Book of The Dead

Chapter B4C40 - Commune

“Tyron, lad,” Magnin said, shaking his head while his mother, sat nearby atop the stone fence, shook with silent laughter. “What are you doing?”

Flushed with equal parts embarrassment and anger, Tyron waved his sword through the air.

“I’m doing the exercise you showed me. What does it look like I’m doing?”

They hadn’t been out long, but already his shoulders ached and sweat ran down his brow. How his father was able to do this for hours and hours at a time, he couldn’t imagine.

In truth, he hated it. But when his father was home, he would always agree to practise the sword as much as he was asked. After all, it wouldn’t be long until Magnin and Beory were gone again. They couldn’t stay longer than a month at a time if they tried. And they had tried.

“The exercise I showed you is a precise set of movements that require grace, balance and power to achieve. What you just did was stab and slash the air like it owed you money. Look, here, watch me.”

No matter how upset he was, he would always turn, immediately, whenever either of his parents spoke those words.

Watch me.

He knew that he would be about to watch something incredible. Something very few were ever lucky enough to see.

Magnin drew his blade in one smooth motion, gripped it tight in both hands, and assumed the first stance. Side-on, the hilt held up toward his back shoulder, the blade perfectly horizontal, unwavering.

With unspeakable grace, Magnin stepped, pivoted and swung, the sword flashing in the light as it described a perfect, glimmering arc, the swing seeming to hang in the air long after the edge had passed, as if the space itself had been cut. Another flawless pivot, another fast cut, another trail of glittering light.

Tyron watched, mesmerised. In his ten years of life, perhaps his favourite thing was watching Magnin swing his sword. He loved his mother’s magick, but that made sense to him in a way his father’s sword just didn’t. The way he moved, the way he cut, made his father seem like a different type of being, as if something truly wondrous was taking place.

His father went through the movements of the drill with a lazy smile on his face, as if this level of skill and precision was nothing to him. It probably was.

When he was done, he sheathed his sword easily and smiled down at his son.

“That is what I want you to do.”

Hands on his hips, he watched Tyron expectantly. The young boy looked down at his own sword, far too well made for his purposes, perfectly balanced, forged by masters of their craft in the Slayer Keeps. He picked it up in his hands, then looked at his father.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that in my entire life.”

Magnin’s grin slipped and Beory burst out laughing, doubling over on her perch atop the fence.

“Now, now, lad. Don’t say that. Little bit of practice is all it takes. A few lessons with your old man and you’ll have it in no time.”

Tyron furrowed his brow, looked down at the sword, then up at his father again.

“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think so.”

It just didn’t seem possible. He couldn’t move that way, had no idea how to begin. Even if he watched his father do it a hundred times, which he would happily do, he was confident it would make no more sense to him than it did in this moment. Thinking logically, anyone should be able to move a certain way, swing the sword, then go into the next motion. Yet, it just wasn’t possible to do it like Magnin. He knew it as well as he knew his own name.

Magick though, magick was easy.

“Come on, child,” Beory called, hopping down to the ground with a small grin. “Let’s leave this buffoon to swing his club and go work on something serious.”

“Club?!” Magnin roared, pretending outrage. “How dare you, woman?”

He turned to Tyron.

“I am going to chase your mother around the village for an hour. Magick lessons are postponed until later in the afternoon.”

It was hard not to smile as, with a mighty bellow, Magnin charged, sword in hand, after Beory while she giggled and flitted away, carried by the wind like a fairy.

What could he do other than shrug, collect his sword, and head back to the empty house and wait for his parents to come home. That’s what he always did.

~~~

Tyron woke with a start, snapping alert in bed. For one terrifying moment, he wasn’t sure where he was, wasn’t sure who he was. The dream had been so vivid, he felt that, if he stretched out his hand, he could still reach his father, still call him with his voice.

Then the moment was gone, and reality snapped into place around him. Tyron drew in a shuddering breath as he felt the cold truths reassert themselves.

His father was dead. His mother was dead.

The people responsible still lived.

And just like that, the anger came roaring back. No, not anger, all-encompassing rage. It burned so hot in his chest, he struggled to breathe, struggled to think. A conflagration so all-consuming it would ignite his flesh and turn his very bones to ash.

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The sight of his father, dagger in his heart, looking so fondly at the corpse of his mother seared itself into his retinae anew.

When the anger finally passed, Tyron was left drenched in sweat and trembling. He felt there was a hollow void in his chest where his heart had been, as if his emotions had been burned out of him.

Slowly, he drew a deep breath, then another. Gradually, his shaking stopped, and the sweat on his body dried. He raised a hand to push the hair out of his eyes and felt a flash of pain in his head. He needed water, most likely. When was the last time he’d drunk anything?

That dream had felt so real. A memory he hadn’t recalled for a long time. Magnin had been so desperate to teach Tyron the sword by the end, hoping his son would take some interest in the blade. Eventually he’d managed to earn the Swordsmanship Skill, and his father had acted as if he’d won a prestigious tournament.

They’d feasted at Uncle Worthy’s Inn, his father’s face was filled with pride and he’d boasted endlessly of ‘his son's incredible talent’.

Perhaps the memory should have brought a smile to his face, but instead, he only felt cold. The taste of that feast had turned to ashes in his mouth, and all that was left was the relentless drive to bring down those responsible for creating this world, this worthless place that didn’t have Magnin and Beory in it.

When he felt like himself once more, Tyron stepped out of bed and began to prepare himself for the day. He ate a simple meal and drank his fill of water from the jug in his room before he washed himself. After scrubbing himself from head to toe, he dressed in comfortable clothing with a well-made robe over the top.

It would be some time before he slept again, so he was determined to take care of himself while he could.

When he descended the stairs, he found Flynn and Cerry also readying themselves for the day. The sun was barely creeping above the horizon, so it was safe for them to be out together, and the two often made the most of this time.

“Good morning,” Tyron called as he reached the ground floor.

Both jumped in their seats before relaxing once more.

“Sorry, Master Alms–Steelarm. You scared the life out of me,” Flynn said, placing a hand on his chest to ease his hammering heart.

Cerry smiled, but her eyes were always clouded when they looked at him now. Gone was the innocent, trusting young woman he’d known prior to her Awakening. She was much like himself, in that way. The Tyron who had existed before that moment was not the same person as the one who went on afterward. They had different dreams, different expectations, different futures. They didn’t think the same way, didn’t value the same things.

It was like a small death, followed by a minor rebirth. Cerry too, was no longer the person she had been before. Yet, at least in her case, she was able to bring something with her into this new life.

“When are you two planning on getting married?” Tyron asked bluntly as he made his way over the counter.

The safe was still ensconced in its place, and he knelt to draw the pattern which would open the door. Behind him, Cerry and Flynn choked on their breakfast before stuttering out half-responses and protestations.

“I suppose it would be difficult right now,” Tyron mused as he fiddled with the safe. What was the symbol again? Ah, yes. With a soft snap, the lock opened and he pulled on the metal door, retrieving a few coins before he snapped it shut again. It was always sensible to carry a reserve of currency as he went about his business; this much should be more than enough for a week or two.

He turned around to see Cerry and Flynn sitting red-faced at the table.

“What happened to you two?” he asked, frowning. “It’s a bit late to start thinking about marriage now. Surely it’s come up before.”

“Of course it has!” Cerry burst out, her face going an even deeper crimson. “But things aren’t safe right now. How would we even get married, I can’t show my face in public.” By the time she finished her outburst, her voice had faded to almost nothing, and Flynn reached across the table to clasp her hand.

“Just get a Priest of the Three to do it. I can bring one here if you want,” Tyron suggested with a shrug.

“It wouldn’t be proper,” Flynn said, then blinked as he realised the hypocrisy of the statement. “I mean…” he ploughed on doggedly, “... I mean it would be better to wait until Cerry’s family can attend. I don’t want her to have a secret wedding, as if she had something to be ashamed of.”

It was a good sentiment, and honourable, in its way. Tyron would have let it go, but his mind went back to the dream he’d had the night before.

“This may sound odd coming from me, but don’t take time for granted. You’re right, things are dangerous right now. Uncertain. Either of you could die tomorrow, and the chance to wed will be gone forever. I know… it isn’t exactly a cheery thought, but you shouldn’t assume you will have a chance later.”

The young couple turned their gaze toward him, Flynn looking thoughtful, Cerry sad.

“I’m off to work. You know where to find me if you need me.”

He gave them a perfunctory nod before he went into the back room and opened the underground stair. Soon enough, the interaction with the two young folk had left his thoughts entirely. His world shrank down to the lists, the experiments, the sheets of paper with half-formed thoughts and partly-constructed spellforms.

It wouldn’t be long now. He just had to keep pushing, keep pushing, keep pushing. More remains awaited his attention. His constructs needed work. Repairs on existing minions were long overdue. Bones to process. Enchanting work for the gold Slayers had to be finished. New methods brought to his attention by the Corpse Moulders needed to be tested. An endless amount of Bone Forging needed to be done, swords, shields, arrows, to supply his growing horde.

A whirlwind of activity surrounded Tyron, hundreds of moving pieces tugging him in a thousand different directions, yet he sat in the middle of it all, ice-cold and focused. With precision, he moved from one task to the next, powering through more spellwork than seemed possible. Minions were raised. Bones were moulded and formed. Experiments conducted, results marked, and tests reset. Arrays were examined, evaluated, modified or discarded. Constructs continued to take shape, piece by piece. Tyron worked relentlessly, long past the point where exhaustion had set in, long past the point his head pounded and his throat was raw and dry.

If he paused, even for a second, the dream would bubble up in his thoughts, and the pain would come with it, so he didn’t allow it to happen. He worked and worked until his eyes burned red and his vision swam, until his hands ached and his stomach howled.

How long had he been at it this time? It was hard to tell.

Surely it hadn’t been a week already. It couldn’t have been, he had orders due… someone would have told him.

When he reached this point, it was time to give up, he knew that. Pushing beyond this point wouldn’t be productive. He let the pliance drop from his trembling hands to the table and raised his filthy hands to rub at his eyes. Even blinking hurt.

The walk up the steps had never seemed so long, or so difficult. When he reached the ground floor and hid the entrance to the study, he staggered around in the dark until he stood at the base of the second flight of stairs, and almost gave up on the spot.

Somehow, he forced his way up, head already drifting in a haze of half-sleep. Though he wouldn’t remember when he woke, he took the time to wash himself, eat and drink. Someone had replenished the water in his chamber and laid out a platter of preserved food. Cerry… probably.

When he was done, and couldn’t stand any longer, Tyron fell face first into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, his last thought still ringing in his head.

Please, he begged, please don’t let me dream.