CHAPTER B5: THE GOD IN THE MACHINE

Work consumed Tyron. There was a great deal to do, and he keenly felt the pressure of time weighing on his back. Despite his confidence, he knew that a single false step would spell his doom. He didn’t underestimate the Death Lords, he believed they were every bit as powerful as Dove had said they were. Should they notice him, he would be destroyed as easily as a human swatting a fly.

So he poured his energy and expertise into establishing a boundary around the site of the gate, creating a field that would conceal every tiny ebb of magick that took place within. In many ways, he was held back by only having a single demi-lich able to assist him with the delicate enchanting work, even if that individual was Master Willhem.

While the rest of the horde established a perimeter, keeping low amongst the dunes of powdered stone and skulls, the two of them laboured over posts that they planted at equal intervals, each a single node in a greater array that slowly took shape over the following hours and days.

All the while, the eerie atmosphere that pervaded the realm of the dead pressed in around them. The darkness, the suffocating thickness of Death Magick, the absence of sound and colour and… anything. It was so quiet, the only things he ever heard were the clicking of skeletal heels against stone and the trickling and shifting of the grit as it cascaded down the face of the dunes.

This was not a place for the living, and it seemed as if the Realm was intent on reminding him of that fact with every passing moment. Indeed, the only thing keeping him alive was the reservoir of power the Old Gods had stowed away in the walking flesh sack that had been Rolan. Without that, he wouldn’t be able to exist here for even a minute, and it was a limited resource.

It had been a monumental effort to arrive here, yet now the only way to survive was to leave.

Quickly.

Yet he couldn’t do that either. With a sigh, Tyron stepped back from the final post, stretching his back and blinking his eyes. The air, if it even was air, was so dead in this place he felt like it was eating into his eyes and lungs. Every breath tasted like a tomb, and exhaling felt like it sapped the very life essence from his flesh. It was exhausting simply existing in this place, pushing even the indefatigable Necromancer to his limits.

“It should hold,” Willhem said, “though I will have to maintain it carefully. If you need me for other projects, it will prove difficult to ensure no sign of our presence leaks.”

Tyron nodded.

“I get it. I’ll entrust you with this, Master Willhem. With all that needs to be done here, I don’t imagine these wards will be enough without your expert touch. I won’t draw you away unless the situation is dire.”

The demi-lich studied him with hollow eyes, the red crystal growths within his skull sparkling with arcane energy.

“That would be wise,” he said, before turning to drift away.

With the final post in place, the array covered an area a kilometre by a kilometre, a tiny island of sanctuary within a hostile world. Performing any sort of magick outside of this space could well be enough to get him killed, but he would still have to do it.

In the centre of the array, Tyron’s tent had been erected, a simple affair of brown hide, with a desk, bed and bookshelf as the only furniture. A small chest held his spare books and ink, and a lightweight chair for him to sit in.

There was no wind of any sort within the Realm of the Dead, but at least the tent provided cover and contained the light he needed to work by. As much as the Necromancer wanted to sit down and try to work on the next of the many problems he was faced with, he couldn’t, since Dove had taken up the seat, his feet propped up on the table as he leaned back.

“Weren’t you ever told not to lean in your seat?” Tyron remarked.

“What can I say? I’m a rebel. I live dangerously. On the edge. Mavericks like me don’t live by the same rules as petty mortals like you, Tyron. We’re bold, adventurous. We sail where others are afraid to go, blaze trails that-Ack!”

Dove’s diatribe was somewhat rudely cut off when Tyron, having heard enough, kicked the chair out from under him, sending the skeletal construct tumbling to the floor.

A person could land in quite an ungraceful heap, but a skeleton was capable of so much more. Arms, legs and ribs seemed to tangle with each other in a bizarre display as Dove glared up at Tyron from the floor.

“That… was the act of a small man,” he said spitefully.

“Get out of my chair, Dove,” Tyron sighed.

“That would have been easier before you acted on your petty jealousy!” the skeleton growled as he slowly managed to pick himself up.

“I don’t have the patience for your games, Dove,” Tyron said, not bothering to apologise. “I’ve a lot to do if I don’t want to die here, and burning time dealing with your antics is not something I’m interested in entertaining.”

“Hah! I knew you weren’t as confident as you looked! Yes. Yesssss! Tell me the truth, you actually are trapped here, right? You're desperate, panicking, worried you’ll suffocate to death in a realm that rejects your very existence.”

Dove leapt over to Tyron, his skull right next to the Necromancer’s ear as Tyron tried to ignore him. Irritated, he shooed the skeleton away, batting at his face with the back of his hand.

“No, I’m not trapped here. Getting out of this place is the part I’m most confident about.”

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“Fuck,” Dove cursed. “You got my hopes up there for a minute. Fine, I’ll bite. What are you worried about?”

Tyron had several books open on the desk before him now, flicking through them in turn as he sought the references he required.

“Getting here was one thing, getting out of here is another, but if that’s all I achieve, then I still won’t survive. I need to get stronger, much stronger, and fighting kin in the wastelands wasn’t going to get me where I need to be in the time I need to be there.”

“And where do you need to be?” Dove asked him.

“I need to be platinum,” Tyron replied, as if it were obvious. He started to jot down notes as he thought. “I can’t defeat an army of golds as a gold. I need levels, and in addition to that, I need materials. Powerful minions that can fight against gold calibre warriors. I have to find these things here, in the Realm of the Dead, before I go back.”

Dove stared, then burst out laughing.

“You can’t be serious! Trying to snatch resources from beneath the eyes of the Death Lords is like pinching gold from in front of a dragon’s nose! It’s even worse than that, you don’t have any idea how things work here. You can’t find the gold, and if you did, you don’t know how to mine it, and if you did, you don’t know how to refine it, and if you did, you don’t know how to smelt it. And evenif you figure all of that out, because you’re so fucking

smart, you then need to turn it into coins, then swan off into the night without being eaten by the dragon who watched you do the entire, fucking, process!”

“I have to agree with you, Dove,” Tyron sighed. “It’s not a smart plan, but it’s all I have left available. I can’t expect to bring down gods without taking a few risks, now can I?”

He continued to scribble away at his notes as Dove chuckled to himself.

“It’s also colossally stupid to think I can steal from beneath the nose of a dragon.”

“A super pissed-off, undead dragon,” Dove pointed out.

“Yes. But what if I steal from beneath the nose of two dragons?” Tyron said, still scribbling away.

It was difficult for a skull to boggle without physical eyes, but Dove managed it fairly well.

“TWO?! Isn’t that just… twice as stupid? Did you actually come here in a complicated plot to take your own life in the most idiotic fucking way possible?”

“No.”

Dove’s eyes lit up as recognition came to him.

“You want to instigate a fight between two Death Lords and sneak off into the night with the prize? Are you insane? One of them is enough to squash you like a bug, two of them? If you’re anywhere near that conflict, you’ll be killed by accident. They won’t even have to try.”

“Not a great plan,” Tyron reiterated, “but the only one I’ve got. I’ll be heading out scouting soon, and I need you to come with me.”

“Me? Fuck no! I’m not going out there! I’ve already got one contract of doom hanging over my head. I do not want another!”

Before Tyron could reply, there was a disturbance from outside that seized his attention. In an instant, his mind was shooting through the conduits, flowing towards his minions as a high-pitched, ethereal shriek pierced the darkness and sent his hairs standing on end.

It came from the north, and his minions had already engaged with it, but the creature was confusing to look at through the eyes of the dead.

Four long limbs extended from an almost humanoid body, the arms extending to end in bone-tipped hooks, the legs long and lithe, like those of a cat. It loomed over the skeletons before it, shrieking and howling. What was most confusing was its body. To the eyes of the minions, it burned as if aflame with green magick, but Tyron knew that what they were seeing wasn’t real. Or at least, he wouldn’t see it himself if he were to gaze on the creature. No, this was something to do with death, something only the dead could see.

“Fuck me!” Dove hollered, diving for cover beneath Tyron’s bed. “A fucking Soul Eater! Kill it! Kill it quick!”

“A what?” Tyron muttered, but he didn’t wait for an answer.

The beast leapt into the horde of skeletons, its hooked arms swinging in wide arcs that smashed into shields, cracking and breaking them when it wasn’t properly deflected. The thing was strong.

He issued orders quickly, and the horde responded, descending on the creature rapidly. Magick tore at it, arrows punctured it, swords and spears rendered its strange, undying flesh. Even then, it caused significant damage before it was finally brought down.

A final, shuddering scream rang through the dead air, hanging over them for what seemed like minutes before finally it grew quiet once more. When he was sure it was dead, Tyron stepped out of his tent, a reluctant Dove following in his wake.

It didn’t take long to reach the site of the battle, but he had already been organising it via mental commands. The injured skeletons were on their way to his tent, awaiting repairs, but the damaged weapons would be difficult to replace.

Surrounded by hundreds of his undead, the remains of the creature remained still, splayed out on the ground, seemingly barely held together.

“Is it dead?” Dove demanded from a short distance away.

Tyron crouched down next to it. As he’d thought, he didn’t see the burning green light that the skeletons saw, and he knew they still saw it, even though the thing was assuredly dead.

“It’s in pieces, Dove. I think it’s dead.”

Despite his assurance, Dove was strangely reluctant to draw close, and when he did, he hissed almost involuntarily.

“Oh, fuck. I don’t like being close to these things, they freak me out.”

“You called it a Soul Eater? What is that?” Tyron asked.

He knew there were creatures native to this Realm. They couldn’t be called kin, or monsters, not in the same sense as Tyron understood them. These creatures existed in the Realm of the Dead quite apart from magick and weren’t formed in the same way that kin were. These were the beings that Dove’s current Class allowed him to form contracts with and summon.

“Tyron, it does what it says on the fucking tin. It’s a Soul Eater. It eats souls. You can’t see them in there?”

He looked back down at the remains.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Although, wait a moment.”

Again, he pushed his eyes through those of a nearby minion and looked at the thing again. The flames were back, dancing and writhing from within its belly, but this time, he looked again, closer.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Those weren’t flames. They were souls, entwined with each other, reaching and grasping, trying to break free of the creature’s guts.

“It must have sniffed us out,” Dove told him. “They stalk all over the place, looking for… well… food. You’ve got a soul, I’ve got a soul, and so do all your revenants, wights and floaty-boys. To these things, we may as well be marching around with our dicks in our hands screaming at the top of our lungs. It’s almost impossible to hide from them.”

Tyron was only half listening, his mind locked onto the desperate, half-digested souls within the beast. Dove noticed his fascination.

“You wanted to know what everyone is fighting for down here. How to get your hands on the ‘gold’. Well, congratulations. There it fucking is.”