Book Of The Dead-Chapter B5: Return

The city was quiet when Tyron arrived, the sun fading over the horizon and the shadows creeping longer between the stone buildings. Worthy had remained behind for a little longer, helping the Slayers set up a more permanent encampment just outside the Broken Lands.

The rift, which they had tentatively agreed to call Stonebeast, would need to be constantly monitored from this point onward. The worst of the work had been done, clearing out the concentrated kin on this side of the rift. Now the Slayers would do the job they had done for thousands of years within the empire: rift management. Killing the monsters as they came through, going through to the other side and fighting the kin inside their home realm to prevent them from massing, forcing the rift wider from their side.

If done correctly, then no breaks would occur and all would be well. The Broken Lands would slowly begin to shrink as the rifts themselves did, and the amount of magick pouring through to pollute the land would slow down. With gold ranked Slayers, the odds of them being able to successfully manage the rift were extremely high, despite how powerful it was. It made what the Empire had done, allowing their rifts to run out of control so they could keep anyone too powerful under their thumb, even more infuriating in hindsight.

Despite everything, the refugees of the Western Province now living in the ruins of Granin would eventually be far safer from kin than anyone living in the Empire could ever hope to be. There were four or five more rifts that Rurin felt they could reasonably hope to manage and were close enough to have an effect on the city. When Tyron had tamed all of them to the best of his ability and the Slayers established their camps, the kin should be almost totally under control in this area. Even what they had just done would make the ruined city ten times safer.

Bone tired, the Necromancer led his horde down the wide roads, ignoring the onlookers who came out to see him go past, some hopeful, others fearful. Occasionally, there would be one unable to contain their anger, and they would hurl abuse at him until those around them managed to shush them or drag them away.

He ignored them all. When word of his accomplishments at the rift spread around, they would be singing his praises, and he would ignore that too. Despite everything that had been done, there was still so much more to do.

His horde needed to grow. He needed more power, more magick, more knowledge, enough to rival the gods themselves.

How else was he supposed to kill them?

A portion of his army had remained behind to help with the construction and fighting, which would provide a trickle of Levels for his Necromancer Class, but it wasn’t enough. To accelerate his growth, he needed something more, and perhaps Dove had provided him the clue he needed to find it.

When they reached the former temple, Tyron dispersed his minions into the surrounding buildings, little more than warehouses, many with basements that would soon be packed full of skeletons standing shoulder to shoulder. He himself retired into the network of narrow corridors and rooms underneath that had become a sort of Necromantic place of learning. His students were eager to find their own beds, and for once he didn’t disagree with them. Sleep would do him well and sharpen his mind to face the challenges of tomorrow.

Of course, the world was never quite so kind to him.

When he finally reached his own small room and pushed open the door, he found a figure already inside. Dressed in a deep red dress that seemed to flow from her shoulders down to the floor like a waterfall, snow-white skin gleaming like marble in the dim light, the flawlessly featured woman turned to him with a smile.

Red eyes alight, dark hair spilling down to her bare shoulders, Yor was as captivating as ever, a deadly picture of perfection designed to lure in unwary prey.

Tyron forced his fatigue away, his eyes sharpening as his previously sluggish thoughts accelerated to their usual alacrity. He did not want to be eaten alive.

“I was so pleased to receive your message, Tyron,” Yor almost purred, a gloved hand coming to rest on her cheek. “If you’d taken any longer, I’d have started to believe you never wanted to speak to me again.”

“Do we really need to play these games, Yor?” he said directly, expression hardening. “Let us deal straight with each other.”

For a brief moment, she allowed him to see the beast that lay just beneath the thin veneer she laid on top. This was no seductive temptress, no lascivious lady of the night. This was an animal. A killer. Someone who drank life and ate souls without a second thought.

To him, who knew her true nature, the pretense at humanity was absurd, almost offensive.

When the moment passed, she was as she had been before, flawlessly beautiful, her demeanour suggesting she was ever so slightly out of reach… unless…

“Our past dealings have left the Court feeling less well-disposed towards you. My Mistress is wondering if it is worth her while to listen to your requests at all.”

“Be honest, how many blood slaves did you take when the Western Province fell?” he demanded. “Don’t pretend your Mistress wasn’t able to fill her cages and fatten her brood on the people you took from my home.”

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“As if you care,” Yor said, baring the slightest hint of fang. “Preventing their capture was wholly within your power, all you needed to do was turn away from your petty vengeance and try to achieve something greater, try to become something greater. Instead, you burned it all to the ground, and the poor desperate people had nowhere to turn.”

She sighed mournfully.

“They were so desperate, so frightened, they would reach out to anyone who offered them a hand, even someone like me.”

Then she smiled again.

“Don’t worry, we take good care of them.”

“I bet.”

He’d seen the cages, seen the caverns beneath the Mistress’s mansion. There’d been so much space. Enough for an army of blood slaves.

“I didn’t send you a message so we could talk about this,” Tyron said, not bothering to hide the distaste from his face. “If all you want to do is anger me, then congratulations. If you’re actually interested in making a deal, then we can talk.”

“Are you actually angry, Tyron?” Yor asked, hand on her cheek as she studied him. “It can be hard to tell sometimes with you. I don’t think I’ve ever met a mortal who was quite so hard to read. It’s like you never feel anything at all, always a mask pulled over your face.”

“I’m actually angry. I didn’t do what I did so you could fill your cages with the people of my homeland. It happened anyway, I know that. I have some measure of blame, but having it rubbed in my face by one of your kind… let’s say that I don’t appreciate it.”

“My kind?” Yor pouted. “Whatever could you mean by such a thing?”

“Beasts,” he replied shortly.

Turning away from the vampire, he moved to his bed and sat down on the edge. Reaching down, he pulled off his boots, sighing as they clonked heavily down to the floor.

“You’re animals pretending to be something more,” he said, flexing his fingers and rubbing at the tendons that ran down the back of his hands. Days on end of magick was enough to strain even his digits. “When a being is ruled by its appetite, rather than its mind, we call it a beast. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Yor didn’t rise to his provocation, merely regarded him, her face still cast in a seductive light, a small smile playing across her lips.

“An interesting view you have developed of my kind. I will pass your thoughts on to my Mistress,” she said. “I suppose, for the moment, this beast will deign not to suck the blood from your flesh long enough for us to converse.”

“I suppose you will,” Tyron sighed, leaning back and lowering his hands.

His gaze met the vampire’s and they stared at each other. There was no trust between them, not anymore, but at least the rancorous anger had subsided a little. Tyron knew that he would never be forgiven for the threats he had made and the control he had exerted over Yor and her coven. Free from the fear of exposure, she was now able to return to her home realm without an army descending on her head.

Likewise, Tyron hadn’t, and never would, forgive what had been done to him by her Mistress, even if he didn’t understand exactly what it was. Still, it was more than possible for them to work with each other.

“I need information,” Tyron said finally.

“So you said in your note. What information exactly?”

“The Realm of the Dead.”

“... What about it?”

She watched him, unblinking, a predator through and through, the red in her eyes darkening with every passing second. She smelled weakness, sensed an opening. She’d go for his throat if he gave her a chance.

He held up a hand and ticked the items off on his fingers as he listed them.

“A few things I want to know. First, where it is. Second, how it works. Third, who rules there.”

Yor unleashed a throaty chuckle that, despite his caution, set the hairs on the back of his neck to standing.

“That’s all?” she laughed. “You ask for some of the deepest, darkest secrets of the afterlife as if they were items on a menu. This isn’t a sandwich, this is the Realm of the Dead. What you ask is… expensive.”

Tyron hadn’t lowered his hand, he held up three fingers, one of each of the things he wanted to know. He pointed to the first.

“The location, I can find myself. A little time is all I need.”

The sigils Dove had used in his ritual provided some clues, pieces of the puzzle. The Ossuary gave him a few more. After all, he suspected it was located close to the Realm of the Dead, adjacent to it, held in its own little pocket. It would take some work to piece it all together, but he could.

“The second point, I can also figure out on my own. If I know where it is, I can go there. If I can go there, I can learn how it works.”

Yor’s face had grown more still. What he was talking about wouldn’t be easy. To cobble together the dimensional magick necessary would be a challenge. In fact, it would be incredibly difficult. Only a genius could possibly hope to bridge the Dimensional Weave and reach a place buried as deep and dark as the Realm of the Dead.

It just so happened, Tyron was a genius capable of such a feat. She knew it too.

“The third point is the tricky part. There are powerful beings there. Very powerful beings. If I were caught, I could be killed, enslaved, or worse. From what I know, wandering around the Realm of the Dead is a dangerous business. I am a dangerous person, but not dangerous enough to go there with confidence.”

He leaned back again, letting his hand drop, his eyes never leaving hers.

“So you see, I don’t need you. At all. However, you can significantly ease my way. I am not paying you for the information I can get myself in time. I am paying you for convenience. I expect your prices will reflect that fact.”

Yor sneered, icily. She still managed to be flawlessly beautiful.

“You have no idea of what you speak, of the dangers, and the powers you seek to meddle with. The Scarlet Court has seized its own realm, a dimension of blood and slaughter, but they have not claimed the Realm of the Dead. Why do you think that is? What do you think that could mean?”

Tyron spread his hands.

“You tell me.”