Book of The Dead

“Rufus was always a self-centred prick, but even I didn’t expect him to go that 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 explain it, “... more that we were just waiting, wasting time until the Awakening. Until you get a Class, it's almost as if you haven’t been born. All the plans 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.”

The last time they’d met he’d thrown Laurel and Rufus’ relationship 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.

“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 what lay 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 a laugh, 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 a lazy 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 a complete failure in my eyes.”

“That’s a freakishly high bar,” Elsbeth observed.

The Steelarms were… legendary. Famous Slayers 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 was?” 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 that completely explains 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.…”

To who? 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 Slayer, a Summoner,” Tyron tried to explain. “He was going to die. Well… he did 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 place 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 skull companion, 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 replace 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 Slayers 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 did want to. Help them, I mean.”

You were doing so well, he groaned to himself, she touches your hand and you start stumbling. Pathetic.

“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 accepted 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.”

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?

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 plans. 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 players 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 Classes.”

“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.”

Damnation.

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?

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 become 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?

“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 what?” he squawked.

“A… burial service?”

“No she isn’t,” he said and threw back the blanket.

He spun in the bed and planted 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 Slayers catch up to me, then I’m dead. I have to keep moving.”

“You have to heal,” 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 mine. She can’t have them.”

He glared 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 replace them. Where am I supposed to get the materials that I need? You want me to raid the local graveyard and pull some relatives out of the ground?”

“They aren’t materials… those are people.”

“They were 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 Class. Without creating minions, without having them fight, I’m stuck.”

Elsbeth wanted to tell him he could renounce his Class if he really wanted to. He could go back to living a regular life, but she knew it was too late for that. Tyron was committed 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 already laid out, most of them bandits, but some were not. He hadn’t been able to save everyone, despite his determination. In fact, if Annette and the others hadn’t come to the rescue, he would’ve been killed and the attack might have succeeded. 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 you last,” 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 Gods later,” he said before he pointed down at the bandits laid out on the ground. “But these are mine. I killed them, so I claim 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 interplay 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 plan 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 what?” Elsbeth gasped.

Munhilde held up a hand to silence her apprentice.

“Fine,” she said. “We’ve reached an accord. 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.”

He only just got up, Elsbeth wanted to protest, you know how badly he was injured!

“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, glad 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 butcher those men?”

“Yes,” he said.

“But that's… that's….”

Inhuman.

“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. Animals,” 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 aren’t. Those men abandoned any claim 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 what comes next.”

He turned his back on her and stepped inside, slamming 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.

He’s sharpening knives.

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 accepting reality for what it was, about not adding false meaning to a fundamental truth.

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.

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.”

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