Book Of The Dead

The issue with accepting help from ‘patrons’, was that they expected something back from him in turn. The Abyss had offered Tyron an incredible wealth of knowledge, secrets that would push his magick beyond his current capabilities, if only he were willing to pay a terrible price. What he had extracted from that blighted place had been paid in literal human souls, a cost which haunted him.

The Old Gods were more mysterious, more fickle. What exactly they did for him, Tyron wasn’t sure. There was support in the form of Elsbeth and help from their mortal followers, but the gods themselves had not moved to assist him, that he was aware. However, he was still expected to perform certain duties. They wanted his assistance to throw down the empire of their enemies, a goal that aligned with his own.

The Scarlet Court were the most transactional of the three. He had done favours for Yor and her coven and received assistance in turn. So far, nothing too onerous had been placed on his shoulders, but now Tyron was in a position he was being asked to do something he really didn’t want to do.

Could he say no? Was that even an option? If he refused, then the Vampires would threaten to withdraw their support, or ask for compensation even more painful than this. He did, in the end, owe them. Dove had been allowed to travel with him on the understanding that he would return the lost soul to Yor upon their return. He had broken the agreement, he had incurred a debt.

No matter how he twisted the matter in his mind, he didn’t see a way to refuse the request that wouldn’t cost him even more. To achieve his goals, to satisfy his vengeance, he needed the support of his patrons, all of them. They were too powerful to throw them aside, and certainly too powerful to have them act against him.

Despite his growing strength, Tyron was careful not to fool himself. Yor could turn him against his will at any time. It wasn’t fear of him that held her in check.

Which is why Tyron found himself outside the golden district once again, his cloak pulled tight against the rain, raucous laughter drifting from the light of Veil Street.

“Papers,” the guard said with a bone deep sense of boredom. The kind of boredom born from repeating this one, simple routine a thousand times a night over a period of years.

“Lucas Almsfield, Arcanist,” Tyron said, sliding his identification over.

“Oh yeah? My uncle’s an Arcanist, got all the brains in the family. Who’d you train under?”

“Willhem.”

“Oh shit.”

Tyron shrugged uncomfortably.

“Can I… get through?”

“Right. Everything seems fine. Have a good evening.”

He accepted his paperwork back and moved through the checkpoint, only to repeat the process at the next. At least nobody at the second had a family member in the trade.

“Make sure you don’t step on any toes. The gold ranks will rip your feet off and beat you to death with them,” said the guard before he left.

Tyron blinked.

“Is that something that really happens?” he couldn’t help asking.

The guard, a middle aged, weary-looking man, stared back at him levelly.

“I’m not creative enough to make this stuff up, sir. That happened yesterday. Guy was dead by the time the brand overwhelmed the slayer. The golds seem jumpy lately.”

As if being ‘jumpy’ were enough to kill a person and submit yourself to excruciating torture. Eyes widening, Tyron nodded.

“I’ll be careful.”

“Good idea.”

Veil Street, adjacent to the Golden District without being part of it, nevertheless contained the only place it was possible for the normal citizens of Kenmor to interact with these high-level slayers. A place of indulgence for the powerful and the wealthy.

The Red Pavillion was around halfway down the street, and it wasn’t short, so Tyron started walking. Making sure he stayed out of everyone’s way was easier said than done. Between the stumbling drunks, the oblivious, drugged-out customers and the beguiling workers, he had to be alert at all times, keeping his hands to himself and his steps firm. Everytime he stopped for more than a few seconds, someone would descend on him, male or female, and try to lure him into a nearby establishment.

He issued so many polite apologies he was thoroughly tired of it by the time the red building loomed in the distance.

Trepidation gripped him, but it wasn’t as if he could turn back now. The two armoured guards by the door let him in without a word and he was immediately plunged into a smoky, dim world of hedonism and indulgence.

Thankfully, he wasn’t forced to explore the labyrinthine corridors, inhaling the intoxicating smoke with every breath until he found Yor. A familiar face greeted him just inside the door.

“The mistress is waiting for you below,” the young man said, a trace of nervousness in his demeanour.

Tyron looked at him with narrowed eyes, then realised who this was. He reached up and drew a finger down his own cheek, which caused the shirtless man to flinch.

“They healed you up nicely,” Tyron remarked neutrally.

His guide swallowed.

“I am most fortunate for the mistress's favour. If you’ll follow me?”

Perhaps a little more rushed than was strictly appropriate, the young man turned and strode away, guiding Tyron to a hitherto unexplored part of the Red Pavillion. On his previous visits, Tyron had met with Yor upstairs, but this time he was led to the back of the ground floor, and then down.

The smoke was even thicker here, hanging dense in the air as masked revellers and attendants moved between curtained rooms in various stages of undress.

These were the higher ranked among the clientele, Tyron realised. Stronger smoke, more potent alcohol, all were required to overcome the higher resistance of such customers.

Perhaps there was a minimum constitution score required to descend those stairs. If there was, Tyron was confident he cleared it. The lights grew ever more dim and smoke ever more thick as they moved deeper and deeper. Down another flight of steps, and the light was almost perfectly dark.

Tyron’s guide began to feel his way, a hand trailing along the wall. Unwilling to do the same, he conjured a ball of light with a simple gesture, driving back the shadows.

“Put it out,” a male voice hissed from a nearby room.

The Necromancer ignored him, gesturing for the guide to keep moving. The man nodded nervously and began to walk again, only to freeze in place when the voice spoke out again.

“I said, put out the fucking light,” a figure growled, stepping out into the corridor.

Tyron frowned and turned, which caused the man to hiss as his eyes were exposed directly to the glare. A vampire, one of Yor’s coven. She was very protective of these creatures, like a mother hen clucking over her chicks. Perhaps they were especially sensitive to light at an early stage of their… condition? He was unsympathetic.

“Close your eyes, I’ll be gone in a minute.”

“You sure will be.”

Whoever he was, this nascent vampire was fast, but he simply wasn’t fast enough. Tyron slammed his mind against his and crushed his will in an instant. For an undead, he was strangely pliant, with a weak and undeveloped will.

“Go to bed,” Tyron told him, enforcing his commands with a flex of his mind.

Like a puppet, the man turned and stumbled back behind the curtain, confused voices murmuring from the other side.

“Let’s keep going,” Tyron told his guide, and the man jerkily began to walk once more.

Before long, they reached a thick, black door, painted in sigils written in blood. The Necromancer curled his lip despite himself; it was all a bit overdramatic.

“The mistress awaits you on the other side,” the young man stammered, offering a short bow before he fled.

With a rising sense of trepidation and anger, Tyron rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Come in,” Yor called.

“I’m not going to find a pool of blood in there, am I?”

“There’s one way to find out,” replied the muffled voice.

There was nowhere to go now…. He grasped the iron handle and turned it, revealing the contents of this inner sanctum.

“I knew it,” Tyron said.

Yor stood behind a depression in the floor which was, true to form, filled with red liquid, dressed all in black.

“We are blood magick experts,” she said frostily, “you can’t be surprised when we use it as a medium.”

“Even for dimension magick?”

“Some realms are more sympathetic to blood than others.”

That… actually made sense. The realm occupied by the Scarlet Court was absolutely dripping with the stuff, if even half of what Yor had told him about the place was true. Perhaps using blood as a medium for the ritual would make it easier to form a gate.

“Let’s get started then,” he said.

Yor didn’t bother to reply, but raised her hands and began to cast. The moment she began to speak, the blood contained within the depression began to bubble and writhe, responding to her words and gestures.

It was fascinating for Tyron to watch the process. Blood magick, as far as he was aware, was not something the people of the empire practised. An entirely different form of arcane manipulation, using blood as a receptacle to channel power.

As time passed, the room dimmed, until it was difficult for Tyron to see his hand in front of his face. The blood however, began to glow, emanating a crimson light that could be seen even through the unnatural darkness.

As Yor continued to speak, her eyes matched that light, turning red as the vampiric words of power rolled from her tongue.

The blood continued to shift and dance, tendrils rising up and binding around each other as the gateway between realms slowly took form.

The room must have been enchanted heavily. There was no chance that the vampires could risk letting even the slightest trace of this energy leak. Considering just one floor above were gold ranked slayers, some of them mages, it was a breathtaking show of confidence that Yor would conduct this ritual here at all.

The blood twined up and around itself, hardening into a glowing crystal, like multi-faceted glass, as the final shape of the gate continued to take form. Of course, the gate would have to take an artful shape. He wondered if that was built into the ritual or if Yor had added these touches herself.

When it was finally done, the blood contained in the floor had been consumed, and in its place stood an arched doorway, from beyond which a cold wind blew. Yor lowered her hands and gazed on her creation with a critical eye.

“Not satisfied with the aesthetic?” he asked.

“It is… somewhat lacking.”

Stepping closer, Tyron inspected it. If it weren’t for the colour and texture, the gate would almost look organic. The twisted ropes of blood were similar to vines, and in fact, small crystalline flowers peeked out from amongst the tendrils, adding to the effect.

“I think it’s fine,” he said.

To be honest, such wasteful flourishes seemed ridiculous to him, but he certainly wasn’t going to say so, considering where he was going and how much he would rely on Yor when he got there.

As if reading his mind, she smiled, the slow, eager smile of a predator.

“Let’s step through together, shall we?” she said, striding around the gate and taking hold of his arm.

“Am I escorting you, or are you worried I’ll run away?” he said, uncomfortable at the contact.

She didn’t reply, only stepping forward and pulling him along with her. He stepped down into the depression on the floor, then through the gate. There was a moment of disorientation as he stepped from one realm to another, but it quickly passed.

On the other side, he found himself in a relatively small room. The gate had formed on a raised platform of stone, with two steps leading down to a red carpeted floor. Around the room glowed the telltale lights of enchantments, blood-red cores sunk into the stone at the centre of the arrays. Statues were spaced evenly around the room, each an example of the human form, but horribly distorted, twisted into horrific visages. Agonised, screaming faces with pleading eyes emerged from those nightmare shapes.

“Interesting taste in decoration,” Tyron said, face twisted in disgust.

“We are in the rooms beneath my Mistress’ palace. She likes to make an impression on her guests. It also serves as a warning.”

Tyron frowned at her words, then turned back to examine the statues once more. It took a moment, but he saw one blink, then he swiftly shifted his gaze, stomach heaving.

“Interesting,” he muttered.

Yor paid his discomfort no mind, maintaining her grip on his arm.

“The Mistress awaits.”

She began to walk again, pulling him forward, though he didn’t resist. From the gate-room, they entered a long, dim corridor with gaps carved into the stone at set intervals.

He passed three before he succumbed to his curiosity. When he reached the fourth, he paused for a moment to look out, only to freeze at what he saw.

He thought he would be in a basement, and in a sense, he was. Where he stood was below ground, but the space below was open, to the point he was suspended dozens of metres above the ground below.

That space was filled with people. They sat in cages, silent, staring, weeping, as figures cloaked and armoured in black moved between them. In the distance, at the edge of the cavern, he saw figures bound and chained to spiked tables, blood flowing freely and being collected in vessels that glowed with power.

There were thousands of them. If he looked out the matching window on the other side, would he see more of the same? It was cruelty on a staggering scale.

With difficulty, he mastered himself and resumed his walk.

“Another warning, I take it.”

Yor patted his arm and he struggled not to shake off her touch.

“My Mistress is fond of warnings. One of the many things you must keep in mind when you meet her.”

Yor began to lecture him on the seemingly endless rules that must be minded while standing before the ancient monster. Don’t look her in the eyes. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Make sure you don’t bleed in her presence. Keep your language formal and courteous. Hands by your sides at all times. If there are cattle present, do not acknowledge them. If there are undead present, do not acknowledge them either.

On and on it went. They reached the end of the corridor and entered a twisting maze of hallways. They passed other figures, but never stopped to interact with them. Yor continued to drag him, navigating the way unerringly until they stood before a large, wooden door.

“This is the Mistress’ lower chambers. Normally, I would present you in the throne room, but circumstances don’t allow it, unfortunately. Remember what I said.”

“Which things you said?”

“All the things I said.”

She knocked with one, elegant hand, and immediately the door swung open soundlessly. The room beyond was lavish, to say the least. If he hadn’t been told otherwise, Tyron would have assumed that this was the throne room. The ceiling was absurdly high, large, intricate banners hung between columns formed of blood-coloured marble.

There were so many more details. The rich furnishings. The tapestries. Paintings and sculptures along the walls. The kneeling figures, hands crossed across their chests and faces pressed into the floor. The huge figures in full-plate armour, swords and shields resonating with incredible power.

All of it faded in the presence of the woman on the throne.

It was almost impossible to look at her. It was almost impossible to look away.

She was majestic in appearance, her expression both regal and cruel. Hastily, Tyron tried to avert his gaze, lest he look into her eyes, but somehow, as if drawn by a magnet, he could never fully direct his attention elsewhere.

Seated on her golden throne, her posture perfect and dressed like an empress, she radiated power. The very air around her was tinged red, as if the blood within her were so strong it affected everything around it. Yor dragged him forward as he struggled to remember to breathe. The closer he got to that throne, the more his heart pounded painfully in his chest. He felt as if his blood were slowing to a crawl within his veins.

When they were still twenty metres away, Yor pulled him down to the ground and he knelt, trying to master himself as she knelt beside him.

“Mistress,” Yor intoned, her voice cold and formal, “it brings me endless joy to kneel in your presence once more.”

So saying, she leaned forward and pressed her head to the floor, glaring at Tyron from the corner of her eye until he did the same.

“Rise, child.”

The voice was… indescribable. As the sound entered his ears, Tyron felt his veins tremble. More and more, he began to realise that this was not a place, not a person whom a mortal should ever draw near.

“You have brought him as I asked. Well done.”

Tyron rose as Yor did, eyes squeezed shut as he attempted to control himself. What would it be like for someone with a weaker body to be here? Would they already be dead?

“He is a promising specimen. So much growth in one so young.”

“As you say, Mistress. It has been difficult to remove him from the influence of the others.”

“Yet now he is here.”

There was silence for a moment and Tyron finally felt as if he had steadied the trembling of his limbs. He opened his eyes again, only to find the ancient vampire regarding him directly.

“What is your name, mortal?”

The way she pronounced ‘mortal’ was as if she spoke a profane or filthy word.

“Tyron Steelarm, Mistress.”

Another pause.

“You have done well, to reach this point. Yet there is still so much you do not comprehend. You’ve never truly understood the nature of our alliance. The Dark Ones. The Abyss. Myself. For instance, you do not know that those Old Gods shield you from the sight of those who replaced them.”

Though he was kneeling, he still twitched. He hadn’t known that. Why hadn’t Elsbeth told him?

“They also protect you from manipulation. Yet here, in this realm, you have been stripped of such protections.”

Her mind overwhelmed his in less than an instant. Like a blade of grass before a hurricane, all he could do was bend. His eyes rolled up his head as she seized his will without any discernible effort.

“What… are… you… doing?” he forced out.

It was Yor who answered.

“A slight modification. Your desires do not always align with ours. That will change.”

“I… will… remember… this!”

It took all his effort to speak those words while the monster on the throne rifled through his mind like a lion playing a mouse. He glared at Yor, who only looked amused.

“No,” she said, “you won’t.”