Book of The Dead

It took Tyron longer to implement his new methods than he expected. Devising a functioning framework that utilised the newer, thicker threads was multiple times more difficult than the usual thin ones. Even before reaching that point, he’d needed to test and evaluate half a dozen different varieties of ‘rope’ before he settled on a solution.

Most frustrating of all was that there wasn’t a clear winner out of his test versions. Some were stronger, some more flexible, some a little thinner, some a little thicker, each with their own unique strengths and weaknesses. Tyron eventually decided that different types of ‘rope’ would be better for different jobs. Some joints needed more flex, some needed to be more durable, and others needed to tolerate as much power as could be put into it.

When, after much experimentation, he was finally able to settle on a complete design, it utilised five different varieties of ‘rope’, along with the original, unmodified threads for the most delicate sections. The complexity was obviously many times greater than the threading process he’d performed earlier, and took more than twice as long to implement, but for the results he was looking for, this kind of effort was expected.

“What do you think? This is as good as I can make it right now.”

The skeleton in front of him turned left and right, flexing and shifting its weight from side to side. In one smooth movement, it brought up its bow and pulled back the draw, released it, then repeated the motion.

“It’s good. Much smoother than before. It feels a lot more natural, closer to how I remember my own body feeling.”

Tyron grunted.

“Well, those are your bones, but I take the point.”

For several long moments, the skeleton didn’t speak, and he knew why. It wasn’t possible for his revenants to even think of hurting him, even if they really wanted to. As a result, their own minds wouldn’t obey them, going blank if their thoughts turned to defiance. This was far from the first time this had happened.

“Thanks for helping me out with this. I appreciate it.”

The skeleton turned towards him, one hand resting on a hip in a familiar pose.

“You’re thanking me?” Laurel groaned. “I don’t want thanks, Tyron.”

“What do you want then?”

“I want to be dead.”

“I figured.”

Of course she did, life as an undead wasn’t supposed to be pleasant. The more he learned about the afterlife, though, the less Tyron thought it was an improvement. Speaking to Filetta about wandering souls, drifting purposelessly through a hazy fogland, didn’t fill him with great expectations for his own life after death. One thing he was reasonably certain of, though, was that it ended.

Service to a Necromancer wouldn’t end, not until he died.

“I’ll think about letting you die when I’ve achieved my aims,” he told the skeleton.

“And what are you aiming for, Tyron?”

Her voice emanated from within the skull, without her jaw moving. It was another eerie aspect to speaking with the dead that unnerved his students fiercely. He himself was perfectly used to it.

“I’m going to kill the Magisters, overthrow the red tower, and bring down the rulers of the province,” he replied.

Of course, his ambitions stretched even further than that. Those responsible for the deaths of Beory and Magnin were largely confined to the Western Province, but they were merely agents. He wouldn’t be satisfied until the Five Divines themselves were forced to answer for his grief. How he could achieve that, he had no idea. For now, he kept that idea to himself. He would only be laughed at were he to say it out loud.

As it was, Laurel acted just as expected, her bony shoulders rising and falling with mirth.

“Well, I guess it won’t matter if you’re going to let me go or not, since…”

She trailed off, unable to finish her thought.

Since I’ll get myself killed anyway.

Even if he won, and defeated the Magisters, killed the duke and murdered the other members of the noble houses, what then? When the wrath of the Emperor was stirred against him, and the troops poured out of the Central Province, what was he going to do then? It was basically a death sentence.

He had a few thoughts, but it would take time to develop those into proper plans. Time he severely lacked.

“Since you’re done being so talkative, I don’t see any reason to let you speak any more.”

Immediately contrite, the skeleton backed away from him, it’s hands up.

“No, Tyron, there is no need for that. It’s fine, right? I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to upset you. I can be quiet, just leave me be, alright. I won’t bother you. I promise. Please. Please? PLEASE?!”

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Despite her frantic pleading, Tyron’s expression didn’t twitch. With a wave of his hand, he was able to disconnect her soul from the functions that enabled her to speak, a neat trick he’d mastered while working with Filleta.

Once again, the skeleton fell silent, no longer able to speak. He could almost hear Laurel’s silent scream as her mind roiled against him through the conduit they shared. Or at least, it attempted to.

“Boring to the point of insanity, that’s how Dove described it, being dead and unable to influence the world around you of your own free will. And he could talk. I was almost surprised you were able to communicate as well as you could when I gave you the chance, Laurel.”

After all this time, he was almost certain she would have gone completely mad. If he gave Rufus the ability to speak, he’d expect to hear nothing but endless screeching. With a mental command, he ordered the skeleton back to her post and watched as she silently complied.

With that finally taken care of, he could begin the process of converting his remaining skeletons, which would be days of finger-breaking work. Thankfully, he had the Ossuary to help speed things along. If he had to unstitch and restitch every skeleton individually, it would take him weeks, perhaps months to finish the job.

This put him one step closer to his aim of creating Wights without learning how via the Unseen. He’d been able to teach himself the secret of raising revenants without having to purchase the ability, and he was determined to repeat that triumph. This was only the first step, however. Now that he was able to create a skeletal body which could withstand the full power of a Classed fighter, what remained was to discover the qualitative difference between a revenant, and a wight.

There had to be something, an advanced technique or method, that enabled them to unleash greater strength than a revenant could. His current suspicion centred around the status ritual. A revenant could, theoretically, display the same level of power it possessed in life, already. The only way to improve upon that, was to create an undead that could grow stronger. That meant granting it access to the Unseen in some way. And it couldn’t be via an ad-hoc process like he’d cobbled together for Dove. No, it would have to be built into the process of creating the undead in the first place.

And, he had no idea how to do that. Not yet, anyway.

“Anyone up there?” someone called out.

Drenan’s voice.

“Just me,” Tyron called back, “come on up.”

He and the rest of his team emerged from the trees and climbed up the slope towards the cave. Drenan cast his eyes around at the dozens of skeletons visible in the clearing.

“You call this fucking ‘by yourself’? There’s fifty undead here!”

“They don’t qualify as people, Drenan. They’re literally soulless. Without souls. There’s no person in there.”

“There is in some of them,” he muttered.

“None of these ones. So I’m here by myself. And what, you want me to introduce you to the shackled and tormented souls of the people I’ve enslaved in death?”

“Uh… no. Not really.”

Tyron rolled his eyes and reigned in his temper.

“You’re heading up the mountain?”

“Yes… Going to relieve team Starfire and watch over the rift for a day.”

“You aren’t going through?”

“Fuck no. I’m not trying to get my team killed, Tyron.”

“Fair enough.”

They probably were too weak to survive in the cold against the Mammoths.

“Does it feel good to be back doing Slayer work?” he asked the group at large.

The two mages avoided his gaze, but Brigette met it defiantly, as always, though she didn’t appear quite as pissed off as she had.

“It is good to be helping people again,” she said. “And I’ve needed to cut loose. Being cooped up inside for weeks on end isn’t what I wanted when I signed up to be a Slayer.”

“There’s only one thing Slayers want in the end, that’s what my father used to say,” Tyron said. At the mention of Magnin, her interest immediately perked up. “Freedom. He said they always want freedom.”

He reached up and tapped a finger at the left side of his chest, indicating the position a brand might be placed. “That’s why they never get to have it. At least, that’s what he said.”

Her face immediately clouded over.

“We’re going to fight for you,” she growled. “There’s no need to rub our faces in it all the time.”

Tyron shrugged.

“That wasn’t me being a prick. That was something he genuinely used to say. Helping people is nice, protecting the land is nice, but deep down, I think he believed every Slayer wanted to be in control of their own destinies, which is why they fought when nobody else would.”

Brigette fell silent and Tyron decided not to belabour the point.

“Well, good luck up there. The rift is growing a lot faster than expected, but it’s still a manageable thing. I’m sure Samantha and her team will be grateful for a break.”

They’d been up there for two days at this point, which was still a difficult ask for a bronze team. With the loss of Gramble, and his two allies refusing to help manage the rift, it was up to the Hooligans and team Starfire to put in the work. Though Tyron still chipped in, after the local Slayers had committed themselves to the rebellion, he’d left it to them for the most part. There was still some time before he intended to return to Kenmor, and he wanted to push himself at a more punishing rift. Soon, he would need to go to Woodsedge.

Perhaps sensing his mood, Drenan asked him a question as the group gathered their things to leave.

“Are you going to be here when we come back down?”

“Probably not,” Tyron replied, deciding to be honest. “It’ll be a while before I return to Cragwhistle, possibly months. Hopefully you guys manage to advance before I get back.”

“Well, I hope so,” Drenan replied. “Good luck out there. Try not to get yourself killed. I don’t know why, but there are a lot of people here who believe in you.”

I never asked for that.

He didn’t voice his thoughts aloud.

“I don’t intend to die just yet,” he said instead.

Then off they went up the mountain to fight. Soon, Samantha and her all-female group would come down, eager for rest, though they were unlikely to speak to him. Which meant blessed silence.

“No time like the present then, I suppose.”

If left to his own devices, he’d likely dive back into his research, or start working on his minions, which would delay his travel further and further. Eventually, he’d run out of time and be forced to return to the capital without having the opportunity to fight more kin. As much as he wanted to continue to experiment and work on his notes, Tyron was unwilling to give up the chance to gain even a single level. Which meant it was time to pack.

Surprisingly, Elsbeth found him a few hours later as he was trying to gather all the disparate sheets of paper he’d scrawled on into some semblance of order.

“I’m glad I caught you before you left,” she said from the cave entrance, holding the blanket slightly aside so she could peek through.

“Elsbeth? What is it this time?” he asked, half serious. “Yes, I’ve been taking my daily nap.”

“You’re not funny.” She entered the cave and wrinkled her nose at the smell.

“Don’t say anything. It’s a cave, there’s a limit to the ventilation that’s available. I’m aware it smells, and I don’t care.”

“Be that way. I wanted to talk to you before you left, about your students.”

“What about them?”

“Well, they want to go with you. To Woodsedge.”

“What? Why?”

Elsbeth stared at him.

“To learn from you, I suppose? Why do you think?”

“I won’t have that much time to teach,” he replied, irritated. “I’ll be fighting at the rifts most of the time.”

“They’ll be grateful for any of your time, I’m sure. I’ll also be going. There are people Munhilde and I want to meet at Woodsedge.”

“Oh, great.”

So much for his blessed silence.

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