Book of The Dead

Chapter B2C32 - Confronted

“It’s… disturbing to look at.”

“There exists a certain charm 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 almost completely from his consciousness. I have seen others like this, elders, when they fall into a trance contemplating 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 flashed 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 to complain so much. After all, this is your fault, at least partially.”

“My 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 to lay a claim. Would he blaze 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.

Mind. Spirit. Channel. Bond or connection? Need a conduit. Or housing. But how do they connect? What material, or method?

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.

Fuck, my eyes are dry. Was I not blinking?

No sooner had the thought occurred 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?

Replace their basic ‘minds’ with ghosts. Simple.

Except it wasn’t.

There were dozens of intricate components connecting the mind to the skeleton, none of which he fully understood. Spellforms ran through his head at a blistering pace, different combinations of sigils flicking into place 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 overlay 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 successful…” 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 possible 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, especially with more complex 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 before laying 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 planks 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 relatively 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 placed 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 fast that it was difficult to remember at times that it still wasn’t fast enough. He’d come 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.

The secret is in the bones!

It had come to him in a flash of inspiration. There had to be a reason the improved Bone Threading technique placed the weave within the bones, there had 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, inside 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 to come 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 many complex spellforms at once, but he persevered. The frenetic urging of his own mind wouldn’t allow him to fail.

Ghostly flames 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 syllable 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 flame that curled between the ribs and licked the darkness. Gradually, the flames 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 quite 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.

“Congratulations, 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 accomplishment. 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 slayer 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 the last 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, collapsing in here without so much as laying a blanket down? Exceptionally durable for a slayer of his rank he may be, but there was no point punishing himself when he didn’t have to.

Holy shit, my mouth is dry.

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.

Need to resupply. Should be a creek or stream around here to get water at least.

The foothills were criss-crossed with little streams and brooks coming 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 village 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.

“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 occurred 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 glad 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 killing me. What the hell was I doing last 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 half 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.

The Revenant.

“Holy fucking shit! I did it!”

“Did it? You made four of the bastards. Four.”

“Four? Wait, I did! Why the hell did I do that? Only the slayer 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 flared and he winced, lifting a hand to his temple.

“Right. Because they have a spirit in there.”

That much was obvious. A revenant was a combination 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 world last night. I knew it was too good to last.”

Aghast, Tyron stared down at the skull, a horrified expression on his face.

“That was a slayer’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 slayer 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 slayer struck back in the only way they knew how.

Stop it, Tyron commanded.

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.

That shouldn’t be possible, they shouldn’t be able to act against me in any way.

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 glared 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.

“Bit late 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.”

—------------------------------------------

“I’ve done what I can,” the villager 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 village, 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.

Typical Necromancer attitude. The living seem less trustworthy by the day.

It would’ve been funny if it didn’t ring so true. He had complete control over his servants, they were flawed, but totally reliable. People were self-interested, just as he was.

Checking the glamour remained in place, 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 bland he risked it not looking human at all, but every wrinkle and feature added increased the complexity that much more. He’d done as best he could, but couldn’t afford to delay any further.

When the last 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 wait,” the command 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.

Blood and bone! Marshals…. Why are they here?!

Two of them, weary from the road and covered in dust. If he was paying proper attention, he’d have been able to spot them coming 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 blade and he raised his hands, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible.

“Sorry, Marshals, didn’t realise I was talking to the law,” he said gruffly.

Do I even need to disguise my voice?

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 blade 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 blade to the ground.

He suppressed a wince as it clattered against the stone. That sword had come 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. “Place 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 play 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 them lay 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 outlaws 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 glamour.

Surrender, or keep going? Is your life over already, Tyron Steelarm?

If only he were braver, then he might have the courage to follow his convictions.

With a wave of his hand, he allowed the glamour 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, slashing 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.

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 the law. Even if he succeeded, does he try to convince the partner as well?

What if one of them shakes off the compulsion? He wished he could, he really 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.”