Book of The Dead

Rogil bellowed, his war cry little more than a guttural roar that rattled the leaves overhead as he brought his greatsword down in a mighty slash. The monster squealed before him, its rage and desperation palpable in the air but he didn't hesitate. He'd seen too many hesitate, they didn't usually get a second chance.

CRUNCH.

The sword, over a hundred kilograms of enchanted steel, shattered the monster's defences and cut deep into the flesh beneath. With a final, rattled hiss the rift-kin breathed its last and collapsed in a heap. Undeterred, he drew back his sword and drove it forward, deep into the body of the creature. When it didn’t react he withdrew the weapon, satisfied that it was indeed dead.

Tyron tried not to click his tongue. He understood not wanting to let the creature play dead and jump you from behind, obviously it was better to be safe than sorry, but it was rather difficult for him to extract anything valuable from the remains if they were so heavily mutilated. He prepared another bolt and held it ready in case it was needed, but as he swept his eyes around it appeared as if nothing remained alive to fight.

"Talk," Rogil barked, his tension still high.

"Clear," Monica replied.

"Clear," Aryll called from amongst the trees.

"Any injuries?" Monica asked.

"Got a scratch," Aryll replied, still hidden.

"Come and get it checked then, you know not to take any chances with these creatures."

"I'll scout then," Rogil nodded and turned to move into the woods. "Ten minutes then we're on the move again. Get to work kid."

Tyron was already kneeling in front of the monster Rogil had slayed, his pointed carving knife in his hand. Looking over the body, he didn't think there would be much he could retrieve other than the core. The chitin was cracked all over thanks to Rogil's rather brutal fighting style, and he likely couldn't separate any plates in ten minutes anyway.

With a sigh he looked for the biggest gaps between the segments close to the centre of mass and began to carve. In two minutes he'd managed to find a grape-sized circular gem of pure white that glowed with magick in his senses. Being careful not to touch it, he extracted the gem with the iron tweezers he'd purchased for this purpose and dropped it into the bag tied to his waist.

He had enough time to tackle a few more rift-kin so he surveyed the scene of the fight and picked out the next largest monster. Size didn't always equate to power, but it did often enough that he'd found it was a safe bet to harvest the largest first when he was pressed for time.

As he worked, Monica sat with Aryll inspecting a nasty gash on her arm. The 'scratch', he presumed. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the mage rummaged through her pack and withdrew a needle, thread and ointment.

"It'll take a few days for this to patch up," she warned the scout as she got to work cleaning and disinfecting the wound. "You'll need to be careful to ensure you don't reopen the wound."

Aryll pulled a face.

"It's not going to scar, is it?" she asked.

"No. I'm skilled enough to take care of that!"

"Shame. Scars are hot."

She caught Tyron's eye and winked salaciously. He tried not to blush and focused on his knife work whilst Monica continued to patch the mouthy scout. She wasn't able to perform miracle healing like a priest or priestess would, instantly curing the wound by drawing on the power of her divine patron, but she was surprisingly effective considering she was only utilising a sub-class. Basically every team needed someone like that, a member with some capacity to cure injuries.

Usually that would be someone with a healing main class, like medic, apothecary or doctor, and combat subs to keep them safe, or someone like Monica, who had a combat main and had chosen a utility sub in order to help her team. People capable of drawing on the power of the four were exceptionally rare in Slayer circles, which was the reason Rufus was so desperate to get Elsbeth to follow him out of Foxbridge.

Tyron stalled for a moment as he remembered his old crush. She'd always been so kind to him growing up, one of the few who were prepared to reach out to 'their' son, despite his reclusive ways, he almost couldn't help falling for her. Then the awakening happened and all those childish concerns fell by the wayside. Still, he hoped what he'd told her was enough to cure her of any attachment to Rufus. She deserved better than being exploited by that bastard. And not having her to help him made Rufus' life that much harder when he tried to become a slayer, which was also a nice bonus.

The core he was working on prised loose with a 'pop' and he placed it in the bag before shifting to the next monster. When the ten minutes was up, he'd managed to collect five cores and Monica had finished her stitching. Aryll ran her hand lightly over the treated wound as she inspected the cut.

"Don't get sloppy," Monica warned her, "we're a member down, we need to be careful even if we are only on the outskirts."

"I know that," the scout muttered.

She looked as she might have more to say but at that moment Rogil strode back into the clearing.

"Let's move. There's more packs in the area and I don't want to tangle with them. We need to retreat a couple of hundred metres. How many cores?"

The last he asked of Tyron without looking at him.

"Five."

"Not bad. Pick up the pace next time. Let's go."

He'd gotten used to Rogil's attitude by now. No matter how many he managed to grab, he would get the same answer. The group quickly picked themselves up and got moving. They made good time through the sparse woods that bordered the devastation of the true broken lands as Rogil ranged ahead, leading them around monsters he thought they couldn't fight as he marked rifts that seemed more active than others and steered them clear.

Tyron had learned that this team usually had a Summoner along as their fourth member, and without the powerful summons and utility that the class provided they were understandably reluctant to engage in anything more dangerous than picking off stray groups of rift-kin. For capable and mid-level fighters like these, it was a lot like swatting bugs, generally not worth their time but he could definitely understand the caution.

An hour later they finally came to a halt as the leader crept back to meet them.

"Any issue?" Monica whispered when Rogil drew close enough.

He shook his head and waved them away from the rifts. The others sensed his caution and crept along behind a few hundred metres until they felt more comfortable.

"What is it?" the mage pressed him.

"There's a rift in there that doesn't look too stable," Rogil pulled a face and ran a hand over his bald head as he stared into the distance, as if watching the rift through the trees. "Too many rift-kin there for us to get close enough to take a better look, but we should report it when we get back. Things have been a little hairy out here lately, I don't want to take a chance and have a break occur."

"No shit," Aryll grunted.

Tyron agreed. A break wasn't in anyone's best interest. Not only would a horde of rift-kin break through, the larger ones that normally couldn't pass into this world would appear, which could be devastating. This was the sort of thing his parents would be called in to fix and they happily would, diving through the rift and slaughtering everything they found on the other side, except right now they were busy hunting him.

The other consequence of a break was that it further eroded the wall between the worlds in that area, which meant more and stronger rifts would appear from that point on. Without a method to stabilise the broken lands, a break brought everyone closer to the day when the rift-kin overpowered the slayers and wiped the world clean of life. For now, such a possibility was so distant that no one seriously considered it, but it was a reality of life nonetheless.

"Do we keep patrolling?" Monica asked.

Rogil nodded.

"Yes, but we'll have to avoid this side. We'll backtrack and switch our patrol path to the east side. How's the wound, Aryll?"

"It's fine. Give me a little while and I'll be back to full mobility."

"She should avoid moving at her best for two days," Monica broke in and Aryll flashed her an irritated glare.

"She's doing her job," Rogil comforted the scout and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, "relax and take your medicine. If you're going to be pissed about getting injured, then don't get hit in the first place. The mistake is on you."

"I know that," she grumped, slightly mollified.

Tyron knew enough that his input wasn't required here. The grownups were talking, he was supposed to keep his mouth shut and look attentive, which he did, until he shifted his foot and felt something sharp under his boot. He looked down and raised his leg to look and stared for a few long seconds as he processed what he was looking at.

"Oh shit," he said as he hopped awkwardly to one side, nearly landing flat on his arse.

"What is it?" Rogil was there in a flash, eyes flicking from side to side as he drew his blade.

"Oh, nothing. Nothing. Just didn't expect to see, uh, that, under my foot," he stammered a little as he gestured to where he'd been standing.

The team leader glanced down at the grinning skull poking through the dirt and sighed as he sheathed his weapon.

"You'll find plenty more of those out here, kid." He turned back to the others. "Where were we…"

As they continued their conversation Tyron took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He'd been shocked to see the empty sockets staring up at him, of course, but he was also surprised to find what he was looking for literally underfoot when they stopped. Without drawing attention from the others who continued to converse nearby, he reached into a pocket in his pack and withdrew a simple map he'd purchased in town. After a few moments of estimation he marked their current location with a lead before he rolled the parchment and stowed them together with the pencil.

He might not be able to get back here anytime soon, but that was one place he could find the remains he needed. There were sure to be hundreds more out here.

"Let's move," Rogil said, standing straight once more as the others finished their discussion and began to jog back the way they'd come.

Being careful not to fall behind, Tyron kept pace, his eyes watching the surrounding trees with care, but also, every now and again, he glanced down to the ground. There would be more.

In Woodsedge.

Stillness and silence lay over the cemetery. A fine mist, the only presence that moved amongst the gravestones, caressing the worn engravings and fine moss that decorated those faces. Illuminated by the light of the waning moon, it was a peaceful scene, if a haunting one.

"My balls itch," Dove complained.

Marshal Langdon stifled a sigh and tried to maintain his vigil. His 'partner' seemed determined to ensure that such a thing was impossible.

"I think it's the moisture in the air," the mage said, "its soaking straight through my slacks. I suppose I should get better quality clothing. I usually don't bother since I'm usually either roughing it, or slumming about the keep, in which case I don't usually wear pants. You wouldn't be able to recommend a tailor, would you?"

The marshal took a deep, slow breath, before he replied.

"I'm aware you find our work to be beneath you, Mr Levan, but I'd prefer it if you were to stop talking. I am trying to focus on our stakeout."

"I'm trying to avoid getting some sort of fungal infection, which I think is of vastly greater importance than what we are doing here. How have you even been allowed to pull me into this crap anyway? What does this have to do with the abyssal summoning? Nothing! That's what! My team is out there in the broken lands, risking their lives and fighting and doing other cool shit, whilst I'm here worrying if my blessed testicles are going to rot! No, marshal Langdon, I'm not going to stop talking. I'm going to bitch and moan until you either let me go, or explain what in the name of the hells I'm doing out here!"

"I'm out here doing my job, Mr Levan, watching the cemetery for signs that a Necromancer has been at work, or catch him in the act. You are here, I suspect, because everyone you have met since the night of the incident has found you to be an insufferable asshole and will go out of their way to make you suffer because they believe you deserve it. Your constant moaning and whining is like music to their ears and they will never grow tired of it. I did not ask for you to be here, nor do I want you here. Since you are, perhaps you can actually be useful and help me try and track a criminal instead of acting like a spoiled child."

The two men sat in silence for an extended period as Dove contemplated the words of the marshal. There was some merit to what the man said, he had been acting like a prick over the last few days, annoying the officers, being less than useful when inspecting scenes, napping frequently, which no doubt led many of the marshals to delight in his suffering. On the other hand…

"Remember when you guys arrested me without cause, locked me up and made me run around town looking for a culprit that you believed was me the entire time? I've cooperated in good faith as much as I possibly can, but you are yanking on my last chain. You know, just as well as I do, that this Necromancer kid didn't do the summoning. There's no shot. No fucking shot. So why are we even out here? A level one Necromancer is nothing, what the hell are we doing out here Langdon?"

The officer sighed and stood, stretching his back as he did so. It was clear there was no point trying to remain hidden so long as the Summoner was going to run his mouth.

"Let me be candid with you, Mr Levan. I don't think you are responsible for the summoning incident, but that matters little since my superiors are determined to piss you off for as long as they can. We've run out of leads trying to run down the person responsible so I've been told to keep an eye out in case the Necromancer, who is most likely level two since we have witnesses to a successful cast of Raise Dead, makes an appearance."

"He managed to cast it on his own?" Dove whistled. "Impressive."

The marshal stared at him levelly for a long beat.

"No," Dove gasped, "you haven't given up on that theory? You can't be serious. Raising the dead is tricky, I'll grant that, but busting through the veil? Peering into the abyss? It's a totally different level and you fucking know it!"

"You don't know what his name is."

"How in the hell would that matter? Unless his father pisses magick and his mother's teats dripped arcane crystals then I don't think it's relevant."

"Magnin and Beory Steelarm."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh SHIT."

Dove stared at him.

"SHIT," he repeated before he turned around and strode through the cemetery, his hands pressed to his temples. After a moment he came back, the shock still plain on his face.

"Fucking SHIT balls!" he swore.

"I understand that you're surprised."

"Are you kidding me? This is a joke, right? The Steelarm's kid is a rogue? A Necromancer? That is… mother’s melons that is… SHIT."

Marshal Langdon rolled his eyes as the Summoner continued to splutter and curse. After five minutes or so, he finally ran out of steam.

"Well, first thing. If the kid is smart enough to raise the dead without any help then he sure as hell isn't going to be caught rummaging around cemeteries. That's Beory's kid for fuck's sake."

"There's no reason not to be cautious."

"I suppose I see that. See if he trips himself up..."

"And you know very well that whilst a level one Necromancer isn't a threat, a level forty one is…"

"A bit of an issue."

Langdon raised a single brow.

"A lot of an issue," the mage conceded, "I get that. But this is the child of two of the greatest heroes the western province has seen since… ever? Those two have slain more rift-kin than anyone, and held back the tide basically on their own for decades. Decades! Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Are you suggesting we allow someone with a forbidden class to run free?"

"Yes! Why the fuck not?! If for no other reason than to keep those two on side! They deserve at least that much!"

"The magisters don't agree apparently."

"Those fucking ghouls! It's not enough that they need to burn their sadistic brand into us, they want the kid dead? For what? Who has he hurt, huh?"

"He did raise the dead from their rest," the marshal replied sharply.

"Who gives a fuck?! They're dead!"

"I think the family would have a different view."

"Oh I'm sure they're pissed, but does that mean the kid deserves to die?"

Langdon's expression hardened.

"He will pay the penalty for the crime of refusing to relinquish his forbidden class, as well you know. Those classes are forbidden by decree and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you why."

Dove threw his hands in the air.

"It's bullshit and you know it! The magisters look the other way all the damn time. It's illegal to have the Thief class. So why the fuck are there so many thieves?! Why do bandits still exist? Huh? Don't get me started on the shit the nobles are rumoured to get up to with classes."

The marshal paused. He couldn't argue with much of what the Summoner had said. Stamping out illegal classes wasn't a huge priority, it was true, but even if he rightly pointed out a Necromancer had infinitely more potential for harm than a Thief, it wouldn't get through to the irate mage.

"Either way, it's not going to matter," he sighed, "the kid isn't going to make it past the next few months."

"You're that confident are you?" Dove asked. "I suppose it's just a single kid, you'll track him down eventually."

Langdon hesitated to say the next part, but it was common knowledge, it was only a matter of time before Dove found out anyway.

"Not quite. The magisters ordered some high level slayers to track the boy down and bring him in. It's only a matter of time until they find him."

Dove was silent for a moment as realisation slowly crept up on him.

"Who was it?" he said finally, his voice flat. "Who did they send?"

The marshal looked him in the eye.

"Magnin and Beory Steelarm."

Dove stared at him, his face a mask of frozen rage as his hands clenched into fists by his sides.

"Those sick fucks," his voice sounded strangled in his throat.

Abruptly the Summoner turned on his heel and stalked away.

"All of you can fuck off," he grated over his shoulder. "Your office can either arrest me or burn in the pit for all I care. I'm going back to my team."