BoD FINALE (Patreon)

Quick author note. There won't be any BoD next week, but this is four chapters worth of words, so it's fair!

Was very difficult to write this. Hope you enjoy!

B2C55 - The Edge

The heavy mace knocked Tyron aside as his arm bent into his body and absorbed the force of the blow. Once he had his balance back, he tried to execute a counter-slash as he commanded his minions to support him.

The armoured slayer had the time to look offended by Tyron’s sloppy technique before he batted the sword aside with his shield and bulled forward, shoulder lowered. He crashed into the Necromancer's chest as two bone arrows shattered against the protective magick that covered him and Tyron fell down the slope, the air rushing out of his lungs.

Fuck, that hurt!

Luckily, his bone-armour protected him from the worst of the fall, but the impact still jolted him. A spike of pain from his chest caused him to wince and Tyron wondered if he’d broken a rib. No time to worry about it, he levered himself back to his feet and adjusted his grip on the sword. Thankfully, his minions had managed to cover him, preventing the slayer from taking advantage while he was on the ground. His archers continued to pelt him with arrows, but the combination of full-body leather armour and the force magick covering him meant the projectiles were barely noticeable.

Thankfully, the spears and swords of his skeletons were more threatening, but not so much that they could hurt him seriously.

“You’ve got to find the mage and kill the fucker!” Dove shouted from his belt. “He’s maintaining that force-armour from somewhere nearby. Get him!”

Like it’s that easy.

Of course, the mage would be easier to kill than this slayer, but Tyron had to defend himself against this human wrecking ball while searching. With a flick of his Will, he sent his ghosts drifting through the trees, looking for the target as he focused his attention on the armoured slayer. With his sword gripped in his right hand, Tyron pulled a magick bolt together in his left. With a blunt, cracking sound, a skull exploded as the mace connected, barely slowing down as it passed through the bone.

Tyron blasted the bolt forward with his left as he circled around the fight. His opponent saw the spell coming and caught it on his shield, but it was enough of a distraction that several blows fell on him from the surrounding skeletons. He could’ve pushed forward, trying to take advantage of the moment, but he was wary. There were archers out there, and Rufus. If he showed his back, he was likely to start sprouting arrows, or get run through. Instead, he took a few precious seconds to glance around the trees and rocks that surrounded him on the slope. That prick of a mage had to be somewhere around here….

To his surprise, one of the ghosts reported that it’d seen something. Although it was a risk, Tyron snapped his vision to that of the spectre for just a second, and despaired at what he saw.

He’d found the force mage, it was Brun. The dishevelled, unkempt slayer stood beside a curled tree trunk, hands aglow with power, a sly grin on his face.

This prick…. He must be double dipping. If this kid kills me, then he splits the bounty, if he fails, he can have another shot after I’m worn out.

That ruled out being able to kill him. At the very least, Brun was a bronze slayer, the same rank as Tyron himself. Force Mage may not even be his main class, but a supplementary one he picked to support from the backline. It was too much of a risk to rush over and engage him in combat; for now, he had to deal with the weaker targets.

Not that the armoured-slayer appeared that much weaker. He’d smashed another skeleton apart as Tyron had manoeuvred and used Minion Sight, his mace proving to be extremely effective against the undead fighters. With the force magick protecting him, he could leave himself open to strikes without worry, lashing out with ferocious force.

Whatever his Class was, it clearly focused on strength.

With a flex of his Will, Tyron deliberately opened a gap between himself and the slayer, which his opponent took at the first opportunity, rushing forward with preternatural speed, shield forward and mace raised to strike.

Working his magick as fast as he ever had, Tyron formed a magick bolt in his left hand, and loosened his grip slightly around the hilt of his blade to form another in his right palm. As the slayer charged, he blasted him with the spell from his left. Reacting immediately, the slayer shifted his shield and blocked with ease, which was the cue for Tyron to drop his sword and thrust his other hand forward.

Taken by surprise, his foe reacted well, but at such short range, he had almost no time, his weapon was already raised to strike. The bolt connected collected him right in the centre of his chest, halting his momentum and driving his armour back into his flesh.

How do you like it, bastard?

Before he could recover, Tyron snapped his hands and brought two more bolts into existence, thrusting his hands forward and releasing them at once. Despite being stunned, the slayer still managed to take one on his shield, but the other slammed into his shoulder, causing the force magick to flare as he spun and rolled down the hill.

At the same moment, exquisite pain flared in Tyron’s leg and he collapsed into the slope, grasping at his left calf. His questing fingers found themselves curled around the shaft of an arrow buried an inch into the meat of the muscle.

“Argh, fuck!” he cursed, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.

“Come on Tyron, you have to get up.”

“I know that.”

The words were forced between clenched teeth, but in truth, he felt like sobbing. He was in more agony now than he’d ever endured in his life, and the fight was far from done.

He had to commit, there wasn’t time to hold back. As he rolled in the dirt, fumbling for his sword, he sent all of his revenants down the slope to deal with the armoured-slayer. He couldn’t fight him, and avoid the archers at the same time, the man had to die.

The three skeletons, magick blazing in the circle of their rib-cages, rushed down the mountain and pounced on the recovering slayer, hammering him with their weapons. Tyron’s hand closed around the hilt of his blade and hauled it over before he seized the shaft of the arrow with his free hand.

With one sharp, chopping motion, he severed the wooden shaft, sending a fresh wave of pain racing up his leg. He stifled a groan, hoping his shield skeletons were covering him well enough to prevent another arrow.

He reached out a hand to take hold of an undead and used it to pull himself to his feet, leaning on his own minion to keep his balance. Down the slope, he could see Rufus and Laurel beginning to make their way forward, but he ignored them for the moment, focusing his attention on the armoured slayer.

His archers continued to fire upon the man, the impacts causing the magick to flare and spark around him, dimmer and dimmer each time. If he could keep up the assault for a little longer…. He looked inward at his magick reserves and blanched. He was running so low.

Instead of unleashing Death’s Grasp, as he’d intended, he prepared another two magick bolts, letting his skeletons prop him up to free his hands.

He waited for a moment to strike as his three revenants continued to harry the slayer, lashing out, faster and stronger than his normal skeletons. They were also more expensive to maintain, those quick movements coming at the cost of greater magick demand. It wouldn’t be long until he ran out completely.

There!

An opportunity came. The slayer, tired of being beaten on, rushed to his right, knocking away the strike of a revenant with his shield and allowing his force magick to take the strikes of the others. With a wild bellow, he lashed out with his mace, crushing the revenant’s skull with one mighty blow.

At the same moment, the glow of magick around him flickered out, and Tyron thrust both his hands forward. Nearby, Brun cursed as a sensation of unfathomable cold attacked him from the inside, shocking him out of maintaining his spell. He could feel a malicious will coiling inside him as it sought to ravage his flesh, and he recognised it for what it was. He rolled to his right and leapt, putting some distance between himself and the spirit before he turned and blasted it with a spell. The ghost shrieked in pain before it slid into the tree, where he couldn’t harm it.

Two magick bolts slammed into the armoured slayer's chest, sending him reeling backwards. Tyron’s best revenant, the former swordsman, was too quick to miss an opportunity like that. The skeleton lunged forward, blade whispering through the air like the promise of death before it slid between ribs and cored the slayer's heart like an apple.

Another arrow snapped towards Tyron from the shadows and was caught on a shield, his minion shifting to block it at the last moment. That opened a path for the second, which flashed through the air and buried itself in his shoulder.

Tyron’s vision went black for a moment as the excruciating pain overwhelmed his consciousness for a brief moment. He forced himself to focus, driving the darkness away with his will.

He would not fall here.

“Fucking shit, kid. Stop getting shot!”

“I know.”

The bolts he’d hit the slayer with had helped heal him, but it was only a fraction of what he needed. Now he had a fresh injury on top of that, and he was struggling even to breathe.

Pull it out.

His silent command to a skeleton caused it to reach out and wrench the arrow from his shoulder. Tyron bit back a scream of pain as the arrowhead pulled free, tearing muscle as it went. This area was too open, and his skeletons were getting picked off. If he wasn’t careful, he wouldn’t have enough to cover him from archer fire at all, at which point, they could pick him off at their leisure. He needed to get higher up the mountain, the larger rock formations closer to the rift would cover him.

At least there weren’t many opponents left. There shouldn’t be. As far as he knew, there were only four. Laurel, the other archer, Rufus and Brun.

It was getting difficult to think through the agony and fatigue, but Tyron managed to regather his undead and begin to climb, or hop, up the mountain once more. His archer skeletons fired down on Laurel and Rufus whenever they could see them, trying to hamper their progress. The two approached cautiously, conscious that Tyron was injured, and worn out.

In truth, they were confused he hadn’t fallen over already. After the prolonged fighting, he should have lost all his magick long ago, and after being injured as much as he had, he should have collapsed, or died. Tyron’s unnaturally strong constitution was allowing him to endure far more punishment than a person should be able to, and he leaned on that to push himself forward.

In the distance, he could see the boundary of the broken lands approaching as the temperature continued to drop. The rift was close now, and the likelihood of him running into kin was getting higher. He had to be careful, but he was so damn tired. Every step he took was agony, and focusing through the pain sapped his willpower.

Part of him wanted to quit, to just fall over and let it all go, but the greater part refused to let that prick Rufus win. Even if Tyron died on this mountain, he was determined to take Rufus down with him.

The slayers were cautious, and kept their distance as Tyron continued his slow climb. At any moment, they expected him to fall, but to their shock, the huddled skeletons and the hunched figure in their midst continued to ascend, one step at a time.

“What do you think we do?” Rufus asked Laurel in a hushed tone. “Should we rush him? He’s getting close to that rift.”

Laurel bit her lip as she considered, her dark eyes watching Tyron with unblinking focus.

“He can’t have much left in him,” she said. “I say we wait until he gets up there and then we hit him from the flank. The only way things go wrong is if we get caught out by the rift-kin.”

“That’s probably his plan, the slippery prick,” Rufus eye’s glinted in anger, and Laurel resisted the urge to roll hers.

No matter what Tyron did, Rufus would accuse him of acting poorly, or unsportsmanlike, as if that mattered in a fight to the death. His anger at Tyron was so ingrained and warped, he was incapable of thinking straight where his old rival came into the picture.

“Focus,” she warned him. “He’s fighting for his life, so he’s capable of anything. If we’re cautious, we get the bounty without much risk. If we stuff around, he’ll kill us just like he did the others.”

Rufus glared at her for a moment before he nodded and Laurel let out a slow breath. She’d be damned if she was going to get caught like the others.

Further up the mountain, Tyron felt his leg give out and he slumped to the ground, panting.

“Whoa, what the fuck? What happened?”

“I can’t… can’t walk,” Tyron gasped.

The young mage’s breath rasped in his throat as he sucked in the air, trying to get some energy into his body. Desperate, he glanced around and saw a rocky outcrop to his left, slightly up the slope. With a groan, he ordered his skeletons to pick him up, gasping as they drained his magick precipitously low in the process, and they carried him the final ten metres. He had his minions place him down behind cover and he lay there, still gasping for breath.

Between the blood loss and the icy wind, he could barely feel his fingers anymore and he rubbed them together to try and get the sensation back. Without his hands, he was as good as dead. What use was a mage if they couldn’t cast magick?

“Kid…” Dove said.

With trembling hands, Tyron released the buckles that secured his pack and almost sagged with relief as he felt the weight go. He should have done that ages ago.

“Kid…” Dove repeated.

Tyron closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

“I know,” he said, as he fumbled behind him.

His shoulder ached something fierce as he took hold of the pack and pulled, dragging it around until he could reach in. He grabbed hold of his waterskin and took a long drink, the water shockingly refreshing as it soothed his raw throat.

“We had a hell of a run,” he chuckled as he wiped the water from his chin. He reached out and poured a trickle over the skull, letting it run down and drip over Dove’s features. “Sorry it’s not alcoholic.”

“You should be, teatotalling prick. I would have appreciated a final drink.”

Tyron leaned his head back on the rock. He didn’t have long. The moment he’d fallen, he knew they’d see that as a sign to attack. They’d only been waiting for him to falter.

“Thanks for everything, Dove,” he whispered. “You’ve been a true friend to me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

He reached out and grasped the top of the skull with one hand, lifting him up to look Tyron eye to eye.

“Don’t get sappy on me, kid. You fucked me over with the resurrection thing, but I’ve had a front row seat to watch the greatest young magick wielder ply his trade. If I’d had your talent….”

Tyron forced a laugh.

“I know.”

He could hear them coming. Still cautious, their feet scraped against the icy stone as they approached. Couldn’t be more than twenty metres away now.

“Something I never said to you,” Tyron spoke softly, “you’ve got big balls, Dove. Biggest fucking balls I’ve ever seen.”

“Aww, Tyron. You’re going to make me blush.”

For a silent moment, Tyron stared into the glowing eyes of the Skull. It was time.

“See you on the other side,” Dove said.

Tyron nodded, pulled back his arm, and smashed the skull against the stone beside him. A sharp cracking noise rang out. He drew his arm back and smashed it again, and again, until the skull smashed to pieces and the magick within it faded to nothing.

B2C56 - Homecoming

Tyron gave himself no time to mourn. He grunted as he forced himself back up, clawing at the rock to pull himself upward. His injured leg still couldn’t take his weight, and he was forced to lean on a skeleton again in order to move.

The last of the slayers was coming to pay a visit, it’d be rude to greet them sitting down.

With a thought, he gathered his skeletons and ghosts, placing them in a defensive formation that he hoped would protect him from being stuck with more arrows. He’d had enough of that for one day. The rift was close now, close enough that he could probably make it through in just a few minutes, even as injured as he was.

Would he survive for long on the other side, though? Not likely.

“It’s not looking good,” he muttered.

He paused a moment later when he realised he was only talking to himself.

He felt a pang in his chest, an entirely different sort of pain, but he couldn’t afford to focus on that now. He could mourn for Dove after he survived, or when he was dead.

With his remaining revenants, skeletons and ghosts, Tyron prepared to face his final opponents. If Brun was prepared to honour his word, then that meant he had Rufus, Laurel and the archer to deal with first. He almost looked forward to it.

They were creeping closer now, he could hear them. They had to have heard him moving around, but probably didn’t expect him to be in any condition to fight back. That would be his opportunity.

Tyron stirred the dregs of his magick and formed two bolts in his palms. If he could land two clean shots, the healing he’d receive might be just enough to stop the bleeding, which he desperately needed.

He crouched, listening intently as the seconds ticked by. As drained of resources as he was, even trying to utilise his ghost sight would have stretched him too thin. He had to rely on his own senses.

The rock he crouched behind was almost two metres tall, enough to cover him easily, but not wide enough to conceal all his skeletons. They knew exactly where he was, but from which angle would they come?

The steps drew closer and he readied himself, spells maintained in either hand. His eyes flicked from side to side. Would they come around the left, or the right?

A trickle of dust ran down the face of the stone in front of him. Tyron noticed it, then threw himself backwards with a pained shout. An arrow slammed into the ground between his feet as skeletons rushed forward to cover him. With a curse, he looked up and fired both bolts at the archer who’d escaped him before. She’d climbed up the rock as Laurel and Rufus had approached, masking any sound to take him by surprise.

As off balance as he was, one of his bolts went wide, but another connected on her right hip, spinning her around with a shout. She dropped out of sight as he felt a pathetic trickle of healing creep into him. The connection hadn’t been clean, he mustn’t have done much damage.

To his right, Rufus charged forward, attacking his skeletons with wide swings of his blade. He was in amongst them so quickly that two had fallen before Tyron could react. Chest burning, his remaining revenants rushed at him, but Rufus was wary of them, trying to keep the weaker minions between himself and the more powerful undead. Arrows flew from the side, trying to pick off more skeletons as the swordsman kept them occupied.

Tyron raised his hands and prepared to cast the Shivering Curse, then hesitated. With a sour grimace, he abandoned that plan and staggered forward instead, summoning another pair of magick bolts in his hands.

He couldn’t afford to stand still for that long, not with the escapee only metres away. If she climbed up the rock again… he’d be dead on the spot. If only he’d injured her enough he could be confident her mobility was gone.

Rufus moved with the smooth grace of a martial class, his balance and speed all greater than the human norm. He must’ve reached level ten at least, perhaps taken a feat to enhance his body control, judging by the way he could move with impossible precision.

Magnin hadn’t taken that feat. He hadn’t needed it.

Tyron swept three of his spirits after Rufus and poked his head around the corner of the stone, trying to get a look at Laurel. The moment he saw her, he jerked his head back just in time to avoid an arrow in the face. She’d been waiting for him.

Off balance, Tyron fell to the ground with a pained cry. The injury to his leg was making it difficult to stay on his feet and he had to pull himself up again, sweat breaking out on his brow.

Rufus laughed.

“You may as well give up,” he gloated as he parried a skeleton's attack and returned a savage cut, slicing the arm off at the shoulder joint. “You were never good enough to beat me.”

As injured as he was, Tyron couldn’t help but laugh.

“Fight me by yourself then,” he rasped incredulously. The young mage shook his head. “You might have got some levels, but nothing to improve Intelligence, I see.”

Rufus flushed hotly and opened his mouth but Laurel cut him off.

“Don’t,” she warned him, and the swordsman’s mouth snapped shut.

Tyron leaned against the rock, trying to keep an eye behind him for the other archer.

“Well, that’s not surprising. We always knew who wore the pants in your relationship, Rufus.”

He heard Laurel ‘tsk’ as Rufus roared and charged forward. Tyron rekindled the bolts in his hands and prepared himself. The second archer appeared behind him, arrow ready to loose, but he’d predicted that, his back was already covered by three skeletons with shields.

Rufus battered several skeletons aside, but ran headfirst into his two revenants, who weren’t so easily ignored. A savage cut from the undead swordsman nearly sliced his throat before Rufus pulled back at the last second. Tyron stepped out from behind cover again, spotted Laurel coming forward to shield Rufus, and unleashed his spells.

Her eyes widened when she saw him and her hands flickered as she drew and loosed an arrow with breathtaking speed, but it wasn’t fast enough. The projectile flicked off the bone armour covering Tyron’s ribs, but she was hit with one bolt on her shin as she jumped to the side. He heard a satisfying crack as Laurel spun in the air, crying out with the pain.

“Fair's fair,” Tyron said as he retreated behind cover again.

“You bastard,” Rufus grit his teeth as he warded off the three revenants, sword flashing in the light.

“Not my fault you’re stupid, Rufus.”

Tyron turned to face the other archer. Her angle blocked by the skeletons, she’d tried to come further around the rock to get a shot on him, but hadn’t managed it. As he faced her, she blanched at the look on his face, but exhaled a slow breath and released her shot.

One of his shield-skeletons went down with an arrow straight through the skull before she ran up the slope. They were whittling down his forces, he couldn’t afford to lose too many more.

Rufus had fallen back to defend Laurel, so Tyron took the chance to pursue the other archer. She’d run closer to the rift so she could shoot downhill at him, a smart decision, since it gave him less places to hide. His own archers fired at her, trying to pin the ranger down, but they were running low on ammunition.

Sure would be handy to have had an archer revenant through this fight, he scolded himself.

With a sour feeling in his gut, he realised he wasn’t in a position to chase her. With his injuries, he’d be too slow moving uphill, and leaving the cover of the rocks would open him up to Laurel. His options were running thin, and that Force Mage, Brun, was still out there somewhere.

As much as he hated to admit it, the real threat was Rufus. Even together, the two rangers wouldn’t be able to fight through his minions to get to him. If he removed Rufus from the picture, then he could possibly sit back and recover a little. With enough magick and some time to clean and bandage his wounds, his position would be vastly improved.

As long as Brun kept his word and didn’t attack while Laurel and her partner lived, he’d be safe. It was a risk to believe the slayer would do as he’d said, the man had already bent his rules once, but what choice did Tyron have? He was down to desperate gambles at this point.

He slumped against the rock and drew in several deep breaths, making sure he was covered from the archer above him. At his direction, several of his spirits drifted into position. He’d only get one shot at this.

As exhausted as he was, Tyron didn’t trust himself to win a mind war, not even against Rufus. That left him one option.

The Necromancer closed his eyes, raised his hands, and began to incant his spell. Fingers flickered from one arcane sigil to the next, and in less than ten seconds, he was prepared. Tyron pushed himself around the corner, saw Rufus and Laurel together, and extended his hand.

Death’s Grasp.

The black magick raced through the air, twisting and coiling around itself as it flew in a dark wave. If he’d been by himself, Rufus would likely have been able to avoid it, but in a last second miscalculation, he thought the spell was targeting Laurel.

He pushed her aside with a shout and became entangled by the magick a moment later. Crushed in its grip, he could barely move at all and Tyron ordered his ghosts forward, a crooked smile on his face. The spectres closed in on the bound swordsman, wearing their own expressions of malicious glee. They stretched out their arms, ready to plunge them into his flesh and suffocate him with their ethereal cold.

But they didn’t.

“Wha-?” Tyron muttered, as he staggered and fell to one side.

The ghosts hissed malevolently, inches away from Rufus, but they still didn’t move forward. They couldn’t.

He was out of magick.

Nearby, all of his skeletons became still, frozen in place as the arcane energy they depended on to move ran dry. Tyron himself felt hollowed out, as if the force animating his body was gone. He was a mage completely drained of magick. There was no longer anything he could do.

Despair welled inside him as he looked up at the clouds roiling above. He’d been so close. A few seconds longer and that prick would have been dead and he could take some time to recover his energy.

A few seconds later, the Death’s Grasp dissipated, releasing a shaken Rufus who quickly separated from the biting cold he felt surrounding him. After a few long seconds where he brandished his sword uphill at the unmoving skeletons, he realised what had happened.

His uproarious laughter pierced Tyron right in the heart.

Damn it. I didn’t come this far, I didn’t sacrifice so much, only to fail here!

Desperately, he reached deep inside himself, searching for any wisp of power, any hint of arcane energy. Something… anything, he could use to fight back. When he didn’t find anything, he rolled his head and stared at his pack.

There might be another piece of Mage Candy in there, one that he’d missed before. Not even a whole piece would be needed, a shard, a sliver, dust, it would be better than what he had now.

Barely able to move, Tyron began to drag himself across the stony ground, ignoring the flaring pain of his wounds. He could vaguely hear the others moving around, but he ignored them, focused totally on his goal. If he could only reach his pack, he could turn this around. He… just… had… to reach!

“You may as well stop there, Tyron,” Laurel said.

The Necromancer paused, hand outstretched to his pack, and rolled over to look up. The ranger sat above him, rubbing at her wounded leg, a frown on her tanned face.

He turned to look behind him and saw Rufus grinning widely, sword swinging back and forth as he rolled his wrist, not three metres away.

“Shit,” he groaned.

“Yes, yes you are,” Rufus’ grin broadened as stepped a little closer. There was an ugly light in his eyes as he approached, almost feverish in its intensity.

“Just do it cleanly,” Laurel said to him, her eyes hard. “Don’t fuck around.”

Rufus’ smile slipped a little as he glared up at Laurel.

“Why do you always take his side?” he growled, pointing at Tyron with his sword. “After what he said about my mother, I’m going to carve him like a roast. If you don’t want to watch, you can turn the fuck around.”

Laurel rolled her eyes and glanced down at Tyron.

“See you, Ty,” she said. “Shame about how this worked out for you.”

“Yeah,” he rasped, “real shame.”

She turned and slid down the rock, landing heavily on the other side. Tyron looked up at Rufus, who glared at him.

“You never deserved a single thing you got,” the swordsman growled at him. “I hated that about you.”

“You never stop whining. I hated that about you.”

Tyron forced a grin up at the swordsman and Rufus spat at him.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” he said.

Tyron curled his fingers beneath them, cupping the magick bolt he’d scraped together a second before.

“Me too.”

Bright light flashed, blinding Tyron for a moment. Something hot sprayed on his face and he spat reflexively.

Blood?

His eyes shot open and he looked at himself. No, he was fine….

He looked up at Rufus.

The swordsman had a strange look on his face, his eyes seemed to be looking in different directions. Then a line of blood appeared, running straight down the middle of his forehead. It trickled down to his nose, fell onto his chin, then dropped, splashing against the rocky ground.

Then Rufus fell into two pieces, his left half falling backward, the right slumping forward. Tyron didn’t look. He was staring at the figure who’d been standing behind him.

“He always was a shitty kid,” Magnin observed, looking down on Tyron with a broad grin. He winked. “Great to see you, son.”

B2C57 - Birth of Darkness

Tyron stared up at his father in shock. For his part, Magnin continued to smile down on his child, eyes sparkling with mischief. It was such a familiar expression, it took Tyron a moment to notice that not all was well with his overpowered parent.

Magnin looked pale, his cheeks were sunken in and there were dark bags under his eyes, as if the man hadn’t slept in a month. Tyron had never seen him like this. What had happened?

“F-father -” he began, but the greatest swordsman of the western province held up a hand to cut him off.

“Don’t strain yourself, lad, wait for your mother. She’s a bit slow.”

“I heard that,” Beory stated as she walked around the corner of the rock cover.

In one hand, she held Brun’s head, which she tossed contemptuously to the ground. With the other, she manipulated a coffin of ice through the air. Inside, he could see Laurel, frozen, an expression of slight confusion on her face, as if she hadn’t even had time to realise what was happening before she’d become encased.

Tyron sighed.

Even now, what had proved impossible for him to achieve was so trivially simple for his famous parents. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his shoulder flared and he collapsed back down with an agonised groan.

Beory was by his side in a second.

“Oh, my poor boy. Hold on a second, I have something for you.” She rummaged in her cloak for a moment before she pulled out a small package wrapped in a wax. She quickly opened it and pressed it into his palm. “Place this under your tongue. Quickly now.”

“Yes, mother,” his reply was so automatic it came without him thinking about it. She met his eyes and they both smiled before he did as she said.

As expected, the medicine tasted like fried garbage, but he didn’t doubt it would be effective. There was little reason for the Steelarms to carry anything but the best. He tried not to think about what it meant for his parents to be here. That he may have been saved from one terrible end, but the end had arrived just the same.

He felt tears sting the corners of his eyes.

“None of that now, lad,” Magnin said as he squatted down next to his son. “Just relax, let that foul tasting mixture your mother made do its work.”

Beory slapped him on the shoulder.

“The taste isn’t important, only the efficacy,” she sniffed.

“Same approach to medicine making as to cooking, I see,” he joked.

She slapped him again, harder this time.

The familiar back and forth warmed Tyron’s heart as the foul mixture in his mouth began to dissolve and slide down his throat. As it did so, he felt it begin to take effect, a faint itching sensation igniting around his wounds, growing stronger each passing second.

His parents continued their good natured bickering for a minute as he let the salve do its work. Though it was still painful, he managed to sit up and lean back against the rock.

His father scratched his cheek awkwardly.

“Uh, this is a little late, and I’m sorry about that, really. But, happy Awakening day!” he declared, pulling a sheathed sword from his belt and offering it to Tyron.

The Necromancer stared at his father. Beory sighed and slipped a staff from where she had it strapped to her back before she offered that to him as well.

“It took longer than expected to get these made,” she explained, “we wanted you to have the best.”

As he looked at the two gifts, Tyron couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. He reached up to wipe them away and awkwardly reached out to take the two weapons.

“I’d rather you’d just been there,” he mumbled.

He could feel the power thrumming from the gifts. They’d brought him something only a gold-ranked slayer could use properly. And they’d given him two. It was so typical of them.

“We know,” Magnin admitted. “We planned to be there, but, as usual, our timing didn’t work out. I’m sorry.”

An apology he’d heard a hundred times before. Tyron just nodded. He looked to his mother and noticed that she too appeared more haggard than he’d ever seen her before. As if she’d fought a week-long battle through a rift, she looked exhausted.

“I-is everything alright?” he asked.

She laughed, and leaned forward to embrace him.

“I’m not so weak I need my son to worry about me,” she said.

“Hey, let me get in on that action,” Magnin eagerly hopped forward and enfolded the both of them in his arms.

They remained like that for a long moment, enjoying the feeling of being together again, until Tyron shrugged uncomfortably.

“I think I can stand up now,” he said.

His parents released him and gave a little space.

“Don’t push yourself,” she warned him, concern in her eyes. “I can’t believe you were still fighting, given how injured you were.”

“He’s tough, like his old man,” Magnin boasted, slapping himself on the chest. “We Steelarms are too stupid to know when to quit.”

“That’s true for you, at least. My Tyron isn’t as thick as you and Worthy.”

“I think it’s the constitution I get from being a Necromancer,” Tyron admitted. “I can push through a lot.”

“That might help your body hold up, son, but not your mind. You’re hard as nails, I guarantee it.”

Magnin beamed down at him with obvious pride and Tyron ducked his head as he pulled himself to his feet. They were always like this, full of praise and positivity, he’d never been comfortable dealing with it. From ordinary parents, perhaps it would have been easier to accept, but they doted on him as if they didn’t recall who they were. He could remember how his father had acted the day he’d unlocked the swordsmanship skill, you’d have thought he’d won the Swordsaint contest and been crowned the best in the empire. Watching someone who’d actually won that tournament act in that manner had just made Tyron embarrassed.

He took hold of the sword that still pulsed with power, gripping it tightly in his left hand.

“I can’t believe you got me a sword…” he shook his head.

Magnin shrugged, a little embarrassed.

“I had to cover the bases, didn’t I?” he defended himself. “What if you’d actually Awakened as a Swordsman and we came home with a staff but no sword? I’d’ve turned around and gone back out to commission one immediately.”

“As if there was ever any chance. This boy is a genius Mage, make no mistake. He had a Mystery before he even had a Class.”

Tyron tried not to smile.

“I have two now.”

Beory gave a little shriek and squeezed him from the side as Magnin threw back his head and laughed.

“I still have a long way to catch up to you two. How many do you have now, Dad?”

Magnin’s laugh cut off and his eyes flicked to his wife.

“There’s no need to dwell on the numbers. More isn’t necessarily better, it’s all about how far you advance them.” He nodded seriously. “Take that lesson to heart.”

Beory huffed.

“He has nine,” she murmured, pretending to glare at her husband. “I’ve never been able to catch up to him.”

“Let’s not dwell on that, how far did you manage to advance yours Tyron?”

“They’re Advanced, both of them.”

Both Steelarms boggled and he felt a flush of pride at being able to shock them for once.

“How?” Beory gasped. “What level are you? You can’t be over forty already?”

“I’m not,” he shook his head, “I reached Level thirty in Necromancer. They were progressed by the Unseen as a reward.”

“Well, well, well,” Magnin grinned. “I can see you have a lot to tell us.”

He glanced up at the sun overhead.

“We’ve got a little time, why don’t we set up a little camp here and you can tell us about your journey.”

They waited for him to nod and then launched into a flurry of activity. In no time at all, they’d arranged a humble campsite, replete with crackling fire as they utilised their superhuman abilities to perform routine chores in mere seconds. From their packs, they pulled tea and bread, along with cured meat, and soon they were chatting around the fire, listening with rapt attention as Tyron detailed his trials since the Awakening.

As always, his parents made an excellent audience, hanging on his every word and interjecting with appropriate excitement or sympathy at the right moments. When he fought off his friends and escaped the tomb in Foxbridge, his mother sniffed and glared at the nearby corpse of Rufus, now freezing in the icy temperatures.

“I never liked that boy,” she declared. “His poor mother deserved better.”

“Poor Elsbeth,” Magnin shook his head, “a shame she got caught up in all this.”

“All what?” Tyron asked and his father waved him off. “Later, lad. Finish your tale first.”

He told them of his trip to Woodsedge, getting robbed on the way, and eventually making it to the town. He spoke of his apprenticeship to Hakoth, learning the basics of the butcher's trade, his forced ritual casting of Beyond the Veil and the chaos that ensued. They listened quietly as he spoke of his first journey to the Broken Lands, of his search for bones and his first meeting with Dove.

When he told them of his attempt to rush to the rift, hoping to do something to support the slayers, they both winced, and he nodded sheepishly.

“Not my best decision,” he admitted.

“Your heart was in the right place,” Beory reached out and patted him on the knee. “And one day, I believe you’ll be so mighty you can hold a rift single handed, but that wasn’t the time to try.”

He went on to detail how Dove had saved his life, how they had bunkered down during the break and how he had partially resurrected his friend and mentor.

“He sounds like my kind of guy,” Magnin laughed and Beory shot him some side-eye. “Oh come on. Would I have given him my wallet? No. But he does sound like a fun person to know.”

Tyron opened his mouth to defend Dove, but shut it again after a pause. The Summoner hadn’t been altogether wise with his finances. If he’d gotten his hands on Magnin’s fortune, it likely would have vanished overnight.

“He wasn’t the kind of person you would approve of, mother,” he said, “but he was a great slayer, a brilliant Mage, and a good friend to me.”

“I can hardly disapprove of him after everything he did for you,” Beory said. “I would love to have met him.”

The Necromancer nodded sadly.

“He’s free now. That’s what he wanted.”

“More importantly, that was some incredible magick,” Beory enthused.

“I earned my second Mystery for that.”

Then he detailed his contact with the Scarlet Court and the summoning of Yor. His mother huffed disapprovingly.

“Vampires,” she said with disapproval. “I’ve never liked them.”

“You know about them?” Tyron turned his eyes to her and the Battle Mage smiled.

“Of course, but we can deal with that later, go on.”

He went on to detail his escape from Woodsedge, his journey through the western province, and the encounter with the farm and bandits.

Beory’s face twisted in disgust at the description, and even Magnin leaned and spat to one side.

“Filth,” the swordsman stated simply, as if it was all that needed to be said.

After the battle and his successful defence against the counter attack, he described his meeting with Elsbeth and her teacher, which raised the eyebrows of both his parents.

“Priestess to the Old Gods? Well… I did not see that coming,” Magnin said.

Beory hesitated before speaking.

“I… don’t really see Elsbeth as being compatible with… them.”

“You know about them as well?” Tyron demanded.

Magnin laughed.

“You don’t get to as high a level as us without learning a few things,” he chuckled, “even though people try desperately to hide it. In fact, the more they try to hide it, the more I want to find out what they're hiding.”

From there, he told them of his journey through the foothills, of his contact within the Abyss and of hunting down the bandits.

“Going through the veil,” Magnin whistled, sharing a look with Beory.

“He’s not going slow, is he?” Beory said with pride.

“I couldn’t have done it without the help of Yor,” Tyron explained, but his mother wouldn’t have it.

“It takes a certain fortitude to encounter the beings beyond the Veil and return with your sanity. You should be very pleased with yourself. There’s a reason Abyssals are usually hunted by Gold Slayers.”

Tyron hadn’t known that….

By the time he got to explaining his encounter with Cragwhistle, his capture of the archer and his discovery of the nascent rift, almost an hour had passed. Only then did he realise something he should’ve thought of earlier.

“The archer! She’s still out there!”

Magnin looked at him with an eyebrow raised.

“You think we didn’t notice her?” he asked incredulously.

“Is she….” Tyron faltered, glancing at Rufus’ bisected body and Laurel’s frozen tomb.

“She’s alive,” Beory said, glancing up the slope, “but she won’t bother us for a while. She still has a purpose to serve.”

From there, he told them of his fight to examine the rift, and his defence against the slayers. Almost as an afterthought, he mentioned the marshals and the ambush which Yor had foiled.

“Marshals,” Magnin shook his head. “They might be able to keep the regular populace in line, but they’re terrible at fighting high level slayers. At least, the regular ones are. They don’t have to do it very often, they can rely on the brands most of the time.”

“At least I don’t have one of those,” Tyron grimaced.

“And you never will, if you play your cards right,” Magnin winked.

Tyron shrugged uncomfortably. Now it came down to it, he felt a queasy twisting in his guts. As wonderful as it was to spend time with his family again, as warm and safe as the presence of his parents made him feel, he knew deep down that it was an illusion.

“I… I did my best,” he choked out, emotion welling in his throat. He vigorously rubbed away the tears that threatened to spill once more. “I tried… I tried to make you proud.”

Beory was by his side in an instant, her arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“And we are proud of you, Tyron. You’ve done so well, better than even we could have hoped.”

“She’s right, son,” Magnin confirmed, his eyes soft. “You were dealt a terrible hand, and you made a winner out of it anyway. I couldn’t have done better myself at your age. Well done, lad.”

Tyron slumped forward, his head between his knees, and nodded.

“But it’s over now,” he stammered, trying to firm his resolve. “I know they sent you to bring me back.”

He drew in a shaky breath and raised his head.

“I… I’m ready. I’ve probably damaged the Steelarm reputation beyond repair… but at least if you turn me in, people will see we solved it in the family. And I want you to apologise to Worthy and Aunt Meg for me. I feel terrible for leaving them the way I did.”

He couldn’t look at his parents as he spoke, only glancing at them when they didn’t reply to his words. They were both looking at him as if he were insane.

“You think we’re going to take you in?” Magnin laughed. “Don’t be daft, boy!”

Beory looked hurt.

“You really thought we would do that? To our own son?”

Tyron stared at them.

“But… you have to!” he stammered. “You’ll be outlawed if you don’t!”

The two Slayers continued to look at him with those puzzled expressions on their faces.

“So?” Magnin said.

The Necromancer grew increasingly frantic as his parents failed to grasp the gravity of the situation.

“You’ll be killed! They’ll hunt you down. I won’t let that happen!”

Magnin shared an awkward glance with Beory before he reached out and grasped his son by the shoulder.

“Tyron. You need to listen to me. None of this is your fault, do you understand?” He glanced up at the sun overhead. “And I wish we could take more time to explain it all, but we seem to be running a little short.”

“W-what are you talking about?”

Beory sighed before she started to explain.

“This is all our fault,” she said, a sad smile on her lips, “just like everything else that’s gone wrong in your life, and I can’t apologise enough. I’ll try to explain as briefly as I can.”

She looked up as she tried to think of what to say.

“It really boils down to the Magisters, the Nobility who control them, and the four arseholes who control them.”

Tyron boggled.

“You mean… the divines?”

She sneered.

“Of course, the divines. The entire branding system is their invention, desperate to prevent anyone from fighting their way up to the same level. When your father and I reached a certain point…”

Magnin picked up as she trailed off.

“They told us we couldn’t progress any further,” he sounded completely affronted and Tyron could understand why. You might as well have told the pair to stop breathing. “Imagine that! Stop fighting, leave the rifts alone, retire to some mansion in the central province and live out our days in peace.”

He looked as if he might throw up just thinking about it and Tyron couldn’t help but laugh. Knowing his family as he did, it was a ridiculous request.

“We could still tidy up little jobs around the edges, but nothing serious, nothing like what we would need to do to progress. If we didn’t comply, they threatened to use the brands and murder us.”

“So naturally, we immediately tried to find a way around it. Sneaky stuff, dark powers, Vampiric nasties, long forgotten gods, all the classics.”

“Take this seriously, Magnin,” Beory frowned. “But… he’s basically right. We sought for a way to nullify the effects of the brand and break the control they had over us. We were… partially successful. We were able to weaken the brand, but couldn’t break it.”

“And to make a long story short,” Magnin broke in, “they found out what we were up to and decided to punish us.”

Tyron frowned.

“How?”

“You, love,” Beory said gently. “The divines interfered with your Awakening. They have some influence over the Unseen, not much, but the Awakening crystal is designed to increase this control. They used it to give you the Necromancer Class, and the Dark Ones noticed their meddling, giving you Anathema to help you survive and… disrupt things for their enemies.”

It was a shocking revelation and Tyron’s brain froze as he tried to process it. The gods had given him this Class? In order to punish his parents? It was absurd. Or was it?

Magnin grimaced.

“From there, it was relatively easy for them to engineer a situation that was no-win for us. We’d either have to kill you, our only child, or die ourselves, which is what they really want.”

The words registered with Tyron slowly.

“No,” he said.

His father gave him a twisted smile.

“I’m afraid so, son. There’s only one way out, and I’m afraid that this is it. We created this mess ourselves, prodding at things we shouldn’t have. There’s no way we would ever make you pay the price for that.”

“It’s for the best this way, Tyron,” his mother told him. “You will survive. You can send the archer girl back to the Magisters after Yor modifies her memory. She’ll tell them we all died, and that’ll be the end of it. They don’t really care about you that much, it’s your father and I that they want. You can escape through the rift. We’ve arranged things for you. A new identity, a chance to hide and start your life again.”

“No!” he shouted.

It wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be happening. He refused to accept it. He refused!

Magnin sighed.

“We’re about out of time, Beory,” he said, peering up at the sky.

Irritation flashed across her tired face.

“Always interfering, even at the worst possible moments,” she snapped. “Useless pricks could never leave us alone.”

“Language, dear.”

“Shut up, Magnin.” She turned back to Tyron. “There’s a letter for you in my pack that explains what to do from here. We’ve arranged things with some friends of ours, they’ll help you.”

The two of them rose and stood arm in arm, looking down on their son with proud smiles on their faces. Tyron looked a mess, tears running down his face as he stared imploringly up at them.

“Live your life, son. We’re so, so lucky to have had you in our lives, and I’m sorry we messed things up so badly for you,” Beory said, her lip quivering.

Magnin leaned his head down against that of his wife.

“You’ll be free after this,” he said. “We’ve been able to do that much for you, in the end. Love you, kid.”

He turned his head and kissed his wife’s hair.

“Are you ready, darling?”

“Of course.”

The greatest swordsman of the western province flipped a dagger from his belt and caught it nimbly by the hilt.

“You may want to look away for this,” he said to Tyron, before he turned, lifted Beory’s chin and kissed her full on the mouth.

Then he rammed the dagger straight into her heart. Beory stiffened, then went limp in her husband's arms. Magnin lowered her lovingly to the ground, then knelt by her side.

“Sorry we couldn’t leave you our souls,” he said quietly, “we didn’t want to risk the divines getting hold of us.” He tapped himself on the chest. “But this is the finest damn set of materials you’ll ever get your hands on. Make sure you use it well.”

Without taking his eyes from Beory, he lay down by her side, before he slid the blade into his own chest, sighing as he did.

Then he was gone.

Tyron sat staring at them for a long, long time.

Final Author note: you didn't enjoy it, did you? Sorry about that.