Book of The Dead

Exhausted in mind, spirit and body, Tyron made sure he didn’t block the direct route from the rift to the village 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 relaxing 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 particularly 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 familiar landmarks 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 earned 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 reputable 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 slayer.

“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 the companionship 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 nonchalant 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 overlaid with the vision of a spirit, he shouldered aside the blanket 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 place and re-tied Dove to his belt.

“Hey, hey! What the fuck? What are you doing?”

“Slayers,” 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 succession, 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 slayers, 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?

Preparations complete, 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 occurred as Dove subsided, grumbling to himself.

As his heart pounded in his chest, Tyron took a deep, steadying breath before he pushed aside the blanket 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 overlaying his eyes with theirs would be impossible.

How many were there? Where were they hiding?

If there was even one experienced, high rank slayer here, he was a dead man. Even a decently large 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 village 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 slayers, 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 slayer 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 black eye and go down swinging in a blaze 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 display 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 friend come to that. For now, though, he needed to focus.

Unable to resist anymore, he spied a large, 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 glanced nervously up the mountain. There weren’t any kin coming down right now, but another pack couldn’t be far away. They never were at this point.

“Freeze!” a voice rang out.

Tyron glanced 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.

Ranger. Must have been lying in wait on the slope. Some sort of camouflage skill. Might have been here for a while and I dodged them coming down north of here.

Despite the fact they were almost undoubtedly the same age, Tyron couldn’t help but think this slayer 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 slayer stumbled forward, only to be blasted 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.

It’ll take a bit of work to fix that up, but those bones heal easily.

Idle thoughts drifted through Tyron’s mind as he executed his next command. He couldn’t afford to have mercy. Not anymore.

A moment later, his revenant was there, sword drawn. With no hesitation, the undead servant drove it down through the heart. The slayer jerked for a moment, then grew still.

Tyron pushed off the body and kept moving, not allowing himself to think.

Keep going, he told himself. Don’t worry about it, just keep moving.

Desperate to put more distance between himself and the slayers 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-kin laid 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 slammed into a skeleton’s shield and Tyron risked a glance downhill as he continued to hurry into cover.

Further down the slope, a pack of three figures found the deceased slayer 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 place, 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.

You’re next, friend.

Rufus had found him.

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