Book of The Dead

“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 unusual 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 his companions, 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 I can’t do anything.”

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 Class 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 plains stark naked with a sign saying ‘Necromancer’ dangling from your rod.”

Yor glanced 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 occasion. 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 flashed with purple light.

“I am dead serious when I say that trying to move across the plains 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 his last choice, not his first. Options were dropping away by the hour like sand slipping through his fingers. If he managed to sneak past the slayers and marshals rolling out over the plains, he could then travel to another slayer 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 be compelled 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 am 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 adherence to rules or etiquette. 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 place. I would not risk eternity 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 display 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 still 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 was complete to his satisfaction within the time allotted. He still lacked 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, particularly 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… balls,” he muttered, for lack 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.

She’s communicating with it, Dove thought wonderingly. That shouldn’t be possible.

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 and commune 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 plane: 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 deeply comforted by Dove coming 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, becoming 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 and complete 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, flashing 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 too late 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 a complex shape that wrapped around the rift, forming a shield of protection that glowed with power.

“This will prevent any of the denizens of this place 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 place 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 chatting,” 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 what?”

Tyron had no language to explain the place he found himself in. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, and yet….

He could talk, he stood upon… something, 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 explain. 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 blackness 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 at last 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 moved.

His mind creaked under the strain as it tried to process what continued to happen around him, yet failed. Dove was more articulate.

“Fuck. Me,” the skull rasped.

The… entity, was enormous beyond comprehension. Larger than a mountain, larger than a mountain range, it enveloped them, almost completely, 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 place between places, 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, compared 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 occur was a blast 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 to comprehend.

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 stupid, and yet, he hadn’t failed.

He nodded shakily. Somehow, the being had understood what he needed, in a way.

In the back of his mind, knowledge burned, uncomfortably. Were he to lift a hand and point, he could precisely identify the location of Monty and his remaining bandits.

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