CHAPTER B5: THE REALM BEYOND

When Rolan returned from the realm of his gods, it was clear that they had taken his soul. His eyes were glazed over, sightless, and he shambled like a zombie as he shuffled forward.

A little disappointed, Tyron took the enchanted stone, the latest version of what he had come to call a ‘soul trap’ from his pocket and checked it. As he suspected, it was empty. Whatever the gods had done, it had circumvented his attempt to ensnare Rolan's soul should it leave his body.

A long shot, but worth a try. A skeleton stepped forward, and he handed over the stone before turning back to see the form of his power reservoir. Obviously, it had worked, since the walking corpse resonated with divine energy so strong it set Tyron’s teeth on edge. Probably every Priest and Priestess in the city could sense it. If he didn’t hurry up, they’d doubtless come running to see just what was going on.

Elsbeth knew, but he doubted she wanted to poke her nose in and take a look at what she had been so willing to adopt as her own fate. The very thought of her standing in front of him, blank and lifeless, a vessel for the Dark Ones, was repulsive. He shook off the thought, then stood and looked at what Rolan had become.

Was he… was he supposed to just… push it around? There was no brain in there, no active consciousness, he couldn’t give it directions.

Or could he?

“Walk over there,” he said.

Unseeing eyes stared back at him. The corpse didn’t move.

“I’m an idiot,” he sighed to himself.

Mentally, he assigned a few skeletons to steer this shambling meat-bag around and turned his mind to more pressing matters. Most of his undead horde had assembled, and there were a few getting worked on by the bone-smiths and others below. The carts laden with the numerous supplies he would need on the other side continued to increase in number as time passed, and the absorption circle was again fully laden with fresh crystal, the power already draining in preparation for their departure.

Satisfied that everything was in hand, he decided to head to his room to check on a final few things. Stepping away, he walked out of the main temple floor, ignored the crowd of onlookers gathering in the street, curious to see what was happening, and walked down to the belowground entrance. It was crowded in the narrow tunnels with so many undead and people moving about. Several of the newly Awakened almost tripped over him without realising who he was, so intent on getting where they were going in time.

It was almost refreshing.

Arriving at his own chambers, Tyron pushed open the door to find his three students sitting in their respective chairs around the fire, which burned low in the hearth. Dove, on the other hand, was pinned to the wall with iron half-circles that had literally been driven into the stone. One for his neck, and one for each of his four limbs, along with another around his lower spine, just for good measure.

“He hasn’t been much trouble, has he?” Tyron asked.

“You fuck-faced fucker! I’ll give you trouble! I’ll ram trouble so far down your throat you’ll be shitting trouble for a week! And piss! Trouble dribbling down your fucking leg! Tyron! Let me free, you fucking prick!”

“He’s been… loud,” Richard winced in the first gap of Dove’s tirade.

“Loud? LOUD?! Richard, you pimply little shit! You can’t find your own pubic hair without fucking glasses on! I’ve been imprisoned against my will!”

“Is he going to insult all of us?” Georg muttered, looking fed up.

“I wasn’t going to, but now I fucking will! I’ve seen knives with less fucking edge on them than you, Georg! Only difference is, they don’t have to try so fucking hard! You think you’re some sort of hard-ass fucking killer? You’ve felt up more teats than tits, you fucking farm boy! You’re better than everyone else in this room at precisely one thing: stepping in shit, and don’t you ever fucking forget it!”

“You don’t have to do me,” Briss said, ducking her head. “I’m fine.”

Before Dove could launch into another tirade, Tyron cut him off.

“Alright, time to let him down.”

“Fucking finally!”

All three students looked at him in shock.

“Are you sure?” Richard asked. “I thought he was going to run?”

“There’s nowhere for him to go anymore,” Tyron said, “it’s time to go.”

He looked over to the skeleton, who no longer seemed so pleased.

“Ready for our little adventure, Dove?” he said with a slight smile.

“You know what, Tyron? This wall isn’t so bad. It’s soothing in its own way. The world gives us too many options, we have too many directions we could go. It’s dazzling, confusing, confounding even. Having one’s limbs pinned to a wall via cold, hard iron gives a certain perspective, teaches a man what’s truly valuable in unlife.”

Tyron could only roll his eyes.

“There’s no getting out of it. I was never going to leave you behind to do who knows what behind my back. You’re compromised, Dove, and you are absolutely coming along for this little trip.”

“... Hey, Tyron?”

“Yes?”

“Is it possible for a soul to spontaneously explode?”

“Yours? No.”

“Fuck.”

Georg stood and heaved the pry-bar that had been leaning against the wall in the corner.

“May as well get to it,” he grunted.

“Try not to break him,” Tyron said. “... Too much.”

Briss and Richard stood and turned toward their teacher, hesitant and unsure what to say. Seeing their dismay, Tyron could only shake his head.

“I’m not going to be gone for that long,” he told them. “If all goes well, I should return in a few months.”

“Are you sure we can’t go with you?” Richard asked. “There’s still so much we have to learn.”

Tyron’s brows raised.

“Richard, I told you it would be certain death if you came with me. I can’t be any more clear than that. No, you can’t come.”

Georg grunted as he popped the last of the iron bindings free of the wall. Dove stepped clear and shook out his skeletal limbs.

“I know ‘feels’ isn’t quite the right word, but that feels sooo much better.”

He mimed taking a large, refreshing breath, then sprinted for the door.

“FuckyouTyronyoupieceofshitI’moutofheeeeeeere!” he roared as he went.

In seconds, he’d ripped open the door and sprang out into the corridor, laughing hysterically.

Tyron stretched his back and rolled his shoulders before sighing in satisfaction.

“There’s guards around the corner,” he told his students, who nodded.

With Dove secure and his students farewelled, Tyron had little to do other than make his way back to the temple floor and watch as the final preparations were completed without him. In truth, he was obviously involved, as his undead were the ones carrying out the many tasks that needed to be done, but from an outside perspective, he was sitting on a chair with his eyes closed.

It was Master Willhem who tapped him on the shoulder to let him know preparations were complete. Tyron opened his eyes to see the light was starting to fade. Shadows extended from the pillars lining the walls, stretching out like fingers to scrape against the remnants of the temple walls.

Looking around, he could see that all was indeed ready. His undead horde had formed into an orderly column alongside the carts and wagons, which were fully laden and covered, while his armour had been placed by his side. He affixed it, taking the time to ensure he did it properly, before finally settling the skull helmet over his head.

Who knew how much protection it would prove to be where he was going? The Realm of the Dead was far more likely to attack his soul than it was his flesh, but there was no point in taking unnecessary risks. A nearby skeleton handed him the staff his mother had prepared while another belted his father’s gifted sword around his waist. Armed with these, he felt a little comforted, as if both of his parents had placed a hand on his back.

There was a long way to go before he could achieve his goals, but the fire burned within him the same as it had that frozen day above Cragwhistle. It had ignited as he watched the light fade from his mother’s eyes, and he didn’t believe anything, even death, would be enough to extinguish it.

The Empire, as broken and rotten as it was, still had the power and strength to squash him if he tried to fight it directly. That left only one path available to him, and though it was deadly, he would walk it gladly for the chance to kill those that needed killing.

Armed and armoured, he watched as the gate formed once more, stood unmoving until the arch was once again filled with pitch-black darkness. A nervous excitement coiled in his belly, and his eyes gleamed. What would he find on the other side? What did the Realm of the Dead look like?

He hungered for answers to those questions. Hungered to apply the answers to his craft. If he was still small and weak in the realm in which he lived, he would be a shadow of a minnow on the other side of that gate. Yet, the secrets he could learn… it was worth the risk.

With a thought, he sent his newest minion through the gate. The wyvern had to pull its wings tight and hunch low to fit through the opening, but soon it vanished, the tip of its tail disappearing into the darkness.

Tyron waited for his guard to form around him, then stepped forward, striding toward the gate.

There was a moment, right before he touched the gate, when the pitch black darkness filled his entire vision and he could see nothing else. Then, he was through, his guard tight around him as he left the realm of his birth behind.

For a single, terrifying moment, he felt as if the darkness was pressing into his flesh, driving into nose and throat, threatening to take the life from his lungs. When the skeletons leading the remains of Rolan appeared through the gate behind him, the pressure was suddenly relieved and Tyron retched, staggering as he fell to his knees.

The dense miasma of death around him was suffocating. Even with the power of the Three by his side, it was all he could do to simply breathe.

Beyond even what was present within the Ossuary, the energy of death here was so potent it left room for nothing else. His senses were overwhelmed with it, yet he felt himself grinning nonetheless. This magick, it was so rich. Beyond even what he could imagine. His minions wouldn’t need to draw on his power at all, not a drop of it.

He clenched his fingers into fists on the ground, gathering the dust between his fingers as he grew accustomed to the overbearing weight on his spirit. There was light here, even in the Realm of the Dead, but it was fleeting, and looking up, Tyron could see no source for it, but a blanket of darkness that stretched as far as he could see.

Looking back down, he swept his hands through the fine dust, only to realise there were small chunks of something within it. As he picked one up, he recognised it for what it was: a section of cheekbone from a human skull, but formed of stone rather than bone.

He frowned and looked closer at the ground, only to find a skull of stone leering back at him. He swept his hands wider, looking to the left and right, and uncovered more skulls.

When he felt strong enough, he pushed himself back to his feet. In the dim light, as more and more of his horde flowed through the gate every second, he realised the skulls beneath his feet spread as far as he could see.