing death and destruction to all that you served before, Herath, because that¡¯s what you¡¯re going to do. Now, I¡¯m going to dip into your mind and find out exactly what I want to know, and you¡¯re going to tell me, because you don¡¯t have a choice.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we start with everything you know about the location where the gold ranked yer brands are kept?¡±


    Another gesture, and the revenant could speak once more.


    <em>You will die if you go there, </em>the revenant promised.


    ¡°Let me worry about that. Now talk.¡±

 Chapter B4C58 - Once Spilled, Never Forgotten

    Nostas Jorlin strode through the streets of Kenmor like an avenging angel. Around him, the highest level Soldiers of his House were arrayed, and he dove into the depravity of the city every day, hunting. Yet despite his best efforts, the trail of the Necromancer was infuriatingly cold.


    Kenmor had been turned upside down twice over with no result, so now it was time to start rattling the cages he hadn¡¯t been allowed to touch up to this point.


    At the head of his column, Nostas strode, barely aware of the public scattering out of his way, diving back into their homes or pressing themselves against the buildings lining the street. He was focused entirely on his purpose, the magnificent, multi-story building in the centre of the Arcanist district.


    Master Willhem¡¯s Arcanist Emporium.


    Faces paled as he moved directly to the famed store, dozens of armoured men and women in his wake. When he reached the door, he was met by an attendant who had clearly seen theming.


    ¡°Wee, my Lord,¡± she said, bowing deeply at the waist. ¡°How may we serve you today?¡±


    She wore a crisp, well-tailored uniform, as did all the store attendants at Willhem¡¯s. Professional to thest, she didn¡¯t even appear all that afraid¡ªat least, to someone less observant than a Lord, she didn¡¯t. The slight trembling of her hands, the ever so slightly paleplexion of her face. She was afraid, as she should be.


    ¡°I havee to conduct an inspection of the premises and question any and all persons associated with this establishment,¡± he announced. The Lord held a hand to the side, and a rolled piece of parchment was ced there by a nearby Soldier. Nostas held it out to the attendant. ¡°Our writ, signed by the Duke.¡±


    The attendant took it, trying to maintain her calm.¡°I will bring this to Master Willhem immediately,¡± she said, her voice wavering. ¡°He will be with you as soon as he can, my Lord.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not necessary. We¡¯ll start now.¡±


    Without another word, Nostas brushed the attendant aside and shoved open the door, his Soldiers piling in behind him as the attendant cried out. The interior of the store was immacte, filled with polished marble disys, gold iys and intricate lighting arrays powered by enchantments hidden on the underside of tables and within the columns. Male and female attendants were ced at intervals all around the floor, some positioned next to certain disys, but all recoiled as the fully armed and armoured Soldiers poured in through the door.


    ¡°Question everyone,¡± Nostas barked, eyes hard. ¡°Go through the books; I want to know <em>everything</em>.¡±


    ¡°My Lord.¡±


    A man appeared at his elbow, a pinch-nosed, narrow-featured figure in a Marshal Lieutenant uniform.


    ¡°Officer Meechin.¡±


    ¡°With your permission, I¡¯ll handle the documents personally. It¡¯s my speciality, after all.¡±


    It was quite interesting, just how versatile the Marshal ss could be. Someone like Meechin, ill-suited for bringing down toughs in the street, had found another way to specialise his progression.


    ¡°No,¡± Nostas said and then cut off the impending protest, ¡°I need you in the next building. We aren¡¯t here for financial crimes.¡±


    Meechin hesitated, then nodded. He¡¯d probably never get another chance to inspect Master Willhem¡¯s books in his entire life, but he couldn¡¯t disagree with Lord Jorlin, not if he wanted to live.


    ¡°Six to remain here. Turn this ce upside down and squeeze the staff until they squeak. The rest with me.¡±


    The Emporium itself was only one of the buildings that made up Magister Willhem¡¯s littlepound. There were two others; the dormitory and the workshop. It was to thetter that Nostas went next.


    ¡°You can¡¯te in here,¡± a young man said, barring their way as his legs trembled within his apprentice robe.


    ¡°<strong>GET ON THE GROUND</strong>,¡± Nostasmanded, drawing on the Divine Authority he possessed.


    Unable to resist hismand, the apprentice was forced to his knees and then t on the ground where he writhed like a worm. Upper lip curled with distaste, Nostas stepped over the man and shoved open the door. Inside, Arcanist benches in neat rows filled the open space, the students of Willhem themselves gathered together in a huddle, muttering amongst themselves. At his arrival, they turned toward the door fearfully.


    ¡°Against the wall,¡± he ordered them. When they were slow to obey, he gestured to the Soldiers behind him and they leapt forward, seizing the Arcanists and forcing them up against the wall with ease. Many shouted protests or cried out in pain or fear, others imed their Noble heritage, outraged by this treatment.


    ¡°Those of Noble blood will be separated shortly,¡± Nostas assured them. ¡°For now, do as you¡¯re told.¡±


    He turned to the rest of his group, still filing into the building through the door, including Officer Meechin.


    ¡°I want you to go through every document rting to apprentices for thest twenty years, but especially focus on thest five. I don¡¯t care how briefly they were here, I want to know everything.¡±


    ¡°Yes, My Lord.¡±


    ¡°What in the name of the gods is going on here?¡±


    Master Willhem was neither loud, nor was he an imposing figure, yet somehow he managed tomand attention anyway. His voice was thin, age wearing heavily on him, yet his demeanour was like a king in his throne room. The old master stood on the stairway, halfway down, one hand on the rail to steady himself, the other grasping the head of a bejewelled cane on which he leaned for bnce.


    Although his tone was measured, his expression was <em>furious</em>.


    ¡°I am Lord Nostas Jorlin, and we are searching these premises.¡± The Lord turned to his people, who had stopped in their tracks at the appearance of the Master. ¡°Move. Now.¡±


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    They did, not looking at Willhem as his face twisted in anger.


    ¡°On whose authority are you conducting this inspection, Lord Jorlin?¡± Willhem forced out from between clenched teeth. ¡°This is extremely¡ª¡±


    ¡°The Duke himself signed the writ.¡±


    ¡°The Duke?¡± Willhem spluttered as he reached the bottom of the staircase and made his way toward the Lord. ¡°He and I have worked together for many years¡ª¡±


    ¡°Divine Blood has been spilled. My <em>family¡¯s</em> blood, has been spilled.¡± Nostas turned his re directly on the old Arcanist, his fury bearing down on the Master. ¡°I don¡¯t care if I have to gut every person in this building, <em>Master</em> Willhem, I will have my answers.¡±


    He turned and reached to his aid, who ced another parchment in his hand, which he unrolled and handed to Willhem.


    ¡°This is an Artist¡¯s rendition of what was found at the Jorlin Estate. Do you recognise anything?¡±


    Still furious, but in no position to refuse, Master Willhem held the page close to his eyes so he could see.


    ¡°There are¡­ fragments of some sort of array. It¡¯s hard to tell what the medium used to create it was¡­. Or even its function. These sigils could rte to energy, though I can¡¯t say how.¡±


    ¡°These fragments were found in the ruins of the Jorlin estate. The killer appears to have some knowledge of Enchanting, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    The old man''s face darkened.


    ¡°And on the basis of that, you storm into my building and terrorise my staff? They could have been trained anywhere! They could have been self-taught! You don¡¯t need to be an expert to create an array like that!¡±


    It wasn¡¯t much of a lead, but it was all Nostas had right now. Wherever Tyron Sterm was hiding, he¡¯d done a good job of covering his tracks. Without the assurance of the Oracles, he would never have believed the man was still in the city.


    ¡°If you have nothing to hide, then you have nothing to fear. We have swept through every major Arcanist¡¯s in the city, and this is thest stop.¡±


    It was clear Willhem wanted toin, but he restrained himself. Even he wouldn¡¯t escape without consequence if he said too much in front of the vengeful Lord. After all, despite all his sess, the Divine Blood didn¡¯t flow in his veins.


    Which meant he was disposable.


    ¡°Of course I have nothing to hide,¡± Master Willhem muttered bitterly. ¡°I¡¯ve been an Arcanist in this city for over half a century. I¡¯ve worked hard for my reputation.¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t here to use you of murder,¡± Nostas rebuked him, ¡°but to see if the killer ever worked or trained here.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t train murderers, I train Arcanists.¡±


    ¡°You say that now. We will see what we find.¡±


    The following two hours were the longest of Master Willhem¡¯s life. The old man seemed to age visibly as time wore on and he was forced to watch Nostas Jorlin ransack every inch of his workshop. House Mages, Magisters, Officers of thew, all paraded through the building, rifling through the drawers, pawing through every cab, questioning his apprentices and examining all of his records. Even his precious library wasn¡¯t safe. Uneducated idiots walked through and took all of the rare volumes, going through every page without any care for the delicate nature of the old documents.


    All the while, Nostas Jorlin or one of his higher ranked followers peppered him with endless questions. How many apprentices had he taken in? What were their names? Did he notice anything odd about their behaviour? Was there anyone he suspected of foul y?


    They were especially interested in anyone who had trained only for a short amount of time, or had been expelled from the workshop.


    Growing increasingly irritable, Willhem answered their damned questions without fail, his memory as sharp as it had ever been. All the while, he thought of the thousands ofmissions and favours he¡¯d done for the Noble Houses of Kenmor over the decades. This was how they repaid him in his twilight years? The disrespect was almost more than he could bear.


    Eventually they were joined by Officer Meechin, the weasel-ishwman clutching his notebook to his chest.


    ¡°There are a few candidates, my Lord,¡± the Marshal reported.


    Furious at theck of progress, Nostas turned an intense stare on the man, who shrank back immediately.


    ¡°Who?¡± the Lord demanded.


    ¡°There were t-three apprentices who started around the time we would expect the¡­ uh¡­ the killer to arrive in the city. Hunt Filtner, Lukas Almsfield and Victor Tarkyn.¡±


    ¡°Those three?¡± Master Willhem snorted. ¡°Only one of them was worth a damn.¡±


    ¡°Master, I¡¯m right here,¡± Victorined.


    Nostas turned his re at the young man against the wall. ¡°Who is this?¡±


    ¡°That is Victor Tarkyn,¡± Willhem drawled. ¡°A bright young man with a poor work ethic. Too busy trying to marry up to focus on his apprenticeship. An unlikely candidate for your vicious killer.¡±


    Lord Jorlin didn¡¯t care how likely it was, any lead would be chased down to the end.


    ¡°Take him. We¡¯ll question him in the castle.¡±


    Willhem ground his teeth as Victor was dragged away with an indignant squawk before being punched viciously in the gut, doubling him over and silencing his protests.


    ¡°I think he¡¯s engaged to one of the Shans,¡± Willhem stated.


    ¡°Noted. Who are the other two?¡±


    ¡°Hunt Filtner gave up his apprenticeship after a year and a half. He wasn¡¯t a badd, but he was easily intimidated. Couldn¡¯t handle the pressure.¡±


    ¡°Where is he?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea. I don¡¯t track my apprentices after they leave.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll find him,¡± Nostas promised grimly. ¡°What about the third one?¡±


    ¡°Lukas Almsfield? One of the best apprentices I¡¯ve ever had,¡± Willhem said wistfully. ¡°He had a mind like a steel trap and the work ethic of a demon. A goodd. Very polite. Not much for conversation, very dedicated to his craft.¡±


    ¡°You sound as if you¡¯re fond of him.¡±


    After listening to Master Willhemin about the various failings of hundreds of apprentices over the past hours, it was almost odd to hearpliments out of the man.


    ¡°I have his papers here, my Lord,¡± Officer Meechin said, passing them over. ¡°I encourage you to look at the registered primary ss.¡±


    Nostas frowned, his pupils dting the moment they found the entry.


    <em>Curse Mage</em>.


    A usible cover for a Necromancer, but he would have been required to provide evidence of the ss in order to be an apprentice. Had Tyron found a way to fool the status ritual? It would make sense; how else could he hide in the city for this long?


    ¡°Tell me about this apprentice,¡± Nostas demanded, turning toward Willhem once more.


    The old Master frowned.


    ¡°He was ad who took on Enchanting as a sub-ss since he didn¡¯t want to be a yer with his primary. Like I said, very sharp, very dedicated. He progressed quickly andpleted his apprenticeship in half the time. A good kid. He opened a shop in Shadetown, does bitwork for the people out there,¡± Willhem sniffed, as if disappointed, ¡°but it''s still high quality enchanting.¡±


    A brilliant, driven young man who became apprenticed to <em>the</em> Master Willhem within a year of Magnin and Beory being killed. That primary ss, Curse Mage, a legal usible cover for a Necromancer. It made so much sense. It <em>had</em> to be him.


    ¡°Arrest Master Willhem and take him back to the castle. The apprentices too. I want anyone who worked with Lukas Almsfield in a cell.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡± Willhem bellowed, but Nostas wasn¡¯t listening.


    The young Lord of House Jorlin turned on his heel and marched out the door, anger boiling in his gut and a smile on his face.


    ¡°Let the Duke know we¡¯re headed straight to Shadetown. Send someone ahead and get eyes on Lukas Almsfield¡¯s shop. The bastard will be on the rack by nightfall.¡±


    Tyron Sterm was going to suffer for a long, <em>long</em> time for what he¡¯d done. By the Gods, he would regret the day he spilled Divine Blood.

 Chapter B4C59 - Run

    A sh of light caught Tyron¡¯s eye, and for a moment he was confused. The array was set into the wall, shing a bright orange light right in his face. A secondter, he remembered what it was: his rm.


    Someone had entered the shop.


    Since Almsfield Enchantments was closed and he¡¯d stopped takingmissions from re-enlisting yers, that could only mean one thing. It was strange; after fearing the moment of discovery for so long, to have it finally arrive felt almost anti-climactic. He was prepared; the persona of Lukas Almsfield had outlived its usefulness and he could cast it aside.


    It was time for Tyron Sterm to reemerge into the light.


    Filled with sudden energy, he sprang up from his chair, grabbed his staff from its ce against the wall and began to work. His hands flickered as he rapidly deployed the words of power, shutting down some arrays, bringing others to life and triggering his final surprise.


    As he did so, Filetta emerged from the sewer tunnel, a dozen skeletons arranged by her side.


    ¡°Time to go?¡± she asked, business-like for a change.


    When he was done, Tyron lowered his hands and nodded. ¡°Time to go. Is everything ready?¡±


    ¡°Just the way you wanted it.¡± There was a moment of hesitation from the undead.


    ¡°Are you sure about this?¡± she asked him.


    Tyron turned towards her, unwavering resolve burning in his eyes.


    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have asked,¡± she apologised.


    ¡°What will be, will be,¡± he stated. ¡°There¡¯s no going back from this point forward.¡±


    The Ossuary had been closed, his study was barren of his work, not a single scrap of writing remaining. Everything of any value to him had been removed long ago, leaving nothing for his pursuers to find, except for the connection between the basement and the sewer. It wouldn¡¯t take them long to discover where he¡¯d gone.


    Well, they¡¯d be slowed down a bit. Of that, he was certain.


    With a final nce over his shoulder, Tyron bid farewell to his study, the store, and any semnce of peace in his life. It was fine, he willingly cast it away. Peace did nothing more than weigh him down; where he was going, he wouldn¡¯t need it.


    With Filetta and her skeletons falling in around him, Tyron drew up the hood of his cloak and strode into the darkness of the sewer, staff in hand.


    ~~~


    As it happened, finding Almsfield Enchantments wasn¡¯t all that difficult. The enchanter had a good reputation for producing durable, quality work at a reasonable price. In a mere afternoon of intelligence gathering, Nostas Jorlin¡¯s people hadpiled aundry list of glowing testimonials for the store.


    On the surface, it seemed as if Lukas Almsfield was exactly what Master Willhem had said he was: a talented, hardworking Arcanist who, for whatever reason, had decided to establish himself beyond the walls of the city in Shadetown rather than within Kenmor proper.


    Yet Lord Jorlin was convinced there was more to this case. The timing lined up too well, the fact that ¡®Master Almsfield¡¯ had been so diligent, almost to the point of mania, his low profile, all of it raised his suspicions further and further.


    Only hours after his raid on the properties of Master Willhem, Nostas strode through the streets of Shadetown with a veritable army by his side. To apprehend the culprit, no effort would be spared; even Duke Raugrave had provided some of his personal Soldiers, along with the finest Mage Catchers in the province.


    Guilty or not, Lukas Almsfield would be screaming in the deepest pit under the castle before long, bing familiar with the Duke¡¯s Questioners.


    The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky when they reached the market district. With a gesture, Lord Jorlin ordered his people forward, and they responded like the high levelled professionals they were. Gliding over the ground like panthers, they spread through the streets, forming a wide perimeter around the district and then started to pull it tight.


    Doors were locked and windows barred as the citizens raced to get out of sight and protect themselves from being caught up in the confrontation toe. Whatever was about to happen wasn¡¯t something they wanted to be involved in, and when they saw the livery of House Jorlin on the Lord¡¯s armour, they knew that blood would soon be spilled.


    The Lord himself waited with mounting impatience and fury, grinding his teeth as the necessary precautions were taken. Anti-magick fields were being established, eyes put on every path in and out of the district. Only when it was certain there was no way out for the prey did the circle begin to draw closed and finally allow Nostas to stride forward, armoured feet pounding the cobbled road as he gripped the hilt of his de so tight his knuckles turned white.


    The store itself wasn¡¯t anything impressive, though the building wasrger and more ornate than those around it. Stone columns and a carvednding extended from the front door, giving the entrance an officious air, arge embossed copper te hung over the door that read ¡°Almsfield Enchantments,¡± the letters themselves gleaming with a subtle, magickal light.


    Yet through the broad windows that nked the door, it was clear the interior was dark and empty. It had been some time since this ground floor had seen a significant number of peoplee through the entrance.


    Nostas ground his teeth. Had the suspect already fled? No matter. It dyed the capture, but wouldn¡¯t prevent it.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the vition.


    The Lord pushed forward, only for Captain Mykl, leader of the remaining Jorlin family Soldiers, to catch him on the arm.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t going first, my Lord,¡± the grizzled veteran said.


    It wasn¡¯t a question. In his anger, Nostas bristled at theck of respect, but strangled his protest. This could be the hiding ce of a Necromancer powerful enough to kill everyone in his family estate; it would be foolish to rush forward blindly.


    He gave a short nod, and only then did Mykl remove his hand, moving forward himself along with a few of his trusted men.


    ¡°Is the anti-magick field ready?¡± the Lord demanded.


    The highest ranking of the Mage Catchers stepped up beside him.


    ¡°It is, my Lord. Currently, we don¡¯t detect any unusual sources of energy within the building, but that doesn¡¯t mean there aren¡¯t any. An aplished Arcanist has many ways to conceal magick from our eyes.¡±


    ¡°Would the field suppress it regardless?¡± he demanded.


    ¡°The short answer is no,¡± she replied bluntly. ¡°Large bursts of power can overwhelm anti-magick fields. They are useful tools, but not infallible. Caution is always advised.¡±


    He grunted and eyed the woman sideways. Specialists at hunting rogue Mages, the Order of Silence belonged to the Empire, or more directly, to the Duke. Their abilities were so narrowly focused, there wasn¡¯t much call for many of them, only three existed in the entire Western Province as far as he knew. At Gold Rank, she had reached the peak of what she would be allowed to achieve in her Primary ss. He¡¯d been told to treat her with respect and refer to her as Sister Ceril.


    If it allowed him to find Tyron Sterm and tear the bastard apart, then he would dlyply.


    Both of them watched intently as the door was punched open, the Soldiers rushing inside while others kept the buildingpletely surrounded. A mouse wouldn¡¯t be able to slip out a window without being noticed, even wearing an invisibility spell.


    Lord Jorlin simmered as he was forced to wait while Marshals and Magisters stormed into the building after the Soldiers, rushing up the interior stairs and turning over every box and table within the store.


    ¡°Still nothing?¡± he ground out.


    Sister Ceril shook her head, her green eyes focused, unblinking on the structure as some form of power swirled within them.


    ¡°There are small readings; shes and pulses, but those could just be from enchanted bits and bobs that were being sold. The field is soaking up that energy without issues, but there¡¯s nothing significant.¡±


    For five agonising minutes, the Lord of House Jorlin fumed in the street as the building was turned inside out, only for Mylk to emerge and report the building was empty.


    ¡°No sign of him at all?¡± Nostas growled.


    This wasn¡¯t what he wanted to hear.


    ¡°So far, no. He was living here, recently even, judging by the state of the rooms upstairs. There¡¯s still a fair few cores and other materials lying about, but so far nothing that would indicate Necromancy.¡±


    ¡°I want to know where he¡¯s gone,¡± Nostas demanded. ¡°Find me something I can use.¡±


    ¡°Allow me to inspect the building,¡± Sister Ceril said. ¡°If anything has been hidden using magickal means, I¡¯ll find it.¡±


    ¡°Go,¡± Nostas ordered and turned toward Mykl. ¡°Is the building secure enough for me to enter?¡±


    ¡°I would prefer you waited for the Sister toplete her search, my Lord,¡± the Captain replied, eyes glittering, ¡°but I suspect you won¡¯t tolerate further dy.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right, I won¡¯t.¡±


    The interior of the store was almost insultingly normal. ss cases set atop long tables, plenty of space for clients to walk through the rows, admiring the pieces on disy. Of course, it had all been overturned and now the space was in total disarray, butpared to what he¡¯d hoped to find, this¡­ normality¡­ grated on his nerves.


    A store counter, a safe, storerooms in the back, workrooms upstairs alongside private rooms for the owner. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.


    There <em>had</em> to be <em>something</em>.


    It was Sister Ceril who found it.


    ¡°I believe this storeroom has a false wall,¡± she reported when he rejoined her downstairs. ¡°I can feel enchantments built into the wall and floor behind it. If I¡¯m right, then there should be a staircase going down into a cer.¡±


    Nostas¡¯ eyes widened as he felt his anger re anew in his chest. Had he been right? Had his brothers¡¯ killer lived in this very building?


    ¡°So tear it down,¡± he demanded. ¡°I want to see it!¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± she said, her eyes as cold as ice. ¡°Unless you want to find yourself in an early grave, allow me to drain the power from the cores I can sense. Then your men can break down the wall and enter the basement safely.¡±


    Before Nostas could argue, Mykl was by his side cing a hand on his arm.


    ¡°My Lord. If this <em>is</em> the person we¡¯ve been chasing, there is no need to risk yourself. Allow us to take on the risk, that is what we are here for.¡±


    The young Lord ground his teeth.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he said.


    Once he had exited the building, Sister Ceril began her work, joining him outside when she was done a half hourter.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t sense anything further,¡± she told him, ¡°but that doesn¡¯t mean there¡¯s nothing there. The Mage responsible for creating these arrays is¡­ skillful.¡±


    ¡°Are you praising the murderer of my family?¡± Lord Jorlin grated.


    ¡°If my prey is skillful, then I will say so,¡± she replied evenly. ¡°It does no good to¡­ GET DOWN!¡±


    Breaking off mid-sentence, her face paled in an instant and she threw herself into him, bearing the Lord down to the ground as he shouted in protest.


    There was an inaudible <em>thump</em> that seemed to pulse through the ground and into Nostas¡¯ very bones. A momentter, a dark cloud boiled up out of the basement, filling the store and spilling out the door and into the street.


    Even though he wasn¡¯t a mage, Nostas could feel just how much power was contained within that cloud. It was <em>dense</em> with mystic energy.


    ¡°That¡¯s Death Magick,¡± Sister Ceril gasped from atop him. ¡°We have to get away. Get up, quickly!¡±


    She scrambled to her feet and, along with his nearby Soldiers, helped to haul Nostas from the ground.


    ¡°What is happening?¡± he demanded as they rushed to get further from the building.


    ¡°I felt a surge of power from the basement, incredibly potent magick. I feared it would cause a detonation of some sort, but now I worry that might have been preferable,¡± the Sister told him.


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t answer my question!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure exactly! There is some spell bound into the cloud, but I can¡¯t tell what it is. The anti-magick field will eat into it, but it will take time.¡±


    ¡°How long? What if he¡¯s still down there?¡± Nostas shouted.


    Behind them, the cloud of dark magick continued to expand, rising in the air, but it didn¡¯t grow any wider. After a minute, it had formed a pitch ck pir that engulfed the store entirely and rose a hundred metres high.


    Then it began to rotate, creating a dark vortex that grew faster and faster as purple lights began to flicker and sh within its depths.


    ¡°Break the spell!¡± the Jorlin Lord roared.


    Sister Ceril didn¡¯t reply, her face a mask of concentration as she and the other mages in attendance turned all their focus to oveing this magick.


    A cold mist began to pour out of the base of the pir. Slowly at first, it thickened rapidly until it became so dense it was impossible to see through. Vague shapes twisted within the cloud, causing the mist to eddy and swirl as it stretched its tendrils further outward with each passing moment.


    ¡°I¡­ I have it!¡± Sister Ceril cried, sweat dripping down her face. Her hands rose and shed out a series of quick gestures as she chanted.


    When she was done, a change could be felt in the air, and the towering vortex began to slow its rotation. Within seconds, Nostas could see signs it was breaking apart.


    The mist, however, did not fade. In fact, it was still growing.


    From within, he saw a twisted, ethereal face, wracked with anger and pain, barely visible hands grasping, reaching for him.


    ¡°Ghost,¡± he said, pointing at the spectre. ¡°There¡¯s a ghost in the mist!¡±


    Then there were more. The mist swirled and danced as wraiths emerged, filled with hatred for the living.


    Hundreds of them.


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    continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

 Chapter B4C60 - Ascension

    Tyron slumped down at the bloodstained workbench, heaving in breaths.


    ¡°It¡¯s strange. I almost can¡¯t remember what it felt like to be out of breath,¡± Filetta observed from the doorway. ¡°I haven¡¯t even been dead that long¡­ have I? My sense of time isn¡¯t what it used to be.¡±


    ¡°No, you haven¡¯t been dead that long,¡± Tyron rasped. ¡°I think dying¡­ has some effect on your consciousness¡­ and perception of¡­ the world.¡±


    ¡°Stop talking, you sound like a dying fish. Was it really necessary to run all the way here?¡±


    The journey through the sewers took them through a long and winding path through crumbling tunnels and rank pipes. Under normal circumstances, it was a trip that took hours, but that was time that Tyron couldn¡¯t afford.


    He took several more deep breaths to steady his breathing.


    ¡°By now, they know my shop is connected to the city¡¯s sewer, and soon they¡¯ll put together that I worked at the Red Tower. I have to move quickly before they can start to track me down.¡±


    Right now, he was in the underground workshop beneath the warehouse within which his butchers had been hard at work.


    The ghosts would work as a dy, certainly, but he couldn¡¯t count on them to achieve much. Spirits were far from indestructible, even if they couldn¡¯t be harmed by unenchanted weapons. If any had escaped to roam wild through Shadetown, he hoped that the near desertion of the market district would avoid too many suffering needlessly. The people he was after were inside the walls, not out of them.After another minute, Tyron felt he was finally calm and in control of himself enough to move to the next step.


    ¡°Filetta, can you guard the perimeter?¡±


    The wight turned to him.


    ¡°The others aren¡¯t enough? How many skeletons do you even have in the sewers around here?¡±


    Tyron frowned.


    ¡°I would simply prefer to be alone while I perform the status ritual.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re weird. Have it your way.¡±


    She turned and made a decent attempt at a swaying strut out of the room. Why she bothered, the Necromancer had no idea.


    Once he was alone, Tyron withdrew the page he had folded into the inner pocket of his cloak for exactly this purpose andid it down on the bloodstained table.


    For a long moment, he simply stared at it. Now that the moment had arrived, he suddenly felt the need to question every decision he had made to reach this moment. Had he been right to push as aggressively as he had? Was he truly as prepared as he believed he was? Over thest few weeks, he had worked as hard as he possibly could, doing everything he could to ensure he pushed his abilities to their limits.


    Had it been enough? Could he have gone more slowly?


    These were arguments he¡¯d hashed out with himself hundreds of times. The risk of waiting, the threat of discovery, the rebellion. If he waited too long, he would eventually have been found out. Ever since he started attacking patrols on the roads, the security around Kenmor had begun to grow tighter and tighter. If he didn¡¯t act, then the rebels would havee under tremendous pressure and crumbled before they could properly organise. After the events at the Jorlin estate, how many Soldiers and Magisters had been pulled back to the city?


    No, he¡¯d done the right thing. He¡¯d done everything he reasonably could to prepare himself. The time was now.


    Tyron reached down, drew his knife from the sheath on his belt, contemted the glittering edge for a moment, then pressed the edge into his palm.


    He was going to need a <em>lot</em> of blood for this one.


    Pressing his hand against the page, he spoke the words and enacted the status ritual. As expected, the flow of blood was swift, draining out of him and soaking into the paper. He tried not to let his nerves bother him as he waited patiently for the process toplete, then leaned down to read what the Unseen had in store for him.


    His eyes raced through the Skill notifications, looking for those key abilities he¡¯d hoped to max.


    <em>Your manifestation and maniption of Spirit Flesh has improved your proficiency. <strong>Spirit Flesh Formation has reached Level 10 (Max)</strong></em>


    <em>Practice and honing your expertise has improved your proficiency. <strong>Advanced Spirit Binding has reached Level 20 (Max)</strong></em>


    <em>You have continued to master your pocket within the Dimensional Weave. <strong>Summon the Ossuary has reached Level 10 (Max)</strong></em>


    <em>The more of your power you pour into your undead, the better they will serve. <strong>Anoint Undead has reached Level 10 (Max)</strong></em>


    <em>Your grasp over the intricacies of Death has deepened. <strong>Expert Death Magick has reached Level 30 (Max)</strong></em>


    These were the key abilities he¡¯d aimed to improve, and it was edifying to see they had. Tyron was far less concerned with hisbat spells. So long as his ability to craft minions was as good as it could be, he was confident his Gold Ranked offerings would include something that suited him.


    Next his eyes slid down to his ss notifications.


    <em>You have raised the dead and driven them to fight in your service, building a great sanctuary within the Ossuary. Your mastery of bones has risen to great heights, empowering your minions beyond their normal limitations.</em>


    <em>Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 60. You have received +14 Strength, +14 Dexterity, +21 Constitution, +21 Intelligence, +14 Wisdom, +14 Willpower, +14 Maniption, +21 Poise.</em>


    <em>Your patrons marvel at the chaos you have sewn in their service. The Old Gods can sense the fear of their enemies and are filled with delight. The Abyss has tasted the richness of your harvest and yearns for more. The Scarlet Court can sense the ocean of blood that will soon be spilled and are content, sure they will collect their share.</em>


    <em>Forbidden One has reached level 40. You have received +8 Maniption, +16 Constitution, +16 Intelligence, +16 Willpower, +8 Poise</em>


    <em>You have utilised the power of Death Magick against your foes. Death has be your closest friend and most trustedpanion. </em>


    <em>Death Mage has reached level 20. You have received +8 Constitution, +8 Willpower, +8 Poise.</em>


    That was¡­ significantly more levels than he¡¯d expected. Lord of the Ossuary reaching sixty was expected, desirable even, and eight levels of Death Mage wasn¡¯t <em>too</em> surprising, considering just what he¡¯d been doing and the sheer volume of Death Magick he¡¯d been working with. However, he was instantly suspicious of the <em>eight </em>levels of Forbidden One he¡¯d received.


    Were the patrons really that pleased with his actions? Even the Scarlet Court? The Three were probably delighted with current events, but the other two? He suspected that perhaps some fingers had been ced on the scale, giving him greater power in the hopes that he would survive the uing chaos and give them some return for their investment.


    The next notification was yet another surprise.


    <em>Yours is a mind well suited to the pursuit of Magick, but also to the pursuit of Death. The more you experience it, the more you inflict it, the less you fear it, the greater your understanding grows. Continue to stride forward, brave the darkness, and you will be rewarded. <strong>Mystery: Essence of Death has grown to Advanced. Mystery: Soul Magick has grown to Advanced.</strong></em>


    His Mysteries continued to grow, further propelling him forward and tipping the bnce in his favour. Tyron weed it, despite the somewhat ominous message from the Unseen.


    He released the breath he¡¯d been holding, and allowed himself to scan down the rest of the page.


    <em>Name: Tyron Sterm.</em>


    <em>Age: 24</em>


    <em>Race: Human (Level 21)</em>


    <em>ss:</em>


    <em>Lord of the Ossuary (Level 60) </em>


    <em>Sub-sses:</em><ul><li><em>Forbidden One (Level 40) </em></li><li><em>Focused Enchanter (Level 40)</em></li><li><em>Death Mage (Level 20)</em></li></ul>


    <strong><em>Racial Feats:</em></strong>


    <em>Level 5: Steady Hand.</em>


    <em>Level 10: Night Owl.</em>


    <em>Level 15: Well of Magick.</em>


    <em>Level 20: Arcane Renewal.</em>


    <strong><em>Attributes:</em></strong>


    <em>Strength:</em>


    <em>102</em>


    <em>Dexterity:</em>


    <em>159</em>


    <em>Constitution:</em>


    <em>261</em>


    <em>Intelligence:</em>


    <em>381</em>


    <em>Wisdom:</em>


    <em>273</em>


    <em>Willpower:</em>


    <em>242</em>


    <em>Charisma:</em>


    <em>113</em>


    <em>Maniption:</em>


    <em>139</em>


    <em>Poise:</em>


    <em>182</em>


    <strong><em>General Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Concentration (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Cooking (Level 4)</em>


    <em>Sling (Level 3)</em>


    <em>Swordsmanship (Level 2)</em>


    <em>Sneak (Level 3)</em>


    <em>Butchery (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Engraving (Level 5)(Max) </em>


    <em>Sculpting (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Weaving (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Dodging (Level 3)</em>


    <strong><em>Running (Level 4)</em></strong>


    <em>Skill Selections Avable: 1</em>


    <strong><em>Necromancer Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Corpse Appraisal (Level 20)(Max)</em>


    <em>Corpse Preparation (Level 20)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Expert Death Magick (Level 30)(Max)</em></strong><em></em>


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    <em>Enhanced Minion Commander (Level 20)(Max)</em>


    <em>Undead Control (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Minion Modification (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Bone-Soul Melding (Level 20)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Death Infusion (Level 10)(Max)</em></strong>


    <em>Bone Forging (Level 20)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Spirit Flesh Formation (Level 10)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Anathema Skills:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Abyss Tongue (Level 10)(Max)</em></strong>


    <em>Spell Concealment (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Dimension Weaving (Level 10)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Arcanist Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Expert Magick Scripting (Level 30)(Max)</em>


    <em>Channelling (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Pliance Control (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Expanded Sigil Formation (Level 20)(Max)</em></strong>


    <em>Core Linking (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Advanced Fine Motor Control (Level 20)(Max)</em></strong>


    <em>Expert Network Formation (Level 30)(Max)</em>


    <em>Advanced Conduit Magick (Level 20)(Max)</em>


    <em>Advanced Core Sense (Level 16)</em>


    <strong><em>Expert Power Control (Level 30)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Death Mage Skills:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Curse Weaving Level 7</em></strong>


    <strong><em>General Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Sleep (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Magick Bolt (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <em>Magick Eye (Level 5)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Necromancer Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Raise Dead (Level 40)(Max)</em>


    <em>Bone Animus (Level 40)(Max)</em>


    <em>Commune with Spirits (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Advanced Shivering Curse (Level 16)</em></strong>


    <em>Death des (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Empowered Bone Armour (Level 18)</em></strong>


    <em>Minion Sight (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Advanced Spirit Binding (Level 20)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Death¡¯s Fist (Level 19)</em></strong><em></em>


    <strong><em>Anoint Dead (Level 10)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Cursed Miasma (Level 18)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Greater Death Bolt (Level 18)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Summon the Ossuary (Level 10)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Bone Lance(Level 10)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Ossuary Vent (Level 10)(Max)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Blessing of Bone (Level 8)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Field of Death (Level 3)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Anathema Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Pierce the Veil (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Appeal to the Court (Level 5)</em>


    <em>Dark Communion (Level 3)</em>


    <strong><em>Expert Suppress Mind (Level 23)</em></strong>


    <em>Repository (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Fear (Level 5)</em>


    <em>mour (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <em>Advanced Invasive Persuasion (Level 12)</em>


    <em>Crone¡¯s Shade (Level 8)</em>


    <em>Bewitch (Level 10)(Max)</em>


    <strong><em>Blood Shield (Level 8)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Death Mage Spells:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Sap Life (Level 7)</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Necromancer Feats:</em></strong>


    <em>Skeleton Focus III</em>


    <em>Magick Battery II</em>


    <em>Bone Mastery II</em>


    <em>Spirit Mastery </em>


    <em>Undead Specialist</em>


    <em>Awaken the Altar</em>


    <strong><em>Anathema Feats:</em></strong>


    <em>Repository</em>


    <em>Wall of Thought II</em>


    <em>Drain Life</em>


    <em>Stormwise</em>


    <em>Bewitching Gaze</em>


    <strong><em>Arcanist Feats</em></strong>


    <em>Magick Thread Control II</em>


    <em>Compact Sigils II</em>


    <em>Conduit Seal II</em>


    <em>Core Networking II</em>


    <strong><em>Death Mage Feats</em></strong>


    <em>Efficient Death II</em>


    <strong><em>Mysteries:</em></strong>


    <em>Spell Shaping (Advanced): INT +20 WIS +20</em>


    <em>Words of Power (Profound): WIS +50 CHA +50</em>


    <em>Essence of Death (Advanced): INT +20 WILL +20</em>


    <em>Soul Magick (Advanced): WIS+20 CHA +20</em>


    <strong><em>Lord of the Ossuary has reached Level 60. Choose four additional Skills or Spells:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Corpse Divining - Deepen your connection to the dead, allowing you to understand them more fully. Will rece Corpse Appraisal and raise its maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Corpse Singing - Enhance your ability to empower remains, cleansing and purifying them. Will rece Corpse Preparation and raise its maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Horde Conductor - Reces Undead Control and raises the maximum level by 20. </em>


    <em>Ascended Bone Forging - Transform mundane bone.</em>


    <em>Bone-Soul Fusion - Reces Bone-Soul Melding and raises its maximum level by 20.</em>


    <em>Spirit Moulding - Take the spirits of the dead and make something from them.</em>


    <strong><em>Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Skeletal Sacrifice - Detonate a skeleton to shower your foe in shards of bone.</em>


    <em>Death Nexus - Create a lodestone that connects to all nearby undead, sharing its power with them.</em>


    <em>Ossuary Made Manifest - Create a permanent anchor for the Ossuary in your realm.</em>


    <em>Pir of Shards - Raise a pir of magickal bones that shatters into a hail of shards.</em>


    <em>Flesh to Bone - Sacrifice your life force to repair bone in the heat of battle.</em>


    <em>Spectral Bone Spear - Reces Bone Lance and raises its maximum level by 20.</em>


    <em>Arcane Marrow - Give rise to demi-lich servants.</em>


    <strong><em>Forbidden One has reached level 40. Choose four additional Skills or Spells:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Corrupting Presence - Subvert the Will to resist from those around you.</em>


    <em>Crone¡¯s Gaze - Sense the inner motives of another when meeting their gaze.</em>


    <em>Raven Speech - Communicate with the children of the Old Gods.</em>


    <em>Perceive Magick - Open your senses to the flow of power.</em>


    <em>Dimension Folding - Reces Dimension Weave and raises its maximum level by 10.</em>


    <em>Crone¡¯s Tongue - Improve your capacity to speak the Words of Power.</em>


    <em>Quicken the Blood - Move with the speed and grace of the undying.</em>


    <strong><em>Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Advanced Bewitch - Reces Bewitch and increases the maximum level by 10. </em>


    <em>Flesh to Power - Sacrifice your own body, or the body of another, to generate magick.</em>


    <em>Rot¡¯s Endurance - Employ the unending hardiness of Rot, who feels no pain and suffers no injury to impede him.</em>


    <em>Transform Blood - Take mortal blood and elevate it to a more powerful state.</em>


    <em>Field of Corruption - Project an aura of corruption that will weaken the minds of those within range.</em>


    <em>Murder of Crows - Summon a flock of spectral crows to harry your foes.</em>


    <em>Touch of the Abyss - Syphon the Abyss into your hands.</em>


    <strong><em>Death Mage has reached level 20. Choose four additional Skills or Spells:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Skills:</em></strong>


    <em>Life Draw - Improve your ability to steal the vitality of the living.</em>


    <em>Sense Living - Your senses are tuned to hunt the living.</em>


    <em>Broadened Curses - Improve your ability to cast curses over a wide area.</em>


    <em>Death Sigil Weaving - Strengthen your ability to manipte the sigils of Death.</em>


    <em>Undying Endurance - Sustain yourself with Magick, as your minions do.</em>


    <strong><em>Spells:</em></strong>


    <em>Wilting Curse - Weaken and enfeeble your foes.</em>


    <em>Curse of Pain - Cause intense pain in an area to those who defy you.</em>


    <em>Eyes of Death - See the flow of Death Magick with the naked eye. </em>


    <em>Hand of Corruption - Cloak your hand in an aura of death that can harm those you touch.</em>


    <em>Kill the Land - Corrupt an area with a font of Death Magick that will saturate the ground.</em>


    <em>Spectre of Unlife - Mask your face with an unliving visage.</em>


    <em>Afflict Spirit - Inflict suffering on the target¡¯s soul.</em>


    <em>Death Bes Life - Maintain an aura that will replenish your strength as those around you die. </em>


    <em>ck Skull - Launch a magickal skull that will detonate onnding.</em>


    <strong><em>Lord of the Ossuary has reached level 60. Choose two additional Feats:</em></strong>


    <em>Ossuary Extraction I - Increase the amount of Death Magick avable to the Ossuary.</em>


    <em>Ossuary Expansion I - Increase the size of the Ossuary.</em>


    <em>Ossuary Infusion I - Increase the efficacy of the bone receptacles.</em>


    <em>ss Focus I - Choose two ss Skills or Spells and raise their cap by 10.</em>


    <em>Skeleton Focus IV - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.</em>


    <em>Half-Dead - Allow your own bones to be infused with Death Magick.</em>


    <em>Bone Sculptor - Improve your ability to mould and shape bone.</em>


    <em>Bone Animator - Empower your constructs.</em>


    <strong><em>Forbidden One has reached level 40. Choose two additional Feats:</em></strong>


    <em>Dark Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Dark Ones.</em>


    <em>Abyssal Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Abyss.</em>


    <em>Scarlet Favour - Curry favour and strengthen your connection to the Scarlet Court.</em>


    <em>Ruler in Shade - Your false faces are harder to break and see through.</em>


    <em>Corroding Presence - Encourage Death Magick growth in all around you, even the living.</em>


    <em>ck Soul - Tune your spirit to the void.</em>


    <em>Dead Flesh - Adapt your body to contain death aligned energy.</em>


    <em>Still Blood - Your blood will cease to flow, and change.</em>


    <strong><em>Death Mage has reached level 20. Choose two additional Feats:</em></strong>


    <em>Empowered Death I - Your mastery will strengthen your spells to greater heights.</em>


    <em>Prating Death Bolt - Your Death Bolt will pierce. </em>


    <em>Death Conversion - You will be faster when converting normal magick to Death Aligned magick.</em>


    <em>Curse Tuner - You can apply curses to a wider area, or increase their effect.</em>


    <em>Death Sense - Detect nearby sources of Death Magick.</em>


    <em>Deaden Self - Your sense of pain will grow dull.</em>


    <em>Eyes of the Grave - You will see as the spirits see.</em>


    <em>Rot ws - Your hands will generate Death Magick in your nails.</em>


    <em>Fallen Shadow - You may store Death aligned energy in your shadow.</em>


    There was so much to choose from that Tyron felt almost dizzied by the range, or perhaps that was just the blood loss. With so many levels gained at once, he had aundry list of selections to make for each of his sses, including feats! With such a broad range in front of him, it was possible for Tyron to hunt for synergies that may have otherwise escaped him if he were to make his choices during separate rituals.


    Cautiously, he examined and considered every choice the Unseen had ced before him, weighing them individually and then in concert with each other. Considering the battle he faced, some abilities would be more valuable to him in the short term than others, and so demanded greater consideration.


    From Lord of the Ossuary, some selections stood head and shoulders above the others.


    Arcane Marrow promised to unlock a new form of minion, one that he had no inkling of how to create on his own. Perhaps it would be possible to figure it out using the hint the ability¡¯s name gave him, but that was a risk he felt unwilling to take. Would he be able to create a demi-lich in the short term? No, but if he seeded in Kenmor, then this spoke of power he would need in the long-term.


    Simrly, Ascended Bone Forging spoke of something he could use down the line. Right now, all of his skeletons, revenants and wights utilised weapons and armour forged from bone, and he had no idea how to make them something better. This ability could help push his minions to a greater height, and that was something Tyron could scarcely resist.


    For the final two choices, he was somewhat torn. Horde Conductor was tempting, especially considering the size of the skeletal army he nowmanded, but the wights alleviated a great portion of that problem. Was this something he <em>needed</em>?


    Death Nexus held great promise, but was it something he could create himself by further developing the enchanting techniques and conduits he had already created?


    Making the Ossuary manifest? It could be immensely powerful, or totally useless. As usual, the vague descriptions of the Unseen were working against him, since he had no one else''s prior experience to draw from.


    Bone Soul Fusion was another very viable option. This Skill was the foundation on which his revenants and wights were built. Improving the ability and raising the cap by twenty would enable him to greatly improve his strongest minions.


    Spirit Moulding? Taking ghosts and using them to¡­ make things? How was that possible? What could he make? Again, choosing this option felt like a gamble. It could pay off, but perhaps it would be awful. Certainly, it wasn¡¯t something useful to him right now, like Spectral Bone Spear would be.


    Ultimately, he selected Bone-Soul Fusion and Flesh to Bone. The first was a risk, but thetter he feltfortable about. No matter how powerful he made his skeletons, it was inevitable that they would suffer damage or be destroyed during the course of a fight. Using this ability, he could repair them at the expense of his own life force, keeping his minions in the fight for longer.


    It didn¡¯t sound too pleasant for him personally, but there were ways he could fix that. In part.


    The Forbidden One selections were¡­ interesting. Some were immediately appealing, but again, theck of description held him back. Tyron was immediately willing to pencil in Perceive Magick, given who he was and what he wanted. The ability promised to let him experience the flow of magick in an entirely more direct way. Being able to <em>see</em> magick was one thing, but this promised a new experience entirely. At the same time, he immediately discounted Crone¡¯s Tongue. He didn¡¯t need help with the Words of Power, and he almost found the suggestion he did insulting.


    Flesh to Power was another ability he reluctantly decided to take. If he was going to continue to fight onrger andrger scales, then he needed more and more magick. Again, it didn¡¯t sound like it would be a pleasant experience for him, but he didn¡¯t need to feel good, he just needed to win.


    The final two selections were much more difficult. He always felt as if the offerings from the patrons were designed for them more than they were for him. Transform Blood? Turn it into something more powerful? What did that even mean? How could he even use it? There was no doubt in his mind that this was a powerful ability in the hands of the Vampires, but to him it was next to worthless!


    Unless, of course, he was willing to ask them to teach him how to use it.


    After careful consideration, he selected Dimension Folding, since it would factor into ns he held for the future, and reluctantly, he selected Quicken the Blood. It could save his life before the day was done, perhaps helping him dodge an arrow, or get out of the way of a stray spell.


    For Death Mage, Tyron had to think carefully.


    Death Sigil Weaving was another almost insulting option and could be discarded.


    Undying Endurance was of immediate interest to him. Costing Magick was a drawback, but if he could push his endurance even further, it may well be worth the cost. Life Draw was another option that was of interest to him. If he was going to take abilities that would allow him to spend his Life to gain other things, then getting more back seemed like it would be helpful.


    Which yed into his next selection; Death Bes Life. Considering the fight he was going to have, it was inevitable that there would be a great deal of death. By healing himself from the death that surrounded him, he could turn that life into more magick, or healing for his minions. Broadened Curses was another ability that would serve him well in the fight toe. Larger battles, with more skeletons, over a wider area, would be well served by his curses affecting more space.


    Satisfied with his choices, Tyron marked them with a print of his thumb, then turned his attention to the feats. This status ritual was far, far fromplete.

 Chapter B4C61 - Ascension cont

    <strong>B4C61 - Ascension cont</strong>


    After making so many selections, Tyron still had a number of feats to choose, and the options there were tempting almost across the board. Except for the Forbidden One options; they were still¡­ odd. He wasn¡¯t sure what his patrons were pushing for him to be, but he found increasingly he didn¡¯t care. If he could be sessful and survive to tell the tale, that was all he cared about.


    Considering the options for Lord of the Ossuary, there were several that he liked. And also various choices that weren¡¯t as interesting. Although it was powerful, Tyron didn¡¯t intend to make the Ossuary itself the focus of his build. His priority was still, of course, his minions and empowering them as much as he could. For that reason, Skeleton Focus IV drew his eye. He¡¯d wanted to take it for a long time, and now was as good a time as any, considering the fighting that would soone.


    For the second choice, he wasn¡¯t sure where to go. Bone Sculptor, Bone Animator and even ss Focus were well worth consideration. Choosing two skills to raise the cap on was something that could help pay off in the long run, but right now, Bone Animator was most likely to provide a direct benefit.


    His giant skeletons were technically constructs, and not undead minions. The only thing making them simr to his basic undead was the material they were made from, and their appearance, obviously. Tyron was simply used to working with that shape, so he¡¯d stuck to it.


    Selecting Bone Animator, he moved onto the next ss.


    Forbidden One had several options he was more than happy to dismiss out of hand. He had less than no interest in currying favour with the patrons, any of them, which left him with limited options.


    Ruler in Shade didn¡¯t seem applicable, since he wasn¡¯t likely to be able to hide much any longer. The Three had reinforced his mour while he¡¯d been in Kenmor, but the cat was out of the bag now.


    However, the other choices didn¡¯t appeal all that strongly. Corroding Presence would be useful, to an extent. Being around his skeletons during battle, the feat would help to refill the small reservoirs they contained, giving them even more staying power. The downside would be, if he couldn¡¯t turn off or contain the aura, then he would be leaking Death Magick into everyone around him, including the living. It would make being around him extremely dangerous, and also nullify any attempt to conceal his presence. However, there weren¡¯t many other viable options to take. ck Soul, Dead Flesh and Still Blood all spoke of a transformation that he wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to make. Nor was it clear precisely what they did. Which meant his only remaining option was to <em>curry favour.</em>


    Tyron was tempted to simply leave the selection nk, which would be a criminal waste of a feat, but spending one to do nothing other than appease one of the patrons felt like a waste anyway!


    This was a sub-ss Tyron would be happy to abandon, despite the losses it would incur. It had helped to keep him alive when he was starting out, but it was debatable whether it was worth it any longer.


    Although if he dropped it, The Three would likely remove their protection from him¡­ exposing him fully to the Five Divines.


    ¡°I suppose it won¡¯t hurt,¡± he muttered to himself and put a thumbprint next to Dark Favour and Corroding Presence.


    Finally, he turned his attention to the final ss: Death Mage.


    Empowered Death I was an obvious choice. He was disappointed not to see Efficient Death III, but that was too much to hope for. For the second feat, he had several tempting options. Curse Tuner would help make his curses stronger, and Fallen Shadow would give him a permanent repository of Death Magick, which may also be able to soak up the magick he would produce due to Corroding Presence.


    Ultimately, his greed to have more magick avable was the deciding factor. His avable store of magick had grown to a massive well of power and would shortly expand further, yet with the fights toe, the demands on his reserves would be immense, since so many minions would be reliant on his power to move and fight once their own energy ran out.


    He ced a mark next to Fallen Shadow, then his eyes rolled back in his head as a rush of power filled his body and knowledge trickled into his mind. The hand of the Unseen was on him, and it continued to remake his mind and body into something beyond a normal human.


    After he recovered, Tyron ced his hand back on the page, and his blood continued to flow. Now he would have the <em>most</em> consequential choices to make. With some trepidation, he leaned forward to read the words as they formed.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the vition.


    <strong>Death Mage has reached Level 20.</strong>


    <strong><em>Select a ss Advancement from the following:</em></strong>


    He almost groaned in annoyance. Of course Death Mage woulde first.


    <strong><em>Curse Bringer: </em></strong><em>Strengthen your mastery of curse magick.</em>


    A fairly standard advancement, he assumed, and certainly one that had its uses. Tyron was extremely weak at offensive magick, especiallypared to a specialised mage who could rain fire and unleash sts of arcane power that put his own spells to shame. His most effective methods for aiding his minions in battle was to apply curses and weaken their foes.


    <strong><em>Death Tempest:</em></strong><strong></strong><em>Unleash potent Death spells against your enemies.</em>


    This seemed like it would unlock some direct damage magick that would enable him to better participate in fights himself. It was a thought, but was it necessarily what he needed? If he were spending magick on offensive spells, then he¡¯d have less avable to support his minions. No matter how much magick he was able to amass, it would never be infinite, and he would be better off spending that energy on more minions.


    <strong><em>Bone Mage: </em></strong><em>Conjure bones with devastating effect.</em>


    This was¡­ something different. Perhaps it was built around spells like Bone Lance that summoned bones formed of magick to cast spells. This one had more potential, since his bone-rted spells were empowered by his Bone Mastery feat. ?


    <strong><em>Corpse Mage:</em></strong><strong></strong><em>Give rise to minions who serve in death.</em>


    Well¡­ this was likely a generic advancement from Death Mage that was Necromancer-adjacent. It could be safely discarded.


    <strong><em>Unliving Mage: </em></strong><em>Turn your magick upon yourself.</em>


    This was likely to be a ss that offered some, probably weaker, form of lichdom at the end of it. Despite being repeatedly pushed in that direction, Tyron was in no hurry to shed his humanity for an undead form. The loss of his third sub-ss would hit him too hard right now.


    Not wanting to ponder the Death Mage options much longer, he quickly turned his eyes to what really mattered: his Gold ss selection.


    <strong>Lord of the Ossuary has reached Level 60.</strong>


    <strong><em>Select a ss Advancement from the following:</em></strong>


    <strong><em>Demiurge of the Realm of Skulls: </em></strong><em>A fortress realm from which to lead your armies.</em>


    A progression from the Lord of the Ossuary. It would likely provide him the knowledge necessary to carve out an even more impressive pocket dimension. It certainly had potential; a mobile fortress in which he could operate wasn¡¯t a bad thing by any means.


    <strong><em>Lord of the Bone Forge: </em></strong><em>Master of constructs of Bone.</em>


    Perhaps he had impressed the Unseen with his bone giants¡­. This wasn¡¯t something he¡¯d expected to see. Obviously, stronger constructs were something Tyron would continue to research and create, but he wasn¡¯t certain it was going to be his focus.


    <strong><em>Imperator of the Endless Horde: </em></strong><em>Your Undead Legion knows no bounds.</em>


    Another horde-focused ss, but clearly better than what he¡¯d been offered before. Now that his army of minions had grown, and his capacity to support more continued to grow, a ss focused on maintaining and managing a vast horde of undead was much more appealing. This was a serious contender.


    <strong><em>Master of Death: </em></strong><em>Death Magick is the servant and you are the master.</em>


    He¡¯d been offered something simrst time, and his continued growth in Death Magick expertise had unlocked the next ss in the chain. Even so, this ss would turn him more into a Death Mage than a Necromancer, and he wasn¡¯t interested. Tyron knew where the true strength of his ssy.


    <strong><em>Judge of the Ghostly Choir: </em></strong><em>Spirits sing a song of death at your word.</em>


    This sounded a little odd. Clearly a ghost-based ss, it seemed to be referencing a type of spirit minion he currently wasn¡¯t able to create. Also, the word ¡®choir¡¯ seemed to hint he would be able to bind some sort of retinue? Or was he reading too much into it?


    <strong><em>Arch-Necromancer: </em></strong><em>Unparalleled at the craft of Necromancy.</em>


    This sounded like something Tyron could get behind. Improving himself and pushing the very limits of the art of Necromancy were what fascinated him the most, what had brought him to this ce. To be unparalleled was something that resonated with him. It was that search for the pinnacle that had driven his parents to such absurd lengths, and he shared that desire.


    And yet¡­


    ¡°Do I need your help to get there?¡± He addressed the page as though the Unseen could listen to him through the paper. ¡°I¡¯ve made so much progress without you, and I can go even further.¡±


    After a long minute of consideration, he reached out and ced two thumbprints on the page.


    One for Bone Mage.


    The other for Imperator of the Undead Legion.


    Then he ended the ritual.

 Chapter B4C62 - The Final Act Begins

    <em>The Awakening</em>.


    <em>Tyron Sterm. Your expertise in wielding the energy of Death continues to grow. More power will be ced at your disposal; use it well.</em>


    <em>You are Ascending.</em>


    <em>You have received the ss: Bone Mage</em>


    <em>Using a blend of offensive and defensive magick, the Bone Mage can conjure bone formed of magick for a myriad of purposes. Use it to shield yourself, or to pierce the flesh of your foes. To advance, cast Bone Spells in battle. </em>


    <em>ss Attributes per level:</em>


    <em>Intelligence +1</em>


    <em>Constitution +2;</em>


    <em>Willpower + 2;</em><em>Poise +1;</em>


    <em>Tyron Sterm, you have proven your mastery over Necromancy time and again. You were made for this path, or perhaps it was made for you. The fire in your soul burns hotter than ever, and now your Legions will share that fire.</em>


    <em>You are Ascending.</em>


    <em>+40 to all stats.</em>


    <em>You are able to advance Mysteries to the next stage.</em>


    <em>You have received the ss: Imperator of the Endless Horde</em>


    <em>A conqueror who smashes his foes under the weight of a horde of undead feet. The Imperator is not inmand of an army, but a force of nature. To advance, raise minions and have them ughter in your name.</em>


    <em>ss Attributes per level:</em>


    <em>Strength +2</em>


    <em>Dexterity +4</em>


    <em>Constitution +6</em>


    <em>Intelligence +6</em>


    <em>Wisdom +4</em>


    <em>Willpower +3</em>


    <em>Charisma +2</em>


    <em>Maniption +2</em>


    <em>Poise +3</em>


    The maximum Skill limit of Raise Dead has been increased to 60. Your knowledge of this Ritual has been expanded. You can now enact the ritual through capable minions.


    <em>The maximum Skill limit of Enhanced Minion Commander has been raised to 40.</em>


    <em>The maximum Skill limit of Undead Control has been raised to 20.</em>


    <em>You have been granted the ritual magick: Undead Imperator.</em>


    When he had absorbed all the information in front of him, Tyron nodded. It had been much as he¡¯d expected. The increases to Enhanced Minion Commander and Undead Control were nice, but not overly important. No, what mattered was the changes to the Raise Dead ritual, and the new ritual he had gained.


    He didn¡¯t know what Undead Imperator did, but he was certain it would be powerful, perhaps even having an effect on his entire undead army. After all, he was connected to each and every one of them via thework of conduits that he perpetually maintained.


    He¡¯d done everything he could to ensure each individual skeletal minion was as powerful as he could make it, and he would continue to do so. However, now he would attempt to provide a boost to the power of the horde as a whole. With spells that could strengthen an entire Legion of undead applied to his masterwork skeletons¡­ what might the result look like?


    He would soon find out.


    The status ritual finally came to a close once and for all, and Tyron was forever changed. The hand of the Unseen descended on him, and for the first time, he almost feared its arrival.


    Gaining a full forty points to all aspects of his being was three hundred and sixty status points gained at once. It made the tooth-grinding sensation he had endured in the first part of the ritual seem like nothing more than a pat on the head.


    Tyron <em>writhed</em> on the ground like a puppet dangling from broken strings, his limbs twisting painfully as he jerked from one position to the next without any conscious control. Through clenched teeth, he groaned and hissed as power flooded into him, working on his bones, his organs, his skin, his muscles and mind.


    Several times his eyes rolled back as the Unseen remade him. When the process was finished, which likely took only a few minutes, he felt drained physically and mentally. Yet, there was no time for him to recover. He picked himself up off the floor, dusted himself off and rolled his neck. Tyron''s constitution had reached absurd heights now;, he was able to endure far, far beyond the limits of most people, even most yers. This much was nothingpared to what was toe.


    Knowledge still continued to trickle into his mind, the Unseen feeding him the outlines of his abilities. He could already tell that the new ritual he was being fed was going to be something¡­ interesting. It would take time before he could tease out more, but it was clear that it required a lot of power to function.


    Hopefully, whatever effect it had would be worth the price. He had high hopes, but even now, with the torrent of power he contained within himself, his instinct was to be stingy with it.


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    ¡°Filetta,¡± he called out.


    The door was pulled open from the outside as the wight stuck her ethereal head in.


    ¡°Finished? You¡¯re actually a gold rank now?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call you if I wasn¡¯t done,¡± he replied, irritated. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m gold rank.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your new ss?¡±


    ¡°Why would I tell you?¡±


    ¡°Because it affects me! Probably in a literal way!¡±


    It did, but he wasn¡¯t going to say anything, a fact she could read from his expression.


    ¡°Prick,¡± she grumbled, pushing the door wider and striding into the room. ¡°Ready to move to the next phase, then?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s time,¡± he nodded, pushing himself up.


    Tyron found he was just barely steady enough on his feet to walk, but it would suffice. He would do what had to be done. The two of them turned to look at the wall on his left. There, arge ritual circle had been drawn, a huge, spherical core embedded in the wall. The core, the individual lines of the circle, all of it thrummed with ck arcane energy.


    ¡°Once I activate this, we have ten minutes before it triggers,¡± Tyron reminded Filetta. ¡°We need to get as close to the Red Tower as we can by then.¡±


    ¡°I know the n,¡± she said, waving one hand to dismiss his concerns. ¡°Just make sure that idiot knows what she¡¯s supposed to do.¡±


    For whatever reason, Filetta and Laurel had never really gotten along, despite Tyron thinking that they were fairly simr in many ways. Their bickering wasn¡¯t really an issue, so long as it didn¡¯t interfere with carrying out his instructions.


    Rather than say anything, he simply turned to the ritual circle and spoke the words of power. It was extremely simple; with the bulk of the work already being done, all he had to do was set it in motion.


    At the same time, receiving hismand, Laurel did the same at another ritual site on the other side of the city. The moment he was finished, Tyron nodded to Filetta and the two made their way out into the sewer, moving at pace.


    It would take multiple hours to reach the Red Tower through the winding passages of the sewers, and by the time he got there, he expected them to be prepared for his arrival. Lukas Almsfield had done extensive work as a consultant for the Magisters, and right now they would be desperately trying to uncover every little thing that he¡¯d touched in his time there.


    Of course, the bulk of his work waspletely fine, but there were a few little surprises that he doubted even the Magisters would be able to find. At least, they shouldn¡¯t find them before he arrived.


    In the meantime, the rest of the city would have to contend with the torrent of Death Magick he was about to unleash in their midst. The trick he¡¯d pulled at his shop would look like a candlepared to the bonfire that wasing.


    Contemting the chaos he was about to unleash, Tyron couldn¡¯t help but feel his heart beat faster. It was finally happening. This was the day, this was the moment. The Magisters, the Lords, the Duke, the Gods themselves. Today, they were going to feel it, <em>really</em> feel it. He was going to bring the entire province down on its knees and cut the legs out from under the empire.


    After waiting so, so long, his vengeance was about to be unleashed.


    As Tyron ran through the dark, dripping sewer tunnels, he wasn¡¯t even aware of the savage grin on his face.


    ~~~


    ¡°How did no one know that the sewers extended out this far?¡± Nostas growled, his eyes wild with fury.


    To have his target so close at hand only to slip through his very fingers! It was maddening. The need to inflict pain on the man who had killed his kin was an almost physical urge with the Lord, and it took all of his self control not tosh out wildly at the people around him.


    ¡°I have no idea, my Lord,¡± Captain Mykl said, not mincing his words despite the dangerous mood his lord was in. ¡°We have people down there and moreing through the tunnels in the city. The city watch has been turned out to patrol the streets, and even the sewer maintenance crews have been kicked out of bed. We¡¯ll find him.¡±


    After tangling with the cursed spirits, who had finally been put down with abination of enchanted weaponry and magick, Nostas¡¯ men had torn the basement apart, finding the dark cer in which the Necromancer had performed his foul magick, along with a near-copsed connection to a narrow sewer tunnel.


    ¡°I sensed the residue of powerful magick in that basement,¡± Sister Ceril noted. ¡°This Necromancer is stronger than I thought; we should be careful confronting him. Anyone he kills will make him stronger.¡±


    ¡°He was strong enough to massacre every person living in the Jorlin Estate,¡± Nostas ground out. ¡°Do you believe my House is filled with weaklings?¡±


    His tone indicated the Sister should think very carefully about her reply.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± she replied. ¡°I knew he must have power, but there was something about what I sensed down there. His mastery over magick is potent. I could practically smell it.¡±


    Hearing the viinplimented only further stoked the mes of Nostas¡¯ fury, and he turned from the conversation and continued to march through the city, lest he lose his temper. If he cut down one of the Duke¡¯s servants, he wouldn¡¯t escape without censure, regardless of the circumstances.


    He and the bulk of his personal forces had returned to Kenmor some time ago, on their way back to the castle to report to Duke Raugrave. Mykl had insisted that he take a carriage or at least ride a horse, but Nostas had refused. If he¡¯d been cooped up in a box on the way back, he would have exploded with anger.


    As it was, the streets emptied when they saw him and his retinueing, though the thunderous expression on the Lord''s face was more than enough to send the citizens diving behind cover.


    Even stewing in his own anger, Nostas was not so self absorbed that he didn¡¯t notice the screams beginning to rise in the distance. They were shrill, filled with panic and something deeper; outright terror. He started to look around for the source, hand shing to the de at his waist, but Sister Ceril was by his side in a moment, pointing.


    A pir of darkness was forming, just like before, except this one was easily twice the size,rge enough that they could see the peak even through the multi-storied structures of Kenmor around them.


    ¡°Gods!¡± Nostas bellowed. ¡°The Necromancer must be there!¡±


    His mind was immediately calcting. How far were they from the pir? How much longer would it take for them to reach it? Already he was starting to fear the distance was too great, and the bastard would once again escape.


    ¡°My Lord!¡± Mykl called over the rising din of the city. ¡°Over there!¡±


    Nostas snapped around to find the Soldier Captain pointing in another direction. He followed the outstretched arm of his retainer and saw what he was pointing at.


    A second pir, rising just like the first. Already it was starting to twist and howl, eerie light flickering within. Soon the mist would start to spread, and the ghosts would emerge shortly after.


    ¡°Distractions,¡± Nostas raged. ¡°He¡¯s toying with us!¡±


    ¡°What do we do, my Lord?¡± Mykl asked. ¡°Should we move to the closest pir and protect the citizens?¡±


    ¡°Damn the citizens!¡± the young Lord Jorlin roared. ¡°They are cattle! Born to serve! I want Tyron Sterm¡¯s head on a pike!¡±


    ¡°Right you are, my Lord,¡± Mykl replied, unruffled. ¡°Where do we strike?¡±


    Now that was the question. Where would the evil son of a bitch be going with the city in an uproar and thousands of ghosts roaming the streets? The madman wanted to bring down the nobility, the magisters, everything. There were dozens of ces he could go to inflict real damage. The Cathedral. The Castle. The Red Tower. Any of the Noble Mansions in the city. yer Academies. Magick Towers.


    ¡°If I may, Lord Jorlin,¡± Sister Ceril stated quietly, walking up beside him again.


    All around them, the hysteria was growing. They could hear more and more screams, and people were starting to emerge from their homes and shops, flooding the streets in panic. In the distance, the pirs swirled, a maelstrom of dark power that would soon spit out a horde of furious spirits.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Nostas demanded.


    ¡°I think I have an inkling where the Necromancer will be headed.¡±


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 Chapter B4C63 - Army of the Dead

    Tyron made good time through the sewers, pushing himself hard. As he ran, hebed through the new knowledge the Unseen had ced in his mind, trying to tease out all the details of his new spells and abilities he could in order to make use of them sooner rather thanter.


    Of course, it would be more ideal if he had a few days in his study to work through magickal theory and develop careful, controlled tests to work out what would work and what wouldn¡¯t, but now wasn¡¯t the time for that. If he truly was a genius, this was the moment where he would have to prove it. Throwing together spellforms on the fly based on half-realised, imnted knowledge was the stuff of madmen or the truly stupid in his mother¡¯s opinion, but now that he was here, what choice did he have?


    Around him, he had his most powerful servants: Filleta and two other wights, along with a selection of his best revenants. Around <em>them</em>, a guard of over a hundred skeletons were gathered in a tight formation in front and behind. It made the sewer almost impossibly crowded, but since they were all running in the same direction, it didn¡¯t matter that much.


    Of course, as expected, their journey wasn¡¯t without interruptions. The Necromancer didn¡¯t even see the first confrontation; it was over before he even realised what had happened. A shout, a brief scuffle followed by screaming, his front-most skeletons drawing on his power as they fought, then it was over.


    As they kept moving forward, he stepped over the corpse just in time to avoid tripping. All he gained was a glimpse of the body, but it was enough to furnish him with the details. A face, twisted in horror, bearded with a broad moustache, in work clothes, a gutteringmp dropped nearby. Most likely a sewer worker forced into thework by the Marshals or Magisters. No doubt he had a tracking spell on him, which meant they now had a rough idea where Tyron was.


    Not ideal, but nothing unexpected.


    There was nothing to do but push forward. No doubt, the city above was inplete chaos by now. Moving through the streets would be more and more difficult as people fled the horrors he had created. Eventually, the Duke would create some form of perimeter and gain control of the situation, but by then, Tyron hoped to have reached the Red Tower and finished his work.


    They continued to run.


    Only ten minutester, the second sh urred. This time, it wasn''t over quickly; there was shouting, the sound of steel ringing. Tyron could hear thebatants calling to each other.¡°Hold the line!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re just skeletons!¡±


    ¡°Give ground if you have to! We don¡¯t have to win!¡±


    These were Soldiers, Marshals or perhaps even militia pressed into service. It was almost impossible to see what was happening in the darkness of the tunnel, not to mention the cramped conditions. Of course, that wasn¡¯t a full impediment for Tyron. A few gestures, a few words was all it took for him to see through the eyes of his minions.


    Using the vision of his foremost skeletons, he was able to decipher what was happening through the swirl of the melee. There were ten of them, fairly basically equipped, trying to match des with his skeletons as they gave ground, slowing his progress.


    Withdrawing his vision, Tyron gave themand to his skeletons to push forward. For foes of this calibre, he didn¡¯t need to personally intervene; the skeletons would be enough on their own.


    Following hismand, the skeletons pressed forward, heedless of their own wellbeing. Silent and efficient, they fought like the unfeeling, unthinking magickal beings they were. Suddenly pressured, the men weren¡¯t able to prevent themselves from getting swarmed, and the inevitable end came soon after.


    Less than a minuteter, Tyron stepped over their bodies as well, taking no pleasure in the death of these regr citizens. The Houses would happily throw a million people in his way if they could, and if he had to cut them down to spill divine blood, then that was exactly what he was going to do.


    In anticipation of further interceptions, he sent several revenants and Filetta to the front to help manage the fighting there. As much as possible, he wanted to spend his timebing through his new abilities, but it seemed circumstances conspired against him.


    There weren¡¯t many four-way intersections in the sewer, as they generally weren¡¯t conducive to the flow rate, at least, so he gathered, but they did exist. One tunnel crossed another in such a ce where there was a clear slope, letting all the refuse flow out of the junction in one direction.


    Tyron and his retinue formed a column around a hundred metres long, but such intersections were twenty metres wide at theirrgest. The bulk of his retinue was in the tunnel ahead or the tunnel behind when the Soldiers decided to spring their trap. ?


    Illusions dropped on Tyron¡¯s left and right, revealing armed bands of Soldiers backed by mages, spells primed and ready, staves pointed in his direction.


    He directed his minions at the speed of thought, thick shields of bone raised to cover him in an instant. Even without his mentalmand, the heavily armed and armoured wight on his left stepped forward to cover the Necromancer¡¯s body with his own.


    Leon had proven to be a loyal servant in his new life as a wight, despite some initial¡­ friction between the two of them. Tyron noted the action of his servant even as his hands rose and he began to speak.


    Words of power thrummed within the tunnel, reality itself bending and stretching as Tyron bent it to his will. Power flowed like a river even as spells flew into his minions. Careless of their own survival, his skeletons threw themselves on fireballs andnces of arcane power, uncaring that their shields erupted in mes or their bones flew apart. Nearly a dozen skeletons were obliterated by the initial barrage, but it didn¡¯t matter.


    Flickering magick poured into his minions and they moved faster, charging lightly through the tunnels to bring their swords of bone down on the waiting Soldiers, who held their ground solidly, unafraid. Behind the wall of steel, the mages prepared their next wave of spells.


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    None of them were prepared when hands began to emerge from the sewage tunnels behind them, grasping hold of the pathway and pulling the rest of their skeletal frames out of the waters. By the time the second wave of spells was prepared, several of the mages had noticed, calling out in fear as they realised they had been nked unawares.


    Spells intended for Tyron were instead fired in panic toward the minions closing in on them from behind. Tyron waited, preserving his energy as more and more skeletons emerged from the sewer and threw themselves into the fight, hacking and shing.


    When his wights made it to the front of the battle, they shed des with the Soldiers who, nowpletely surrounded by the undead within the narrow confines of the tunnel, fought grimly, knowing they wouldn¡¯t make it out alive.


    Soon, this battle was also wrapped up, yet this time the pile of corpses was not left behind. Skeletons gathered up the remains as Tyron quickly scooped up the newly released souls. Ahead and behind, more and more skeletons emerged from the sewer as he resumed his run.


    Several groups trying to converge on his position were set upon by the newly emerged undead, Tyron able to direct the conflicts remotely as the sewers around him became filled with more and more skeletons and revenants.


    All the while, he drew closer to the Red Tower.


    ~~~


    ¡°What in the name of the Goddess is it?¡± Duke Raugrave Kenmor ground out as he stared at the pir of darkness now finally starting to disperse.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t much more than an area filled with concentrated magick. Death Magick, to be specific. There are a few other principles bound up in the spell, but that¡¯s all I can get from this sort of distance.¡±


    Tyron <em>bloody</em> Sterm. The prick had really gone and done it. What was with that family? The gods had dealt with Magnin and Beory, and those two were a fucking mountainpared to the molehill of their son, yet the entire capital had been thrown into chaos by thetter while the former had gone quietly to their deaths like good cattle should.


    The Archmage Bysol lowered his hands, the glowing sphere of magick he had conjured to analyse the pir fading as he did so.


    ¡°The amount of magick required to produce something on that scale is¡­ absurd,¡± he muttered. ¡°Whoever is responsible would have had to have been stockpiling that energy for months¡­ probably years. The expertise to conceal concentrated magick of that level of potency is also¡­ extremely rare.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care about how it was done,¡± the Duke said coldly, ¡°I only care about what it¡¯s done to my city.¡±


    The Archmage nodded and brought his hands up again, muttering a quick spell. A glowing sigil appeared in the air, and Brysol spoke into it briefly, listening carefully to a response that Raugrave couldn¡¯t hear.


    ¡°Our mages who reached the base of the pir are reporting sightings of undead. Spirits are roaming through the streets, and zombies have been sighted emerging from the ground and sewers.¡±


    ¡°Zombies?¡± Raugrave barked. ¡°Where in the hells have the corpsese from?¡±


    ¡°If I were to guess, the Necromancer prepared some of them in advance, but also, if I¡¯m not mistaken, that pir is close to where the recent¡­ disposal sites are concentrated. Any unburned corpses would have sucked in that Death Magick and risen of their own ord.¡±


    The Duke sucked in a deep, calming breath. Things were certainly not going his way, but it was fine. He was the Duke, inmand of the entire Western Province. All the cards were in his hands. What was most important was that he squash this Necromancer like the insect that he was as quickly as possible. With a little luck, he could contain this disaster before things got too out of hand and word spread back to the Emperor.


    If the Divine Court believed him incapable of handling the crisis, then it was truly over.


    ¡°Send word to the Noble Houses. I want all of them to assemble in the Castle along with their best Soldiers,¡± he ordered. ¡°Then I want the Gold yers to get off their backsides and confront the undead scourge. If there aren''t enough of them, turn out the yer Academies as well. The students can deal with a few zombies and ghosts.¡±


    With the Nobles safely secured in the Castle, he could prevent any further loss of Divine Blood, which would help mitigate the damage in the eyes of the Emperor.


    If the yers could deal with the undead, which they should, seeing as how the undead were basically monsters, then that should free up enough resources to deal with the Necromancer problem.


    Beside him, Archmage Bysol was busy conjuring more sigils, spreading the Duke¡¯s orders as he said them.


    ¡°Have the Marshals establish a perimeter around the pirs. We don¡¯t know if these zombies are able to spread the curse or not, so we can¡¯t afford anyone to escape and infect the rest of the city. Instruct them to kill on sight, and have the militia mobilised to assist. The Magisters and my personal troops will be tasked with hunting down the Necromancer and taking off his head.¡±


    The Archmage frowned as he ryed the orders. Only when the sigil had been dismissed did he dare to question the Duke.


    ¡°We have no evidence that the zombies are capable of spreading their affliction. In fact, natural-born zombies are almost never capable of it. If we can catch and study one, my Mages would be able to determine the truth of the matter in minutes. Is it really necessary to issue a kill order so soon?¡±


    ¡°Any risk of it spreading is too high,¡± the Duke responded callously.


    If thousands of citizens were killed, that was fine, the Divine Court wouldn¡¯t care. If hundreds of thousands died, that may be a different matter.


    From atop the Castle, the city of Kenmor spread like a nket of structures and lights. The Duke was attuned to the state of the city through his unique ss, granted to him upon his ascension to his current Rank. There was a poison in the veins of Kenmor, one that he hadn¡¯t been able to sense before, a sickness that hadin hidden for far too long. Along with the rising tide of terror within the walls, it was enough to set his teeth on edge.


    He turned away from the view and stormed back into his personal quarters where his personal army of servants awaited hismands.


    ¡°Prepare my armour and sword,¡± he demanded. ¡°I will go into the city personally. Inform my retinue.¡±


    Archmage Bysol strode in after him, robes brushing along the lusciously carpeted floor as he walked.


    ¡°That may not be wise, my Duke,¡± the old man cautioned. ¡°You are a formidablebatant, but your power lies in your Divine Title. There are others more suited to battle who can go in your stead.¡±


    Raugrave turned and red at the Archmage.


    ¡°You want me to sit on my hands in the castle while the city falls apart? Do you know what will happen if the damage isn¡¯t contained?¡±


    Bysol grimaced. He knew the Duke wasn¡¯t talking about the cost in life, but rather the threat to his own position.


    ¡°There isn¡¯t much point avoiding death at the hands of the Emperor if you are killed in the chaos of the city, my Lord,¡± he tried one more time.


    ¡°Be silent, Bysol,¡± the Duke ordered, fire in his eyes. ¡°Death at the hands of the Emperor is certain; dying in the city is unlikely at worst. I will go down there and takemand personally. If Iy eyes on Tyron Sterm, I will order him to rip out his own throat.¡±


    He pointed a finger at the Archmage.


    ¡°And you areing with me. Prepare yourself. We leave as soon as I¡¯m ready.¡±


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 Chapter B4C64 - The Red Tower

    The Lady Recillia Erryn was furious. Beyond furious. She sat behind her desk, demeanour so icy the unfortunate Magisters summoned to her office felt their breath should have been misting in the air.


    Unlike the various functionaries, who scurried in and out of the office, for Grand Magister Tommat Baln, there was no escape. Seated at a second desk at a decidedly lower level than the Noble, he was forced to endure her fury at close range as best he was able.


    ¡°How many times did the Red Towermission this heretic and criminal, Grand Magister?¡± Lady Erryn asked, her voice emotionless and t. ¡°Surely you have determined the final number by now.¡±


    Even her face was a still mask, giving no hint of her underlying emotions, but there was no doubt as to how she felt. The heat of her gaze was scalding, and the chill of her words was icy.


    ¡°Well, uh,¡± Grand Magister Tommat stuttered, flicking through the stack of loose papers in front of him. ¡°We contracted Lukas Almsfield on¡­ at least three asions. He did¡­¡± more shuffling papers, ¡°... several jobs for us in eachmission¡­ his speciality was conduit magick, which is widely applicable.¡±


    Lady Erryn folded her hands together in front of her on the table, a genteel gesture, but the old Magister couldn¡¯t help but feel she was restraining her hands lest she rip his throat out.


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t answer my question,¡± she said quietly.


    Her re was like a roaring bonfire, and the Grand Magister wilted even further. He retreated to the only tactic that remained to him: honesty.


    ¡°We brought in dozens of Arcanists on limited contracts through that period,¡± he pleaded. ¡°All the work was documented, but it''s difficult to rifle through the paperwork so quickly. I have ten Magisters and documentarians going through the records, but it will take time.¡±¡°Time we don¡¯t have,¡± the reply was swift and sharp. ¡°Unless you haven¡¯t noticed, the city has been plunged into a state of emergency. I¡¯m told there are ghosts and zombies roaming the streets and the gold ranked yers have been turned out to fight, which means our people need to be actively monitoring the curse. How can we do that when the security of the Tower has beenpromised?¡±


    The old man grimaced. There wasn¡¯t a good answer to that, yet he reached for one anyway.


    ¡°Does it really matter if we can¡¯t immediately say what the Necromancer worked on?¡± he asked. When Lady Erryn raised her hands, he continued hurriedly. ¡°You subjected him to the Divine Authority. If he uses any of his knowledge against us, he will immediately die. Doesn¡¯t that give us some level of safety?¡±


    Recillia Erryn struggled to restrain her temper. The Grand Magister could only be partially med for his ignorance; he was a symptom, not the disease. Thecency she had been working so hard to rip out by the root had coddled the old man his entire life. To think an enemy could prate the heart of the Red Tower, work extensively on its defensive enchantments, and <em>still</em> they couldn¡¯t feel the de on their neck was maddening.


    They had received a message less than an hour ago informing them that the mysterious attacker who had ughtered everyone at the Jorlin estate had been identified. The name ¡®Lukas Almsfield¡¯ hadn¡¯t caused any rm bells immediately, but she had soon recalled that she had in fact heard the name before. When she¡¯d eventually ced the name, she remembered meeting him. A lean, yellow-haired young man with dark eyes and an intense air about him.


    Of course, somehow, that hadn¡¯t been his real face. As a matter of course, she had tested whether the Arcansist had a mour concealing his true features, but had failed to break it. She had no idea how such a thing was possible, but she couldn¡¯t deny the now-clear reality of the situation.


    ¡°I want everything that maniac touched to be dismantled by the end of the night,¡± she demanded, deciding to do as she always did and ride roughshod over the Grand Magister¡¯s sputtering protestations. ¡°I don¡¯t care what you have to do, get it done. Delegate someone to supervise it, since I want you to personally oversee managing the gold yers¡¯ curses. If something goes wrong tonight, I will personally see to it that you are crucified in the courtyard tomorrow.¡±


    The Grand Magister paled, and pushed himself up from the table.


    ¡°V-very well,¡± he muttered, trying to preserve his dignity. ¡°I will s-see to it immediately.¡±


    Before he could make his exit, the double door to the office burst open, a red-faced Magister rushing in and shouting.


    ¡°He¡¯s here!¡± he gasped out. ¡°There are skeletons climbing out of the sewer around the tower!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± the Grand Magister gaped, while Recillia rose calmly from her seat.


    ¡°Let us prepare to wee him, then,¡± she said, eyes glittering darkly. ¡°I can¡¯t wait to see him dead.¡±


    They rushed out of her office. Well, the Magisters did. Lady Recillia Erryn moved in a stately manner that somehow still kept pace with the Mages'' more energetic motion. Every level of the Red Tower featured a corridor that ran the entire circumference. From there, narrow, slitted windows coated with protective enchantments allowed a good view of the surroundings and for spells to be cast through in rtive safety.


    Magisters crowded around several of the windows before Recillia and the others arrived, but they quickly made way when they recognised the Grand Magister, and more importantly, herself. Staring down into the street, the Noblewoman could see what had raised the rm.


    Skeletons were climbing out of several sewer entrances, gathering into neat ranks in the street. Even more wereing from nearby roads, marching out of the darkness, no doubt having used sewer exits nearby. Already there were hundreds of skeletons, their massed purple eyes emitting an eerie glow that blended with the magick streetmps that lined the broad avenues around the tower.


    The heavily armed and armoured warriors who guarded the gate were all assembled, their ranks formed up behind the rapidly closing gate as archers rushed into the towers and along the top of the wall that ringed the tower.


    ¡°How many Magisters will be avable for the defence?¡± Recillia demanded.


    Grand Magister Tommat blinked as he turned reluctantly from the grisly scene on the street.


    ¡°W-well. We need at least twenty to manage the gold rank curse markers. Then¡­ at least a dozen to work on dismantling the enchanting work.¡±


    ¡°The Necromancer is already here,¡± she reminded him icily, ¡°there is no point fiddling with the enchantments. Get those Magisters to the windows. Now.¡± ?


    The old man nodded and turned to his brother Magisters, issuing stammeredmands that sent several robed figures running away while others conjuredmunication sigils.


    The Noble Lady kept her eyes on the streets below as more and more skeletons continued to emerge. They held back from the Tower itself, massing across the broad avenue under the cover of the awnings of the buildings.


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    How many were there? Hundreds, and more emerging constantly.


    Then her eyes red as the Necromancer himself climbed out of the sewer, in full view of the tower. It was difficult to make out the details of the figure, as he was obscured by a sphere of blood as well as the thick, ted bone armour he wore, yet she could feel somethinging off that person, an inkling of power that prickled against her skin.


    ¡°He¡¯s Gold Rank,¡± she stated. ¡°Hit him, now!¡±


    The Magisters turned to stare at her words, then back to the windows as she issued hermand. Immediately, they raised their hands, muttering words of power as they began to shape their magick into spells.


    The Necromancer below looked up immediately, as if he could sense the spellsing, then raised his own hands in response.


    The air <em>rippled</em> as if struck by an invisible fist. At first, Lady Erryn couldn¡¯t understand what had happened, then the phenomenon repeated, and again.


    It was the Necromancer, she realised btedly. He was casting a spell, and reality was shaking as if it were a drum being struck. Several of the Magisters staggered under the effect of that powerful warping, but others held firm, thrusting forth their palms andunching their spells.


    Five beams of ruby red light sted down from the windows, streaking toward the figure below, who did not react. The light smashed into an invisible barrier, scattering across its spherical surface, sending shards of light arcing through the air and skittering across the cobbled road.


    The Necromancer did not stop casting, every word impacting the air with a physical force as he moved from sigil to sigil with wless precision.


    ¡°Keep casting,¡± Recillia ordered, ¡°the shield will break.¡±


    Except it didn¡¯t. Skeletons emerged, different from the others, holding glowing staves in their hands, some of them with strange, eerie green flesh. Dozens of skeletal mages came forward, reinforcing the shield as the Necromancer brought his spell to a close.


    A grand arch began to form, formed entirely of intertwined bones. Arge door was set in the centre of the arch, and uncaring of the barrage of spells falling on him, the Necromancer stepped to the door and pulled it open.


    Dark smoke billowed out of the door sweeping across the ground and rising into the air, obscuring the Necromancer, the door and arch in moments. Moments before it rose high enough, Recillia caught a glimpse of a massive skeleton stepping out of the door and rising to its full height, a huge, ck sword gripped in its hand.


    The ck cloud billowed outward like a wave, crashing against the iron gates of thepound as ghostly lights flickered in the darkness. Arrows began to fly, along with spells, sending the warriors posted in the high ces ducking behind the crions to gain cover.


    ¡°Deploy the Tower shield,¡± she demanded, and for once Tommat Baln was ahead of her, alreadymunicating with someone through a sigil.


    Momentster, there was a powerful surge of energy, so strong the air fizzed with it, causing the hair on the back of Recillia¡¯s neck to rise. Through the window, she could see the shield descend as it was projected from the top of the tower, falling like a red curtain to envelop the grounds.


    Surrounded by the scarlet glow of the shield, the tower took on a maddening, hellish hue, bathing the features of everyone near the windows in a blood-red tint.


    ¡°We will be limited in what magick we can send through the shield,¡± Tommat said, stroking his long beard nervously with one hand. ¡°It will be difficult to fight off the undead without the full support of the Magisters.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t need to win,¡± Lady Erryn told him. ¡°All we have to do is hold our ground. Eventually the Duke, the Noble Houses, Marshals and Soldiers will descend on this ce, even the yers. So long as he doesn¡¯t get in, he¡¯ll be crushed by the might of the Western Province.¡±


    ¡°R-right you are, my Lady,¡± Tommat nodded.


    Through the ck cloud, it was almost impossible to see what was happening in the street. Even the highest point of the bone arch was now hidden from view, the entire avenue outside the tower grounds concealed in darkness. Arrows and spells continued to fly, but they bounced harmlessly off the shield or scattered across its surface.


    Against a defensive measure designed to keep out an army of yers, Recillia doubted a single man would have any hope of even scratching the surface.


    ¡°Can you sense that?¡± Grand Magister Tommat asked.


    For a long moment, there was silence in the crowded corridor, Mages looking at one another, or staring nkly into space as they used their arcane senses to probe their surroundings.


    Lady Erryn turned her re on the Grand Magister, wishing the old man would be more specific.


    ¡°What have you found?¡± she demanded.


    Tommat frowned, his eyes roaming upwards as he tried to discern just what it was he had glimpsed. Then it came again, and his face paled.


    ¡°It¡¯s the shield!¡± he gasped.


    ¡°What about it?¡± Recillia said icily.


    ¡°I think¡­ I think¡­¡± the Grand Magister muttered as he continued to tilt his head this way and that, trying to grasp what he was sensing. ¡°I think¡­ that¡­ we have a problem.¡±


    Several nearby Magisters had begun to weave spells, using them to inspect the surrounding magick, or tomunicate with their fellows who were working the vast arrays that powered the Tower¡¯s enchantments.


    ¡°Power is being syphoned from the shield!¡± one of them announced, his eyes afire with blue magick.


    ¡°That¡¯s impossible!¡± Tommat shouted, but by his face, Recillia could see he doubted his own words.


    She grit her teeth and turned back to the window, staring down at the billowing darkness.


    ¡°Burn away that cloud,¡± she demanded. ¡°Dispel it. Destroy it. I don¡¯t care, but I want to see what is happening down there.¡±


    Tommat nodded and began to coordinate with his fellow Magisters, his pale, sweating face inspiring little confidence. At least when it came to magick, they werepetent enough to get the job done. Soon they had several dozen Mages working in concert, using their power to break apart the magick sustaining the cloud.


    As they did, Recillia noticed that the light of the shield was starting to dim. It was slow, very slow, but even she could discern it with the naked eye.


    For several agonising minutes, the Magisters warred against the darkness, until finally it broke. The cloud scattered, fading away rapidly once the magick that produced it had been destroyed.


    Audible gasps filled the room, and for the first time, Recillia felt a tinge of fear run down her spine as she took in the scene.


    The street was filled with skeletons. Not hundreds. <em>Thousands</em>. All of them carrying arms forged of midnight-ck bone. There was a sea of burning purple lights in their eyes, all of them staring directly forward at the tower. Throughout their ranks were more impressive undead, with full sets of armour and more borate weapons, and there were also cauldrons formed of grinning skulls held aloft here and there by groups of skeletons bearing them upon their bony shoulders.


    There were a dozen of the enormous skeletal creatures, each one twice the height of a man, standing stock still, waiting, staring toward the gate.


    Just before the arch stood the Necromancer, in the centre of an ornate ritual circle drawn in white sand. Every word, every gesture sent a ripple through the air as a mass of dark power over his head continued to swell with each passing moment.


    ¡°He¡¯s draining power from our arrays!¡± Tommat gasped. ¡°Somehow he tapped into the conduits!¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no way he was allowed to work on the shield arrays!¡± another Magister protested.


    ¡°Stop your babbling and kill him!¡± Recillia roared, pointing a finger at the Necromancer. ¡°He¡¯s right there!¡±


    There were hundreds of windows facing that side of the tower, and from them, Magisters began to send a barrage of spells, all targeting the man conducting his ritual in in view.


    None of them got through. Surrounded by his undead servants, they used magickal shields of their own to protect him, or raised their shields of bone to cover his body, or even sacrificed their skeletal forms to prevent spells from reaching their target.


    All the while, the mass of dark power grew, draining away energy from the tower itself, slowly taking on the form of a hand made of dense, ck mist.


    With his shields flickering, and his minions battered and driven back, the Necromancer raised his staff, then tilted it toward the tower gates.


    The ck hand surged forward, reforming into a fist of Necromantic power the size of a horse-drawn wagon.


    Recillia subconsciously braced herself.


    The fist crashed into the gate with tremendous force. The shield shattered with a deafening crash even as the gate was sted inwards. A shockwave rippled outward from the impact, rattling the tower and sending the Magisters down to their knees.


    Silent as the grave, the skeletons advanced.


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 Chapter B4C65 - Battle of the Dead

    Chapter B4C65 - Battle of the Dead


    Power thrummed within Tyron. Every fibre of his being was awash with it. His personal reservoir of magick boomed like an ocean, crashing against the confines of his soul with the fury of a hurricane.


    And he could sense <em>all of it</em>. Almost like he had been granted a sixth sense, Perceive Magick gave him¡­ an extra sensory organ tuned only to the ebb and flow of arcane energy. When he raised his hands and began to form sigils, he could feel the power move with a rity he had never experienced before, sense it flow and change as he enforced his will, shaping it into something new.


    He was so enraptured with this sensation he found it difficult to focus on the unfolding battle in front of him.


    Wights, revenants and his strongest skeletons, backed by the massive Bone Giants he had constructed, assaulted the now-open gates. Disciplined ranks of highly trained, high-level Soldiers, Archers and Mages held the line, refusing to give ground to his undead army.


    That simply wouldn¡¯t do.


    Once again, Tyron raised his hands and began to bend reality to his will. Magick flowed like a river as he spoke the words of power, using every ounce of skill and potency he could muster. He poured all of it into the spell he was crafting.


    From his feet, a grey mist began to spread. It spread rapidly, blossoming outwards into a circle with him at the centre. The mist wasn¡¯t real, but a construct formed of magick, and he had to constantly supply more energy to maintain it, but once it reached the defensive line, its effects became known.


    Men cried out in pain and anger as the mist, no more than a few centimetres high, began to drift around their feet. As they did so, the small pockets of the mist that touched them became tinged with red light, and began to drift towards Tyron, rather than away from him.


    When these small patches of mist reached him, they flowed into his flesh, and he felt the invigorating energy they contained merge with his own.The Field of Death. A spell he hadn¡¯t employed much, but had taken the time to study. It would steal away the life force of the living and bring it to him, so long as it was active.


    With a sharp breath, he began to enact another of his new abilities. cing a hand on his chest, he sensed his own life, the vitality that infused his body, and began to burn it. With a constitution as absurdly robust as his own, Tyron¡¯s life force was a roaring me, a great bonfire that would sustain him through inhuman levels of punishment and deprivation, but he had another use for it now.


    As he sacrificed his own life, it changed form, turning into magick and flowing into the raging reservoir within him.


    In a detached manner, he examined the torrent of magick within him. All around, his minions were drawing on his power. The mages of the tower continued to rain down magick upon him, but Tyron was protected by the dozens of skeletal mages he had created for the specific purpose of shielding him. At the front, his Bone Giants, wights, revenants and basic minions fought vigorously, draining yet more power. The Field of Death, the ever-flowing mist that gushed outwards from around his feet, also drew on his power.


    Yet now he counteracted that loss, providing new energy, pouring in more and more magick as he consumed his own vitality to supply it.


    When a third of his life force had been burned away, he stopped and took stock.


    The mist continued to bring him small packets of healing, which suffused him and replenished his energy, but the Field of Death wasn¡¯t paying for itself. The spell took all the life it stole and turned it into magick, but he was still running at a loss. Yet he felt that was likely due to the Skills being new and rtively low-levelled. When he grasped them better, they would cost less to cast and the ratio of life-to-magick would improve, allowing him to gain more from them.


    For now, it was fine. The drain on his power was more than manageable. His minions continued to generate their own energy using the intricately crafted web of conduits that bound them together. In fact, with all of his minions finally gathered together in one ce, Tyron was able to witness just how much death-aligned energy they were able to create between them.


    His mind was cast back to that first moment when he had witnessed the tiny flecks of energy being passed between remains, growing ever so slightly each time. Gradually, that process would elerate until the bodies were saturated, giving rise to wild undead. Now he witnessed that same process, but magnified several thousand times over.


    Not only did his minions constantly draw in and convert ambient magick through the arrays he had built into them, they also generated death magick just by being around each other, passing that energy between them and growing it each time.


    The end result was that therger his horde grew, the more it would be capable of sustaining itself. The draw on his own reserves was much lower than he had expected, which meant he could spend more of his own power to tip the bnce in his minions¡¯ favour.


    With a thought, Tyronmanded his minions, and they obeyed his will. All around the horde, the cauldrons were activated, spewing forth dense ck mist suffused with death magick. In less than a minute, the entire avenue was covered in darkness, and Tyron shifted his position so the mages could no longer concentrate their fire on him.


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    If they persisted in targeting him, his minions would be the ones to lose the battle of attrition. To remain safe, he needed to hide from their sight and break into the tower before they could dispel the ck mist again.


    Reality shivered like a struck bell as he spoke once more, his hands flickering rapidly from one sigil to the next. More power flowed and the Shivering Curse took hold, nketing the battlefield in a prating chill that pierced armour and flesh alike, getting straight to the bone.


    The Magisters were coordinated, pushing back against his magick and doing all they could to alleviate the effects. Tyron tsked as he witnessed them nullifying the curse. They weren¡¯t able to dispel itpletely, not yet at least, but the Soldiers still holding at the front were able to ignore most of its effects.


    Between his skeletal mages and the Magisters, it was clear who was superior, and Tyron knew that despite all he was capable of, he wasn¡¯t enough to tip the scales by himself.


    With the demi-liches he could now create, he would be able to rectify this deficiency and bring enough magickal firepower to his army to hold their own againstrge numbers of trained mages. For now, he knew he would have to continue to pour out his reserves and hope it would be enough to prevent his skeletons from being overwhelmed.


    Now that he was hidden from sight, the Magisters in the towers had taken up two separate tasks. The first was attempting to break the mist and expose him once more, but they were contending not with a single spell, but a constant outpouring of energy from the cauldron constructs. To win, they would need to throw more energy at the mist than his cauldrons were providing, which would be difficult.


    The other half had taken to providing spell support to the battle at the gates. Beams of ring red light, shards of crystalline energy that shattered just over the horde, bolts of malevolent energy, all of it rained down on his minions in a constant barrage that disrupted his front line and damaged his undead, reducing their effectiveness.


    This wouldn¡¯t do.


    Tyron utilised another of his new abilities. He chanted the words and formed the sigils, extending his hands out over the horde before him, and felt the spell take effect. Once again, his life force began to burn, but this time, it wasn¡¯t turned into magick; instead, it flowed out of him and over his army. Whenever it passed over a skeleton who had suffered damage, it flowed into them, his vitality consumed to reforge their bones and repair their weave.


    As he cut off the spell, he staggered to one side, clutching at his chest. Flesh to Bone was just what he had hoped for, but draining himself of so much life was a less than pleasant experience. Even using as much vitality as he had, he was far from repairing all the damage his undead had already sustained, especially at the front.


    Still, his minions were better positioned now. More of his skeletal mages had moved to the front to help shield the undead, and more of his shield-bearing minions were in position to defend their brethren.


    Drained of life, Tyron knew he had to keep pushing, so he didn¡¯t stop. Gathering himself again, he cast Death des, empowering the weapons of his army. When that was done, he began to hurl offensive magick into the fray.


    Bone Lances and Death¡¯s Fists began to flow, one after another as he employed the dual casting technique, words tripping from his tongue so rapidly they were almost indistinguishable from one another. Many of his spells were deflected or blocked, but many others weren¡¯t. Every time he caused damage, a little bit of life energy would meld with his own, gradually healing him and replenishing his reserves.


    Tyron¡¯s skeletons outnumbered the defenders by ten to one or more, but the weight of those numbers didn¡¯t matter so long as they had to fight into the rtively narrow gateway. The Soldiers and Magisters clearly realised the same, since they seemed determined to hold the passage, no matter the sacrifice. Despite pushing hard, his undead hadn¡¯t been able to dislodge the enemy, and the battle had stalled. It was bing a waiting game. He would eventually be able to grind down the defenders. With his superior numbers and unrelenting undead, it was only a matter of time. It didn¡¯t matter if every Soldier took down five skeletons before sumbing, there would still be a horde standing at the end.


    Yet could Tyron afford to wait that long? He was under no illusions that the entirety of the forces in Kenmor were present within the Red Tower, far from it. Eventually, the ghosts he had created to act as a distraction would be dealt with and the Duke would copse on him like an iron fist. In fact, if Tyron didn¡¯t breach the tower, the Duke wouldn¡¯t even have to. The Gold-ranked yers would be driven to do the job for him, and he had no chance of standing against them.


    Decisively, Tyron turned towards the arch of bone that stood behind him, striding up to the great door and pulling it open once more.


    ¡°You¡¯re needed,¡± he called inside, before stepping back to allow space.


    The sound of shuffling, then heavy footsteps, the dull grind of bone on bone as something within approached the door.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think you wanted us toe out this early,¡± an eerie, surreal voice stated.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t,¡± Tyron replied, tly, ¡°but needs must.¡±


    From within, a wight emerged, glowing spirit flesh bound to their still visible skeleton within, yet this one was different from the others. d head to foot inyers of dense, ck bone armour, this undead was the most heavily armoured of his servants by far. Such a weight of armour would make a minion ungainly under normal circumstances, but for this particr wight, it wouldn¡¯t matter so much.


    As his undead emerged, so too did the reins in their hand, followed by the ghastly, skeletal form of an undead horse. The form of the equine burned with purple light, indicating the soul of the animal still existed, moulded into the frame. It too was bound in heavy bone ting, a powerful array bound into its ribcage feeding power to the entire form.


    Once the mount was clear of the door, the wight reached up and climbed into the saddle, then silently directed the skeletal horse to move, making way for those that came behind.


    There were ten altogether. Not an overwhelming number, but each had taken a lot of time to put together, and a considerable amount of resources. Only the first was a wight, but the rest were all revenants. Tyron had hoped to use them as a surprise forter conflicts, but he needed them now.


    As his fellow undead mounted up behind him, the wight took in the sight of the unfolding battle and the grand tower rising before them.


    ¡°Magisters,¡± he stated tly. ¡°You already have me killing nobles.¡±


    ¡°Yours was always a life of service, Captain Janus,¡± Tyron replied, his tone cold, ¡°you have merely swapped one master for another. What you defended in life, I will have you destroy in death.¡±


    ¡°Do I have a choice?¡± the wight said, eerie tone filled with bitterness.


    ¡°You already made your choice. You didn¡¯t want to fade out of existence, so now, you serve.¡±

 Chapter B4C66 - Break

    Tyron allowed his wights to coordinate the charge as he moved away from the arch before de-summoning it. The wide road before the tower gate would soon be filled with his enemies, and if they got inside the ossuary, who knew what they might do?


    The arch faded from existence, taking the door with it, and Tyron turned to stride back toward the battle. Archers continued to exchange fire overhead, arrows forged from bone or wood seeking out the vulnerable and unaware. Few managed tond a meaningful shot, but it added to the general chaos, which gave Tyron a greater advantage. Unlike the living beings they were fighting, the skeletons didn¡¯t feel fear and had no instincts of self-preservation. When arrows shattered on the cobblestones around their feet, they didn¡¯t flinch, second-guess or waver in their resolve.


    The same wasn¡¯t true for the other side.


    Once the fear took hold, he knew he would have won, his undead would trample the wavering spirits of the living beneath their heels. All he needed was to shock his opponents into giving him an opening.


    Once more he raised his hands and began to fling spells into the melee, waiting for the right moment to strike.


    The frontline of the battle was chaos, shields crashing on shields, des rising and falling, the press of bodies so dense it was difficult to tell one form from another. The humans roared battle cries, shouted crisp, disciplined orders and fought with controlled fury, holding the line against the unending tide of grinning skeletons who came at them time and time again. The undead were silent, unfeeling and untiring. Skeletons up and down the lines continued to fight with cracked skulls that leaked magick or missing arms.


    And they were strong. When their opponents expected them to be light and weak, they dug in and pushed back with strength that belied their light frames.


    Then there were the wights and revenants. Human spirits, severed from mortality, they fought like demons, unfeeling and unrelenting, they stalked up and down the line, crashing to the front whenever they saw an opening, fighting with a calcted, disciplined style that the regr skeletonscked. Whenever the undead line buckled, they were there, enchanted bone armour granting them incredible resilience as they battered back the Soldiers and stabilised the fight.


    When he judged the time was right, Tyron moved closer to the front and prepared to cast. Field of Death was still providing him small bursts of vital energy, though it wasn¡¯t enough to defeat his enemies. The damage caused was slight, and their opponents appeared to have enough divine healing to offset the damage it caused. Yet Tyron maintained it. The healing was meaningful enough, and it was yet another thing that his enemy had to contend with.He raised his hands once more, beginning to cast.


    The moment he did, a barrage of spells from abovenced down towards him, and Tyron was forced to abandon his cast, flicking the still-forming energy away from himself before any bacsh could take shape. Dozens of spells crashed into the road where he¡¯d been standing, turning the stone surface to g in an instant. Several spells shattered, sending shards of crystalline magick scattering everywhere, and without the timely intervention of several shield-bearing skeletons, they would havended, possibly scattering off his armour, or maybe piercing his flesh.


    Tyron picked himself up off the ground and red up toward the tower. They were waiting for him to start casting, using the ripples of magick to locate him, and then pummeling his location with spells. A simple, but apparently effective method to stop him from using anyrger magicks.


    Gritting his teeth, the Necromancer considered his options. He could bring all his skeletal mages back to protect him, but they were in position to support the front line. Getting them to extricate themselves would take time and leave his regr skeletons vulnerable. However, if he let the Magisters take him out of the fight, it would be disastrous, especially at this key moment.


    Throwing caution to the wind, he made a snap decision and mentallymanded his undead. Skeletons rushed to his side and raised their ted-bone shields to cover him. A few of his skeletal mages weren¡¯tmitted to the front, so he gathered them, then took a breath and raised his hands once more.


    He knew what wasing, and so worked as quickly as he could. Despite the rapid pace, his pronunciation was wless, his execution of the sigils without error. The rain of spells came, as expected, but he didn¡¯t flinch. His skeletons held their ground, drawing deep on the reserves of power they contained to bolster their strength.


    Shields shattered and skeletons fell, only to be reced by others stepping up to protect him. Some spells got through, searing light burning grooves into his armour and helm, but Tyron didn¡¯t flinch.


    Once more he cast Blessing of Bone, then smoothly transitioned to his next spell as the endless barrage of spells fell on him. More and more of his undead fell, their shields burned through or broken by the magick, and his skeleton mages were quickly running out of power as the flimsy shields they conjured werepletely unable to hold back the tide.


    Once the second spell was done, Tyron began to move, putting distance between him and the casting location as once again his life force poured out and over his minions. His breath grew haggard as the vitality that sustained him withered away, his body bing wracked with pain, but he didn¡¯t stop.


    When half of his life force had been given to his minions, he stopped the flow and took a moment to gather himself. Even with his absurdly robust constitution, there wasn¡¯t enough to repair all the damage to such arge number of minions. He estimated he might have already lost a hundred or more, but it didn¡¯t matter, there were so many more.


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    ¡°They¡¯re ready to charge.¡±


    The oddly distant voice came from his left, and Tyron turned to see Filetta standing there, indicating the mounted undead moving into position.


    ¡°Hopefully it works,¡± he grunted.


    If it didn¡¯t, he was going to be in trouble. He couldn¡¯t afford to let this battle drag out any longer.


    Tyron eyed his spectral steeds and the revenants riding them. Putting horses together had been a nightmare of experimentation, but the final product, he hoped, would be worth it. ?


    Without a word, they charged, and Tyron raised his hands once more.


    The skeletal cavalry stormed over the ground, a clear path opened for them by the other wights organising the troops. In a flying wedge with the wight who had once been Captain Janus of the Jorlin family guard at the head.


    Even Tyron had to admit it was an intimidating sight. Each of the riders, along with their steeds, was covered in the heaviest, most durable bone armour he could forge. The tes themselves were also enchanted, making the riders by far the most resource-intensive minions he had ever created.


    As they neared the front, Tyron once again began to cast. After the first few sybles were spoken, the rain of spells began again, only to halt when the skeletal riders came into view.


    By then, it was toote.


    With the mighty, ethereal wight at their head, the cavalry leaped directly over the front two rows of skeletons, their speed greatly enhanced by the blessing of bone. Soldiers recoiled in shock, but there was nowhere for them to go in the crush, and they could do nothing but raise their shields as the horses crashed down on them, their ridersying about with their swords.


    The pressure on Tyron immediately lightened, and he raced toplete his spell. Power flowed as the words rang out, and in a few more moments he was done.


    Death to Life. Just like the Field of Death, it was a spell that required constant upkeep, yet another drain on his resources, yet he felt, in this moment, it would be worth it.


    With a mentalmand, Tyron drove his minions forward, pressing up himself as he began to throw more spells.


    A rain of blows and magick fell on the skeletal riders, but they endured, shields raised and des falling all about them. The undead horses kicked and tossed, causing mayhem through the lines as they soundlessly responded to their riders¡¯mands.


    The charge of the cavalry had created a crack, and the undead poured into that opening like a copsing wave. The trickle became a flood, the shouts of the living turned into the screams of the dying, and Tyron continued to press forward.


    Shortly after, a burst of vitality reached him and Tyron gasped as the life-force flowed into his own. The pain in his limbs faded and the lethargic fugue he was experiencing lifted, if only slightly. Then another burst arrived, and Tyron closed his eyes.


    His spell was working, reaping a harvest of life from the enemy fallen. Every burst of healing he received represented the death of a mortal, and he was sorely in need of the energy.


    Spells from above continued to rain down, but they weren¡¯t targeting anything in particr anymore, merely attempting to stem the flood of undead as they squeezed through the breached gate, driving back the defenders.


    <em>Push. PUSH! </em>Tyron demanded of his undead, and they responded.


    His skeletal warriors fought recklessly, burning through magick as they fought, heedless of their own survival, throwing themselves on the buckling enemy lines in an endless wave. More bursts of vitality reached Tyron, and he began to convert his life force into magick once again, seeking to fuel the increased expenditure of his minions.


    Despite the punishment they were taking, his skeletal cavalry continued to stand tall, their thick ting absorbing blows and spells alike. Skillful and quick, they moved in perfect concert with their mounts, as if they shared a single mind, which to all intents and purposes, they did.


    As the cauldrons advanced, so did the cloud of ck mist, washing over the battleline, no longer able to be held back by the mages there. Once the soldiers were plunged into darkness, the flow of vitality into Tyron increased.


    Then, the line broke.


    When it happened, it happened rapidly. A desperate voice called for them to fall back to the Tower, and the Soldiers were running.


    Tyron¡¯s heart surged and heughed as his undead streamed forward, cutting down whoever they could reach. The Red Tower was essed by an enormous set of double doors, which had been open during the battle as the wounded who could be reached were taken inside during the fighting.


    Now, in the midst of the desperate and chaotic retreat, they began to swing closed. Those within were clearly desperate to keep the skeletal horde out, even though their own allies would be left in the cold as well. Covered once more by the ck mist, the undead spread quickly throughout thepound, encircling the tower as they continued to hunt anyone who¡¯d been left outside.


    Several Archers had made a run for it, leaping down from the outer wall and into the street, avoiding the skeletons who still remained outside and disappeared into the gathering night. For the Soldiers and mages who hadn¡¯t been on the wall, escape was not so easy. In pockets here and there, they fought, desperate shouts and screams filling the night as the doors mmed shut, leaving dozens trapped outside.


    Through it all, Tyron strode, his life force rapidly refilling as so many died around him.


    Thepound was now his, and the tower itself would soon follow.


    ¡°That worked out better than I expected,¡± Filetta mused beside him.


    ¡°You thought we were going to fail?¡± he asked, giving her a t stare.


    The wight chuckled, an odd sounding from a ghastly skeleton.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to be honest, Tyron. I thought this whole thing waspletely insane. I never expected you to even get this far.¡±


    ¡°Then why go along with it?¡±


    Filetta shrugged, flipping her ck knives through her spirit flesh fingers.


    ¡°It¡¯s better than being a disembodied spirit howling into the void.¡±


    The Necromancer rather suspected that it was.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s next?¡± she asked. ¡°They¡¯re all holed up inside the tower. Do you have a way in? Some trick you prepared in advance?¡±


    ¡°Something like that,¡± Tyron muttered, staring up at the tower.


    Despite the death that surrounded him, Tyron was far from satisfied. There had been Magisters mixed in amongst the defenders, but the majority of them were still in the tower. Those were the lives he yearned to reap. Everyone who had fallen to this point was merely coteral damage.


    Those doors would give way, and his undead would rush into the tower like a gue of locusts.


    Vengeance was at hand.


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