Book of The Dead

It had been years since Tyron stepped foot in Woodsedge. The journey north took almost a week, even covering distance quickly with a Classed wagoneer. He was curious to see what the area looked like, post-break, if the damage would even be visible, or if enough time had passed for the land to recover.

It had not been enough time.

When the rift had broken open, hordes of monsters, including the largest, most powerful creatures, which couldn’t normally fit through, had entered this realm. As he leaned out the side of the carriage and looked at the approaching wall of green that was the forest, he could tell it hadn’t recovered well before they drew close.

Whatever those massive beasts had been, they’d torn their way through the woods with the same mindless rage they’d applied to everything else. Wide paths were still scattered with tree trunks and other debris. Rotting wood was everywhere, along with the shoots of new growth.

When they drew close enough, the three students also poked their heads out to look, Briss whistling with awe as she took in the damage.

“What happened here?” she wondered.

“The break,” Richard answered shortly.

“I know it was the break,” she replied, “but how exactly was this done? What monsters are able to cause this kind of destruction?”

Tyron had leant them the few bestiaries he kept with him, volumes that detailed what was known about the creatures from beyond the rifts, as well as those that manifested within this realm on their own. If they were going to fight against the kin, it was important they acquired at least a rudimentary understanding of what they were going to see.

“The rift at Woodsedge isn’t that large, not like Skyice or Dustwatch—well, I suppose it’s bigger now. Usually you find slayers in the high bronze range who are confident fighting here, all the way up to mid-silvers who are cautious.”

Dove’s group had been one of the cautious ones. Carefully amassing experience and pushing themselves toward the threshold of gold rank a little bit at a time.

“Which means you would only rarely see the really nasty kin on this side of the rift. Those slayers who are strong enough to venture to the other side will come across them, and in fact, it's important that they do. Having strong kin ripping and tearing at the rifts is the main way they get wider.”

“Excuse me, but that doesn’t answer my question,” Briss pointed out respectfully. “I was hoping to learn more about the monster that can do something like this.”

She gestured toward the devastated woods, wide tracks of trampled trees that had previously stood for decades, perhaps even longer. Tyron sighed.

“If I’m completely honest with you, I don’t know their names,” Tyron admitted. “I’ve never been beyond the rift here myself, though I’ve seen it. What I was trying to say is that such kin are so rarely seen, and only by a few, powerful slayers, that they don’t appear in most bestiaries. You need to get your hands on specialist volumes dedicated to specific rifts. We’ll be able to find plenty of those when we reach the keep.”

The three students exchanged glances, as if surprised that there were things he didn’t know, but Tyron ignored them. As if he had the time to learn the name of every type of kin beyond every rift. There were uncountable realms that had become corrupted by magick, and dozens of those had connected to this one, with dozens of types of kin to be found in each. Memorising all of that information was something even his parents hadn’t bothered to do, despite being some of the precious few slayers to actually fight at every rift in the province.

They had decreed Skyice to be the worst, not necessarily because of the strength of the kin, but due to the extreme cold and high altitude. If Magnin had lived on, he would have been irritated that the new rift had been discovered atop another frozen mountain.

As the students discussed quietly amongst themselves, pointing out features of the scenery, the carriage continued on its way through the woods, powering its way toward the keep. It took a few hours, but eventually they reached the wide clearing he remembered. The canopy pulled back to reveal the sun burning overhead, the sudden light making him squint. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted and the new Woodsedge was revealed to him.

A lot of work had been done since last he’d been here. After he and Dove had emerged from their cellar refuge, they’d come here to investigate and pick through the ruins. Well, he’d picked through the ruins, Dove had just complained and made sarcastic remarks. At that point, there had been holes in the walls, entire streets had been flattened and many buildings were severely damaged.

Clearly, the people had been busy. The slayer keep itself hadn’t been damaged that much, but repairs to the town were well underway. From the outside, he could see the walls had been mostly repaired, trails of smoke rising from the chimneys of buildings within.

He poked his head out the window again, looking backwards to confirm that the second carriage, carrying Elsbeth and Munhilde, was still trailing, which it was.

When they finally pulled up at the gate, Tyron was pleased to step down and stretch his legs outside as the two priestesses alighted from their own carriage.

“We’ve finally arrived,” Elsbeth said, relief clear in her tone as she looked toward the gate, a small distance away. “Do you think we’ll have any trouble getting inside?”

“It’s hard to say,” Tyron replied. “Since the slayers overthrew the magisters and took over the keep, they may not be too welcoming of strangers right now. I don’t suppose Munhilde’s friends know that she’s coming?”

“They know I’m coming,” she said, joining them, “but that doesn’t mean I have a letter of entry. We’ll need to convince them to let us in, just like everyone else.”

She pointed toward the gate, and when Tyron looked more carefully in that direction, he realised that there were quite a few carriages, carts and people waiting outside. The first time he’d seen it, he’d assumed it was a normal amount of traffic, but considering less than half the number of people lived within the walls as compared to before the break, this was excessive.

Faced with the prospect of being denied at the gate, Tyron could only hope there wouldn’t be too much resistance.

“Well, nothing for it but to unload our things and talk to them,” he said.

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By now, the three students had exited the carriage, and he turned to address them.

“Help get all the luggage down and arrange it all on the side of the road. I’ll go talk to the guards at the gate and see if they’re going to let us in. If not, we’ll need to head a little distance away and set up a camp.”

As he wandered over to the gate, Elsbeth and Munhilde fell in alongside him and they walked together in silence. They were halfway there before Tyron realised something.

“Should I disguise my face here?” he asked aloud.

He’d gotten used to walking around with his real face showing, and considering there were no magisters here, he hadn’t thought he’d need to return to concealing himself. He certainly couldn’t wander around the scene of open rebellion as Lukas Almsfield, but he had other faces he could adopt.

Elsbeth looked thoughtful, but Munhilde barked a short laugh.

“I don’t think that will be necessary. Your face is probably our ticket inside.”

Tyron looked at her curiously.

“Not just your face. Your name as well,” she elaborated.

When they arrived at the gate, they could hear the yelling and arguing well before they arrived. As expected, the gate was shut, only a small side door being open, and a stone-faced guard stood facing a group of clearly furious people demanding entry.

The three travellers approached and stopped a respectful distance behind the half-dozen shouting figures. Tyron figured they’d run out of breath eventually and then he could step forward, but the guard noticed them first and gestured for them to draw closer.

“Shut the fuck up for a minute and let me talk to these people,” the guard stated levelly to the yellers, the first words he’d spoken to them since Tyron had seen him.

“You’ll talk to them but not us?!” one of the waiting men demanded, spittle flying in his rage.

“I have something to say to them they haven’t heard a hundred times before. That’s not the case with you. Now, unless you want me to get the others out here to beat you back again, shut your mouth for a few minutes.”

With no change of expression, he turned towards the new arrivals.

“Welcome to Woodsedge. The gates are closed for the time being as we sort out some administrative details. Check back with us in a few days if you still want to enter the walls.”

“You have the patience of a saint,” Tyron chuckled. “How long do they keep yelling at you like that for?”

“Usually a few hours after it’s announced the gates aren’t opening. They run out of steam eventually.”

“We can fucking hear you!”

“Is there anything else?” the guard asked.

Munhilde prodded him in the back, causing Tyron to shoot a glare over his shoulder. Then he sighed.

“I’m Tyron Steelarm. I want to get inside and talk to the people in charge. The… new… people in charge.”

The guard’s brows raised.

“That’s quite the claim. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to perform a status ritual to confirm it?”

“I wouldn’t say I’d be happy to, but I will if I have to.”

There were no official records, in fact, no records at all of his actual status, as he destroyed all the copies he produced and cheated every official check using the blood magick of the vampires.

The fact he was willing to entertain the idea of the ritual seemed surprising to the guard. After a moment of contemplation, he turned and knocked at the door, followed by two others stepping out a few moments later.

“What’s the problem, Prich?”

“Got a chap here who needs to perform a status ritual. Can I get you lads to handle it?”

“Status ritual? What for? Gate’s closed.”

“Might not be closed for him,” Prich replied without emphasis. “Folks up at the keep might want to hear what he has to say, if he is who he says he is.”

Both newcomers looked somewhat surprised, but gestured for Tyron to follow them through the gate, which caused no shortage of outrage from those who were still waiting outside. Paying no mind to the furor, the two men closed the door and locked it before hunting for a sheet of paper in the small post they occupied inside the gate.

“You aren’t worried about him being out there by himself?” Tyron asked.

“Prich? No way. He might look like that, but he’s a fucking beast. Been out hunting kin to get levels on the sly over the last few weeks. For a guard, he’s got a lot more levels than those idiots would expect.”

That made sense. It made sense that the local slayers would have been trying to encourage others to gain levels, especially people with combat classes but no brand.

“Here we are. Put a bit of claret on that, would you please?” one of the guards said, passing Tyron a sheet of somewhat clean paper.

A swift cut to the meat of the thumb and some muttered words later, his blood flowed onto the page for the guards to see. Sure enough, his name was there, along with his Classes.

“Holy shit!” one of them breathed.

The other stepped sharply away from Tyron, putting a hand on the hilt of his weapon.

Before either guard could grab it, Tyron snatched up the page and pressed it to his chest.

“Well, I assume you saw the name?” he asked the two guards.

“Hey now. You’ll need to be handing that over to me,” the first guard said, the one who hadn’t retreated.

“No,” Tyron replied simply. “I’ll show it to whoever has to see it, but I will not hand it over. I’m sure you understand why.”

The air was tense for a few moments as the two guards looked at him, one with a blank expression, the other with open fear on his face.

“How about you open the door, and I’ll step outside?” Tyron offered. “You can lock me out, no problem, and I’ll talk to your friend. How’s that?”

It felt odd to be trying to calm these men down. If anyone should be feeling uncomfortable, it should be him! He was here without his minions, without his bone armour, revealing his status to these strangers for the first time in his life!

They were more than amenable to the idea of him going back outside the gate, to the point where they didn’t even consider it much, they simply threw open the door and allowed him to walk out. Prich, still receiving a faceful of abuse, turned to regard him, then glanced down at the page he clutched to his chest. Then blinked when the door slammed shut and was noisily bolted behind him.

“I take it they didn’t see what they wanted in your status?” Prich asked flatly.

“They certainly didn’t, but not in the way you’re thinking,” Tyron replied. He stepped forward, gripped the page in both hands, then held it out for the guard to read. “I refuse to hand this page over, but you can get what you need from it.”

He scanned the paper briefly before he blinked. Once, then twice.

“Holy shit,” he said.

Tyron stepped away, frowned, then crushed the paper in his hand before shoving it into his mouth. It was disgusting, and he hated doing it this way, but he didn’t have a way to start a fire in the next five seconds and every moment this sheet existed he felt less comfortable. Prich watched him masticate, grimacing and grunting as he tried to force the mess of dirty paper and blood down his throat.

“Well, I can understand why you’d do that, but the people you want to see are likely to demand you make another one.”

“I’ll eat that one too,” Tyron managed to force out, between chews.

“Alright, you’ve proven who you are, and shown what you are. I’m going to have to talk to some people before I can let you in, though. I’m sure you understand.”

Tyron nodded, then finally swallowed the last of it.

“That’s foul,” he gagged before spitting. “I’m here with five others who also want to enter the city. Two priestesses of the… less well-regarded gods, and three students of mine.”

“I understand you. I’ll ask about them as well. I suggest you make yourselves comfortable, it might be a while before you’re let in.”

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