Book of The Dead

Chapter B3C33 - The Legion Grows

The carriage rattled across the worn cobblestone road, with four wagons in train behind it. Tyron looked back over his shoulder to make sure they were keeping pace as he’d instructed and was pleased to note that they were.

“Our stop is coming up,” he told the driver.

“Right you are, sir. I know where we’s going,” the gruff man replied, his face more beard than anything else.

At this late hour, darkness had fallen over Shadetown. There were few people about, and most houses weren’t lit, their residents sleeping comfortably. Occasionally, someone stuck their head out a window and swore down at the carriages for making such noise so far from the main road.

“Here we are, then,” the driver said, pulling back on the reins and slowing the horses to a stop.

A warehouse loomed to their left, four men on the door, faces shrouded in the night. Tyron dismounted the carriage and approached them.

“Good evening to you all. Apologies for the late hour. Are you prepared to load the wagons?”

One of them leaned over and spat on the street.

“‘Course, we’re ready. It’s fucking late, let’s get on with it.”

Tyron glared at him.

“Make sure you move my cargo with care. Rudeness, I will tolerate. Sloppy work, I will not.”

Something in his gaze warned the porter not to try his luck, and before long, the men were working in pairs, bringing out box after box and sliding them onto the wagons. Tyron watched, impatient as the process went on until each of the wagons was stacked four boxes high and then lashed down with solid rope and a thick covering.

“Hope that’s to ya satisfaction,” the man grizzled.

Tyron flashed gold in his hand.

“Is this to yours?” he replied.

Greed flickered in his gaze as he reached for the coin. Tyron seized his wrist in a powerful grip, forcing the hand down, then placed the coin carefully in his palm.

“The same again next time,” he said.

Without looking back, he turned and mounted the carriage once more, closing the door behind him.

“We can go,” he informed the driver, and with a click of his tongue, he had the horses moving again.

They made frequent stops on the journey, not for any practical reason, but mainly for Tyron to inspect his precious boxes and ensure they hadn’t been disturbed or damaged.

The driver complained, but he settled the man with extra coin for the delay. The trip was much slower than when he travelled alone, but that was to be expected. It was four days before they arrived at the Ortan Estate, and by that time, Tyron was stiff and irritable from sitting in the carriage for so long. As usual, Rita Ortan greeted him as the wagons pulled up outside the manor.

“Welcome, Master Almsfield,” she said, barely concealing her sarcasm at the use of his name.

He scowled at her.

“Hello to you as well, Mrs Ortan. I take it you received my letter?”

“I did,” she cast her eyes over the wagons laden with the odd, rectangular boxes. “It seems you’ve been busy.”

There was clear disgust on her face and Tyron felt a true spark of anger ignite. Could this woman not contain her emotions at all?

“If you’re done being obvious about what I am doing here, perhaps you could take yourself elsewhere before you get all of us murdered by the Magisters in our sleep?”

She scoffed at his blunt warning, but the heat in his words gave her enough pause that she made an effort at least.

“I take it your driver and wagoneers will need lodgings and food?” she asked with stiff dignity.

“They will,” he nodded, “and I will reimburse you for the cost.”

“So you should,” she sniffed. “The Venerable would like to see you while you are here on the Estate.”

“I’m sure he would,” Tyron said flatly, “but if he wants to chat, then he needs to come to me. I’m going to be busy.”

She rounded on him in anger, but he coldly met her gaze.

“This is not an appointed meeting time,” he reminded her. “I am not obliged to meet him. I’m sure he is spry enough to make his way down to the basement.”

So saying, he turned back and instructed the men to begin unloading the wagons, stacking the boxes meticulously under his supervision by the basement entrance before they were dismissed for the night. No longer required, the wagons could leave in the morning; only the carriage and driver needed to stay the full two days before Tyron was ready to leave again.

It was deep into the evening by the time everything was done to his satisfaction and the workers could finally retire, yawning broadly as they stumbled off. Despite his fatigue, the Necromancer knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, not without magick, anyway. He was far too excited.

He trailed his hands along the smooth wood of the boxes, pleased with the quality and finish on them. Most crates of this sort were crude, not designed to last, but these were solid, the wood expertly cut and treated to resist the elements. Waterproof, they protected the precious cargo within from wind and rain, while inside, they were lined with enchantments to prevent the leakage and detection of Death magick. He’d even designed them to be opened from within, preventing anyone from prying at their contents.

He waited an hour for everyone to settle on the grounds before he began to ‘unpack’. Starting at the uppermost containers, there was a series of clicking sounds as his skeletons reached out their fingers and undid the clasps, then pushed the crates open from within. It was a ghastly sight, several sets of skeletal arms reaching out from within the boxes, but Tyron was delighted. Three skeletons per crate, they emerged and shifted their own containers before he ordered them down into the basement, pressing themselves tight against the wall. It was going to be a tight fit in there.

Layer by layer, the skeletons rose, then made way for the next group before they marched down the steps, their bones clacking against the stone steps. Tyron’s eyes gleamed with pride as he watched them move. These were his finest creations, each representing the accumulated effort and knowledge he had compiled since becoming a Necromancer. They were stronger, faster, more durable, more efficient. In fact, as they moved and shifted the crates, he felt barely any drain on his magick at all, causing him to grin.

When all his new minions had finally removed themselves, only the final few boxes remained. These were opened in a more conventional manner to reveal stacks of swords, shields, spears, bows and arrows which were removed, carted down into the basement and distributed amongst the skeletons according to his will.

Those with the weakest bones had been assigned as archers to keep them away from the thick of the fighting. These skeletons were also the lightest, able to move deceptively fast and with surprising grace.

The heaviest skeletons with the most durable bones were his front line, large bone shields on one arm, spears on the other. Those in the middle were his swordsmen, longswords forged of bone gripped in both skeletal hands held in front of their faces.

Tyron admired his new soldiers, checking on their intricate arrays, weaponry and connection to himself. All he needed now was to bulk out the numbers of basic skeletons, and ‘enlist’ a few revenants to his cause.

With a thought, he summoned his one remaining revenant, the nameless swordsman he had fought so long ago. Covered in dust after so long in the cellar, he looked very much the worse for wear. Tyron examined the undead carefully, then probed it with his mind.

Even now, after years had passed, there was still an undercurrent of resentment and rebellion simmering beneath the surface. When he had bound the soul of the slayer, there had clearly been a mistake, since his minions should not be able to harbour this much ill will towards him. Thanks to what he had learned from Yor’s book, Tyron knew how to fix that now, but wasn’t sure if he should.

“You’re outdated,” he told the revenant, gesturing to his new undead. “Things have changed a great deal since you were made. Not to fear, though, I can fix you up. You’ll be fit to serve again soon.”

A flash of rage, a despairing wail, then silence, as Tyron enforced his will.

“Once upon a time, I might have set you free, but not now. Not with everything I need to accomplish.”

He pushed past the revenant and cast light, revealing the line of stones resting on a dusty wooden shelf.

“I don’t care about your despair anymore, or your suffering, or your pain. So you will serve. All of you, will serve.”

Beneath the shelf sat another row of small, labelled boxes. He reached out and grasped the one labelled Rufus. Inside, he found the bones, traces of rotten flesh still clinging to the remains, a leering skull, hastily fused back together, resting atop the pile.

~~~

The Venerable found him in the morning, hard at work. Tyron had remained in the basement all night, pulling apart his old minions and putting them back together again as best he could.

Coughing as he stepped into the damp air choked with dust, the old man blinked as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

“Are you favoured of Rot, boy?” he asked, querulous. “My lungs are going to grow mould if I stay down here another ten minutes!”

“Then feel free to leave,” came a voice from near the back of the cellar, and the venerable grumbled to himself.

“At least come over and help me down the steps,” he demanded, his thin voice resonating in the narrow stone cellar.

“Don’t you have a cane for that?” Tyron’s voice drifted from the darkness.

“It’s not enough at my age.”

“How old are you again?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Fine,” Tyron snapped. “Wait there a second.”

The young mage strode from the recesses of the cellar, his face creased in a scowl, his hair and clothes covered in cobwebs and dust.

“You could’ve cleaned the place before you started working here,” the venerable said, his thin voice hardly penetrating the dust-choked air.

“I don’t have much time, and it takes more than a little dust to bother my constitution,” Tyron replied as he stepped forward briskly.

With care, he helped the old man down the steps, and the venerable took in the sight of the many skeletons lined against the walls.

“Weapons made of bones? Looks like you’ve been progressing well,” he noted as he peered at a sword.

The skeleton snapped its head towards him and the venerable chuckled.

“Takes more than that to scare an old dog like me.”

Tyron shrugged, somewhat impatient. He only had two days in which to update his old minions as best he could, and create new revenants. He wanted Rufus to be one of them, but his skeleton still needed a lot of repair work after what Magnin had done to him.

“I was told you wanted to talk, but I hope you forgive me if I continue to work while you speak,” Tyron said, bending down to the pile of bones he was currently re-threading.

The musculature on his old minions was totally inadequate. He was lucky they’d even been able to walk! The venerable nodded agreeably, watching with interest as the Necromancer's fingers began to dance through the air with impossible speed and grace, fine threads of magick trailing from his fingertips.

“You’ve come a long way,” the venerable said, “I’m a bit surprised. Seems like you haven’t been wasting your time down in the capital.”

The younger man flicked an irritated glance at the older as he continued to move with dizzying speed.

“You think my desire for vengeance is so weak the comforts of the city would be enough to snuff it out?” he scoffed. “You don’t know me, old man. I’m desperate enough to throw in with your gods to get what I want. Underestimate my drive at your own peril.”

The venerable didn’t respond immediately, continuing to watch him spin his threads into muscle and sinew.

“The gods seem to think you have a chance to succeed,” he finally said, quietly. “I haven’t seen the Three put their faith in anyone like this for a long time. I hope you are worthy of it.”

It was difficult, but Tyron managed to suppress the urge to spit out a deprecating or sarcastic reply. Worthy? He didn’t care about being worthy. Whatever Crone, Raven and Rot had in mind certainly wasn’t for his benefit, but their own.

The venerable seemed to sense his mood.

“Even if you don’t care about the Three, then spare a thought for their followers,” he urged quietly. “At the behest of their gods, they are sticking their necks out for the first time in centuries. At the very least, try not to let them down.”

Tyron glared up at the old man.

“Do you know what’s going to happen? If you have details, spit them out.”

“Something great,” the old man said, “and terrible. It’ll come quickly from here. I hope you’re ready, boy.”