B4 - Prelude (Patreon)

“Just tell them I’m writing out my notes as quickly as I can,” Tyron frowned, “but don’t forget I have my own work to worry about.”

“Your work will go a lot faster if you have help,” Munhilde pointed out reasonably. “The people are more than willing to give you all the assistance you need, they just need to know how.”

Willingness wasn’t the problem. He rubbed a hand across his weary face as he tried to find a tactful way to explain that he didn’t want low-skilled people interfering in his process. He’d much rather do everything himself to ensure the final outcome was something he could put his faith in than turn a single skeleton over to these… amateurs.

“You think I can’t see what you’re thinking?” Munhilde observed wryly. “You don’t want them to help because they’re not up to scratch. Which means they’ll never get up to scratch, because they don’t get to practice. You see the problem?”

“I’m doing this to repay a favour for your people,” Tyron replied, irritated. “I don’t want or need any help, I don’t care how many bone smiths you have down there. The old gods want to play with people’s fate and mess with the Awakening? That’s their business, theirs and yours.”

He was perfectly capable of managing his own undead horde and didn’t intend to let anyone else lay a finger on a skeletal bone.

The priestess of the dark gods, Elsbeth’s teacher in their ways, looked at him as if she were staring at a misbehaving child.

“What?” he said, begrudgingly.

“You’re being stupid,” she told him bluntly. “You don—”

She cut off with a strangled sound as Tyron crushed her mind with his own, freezing her in place. After a moment, he breathed out a long, slow breath, and tried to push the flash of violent anger that had exploded in his chest at her words. His temper appeared to have suffered lately, which wouldn’t do. He couldn’t afford to lose control.

Once he was sure the flash of anger was gone, he released his hold on the priestess and dipped his head.

“I apologise. I must be lacking rest.”

He was, but it wasn’t a good excuse.

Freed from his control, Munhilde glared at him furiously, but mastered herself with effort.

“As I was saying,” she spat, “you don’t know what is happening down the mountain. The Corpse Weavers and Bone Smiths have been making expeditions down onto the plains to the east and north. They gain proficiency by working with remains, so they wanted to see if they could unearth any of the mass graves.”

“They found some?” Tyron asked.

“They’re still carting in the bodies,” she told him in clipped tones. “There could be as many as a thousand in just the graves they found so far.”

A thousand sets of remains… Tyron could scarcely imagine it. Not that long ago, he was paying solid gold for twenty a month. This represented an unprecedented amount of wealth. What could he do with such an amount of resources?

He quickly realised the issue that Munhilde was getting at. No matter what, there was no way he could use them all. Preparing every corpse, stitching them all, even with the Ossuary, then raising them… it would take an enormous amount of time. He doubted he could even support that many undead to start with.

And this was only the beginning. There were tens of thousands of dead in the wake of the rift break, entire villages, farming communities, small towns, wiped from the map by unthinking, bloodthirsty kin.

Now he began to grasp what it was that the Old Gods had arranged for. The newly Awakened had been granted many Classes he’d never heard of. Among the Famers, Haulers, Coopers and Smiths, there had been so many related to the dead and the handling of corpses. The Corpse Weavers in particular were a Class which seemed to be entirely related to preparing the dead for… other uses. If they reached a high level, it was possible they could significantly improve the quality of remains, well beyond even what he himself could do.

With so many recently dead, and the looming conflict ahead, these newly Awakened, along with the Bone Smiths and others, would become the craftspeople feeding a war machine of Necromancers and other dark magick users.

No need for forges, or slayer schools, bowyers and fletchers. All he needed was a steady supply of well-prepared remains and he could fuel the fighting indefinitely.

The Bone Smiths could possibly even collect the skeletons who fell in battle and repair them, something he already didn’t have the time to do. Over the years, more of these Classes would appear, and there would soon be hundreds of them, collecting the dead and turning those useless bundles of flesh and bone into something so much more.

“Fine. I understand what you’re saying, and I see the value in it. I’ll devote more time to condensing my notes.”

“That won’t be enough, soon. No matter how clear you try to make it, these newly Awakened didn’t have your magickal education growing up. Even with your formulae and diagrams, I doubt one of the new Necromancers will ever succeed in casting Raise Dead without your direct assistance.”

As much as he wanted to refute that statement and insist they’d be fine without him… he knew it wasn’t true. His mother had prepared him to be a mage from a young age, and he’d extensively studied prior to his Awakening. Fluent in the words of power, thousands of hours spent practising hand sigils and dexterity exercises, vocal training and breath control.

Even with all that, he’d barely been successful in his first cast. He’d provided them with a simplified version which should make things much easier for them. Tyron had been forced to craft the ritual from nothing but the vague impressions the Unseen had granted him. They were gifted with a fully functioning, notated version, but without preparation, even that was useless to them.

“What do you want me to do?” he growled, “run a school for Necromancy up here?”

“Of course not. I want you to teach the Bone Smiths and everyone else as well. You can show them how to mould bone, summon spirits, manipulate souls, prepare corpses, the works. AND–” she cut him off loudly before he could protest, “–they will then be able to take over some of those responsibilities for you. This will save you time in the end.”

“I have so many projects to work on, and you want me to add more to my plate?”

“Delay all of your projects to do this, and then you can go back to them with a loyal group of Classed individuals doing the legwork for you. Besides, wouldn’t it be helpful to have others to help work on your projects? Who is there who understands Necromancy like you do to collaborate with?”

It was tempting to roll his eyes at that. Tyron was good at Necromancy, to put it mildly, and he was well aware of the fact. Not just anyone would be able to give him useful advice, but he understood what she was getting at.

In truth, he just didn’t want to deal with this and was looking for reasons to decline. Investing time in others seemed like such a waste when he could be working to enact his revenge, improve his abilities or furthering his studies. Despite understanding intellectually that teaching these newly Awakened had the potential to aid in all of his goals, his gut reaction was decisively negative. Perhaps he just didn’t want to be around people. He was growing increasingly isolated, and increasingly, he didn’t mind it.

“Fine,” he said quickly, before he could change his mind. “I’ll make myself available for the next month. I’ll still be farming the rift for part of every day, but I can help instruct for the rest. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have a schedule for you.”

Munihlde raised a brow. From being so reluctant, he had moved to preparing a schedule? No matter, she wasn’t going to argue after she’d gotten what she wanted.

“This will be the best for all of us,” she assured him, and the Necromancer snorted.

“That remains to be seen, but I will give them a chance. Give them this warning: anyone who comes here needs to ensure they don’t waste my time. They won’t get a second chance.”

“You’ll kill them?”

“What? No, I just won’t teach them.”

“Clarity is important when talking to Necromancers,” she said smoothly. “I’ll leave you be for today. See you tomorrow at the same time.”

There was no reply as Tyron had already returned to his notes, his eyes burning into the page with a focus that bordered on unsettling. The Priestess left him to it and began her descent. She had no idea why he still insisted on living in his cave, but Tyron Steelarm wasn’t someone she was going to argue with. If she had to hike several kilometres up a mountain to talk to him, then that’s what she would do.

Once she was inside the wall, she found her former apprentice pacing anxiously just beyond the gate. When she saw her former mentor, Elsbeth rushed forward.

“Did you manage to convince him?” she asked.

“I did, though it wasn’t easy. Your friend is a lot more prickly than I remembered him.”

“He’s been through a lot,” Elsbeth leapt to Tyron’ defence.

He’s barely human anymore. There is little left of him beyond his hunger for revenge.

Munhilde kept her thoughts to herself. The young Steelarm was a weapon, and so long as he was pointed at the same targets her ghost wished to destroy, then she would give him all the aid she could.

“So he agreed to teach? When does he intend to start?” Elsbeth followed up.

“He intends to give me a schedule tomorrow and begin shortly after that.”

“Tomorrow? That soon?”

“It appears he doesn’t want to waste any time,” Munhilde replied wryly. “Now come, we should give the lucky young ones the good news. I’m sure they’ll be delighted.”

The younger priestess’ expression warped as she considered just how this news would be received. Some would be pleased… but others? Not all were keen to learn from someone as feared as Tyron Steelarm. The two turned and began to walk side by side, but didn’t get bare before they were accosted.

“Did you talk to him for us?” Trenan demanded as he approached.

The Hammerman looked tired, his eyes lined with care, but beneath his fatigue there was anger.

“I’ve asked that you be patient,” Munhilde attempted to smooth the Slayer. “We have many things to talk to Tyron about. You and your teams are only one of those concerns.”

“I have been patient. You asked us not to speak to him, and we haven’t. Meanwhile, the rift we depend on for levels, and for our living, is being monopolised again. Patience has a limit, and Slayers are usually the kind of people you keep happy.”

Munhilde’s eyes sharpened as Elsbeth sucked in a breath.

“Is that a threat?” the older Priestess asked coldly.

“Not a threat, a statement. There’s unease in the barracks. Not everyone in there is as fucking patient as I am.”

Elsbeth turned to Munhilde and placed a hand on her arm. The older woman drew a breath before letting it out slowly.

“Fine, go speak to him. I advise you to be careful. He is… irritable, at the moment.”

The Hammerman snorted loudly as he turned away.

“I’ll be more polite than talking to my fucking mother, don’t you worry.”

So saying, he broke into a jog, ready to carry the good news back to his teammates in the barracks while Elsbeth and Munhilde continued on their way to speak to the newly Awakened.

“Why has all this responsibility fallen on our shoulders?” Munhilde muttered. “There is a council, why aren’t why the ones making the decisions?”

“Because the believers far outnumber the unbelievers at this point,” Elsbeth said simply. “Followers of the Three will listen to us above the Council, so they are putting decisions in our hands.”

Especially ones that concerned Tyron and the strange Classes of the newly Awakened. Ortan was more than willing to wash his hands of all of it.

“If only the Venerable were still with us,” Munhilde sighed as they entered the town centre.

There, the stone that had formed from the old man remained, an object of veneration for the people of Cragwhistle.

“I think he did enough for us,” Elsbeth said softly, “now we need to find our way without him.”

Munhilde rolled her eyes. The girl was right. She didn't like it, but she was right. There were none who had given more for the Three than the Venerable, including his life. There was literally nothing left for him to give.

The two Priestesses continued to walk, exchanging greetings and words with the people they passed, until they found the house they were looking for. One of the original buildings, made of stone and wood, it was relatively small, with a low-hanging thatched roof. Munhilde knocked on the door, which opened shortly after.

Inside a small gathering of young people, merely eighteen years of age, revealed itself. The Priestess smiled at them.

“I’ve got good news, and bad news. Fair warning, they’re both the same news.”