Book of The Dead

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 clapped him on the shoulder, his face filled with pride. His father slid his blade 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 the layers of an onion, whispers and madness enveloping his twitching form.

All of these images and so many more flashed 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 black 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 become, inhumanly so, but combined 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 had lanced the boil and pus were draining out.

Before he could appreciate what had happened and organise his thoughts, he shifted. From floating in the darkness, he found himself suddenly in a new place. 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 felt lake-deep, just as still and filled with danger.

Is this a dream? Or did I just die?

Perhaps he’d finally succumbed 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 place,” 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 lectured at? 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 their lack of respect. Let me tell you then, where you are.”

The thing gestured to the surrounding woods.

“This place 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.”

I can’t call it anything if I can’t speak, Tyron grumbled. And what was that about Magnin and Beory? Have they been here before?

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 direct. 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.

In the seat of their power, they can kill me with a thought. He was sure of it.

“The purpose of the Anathema class 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.

What the hell is going on? 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.

Elsbeth?

“I believe this young servant of the Old Gods is known to you. Should you require any… extra 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.”

You piece of….

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 place, he was less than powerless. Even their Messenger could annihilate him in an instant. They had no need to threaten Elsbeth at all, he was completely within their power, yet they did it anyway.

He slumped. He didn’t have a choice but to accede to their demands. He looked into the shadow, ready to acknowledge his submission.

“This is poor form.”

A new voice emanated through the domain, one that he did not expect.

Yor?!

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 presence comforting, 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 welcomed 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 to come if your patrons had not become so impatient. The Anathema class is not granted by them alone; there are three who have a claim 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 afraid. “But you have erred in one respect. I did not quite come 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.

“I come as an honoured guest,” it continued, “to remind you of your obligations. To attain the loyalty of an Anathema through such base manipulations 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 glared back at the eye.

“Your Court has no authority in this place,” 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… transgressions. 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 clasped 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 glanced 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 glad 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, then laughed. “It’s a good thing I arrived when I did, you may not have survived otherwise. I’m surprised you were able to last 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 them.

“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.”

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