Book of The Dead

I might be starting to get used to this.

After another few days in the wilderness, sleeping in his bedroll and enduring the isolation his profession had forced on him, he was beginning to see that he might be more suited to this life than he'd originally thought.

Was he a spectacular outdoorsmen? Not even remotely. What he was, what he could do, was endure isolation gladly, and though the lack of comforts bothered him more than he'd like to admit, Tyron found he very much liked being left to his own devices.

No one to bother him when he was thinking. No tasks, no errands to run. No expectations or pressure bearing down on him. No one seeing the shadow of his parents every time they looked at him.

In fact, he found that the only people he really missed were Magnin and Beory. He also found he increasingly looked forward to his conversations with Dove. The wiry Summoner was a foul mouthed example of precisely what his mother had warned him about, slayers who killed all day and indulged in vice the moment they returned to civilisation.

Even so, he'd proven to be a knowledgeable and competent mage when it came to matters of minion based magick. During the supply drop he'd picked up yesterday, the two had discussed the ins and outs of Tyron's spells in depth, and the older man had been more than helpful.

As he trudged through the woods in the fading light, he cast his mind back to their conversation on spirits. It was a topic the mage had been happy to share his expertise in.

"Spirits are pricks," Dove had confided sagely. "And I'm not just talking about the Astral spirits that I deal with, I mean all of them. Universal pricks. The main difference between the entities I summon and what you might call a 'ghost' or 'spectre', is that Astral Spirits aren't dumb as fuck."

Tyron had been surprised.

"I thought Astrals were considered quite intelligent. Aren’t you being a bit harsh on them?"

"No," Dove snorted. "You give them far too much credit. With training and under the influence of a Summoner of great talent like myself, they're capable of far more than they are on their own. Ghosts on the other hand, are plain fucking stupid."

"You've seen them before?"

"Of course I have! I'm a slayer aren't I? If you find a group of people more likely to hang around places that reek of death than slayers let me know."

Tyron stared at him.

"Necromancers don't count."

"Right."

"This is beside the point I was trying to make! What I'm getting at, is that your minions are going to be stupid. Right now your bony friends are running on constructed intelligence, right?"

"I-… I'm not sure what that is. You mean they have instincts that I created through magick?"

"Doesn't even know what it is… you've done it well enough anyway, haven't you?"

Dove stared at him as Tyron shrugged uncomfortably.

"Fuck you."

"What?!"

"You just piss me off sometimes. Where was I? Right. Constructed intelligence. Obviously you can get a lot better at it and a 'mind' made using magick can become quite sophisticated, you ever heard of golems? They run into them sometimes in the south, I think the desert people down there make them. They can be quite smart, comparatively. Even so, you won't reach the level of thinking a real person is capable of. That's where the spirits come in."

"You're not suggesting I use the soul of a living person are you?"

Tyron leaned back at the suggestion. This was exactly the kind of forbidden practice that caused Necromancers to become so reviled in the first place. If he ever hoped to return to society one day, then he couldn't rely on such crutches.

Dove simply laughed.

"Living? Of course not. They have to be dead first."

"I won't do that!"

"By the sweet spheres of Selene, why the fuck not? Ah, look, it probably doesn't matter. All I'm suggesting is that you be on the lookout for ways to get bigger brains in your minions. If you have to micromanage them all the time then you won't be able to build out your numbers the way that a Necromancer is supposed to. Leave the quality to us Summoners. Yours is a numbers game."

They were words that Tyron had thought on frequently in the past day, and not just on Dove's callous disregard for the souls of his potential victims. He did indeed want more minions, but he couldn't help but see every use of remains to raise a sub-standard skeleton as a waste. He was still learning and improving so much in his application of what he knew, let alone when he made new discoveries. A skeleton was already weaker than the best he was capable of the moment after he'd finished raising it.

"Here we are. Shuffle on in, troops."

Don't talk to the skeletons, idiot.

His current mighty horde, consisting of three skeletons, filed into his new hideaway. Convenient caves were hard to come across, but he'd remembered something that his father had taught him and created a bungalow by tying low hanging branches together. The foliage was barely thick enough to provide the coverage he needed, but he'd been lucky to find a spot with several trees in close proximity. He had enough over his head to keep the elements off and had stacked branches along the sides to give privacy.

There wasn't a lot of room though, and once under the shelter he ordered his skeletons to lie down stacked atop each other. It was almost comical the way the three animated bone creatures sidled in and awkwardly piled into a heap. Hopefully this time they wouldn't get tangled. He'd nearly had to disassemble them before they could get up and walkt. He settled back onto his bedroll with a sigh. The new gear that Dove had pushed on him was definitely showing its value. Most of the camping gear he'd taken from home, whilst well made, had been old and ill fitting, whereas now everything fit like a glove.

He wanted to study some more, but he hesitated. His new shelter might be comfortable enough for sleeping in, but it didn't lend itself to a peaceful environment for study. In that respect, the cave had been far superior, but he couldn't keep staying there. As the Summoner had warned him, activity around the rifts continued to climb and the number of rift-kin had increased dramatically. With the number of slayers being allowed to leave the keep restricted, patrols and excursions to the rifts were more dangerous than before, which reduced the number of teams able to perform them even further. This led to the activity of the rifts rising even further.

"It's a shit show out there," Dove had cursed. "I have no fucking idea what the higher ups are thinking, but unless I miss my guess they are shitting their pants the same as the rest of us. Only the Magisters are so crooked they'd put so many people at risk for bullshit reasons. Those pricks can't even piss straight. I swear to god they're so corrupt the stream comes out on a right angle. Get way back from the rifts and cool your heels, there'll be plenty of monsters for you to hunt. I'm heading in with my team tomorrow to see what we can get done, so I won't be able to meet up for five days after this. Keep your fingers crossed I come back alive."

The mage's twisted grin appeared in his mind as Tyron checked the position of the sun. Rogil and his team would have reached the broken lands now. He hoped they would be alright. He hoped even more they could do something about the rifts.

If a major break occurred, he might be as good as dead if he remained where he was. Not for the first time he considered just leaving. He had gained quite a bit during his time here. He had minions, he'd learned a great deal about ways to progress, he'd earned his first feat. If he headed southwest, followed the border and kept away from the foothills he'd reach Moss Keep in three weeks. With the monster cores he had, he'd probably be able to barter for supplies along the way, if not, he had enough preserved food to make half the journey, thanks to Dove.

But he couldn't. He was finally in a position to earn levels at a good pace and he was loath to give it up. The worsening situation in the broken lands was helpful to him in this regard, since so many rift-kin were leaking beyond where the slayers would regularly patrol. He'd moved more than five kilometres back, to the point that Woodsedge was closer to the rifts than he was right now, and still he found plenty to hunt without having to expose himself. He'd not checked his status since gaining his feat, but he was hopeful he'd gained as much as two levels since then. He was reluctant to perform the ritual too many times, since he was concerned the Abyss would start threatening him again.

With a defeated sigh he put his books away and settled back onto his blankets. It was early evening now, a full night's sleep was overdue and he could resume hunting in the morning. Another day, possibly two, and then he could check his status.

He closed his eyes but quickly realised his mind was abuzz with too many thoughts and concerns to easily find rest. A common occurrence.

"Sleep," he uttered, the weave of the simple spell taking shape in an instant.

He slept.

He didn't cover much ground the next day, he didn't need to.

His fingers danced in the air as he flicked out a series of gestures before he thrust his palm forward, sending a magick bolt flashing through the air. The rift-kin he aimed at was struck in the side and sent skittering through the underbrush and he directed his minion to pursue it before it could recover. He turned as the others swiped with clumsy, broad strokes, their crude weapons hitting nothing but air as the smaller and more nimble creatures danced out of their reach.

Too damn slow.

He'd lost several skeletons and raised several new ones over the previous few days, but for some reason the two he'd created before he'd gained his feat had refused to die, despite being objectively worse than the others. Slower, less responsive to his commands, less durable, they were inferior in every way, but because of that he was more conservative with them, keeping them together whilst his more impressive minions were sent to handle difficult prey on their own.

In an irrational way he disliked his two stubborn minions. They reminded him of his failures when he wanted to move forward and make new discoveries. Yet he couldn't help notice the difference his conservative handling of them made for their longevity. He needed more skeletons and then he had to utilise them in groups, only then would he get the best of his abilities.

As the two skeletons lurched forward to chase their far more nimble prey his hands began to move once more as he spoke words of power, shaping a new spell that he unleashed the moment it was ready.

Suppress Mind.

His consciousness reached out and smothered that of the rift-kin, crushing its enraged mind and holding it still whilst his two skeletons closed the distance. The two undead raised their crude clubs high before bringing them down on the creature and Tyron felt the spell dissipate as the mind faded from within his grasp.

He tasted bile and spat in disgust. The sensation was unpleasant to say the least and he hated having to do it, but it was effective. Weaker rift-kin such as this were easy for him to dominate with the spell he had earned from the Anathema class and it made hunting with his clumsy skeletons so much easier.

With that portion of the battle completed he returned his attention to the more competent of his skeletons and frowned when he realised it was struggling.

Dammit, I'm not losing another one!

Having the two black sheep survive whilst yet another of their more capable siblings perished would be too humiliating. He hurriedly directed the two to the aid of their better and instructed the superior skeleton to pull back and defend until help arrived. His magick continued to drain as his minions drew on his reserves to fuel their movement, closing in on the wounded rift-kin from three sides before one finally managed to catch it with an unwieldy swing. As the monster staggered, the other two skeletons stepped forward and struck home, ending the creature's life.

Tyron released a breath as the tension drained out of him. He'd engaged in a number of these small scale fights recently but the nerves still remained. There was so much potential for things to go wrong. Every minion lost was many hours of work down the drain, and if his skirmish attracted something he couldn't handle then he risked losing everything, even his life. Yet this was the fastest way to progress and he was someone with very limited time. The best he could do was try to pick his engagements carefully, yet more often than not he stumbled into them due to his complete and utter lack of scouting ability.

Sneak provided him some ability to hide himself, but his skeletons had no such benefit, they stomped through the forest like very thin bears.

He ordered his minions to be still as he sat down to recover his magick. As he waited he pulled out his map and tried to determine his position more accurately. If possible, he'd rather not get this close to the rifts considering everything that was going on, but he needed to continuously gather new resources to keep making minions. His capacity for magick continued to grow as he levelled and utilised it, he felt he could possibly maintain as many as five skeletons now. With that many minions, his ability to retain them would go up since they could work together and cover for each other.

All in all, he was more than pleased with the improvements his choice of Feat had granted him. His new skeletons weren't suddenly twice as good as before, the difference wasn't that dramatic, but a general increase in performance in multiple areas made for quite a difference when it was taken as a whole. They were more responsive to his commands, moved more fluidly and drained less power for the movement that they used. It was even more tempting for him to take the follow up feat if it was available when he reached level ten. Combined with the strides he was making in Corpse Preparation, Bone Stitching and Raise Dead, the servants he created were getting stronger every day.

A certain tang in the air reached his nose and Tyron froze on the spot, before he dropped into a crouch and ordered his skeletons to the trees. He moved cautiously to cover, his senses alert for any sign of danger before he began to creep forward. He knew that smell, after working for a short stint in a butcher shop, he didn’t think he would ever forget it.

Blood, the air was thick with it.

The metallic taste clung to the back of his throat as he breathed and Tyron grimaced. He could already hear the flies buzzing, what he would find wasn't going to be pretty. The chance that there may be cores he could extract kept him moving forward. He lived the life of a scavenger at present and he couldn't afford to turn down free money. If a team of slayers had come through and left a pile of dead rift-kin for him to rummage through, he was in no position to turn it down.

And frankly, he was getting used to dealing with the dead. It was amazing what a person could get used to, given the right circumstances.

He continued his reserved advance, not wanting to startle any remaining monsters that might have wandered into the area. As he progressed, the signs of battle became more and more obvious. Scorched trees and rents in the ground wider that a person and metres deep were all he needed to be convinced that high level warriors and mages both had been involved in the conflict. Whatever they'd fought, it must have been a serious opponent. The thought chilled him. This wasn't that far from his bungalow. If more powerful beasts had already come this far out…

He shook the thought as he bent back a branch in front of him, trying to get a peek without making a sound. His hand was steady as he glanced about. More evidence of fire, even the rocks were blackened. They were lucky the fire hadn't spread, even if flame produced by magick was far less likely to propagate itself. The heavy rainfall a week ago may have helped with that.

He was about to emerge from behind the bush when something caught his eye and he froze. Beneath the rubble over there, it almost looked like, a boot. A chill raced down his spine as he confirmed it. Yes, it was a boot, he could see what he had originally thought to be leaf litter was in fact brown pants. He swallowed thickly and stepped closer. It was a slayer, dead, eyes lifeless and staring at the forest canopy as the flies crawled across an unmoving face.

He'd died with his blade in hand, a horrific puncture wound in his side. The stench was horrendous. Tyron gagged before he brought his hand up to cover his mouth and nose. It helped, a little.

There were remains from dozens of rift-kin in the area of varying sizes, from the little scuttlers he'd been fighting himself, all the way up to horrific, horse-sized nightmares of blades and chitin that would cut him apart in seconds should he face them in battle. Things like that couldn't even get through the rift in Woodsedge normally.

Things are far from normal right now.

He stared down at the dead slayer in a daze before he shook himself and continued to look around the area. The fight here had been intense, it was rare for teams to take on this many at once unless they were operating in a larger group. Either multiple teams had swept through the area or something had gone very wrong.

He found the second body on either side of a tree. He only looked at it long enough to recognise what he was seeing before he turned and staggered away, sweat breaking out across his brow. His stomach heaved but he managed to hold onto it.

Divines. That's… not right.

Nobody deserved that, least of all someone who fought to protect the weak for a living. He took several long steadying breaths before a memory tickled at the back of his mind. He'd only seen the face for an instant, a rictus snarl frozen on features covered in blood, but did he recognise that face?

"No, no, no," he groaned.

He didn't want to. He hadn't. These were all strangers to him. They had to be.

He tried to convince himself as he began to move around the site of the battle faster, hoping not to see what he thought he might.

Another body, then another, back to back. They must have gone down fighting together.

A confident grin, teeth flashing white under the sun. Short cut hair. The woman with the hint of laughter in her eye.

He could remember the words that Rell had said and they rang in his ears as he stumbled around one carcass to the next.

"That's Marion's team. Same group she went out with the first time. Good group, good rep. Hopefully she'll be fine."

He found her last. She'd been caught in the back and fallen forward. It looked as if she'd been running toward the fight, instead of away from it. Reckless courage. She probably wouldn't have survived even if she'd run. Probably wouldn't.

Tyron stared numbly down at the lifeless body of Cilla, the girl he'd met on Victory road. She's probably been dead for two days, he thought. Maybe three.

She'd been so confident.

He didn't know how long he stood and stared. Perhaps it was only a minute. It felt like an hour. Eventually a thought wormed its way into his unfeeling brain.

You need remains.

He twitched as the thought landed. A slight shake of the head. He thought of the butcher tools carefully stowed in his bag.

He ran to the side and vomited until nothing came up.