CHAPTER B5: THE NATURE OF SOULS

The Soul Eater was heavily mangled, but even so, Tyron was able to piece together just what it had looked like in… life, and it was a disturbing picture indeed. Grey-skinned, hunched, with a distended, toothless void of a mouth and hollow, black eyes, it was more horrific than any kin he had ever seen.

What’s more, he had no idea how to extract the souls from its gut, so he did the next best thing. Butcher knife in hand, he carved its stomach out of the remains before having his minions dispose of the corpse.

Except for the bones. He wanted the bones.

Back in his tent, Tyron placed the cleansed stomach on his desk and got to work. With nothing better to do, Dove accompanied him.

“This has to be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen you do. And I’ve seen you do some truly horrendous shit,” the undead Summoner remarked.

“It’s not that bad,” Tyron said as he used his various enchanted implements to study the sack of grey meat on the table in front of him.

It was saturated with Death Magick, as everything in the Realm was, with the possible exception of Tyron himself, but it was the nature of the souls within that was truly fascinating. He ran test after test, looking at the stomach from various angles, using magickal lenses, casting spells and creating ritual circles on the fly.

“Tyron, it’s a stomach filled with souls, and you’re looking at it like a child looks at a new toy. Or a grown man looks at a bare breast. It’s not natural.”

“Are you really comparing the value of something like this to a boob?” the Necromancer said, disbelieving. “This has incredible magickal properties.”

“No, lad,” Dove sighed wistfully. A woman’s chest is far more magical.”

“I’m convinced you were insane long before you died.”

“My teammates would likely agree with you.”

Tyron could remember them. They’d taken him on his first ever venture into the broken lands. Rogil, Aryll and Monica. All dead now.

“They were good people,” he said softly.

“Some of the best I ever met,” Dove agreed. “I was a royal pain in their backsides. By the munificent mounds of the goddess, I wish they were still alive.”

“What are you trying to steal from behind my back, Dove? I know you don’t get sentimental unless there’s theft involved.”

“Wh-what? How dare you besmirch the memory of my former teammates in this way?!”

“Dove, if I turn around and see you holding something you shouldn’t be, I will inter your soul into my left sock.”

Tyron heard something being gently put back in place.

“I resent the accusation, kid. It’s outrageous.”

Without lifting his head, Tyron raised a hand and pointed to the corner of the tent to his left. He clicked his fingers a few times until Dove finally groaned and moved into position, standing with his arms folded within the younger man’s line of sight.

“Happy?” he said.

“Very.”

The skeleton grumbled to himself a little, kicking at the floor and making subtle rude gestures in Tyron’s direction until boredom won out and he spoke again.

“Have you actually learned anything from that damned thing yet? You must have cast a dozen spells on it by now.”

Tyron had, in fact, learned a lot from it. His head was starting to buzz, the fugue state that had hung over him earlier beginning to blow away as his thoughts picked up speed.

“This thing is… it’s incredible,” Tyron remarked enthusiastically, his hands never slowing as he moved from one test to the next.

“It's a Soul Eater stomach,” Dove shuddered. “I can’t imagine what goes on in there. Is it… digesting them or… do they just suffer?”

“You seem especially adverse to these creatures, Dove. Have you encountered them before?”

“Malasin threatened to feed me to one if I didn’t stop insinuating he had a tiny dick.”

Tyron sat up straight and turned towards the skeleton.

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“How did you get out of its stomach?” he asked, fascinated.

“You didn’t even consider the possibility I kept my mouth shut?” Dove exclaimed.

The Necromancer merely snorted, causing his former teacher to glare at him.

“I was removed after a few days. Luckily, consciousness and a soul aren’t exactly the same thing, otherwise I may have suffered permanent damage. Instead it was just…” he shuddered, “... unpleasant.”

“A lucky escape,” Tyron remarked, having already turned back to his work.

The stomach was fascinating. Immensely so. Although invisible to his naked eye, the souls remained trapped inside, clawing and thrashing, desperate to fight their way out. Whatever properties of the organ in front of them kept them contained, it seemed to have kept beyond the creature’s death, at least for the time being, so he needed to move quickly.

The first thing he noticed was the presence of magick in the souls. Without rifts, there had to have been another way for the Realm of the Dead to become saturated with arcane energy, and there was only one reasonable answer: souls. He already knew souls could act as a container or repository for magickal energy, and it seemed they were even able to take it with them when they were finally pulled from their home realm and brought here.

Likely there were many places out there where magick had not yet reached, but there must be a huge number where it had. All of those souls, each carrying their own little drop of energy, piling up over who knew how many years, thousands and thousands, possibly.

Now the energy in the Realm was so thick it was self-propagating, but souls still brought more in. The unfortunate spirits trapped in front of Tyron were stuffed with Death Magick, but that wasn’t necessarily how they’d come. Wild ghosts in his home realm predominantly contained death-aligned energy by the nature of what they were, but they could also hold trace amounts of other forms of power.

It was feasible this energy could be… harvested, if someone were to get to a soul quickly enough and safely contain it.

The other major discovery he’d found was the nature of the souls themselves. He wasn’t sure if it was due to their partially digested state, or if this was simply the nature of souls within this realm, but they were different from the ghosts and spirits he’d encountered before. There was a qualitative difference to the nature of these souls, as if they were the same shape but formed of entirely different material.

More testing was required, but he suspected that these would be a much more useful material. There was a change to its fundamental makeup, as if it were constructed of brand new substance. Again, that could have been a property of the Soul Eater or of the Realm, he didn’t know.

“It’s… almost like a bezoar,” he mused, studying the clump of souls through one of his enchanted glass panes.

“A what?” Dove said.

“A bezoar. It’s a hunk of matter that gets caught in the digestive tract, for years, or decades. They find them in sheep, cows, even in people. Alchemists love them.”

“That’s… disgusting. How do you even know that?”

“I know a lot of things. I wonder if these souls are different in some way from the regular versions? They have to be. I can see the fusion for myself.”

The souls had, for want of a better term, melted together at their base. It was horrifying to think of, these were once living people, and they clearly weren’t happy about the situation, but Tyron found himself endlessly fascinated, which helped him overcome his innate revulsion.

These souls… he could make something with them, he was sure of it. His initial tests showed such strange and unique properties, he had a thousand ideas. More than anything, he needed to know what was unique about what he’d found. Which meant he needed an ordinary, non-eaten soul.

Before then, he had to ensure his prize wouldn’t be lost. Acting quickly, he moved to construct a ritual circle of containment. It was possible the stomach would continue to hold the souls, it was also possible they couldn’t leave in their current state, but he didn’t want to take any chances. While he was at it, he added a circle of concealment. Souls were what the Death Lords wanted most, and he didn’t doubt they had powerful and sophisticated means of finding them. He couldn’t be too cautious.

When that was done, he pushed himself back from the desk and stood up. The speed of the action caused Dove to jump in surprise.

“Whoa! I thought you’d settled in for a long session of brooding and scribbling. Where are you going?”

“I need more research material,” Tyron said, turning and collecting his staff from where Dove had clumsily replaced it after his attempted theft. He looked around for his armour, only to realise he hadn’t taken it off. Just the bone helmet, which he’d placed to the side of the desk.

He picked it up and put it on before moving toward the tent flap, only for Dove to catch his arm. The Necromancer frowned and looked back at his former teacher, but found the skeleton to be unusually serious.

“When you say ‘materials’, what do you mean, really?”

“Well, souls. I need souls.”

Dove nodded.

“Don’t forget what they really are. I’ve seen what can happen to souls in this place, Tyron. It’s… awful. Horrific. Being snatched up by the Death Lords is a fate beyond cruelty.

“Try not to be like them,” Dove said. “You were at least born human. You don’t have their excuses.”

“I will do what I must. Anything, to bring them down.”

“You’re a monster, Tyron. But even among monsters, there are degrees. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking you’ve fallen as far as a man can fall. I guarantee you, the descent is so much deeper than you imagine.”

Perturbed, but unwilling to show it, Tyron shook off the bony fingers that gripped him.

“I’ll do what I must,” he repeated, and walked out of the tent.

Putting together an expedition didn’t take long. It was almost refreshing, to have so little demands on the horde or on his own time, but he heeded his own sense of caution. Any minion with a soul remained behind. Only his weakest skeletons and constructs were able to leave the protective array, lest they be found by more Soul Eaters or the Death Lords themselves.

Tyron sat and watched them go, unable to follow, but not unable to help. He closed his eyes and shook loose his shoulders. He was still working on this particular technique, but it would serve him well in the Realm of the Dead.

His mind flowed through the conduits that bound his minions to him, and he rolled over his own horde like a wave. Looking through the eyes of his minions, he rode with them as they marched out into the darkness, hunting for souls.