Book of The Dead

Tyron looked down and let the emotions run through him. Rage, pain, grief, shame. It was difficult to be here, hard to endure the internal tumult he felt every time he stood in this place, but still he forced himself to. It was here that he renewed his purpose.

Magnin and Beory looked the same as they had in life. They were laid next to each other, arms touching, facing the sky above through a gap in the trees. This place was on the edge of the Ordan estate, but he wasn’t worried anyone would find it, or what they might do if they did.

His parents were encased in a clear, ice-like substance, as hard as diamonds. Of course, they had arranged for everything when they’d died, or at least, everything they could manage, including the preservation of their own remains.

The greatest swordsman of the west had told him that the bodies he and Beory would leave behind would be the best materials he would ever find, and the two of them had taken steps to ensure they would be preserved. He hadn’t been wrong, Magnin’s soul was gone, his supreme swordsmanship gone with it, but this was the body of someone who had pushed close to level eighty, possibly gone beyond it.

Tyron deeply hoped he was never forced to a place where he had to make use of it. It wasn’t sentimental attachment that prevented him from making use of what his family had left behind, but he didn’t believe he had it in him to butcher his own parents. He was simply too weak.

Wherever their spirits had gone, he hoped they were happy, finally free of the concerns that had bound them in this place. No more brand, no more demands on their time and energy, just the endless adventure they had craved.

They deserved that.

Down here, in this place, Tyron would burn everything their killers had built down to the ground. Not for them, Magnin and Beory hadn’t wanted him to walk this path. He would do it for himself.

Leaning forward, he placed a hand against the cold, clear surface that encased the two figures. For a time, he struggled to think of something to say, anything, but eventually gave up. They weren’t here, all that remained was flesh and bone, anything he said wouldn’t reach them, so he didn’t bother.

~~~

Tyron’s hands ached and a persistent throbbing pounded in his head, but he was satisfied with the work he’d gotten done. Updating his old skeletons to bring them fully in line with his current ones wasn’t possible, but he could do a great deal to strengthen them. First, he’d grouped with the other skeletons they’d been raised with and bound them with the same enchantments the others had. Having prepared the cores and networks ahead of time, all he’d had to do was attach and activate them.

Unwinding and fixing the bone stitching was harder. It took more time and required a great deal of dextrous weaving on his part, leaving his fingers pained and stiff, but he’d succeeded in this also. Then he’d repaired their bones, patching up any cracks, and equipped them with his new bone weaponry. After the spruce-up, his old skeletons were looking good as new, ready to take on all comers.

After which, he’d turned his attention to the more important work. If he was going to take on the rifts, he needed more revenants, and he needed to make them as well as he could.

Rufus had been split down the middle by Magnin, and looking at the bones, Tyron still couldn’t believe how clean the cut was. He’d done what he could to fuse them back together before departing the mountain, but a proper repair would take time and effort. After ensuring everything was together enough to endure the journey, he carefully packed the remains of the would-be swordsman back into his box, along with the stone that held his soul. When he finished his work, Rufus would have a new home, and a new purpose.

Laurel was also destined to become a revenant. A talented archer with a great deal of skill, she’d be useful as a minion, more than most anyway. The shield-bearing slayer he’d fought would join them, along with the young mage. Tyron wanted to test his ability to create a spell-casting undead, and a mage in training would make an excellent candidate.

With those four, he would have five former slayers in his service, ready to lead his skeletons into battle. They were only iron-ranked, hardly the powerful minions he would prefer, but after he’d given them the full treatment, he expected they would serve their purpose.

His work completed and everything packed away, Tyron slumped against the wall. He’d barely made it in time, but soon he would depart. Exhaustion gripped him, and he was covered in dust, but he forced himself to carry his ‘luggage’ up and out of the cellar before locking it with almost two hundred skeletons inside.

Job done, he returned to the manor house for a meal and a bath before the long journey back to Kenmor.

Mrs Ortan found him in the kitchen, filching a second slice from a meat pie he’d found cooling on the window sill.

“You don’t have to steal,” she told him, fists on her hips. “If you ask for a meal, I’ll have you served.”

He shook his head as he chewed, then swallowed.

“Not enough time,” he said, “I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

She shook her head.

“You work so fast, I’m surprised you get anything done,” she said, looking at his still dust-covered form. “Whatever happened to taking your time and doing your tasks right? Saves time in the long run.”

Tyron grunted as he choked down another bite.

“Turns out…” he said, “... if you work fast and do it right, you save even more time.”

The matron barked out a sharp laugh.

“Everyone thinks that way, but nobody actually pulls it off. They always end up finding things they overlooked and having to redo the task all over again. It’s the most common pitfall on a farm, people fall for it all the time. There’s always more work you could be doing, so the urge to work faster is always there, but it’s a trap.”

He’d heard much the same from Master Willhem. The old man could work at incredible speed when he wanted to, but he usually didn’t. Tyron had watched him work in one of the rare moments he’d been allowed to observe the Master practising his craft. Willhem’s movements were never fast, and never slow. He worked at a steady, even pace, ensuring that no mistakes occurred at every step, even though he never made any.

Tyron swallowed the last of the pie.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “Any chance I can wash off?”

“Please do,” Mrs Ortan told him acidly, eyeing her floors. “Try not to brush against the walls until you’re clean.”

~~~

The journey back was quicker than the trip there, and Tyron did his best to sleep the whole way, but still felt exhausted when he finally alighted from the carriage out the front of Almsfield Enchantments.

The carriage driver was just as fatigued, having pushed through the journey without break for two days. Tyron thanked the man before he personally unloaded the crates he had brought back and placed them in front of the store.

“Wansa,” he called as he stuck his head through the door, “I need a little help.”

The burly slayer stepped outside and he indicated the boxes.

“Can you take these into the back room please?”

She squinted as she stared down at the crates, then at him.

“I’m not here to carry your stuff,” she told him coldly.

“You’ll do it anyway,” he yawned, “because you know what will happen if you don’t.”

He brushed her off.

“Besides,” he called over his shoulder, “it’s not like I ask you to do this stuff all the time. Help me out.”

The inside of his store was bustling with an unusual number of customers, who thankfully didn’t recognise him. Cerry was doing her best to manage the floor, moving from one group to the next, answering their questions as best she could by reading from the ledger containing the specifications of every product they sold.

Where the heck was Flynn? The man was supposed to help with sales when it got busy. Tyron slipped through the crowd and behind the counter without Cerry spotting him and made his way upstairs where he found his apprentice plying his trade in the workshop.

“Flynn!” Tyron snapped and the young man nearly leapt out of his skin. “Cerry is getting flooded downstairs, what are you doing?”

He stepped forward and peered over his stammering apprentice’s shoulder to see the core he’d been working on. Tyron tsked.

“That’s awful. What happened there?”

“It was fine until you startled me,” Flynn groaned. “My hand slipped. Couldn’t you have knocked?”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you were doing your job. The floor. Now.”

With a sigh, his apprentice pushed his chair back and rose, placing his pliance down on the bench.

“Are you coming, Master Almsfield?”

“What? No. I’m going to bed.”

~~~

For three days, Tyron slept, ate, scrubbed himself and tended to minor chores around the store. He’d been burning the candle at both ends, lately, then inserted an extra wick somewhere in the middle. When he awoke on the fourth day, he felt revived. His head was clear, his eyes weren’t grainy, he even looked a little less pale. What a picture of health. Of course, it couldn’t last, there was simply too much to do.

The first night back, he’d taken his crates and brought them down into the study, carefully unpacking the remains, but then leaving them be. After resting, he was ready to get to work creating his revenants. Of course, as a superior form of undead, they deserved his very best attention, so he lavished it on them.

He ran his hands along the bones, sensing for even the slightest imperfection and repairing them to pristine condition. Each skeleton was treated to remove remaining tissue, cleansed of magick and then held in the strengthening solution for a full day, the bones soaking up every drop. The series of tests he had developed was carefully applied until he knew every detail of the bones, then he began to modify them.

Tyron’s newfound capacity to manipulate bones allowed him to make all sorts of modifications which were never possible before. He strengthened the arms, shoulders and collar bone, fusing spare material into the skeletons after treating it. He toughened up the ribcage and skull as well, compressing them to their limits.

Armour forged of bone was next. Helmets, shoulder plating, arm guards, dyed black by the infusion of Death Magick within.

He wove an intricate and meticulous thread for each of them, settling it deep within their bones and pulling the skeletons together. They would have a flawless range of movement and fully articulate hands. Tyron was particularly proud of the spines, which had more flex than any other skeleton due to the extra weave he’d done there.

The bones slowly accumulated death magick as he worked until they approached full saturation, and it was time to finish the job.

He took hold of the stone containing the first soul, feeling it weigh heavily in his palm. It was time.

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