Book Of The Dead

Elsbeth couldn’t help but feel anxious as the old man hobbled across the street toward her. Truth be told, ‘old’ didn’t nearly capture the sheer weight of time that seemed to hang on those reed-thin shoulders. Stooped over, limbs visibly trembling and skin as weathered as a salt-washed rock, the Venerable supported his weight on a walking stick of dark brown wood as he slowly made his way toward her.

Would it be disrespectful of her to go and help him? He looked so fragile! There was a burly-looking man by his side, watching the crowd, eyes flicking from one person to the next, but he made no move to support the ancient human. Ultimately, her instincts overwhelmed the debate in her head and she rushed forward to support him, holding onto his elbow and walking alongside.

“I apologise if I’m being rude,” she said, “I mean no disrespect.”

The old man chuckled as he let her take some of his weight.

“I left my useless pride behind over a hundred years ago,” he said, wrinkled skin folding in on itself as he smiled wide, revealing the few teeth he retained. “A little help on the walk won’t do me any harm.”

Somewhat relieved, Elsbeth returned the smile as she fell into step, slowly making their way through Shadetown.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I hope the journey wasn’t too difficult for you.”

The Venerable flapped his free hand vaguely as if to wave away her concerns.

“Bah! I’m not as old as that…” he trailed off. “On reflection, I probably am as old as that,” he admitted, “but I was planning to move anyway. This was a necessary stop on the journey. Helping a fool child out of the mess he put himself in shouldn’t be too taxing.”

She wished she shared his confidence.

From the market, they moved down one of the alleys until they stood before Almsfield Enchantments. This late in the afternoon, there weren’t many people about, most of the day’s commerce having been done. Still, there were a few inside, visible through the large windows, browsing the many wares Tyron had on offer.

She felt a spike of pride at how well her friend had done. Despite not even being his focus, Tyron had turned his enchanting business into a real success, earning praise from almost everyone she spoke to in the community. With an effort, she forced that appreciation down. She was still furious at him! Just bringing to mind the letter he’d send her was enough to make her grind her teeth.

Greetings Elsbeth,

I’ll be travelling to visit the Scarlet Court within their domain. I’d appreciate it if you could contact the Venerable, or perhaps another high-ranking cleric amongst your organisation to undo whatever suggestions they plant in my head.

Regards.

Not even signed with a name, not that he had to, who else would be mad enough to do such a thing? Doing it knowing what was going to happen to him, no less!

Even now, part of her wanted to let him stew in his own juices. This was his mess after all, but it was a petty impulse that she knew she would never indulge.

“Do you need help with the steps, Venerable?” she asked, leaning down toward the old man.

“If you’d be so kind,” he replied, eyes crinkling.

Dressed in a light cloak, shirt and pants, there hardly seemed to be anything of the man left, they hung so loosely on him. Shaking step by shaking step, the Venerable managed to mount the three stairs with some difficulty before he released a triumphant sigh at the top. Elsbeth let go of his arm just long enough to swing open the door and let him through, for which she received a grateful nod.

Seemingly without communicating, the burly, leather-armoured guard took up post outside the door, standing in a spot where he could watch the traffic and keep an eye on the store interior at the same time.

Once inside, Tyron’s bubbly young store attendant approached, professional smile on her face and curiosity burning in her eyes. From the corner of the room, a martial figure began to stride forward. This was Wansa, Elsbeth recalled, but before the formidable woman had taken two steps, she froze mid-stride and remained there, eyes wide, a rictus snarl on her face. Confused, Elsbeth looked down to the Venerable, only to see the old man smiling gently with his eyes shut. A moment later, Cerry had reached them.

“Ms Elsbeth, it’s nice to see you again. Is this your grandfather? Or… great-grandfather? Or….”

Was she really going to go to ‘great-great’?!

“Lovely to see you as well, Cerry,” she interrupted before the young woman offended the ancient priest. “We’re here to see Master Lukas. He’s expecting us.”

Cerry took it all in stride, shaking her head slightly.

“I’m sorry, but Master Almsfield has specifically requested not to be disturbed today. I believe he’s working upstairs in the workshop, but goodness knows on what, poor Flynn hasn’t seen him in days.”

Which would mean he’d been isolating himself since he returned from his… visit.

“As I said, he’s expecting us,” Elsbeth began to say, only for the Venerable to speak over her.

“Help me up the stairs, young lady,” he said to Cerry, but every quality of his voice had changed.

Gone was the thin, quavering tone, replaced by something deep and powerful. Cerry’s smile didn’t waver an inch as she smoothly stepped forward to take Elsbeth’s place on his elbow.

“And how long have you been working here?” the Venerable asked, every inch the doddering old man once more.

Soon he and Cerry were engaged in conversation as she helped him to the second floor as if he were her own grandfather. Confused, and a little disturbed, Elsbeth trailed along in their wake, ascending only to find the door locked before them.

“Yes… Master Almsfield did say he didn’t want to be disturbed,” Cerry muttered to herself, confused.

“Nonsense. Look, the door is open,” the Venerable said as he tapped it with his cane.

Cerry put a hand against it and tentatively pushed. The door swung open silently, the sounds of muttering and the scrape of metal tools now able to be heard from within.

“Yes…” Cerry stated. “Well, I’ll leave you to your business then, I need to get ready to close the store.”

Elsbeth waited a few moments for the attendant to head down the steps before she whispered to the Venerable.

“Was that strictly necessary?”

He huffed.

“It’s not as intrusive as most methods and saves us a lot of time and energy. I doubt Tyron would be grateful if we caused a scene within his store, and I’m much too old to be fighting my way up the stairs.”

“And what about Wansa?” she asked.

The old man’s lip curled.

“Thrall,” he almost spat. “Little better than slaves who put the collar on themselves. She’s lucky I didn’t do more. She’ll be free to move in a few minutes. Probably.”

Surprised by his vehemence, Elsbeth kept her silence and aided the Venerable as he took slow steps into Tyron’s private chambers. The workshop was through an open door to the left, and from within she could hear him, working, muttering, almost growling to himself. The more she listened, the more disturbing it sounded. Half the sounds didn’t even form words, just… noise, as if it were an animal inside rather than a human.

“What is going on in there?” she whispered.

The Venerable cocked his ear and listened for a moment before he frowned. For a moment, his eyes, normally clouded and watery, sharpened. With two quick strides, the old man placed himself in the doorway to the workshop as Elsbeth hurried to keep up with him.

Inside, she saw Tyron, or at least his back, as he sat hunched over his bench. Even from this angle, she could see how bedraggled he was, his clothes were creased and stained, hair matted to his head with sweat.

“Ty–” she began, only for him to whip around in his seat, causing her to break off with a startled cry.

Pale, sunken flesh on his face. Eyes bloodshot and bulging in their sockets. Fingers twisted and knotted, clutching at his hair, his clothes, the air. There was blood on his teeth, and she saw with shock he had been gnawing on his own arm, had chewed straight through the cloth.

“Old gods,” she whispered.

“Raven, behold your servant,” the Venerable intoned.

Tyron lunged from his seat, seemingly not caring that he stumbled and crashed into the floor, rising again to fling himself forward once more.

The Venerable clasped his hands together and bowed his head.

From a great distance, Elsbeth heard the rush of wind beneath colossal wings, the snap of a titanic beak in anger.

Tyron froze. Even locked in place, his muscles spasmed as he tried to break the hold, strained to move forward.

Extending a finger in front, the old man tapped him once between the eyes and all the life drained from that tortured frame. No longer conscious, Tyron dropped to the floor in a heap at the priest’s feet.

“Can you help roll him over please, Elsbeth?” the Venerable sighed thinly. “This is going to be difficult.”

Still horrified, she hesitated before she stepped around him to tend to the figure lying prone on the floor.

“What happened to him?” she asked, aghast, as she tried to arrange Tyron with some dignity.

The more she handled him, the more she became aware of just how damaged he was. He’d done this to himself in only a few days?

“Bloodsuckers did something to him, a compulsion, memory modification… perhaps something worse.”

“There’s worse?”

“Oh, girl. You are too young. I can do worse, and have, in the service of our gods.”

He peered at her with his open eye.

“Pray to Crone enough, and you will be able to do it too.”

She didn’t want to contemplate that, not even for a moment.

“But what’s happened to Tyron? If they did something to his mind, what has happened to his body?”

The old man wheezed lightly as he nudged the Necromancer’s foot with his own.

“The boy has been fighting, trying to defeat something so much greater than himself. I don’t know how he fortified his mind, or to what lengths he went to achieve that protection, but it seems like he went to great lengths. Great lengths indeed.”

He sighed.

“There’s a storm in his head. Painful one at that. All he could do was isolate himself up here and try to weather it the best he could. In the end, he would win and the intrusive measures would be defeated…”

The Venerables tone left her in no doubt he found that outcome unlikely.

“... Or he would lose and whatever they did to him would take hold. Or… the fight would continue beyond his body’s ability to sustain it, and he would die.”

Elsbeth looked down on him, stricken. She’d arranged him as best she could, lying flat on his back with his hands folded over his chest. Even so, he didn’t appear at peace. His eyelids fluttered, as if his eyes were still rolling behind them, and his hands twitched, trying to clasp onto something invisible before they fell to rest again.

“Are you able to help?”

Instead of answering, the old man simply bowed his head and clasped his hands together once more. For several long moments he stood in that position, consulting with faraway gods, yet Elsbeth sensed nothing of their conversation. Finally, he opened his eyes, a trace of confusion on his face.

“A lot of effort for one boy,” he muttered, prodding at Tyron’s leg with his cane. “I can’t possibly see how he could be worth it.”

He saw the expression on Elsbeth’s face and hastened to reassure her.

“I’ll help him child, don’t worry. The gods favour him yet, though they won’t reveal to me why. There is some grand design at work, or perhaps they are simply being whimsical. I need to stand at his head, can you help me step over him? Thank you, girl. Now just let me catch my breath a moment. I’m not quite the same vessel as I used to be, so this will be… unpleasant.”

Grimacing, the Venerable straightened himself as best he could and spread his arms wide, raising his face to look upwards, though there was nothing but a wooden ceiling over his head. For a time, nothing happened, and Elsbeth was about to ask what he was doing, but then, she felt it. Whisper quiet, a thin tendril of divinity extended from… somewhere else… and connected to the Venerable.

In that moment, the old man ceased to be, his presence erased, and in his place stood a woman, wizened beyond conception, her face both wise and cruel. Confronted with a god, Elsbeth felt her heart still in her chest and breath freeze in her lungs. For a second, their eyes met, and the Crone winked at her, before she closed her eyes and the Venerable returned, now infused with a sliver of the goddess’ divine power.

The old man groaned in pain, almost falling to the side, but managed to catch himself at the last second. With shaking limbs, he lifted his cane and placed it on Tyron’s forehead. Something surged between them, and though she couldn’t see it, Elsbeth was still cognizant of the invisible struggle taking place within the mind of her childhood friend.

It went on for what felt like hours, days. Each second that passed, the Venerable grew visibly more weary. His trembling increased as his face grew more and more haggard, until finally, he fell forward with a cry, breaking the connection and landing directly on top of the prone Necromancer.

Elsbeth rushed to assist him, helping him sit, his back propped against the wall as the impossibly ancient man drew deep, shuddering breaths.

“I’m at least two hundred years too old for this,” the old man wheezed, glaring up at the ceiling. “You still want to test me?”

A few more long, slow inhalations.

“They always want to test us,” he murmured to Elsbeth. “It’s how they think. I’m like a toy to them, I believe.”

He tapped himself on the chest.

“Because I’ve never been found wanting.”

He grinned, exposing his gums, and Elsbeth couldn’t help but admire the man, however, she had more pressing concerns.

“About Tyron… is he?”

The Venerable harrumphed, but there was no energy behind it, only weary resignation.

“What they did to him ran deep. Very deep. Powerful… and subtle… beyond anything I’ve ever seen.”

He saw Elsbeth’s look and shook his head.

“I think it’s pretty much gone. Anything left, the boy will have to deal with on his own. To be more thorough, I would have had to scour parts of his mind blank, and they asked me specifically not to do so.”

Relief washed over her, and Elsbeth felt her eyes tear up as a great weight lifted from her shoulders. The old man reached over with one gnarled hand and patted her on the head.

“Don’t waste your tears, child. This one throws himself willingly into the fire, don’t cry when he gets burned.”

“I can’t help it,” she replied, “I can’t help but care.”

“It’s dangerous to care so much. But it can also be a strength. Now. Is there any chance you can help an old man? I need to get down those stairs, and hopefully we can find a place to eat with a nice broth on the menu.”

“Of course, Venerable. Thank you, for what you’ve done.”

The old man eyed her wearily.

“I serve at the gods’ whim, child. As do you.”