Chapter 45: The Reborn God of Magick

Chapter 45: The Reborn God of Magick

"Did your brain turn to shit or something?" Dove coughed. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Tyron couldn't lift his head.

"I felt like I should help in some way, since everything that's happening is my fault..."

"Your fault? Your fault my scrawny ass!" Dove spluttered as he pressed the bandage against the wound on his stomach. "I told you to fucking run. None of this is your fault. That's fucking moronic thinking."

"There's no point arguing with you," Tyron muttered.

"Of course there's not! I'm fucking right!"

Dove groaned as pain flared through him and he slumped to the side, his breathing rapid and sweat breaking out on his brow.

"Try not to be so fucking dumb that I have to shout at you for a bit," he gasped, "I'm wounded."

The two sat inside the abandoned cabin. Night had fallen, the distant rumble of the rift could still be felt as they stopped to rest. The Star Wolf had been dismissed to rest in the Astral and Tyron had slumped to the ground, legs weak after what he had just experienced. Distantly he could still feel his connection to his minions as they drew nearer. He hoped they'd all survived, though it was unlikely. As slow as they were they would have been overtaken by the rift-kin as they emerged.

"We won't have long," Dove said, the strain clear in his voice. "Most of the monsters would have chased the other slayers back to the keep, but soon enough this area is going to be thick with them. Another ten minutes and then we get going."

"Are you going to be able to move?" Tyron asked, concerned. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Piss off," Dove tried to laugh but coughed instead. "Unless you've got some miracle healing stashed in your underpants, you can't do shit. Just leave it, I'll manage."This chapter is updated by nov(e)(l)biin.com

Despite the front he was putting on, the mage was clearly in bad shape. He shouldn't be moving around.

"Did Monica treat it?"

"Monica's dead kid, Rogil too."

Once again Tyron hung his head as the words washed over him. Those two had been good people. Why was this happening? If the guilt and shame grew any worse it may just bury him. They'd died because of him. He couldn't be convinced otherwise.

"Fuck you," Dove said.

Tyron spluttered out a laugh as he rubbed at his eyes.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"I can practically smell the guilt on you. Those two, Monica and Rogil, were fucking slayers, to the bone. Almost made it to gold rank. You know how few of us survive that long? How many make it that far? They were prepared to die from the day they signed up at the keep and got branded. It's not your fault and didn't I tell you to stop being fucking stupid?"

The Summoner launched into an extended bout of coughing as he recovered from his outburst as Tyron tried to master himself. Too much was happening at once and he was struggling to find his equilibrium. He wasn't this irrational or emotional normally, but then again, how often had he been put in this situation? Trying to make himself useful, he left Dove to catch his breath and began to pack his supplies as best he could.

As he did so he felt the connection with his skeletons growing stronger, strong enough that he could determine how many had returned. He grimaced. Only four. His glorious army of nine had been reduced to less than half by his indecisiveness and stupidity. He had enough remains here in the cabin to raise one, perhaps two more, but he didn't have the time. He might be able to have the skeletons carry the bones he needed if he wrapped them first, he had a spare blanket around somewhere.

You idiot. Dove is wounded and all you can think about is raising the dead. A fine Necromancer you've become.

He sighed to himself. As much as it pained him, he couldn't do anything for the Summoner, he didn't know anything about medicine. His minions couldn't hope to stand up to Dove's summons, but with the mage in the condition he was in now they might be the best protection the two of them could get.

He quickly finished placing everything into his back and storing his bedroll then moved the bones into a neat bundle that he wrapped in preparation for the skeletons' arrival. With that done, he returned to check on Dove to find him breathing softly, his eyes closed as he rested against the rotted wooden walls of the cabin.

"Dove, are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"Of course I'm not. But I will be. Is it time to move?"

"Just about, I've got a few skeletons on the way. They should arrive in just a few minutes."

Dove peeled an eye open and stared up at him for a moment.

"You look like shit, kid... And coming from me that means something. What happened?"

"... too much crystal."

Dove closed his eye and shook his head slightly from side to side.

"You shitbreather."

"That's harsh."

"No, it isn't."

They sat in silence for a moment as Dove continued to focus on breathing, his hand pressing a crude bandage into the wound on his belly. Tyron hadn't seen it, but the dried blood that soaked the rag wasn't a good sign.

"Alright. We need to work out where we're headed," the Summoner coughed. "If we headed back to town, they'd probably let you in, but there'll be kin all over that place right now. With just the two of us, the chances of us even making it there are low. Our best bet is to head south and try and get what we need from any small communities we find on the way. Thankfully we've still got time until the break, but not much."

"Wait..." Tyron said," ... wasn't that the break? Hasn't it happened already?"

Dove let out a wet chuckle before he leaned over and spat a wad of blood onto the dirt floor.

"Fuck no. The realms are drawing close, but they haven't collided yet. It's close, probably less than a day away. We need to get as much distance as possible before then and find a place to hunker down. We won't be able to outrun the monsters, but if we can find a place we can hide... I have some wardings I can put down to help conceal us."

He paused for a moment to draw some slow breaths.

"... If you're thinking about any heroic last stands or going to help defend the town, slap that shit out of your head. Everyone in Woodsedge, everyone in the keep, they're already dead. There's no chance they'll be able to hold, and even if they started running two days ago they won't be able to make it out." He grimaced in pain as he sat a little straighter. "Everyone's fate was sealed when we failed beyond the rift. Unless some mighty slayers fall out of the sky, then everyone is fucked. All we can do... is run and hide... try to pick up the pieces afterwards."

"The slayers have already battled at the rift and lost! We can help protect you when the monsters come, but you have to let us inside!"

The farmer's eyes flicked over the two of them, and over the four skeletons standing behind before resting on the star wolf for a moment. The giant astral spirit stood as still as it could to not unseat its master, looking back over its shoulder with concern for the mage it had agreed to serve.

"Well, that might be true, or it might not. We can't just take your word for it."

Tyron gaped up at the man as he leaned over to speak to someone inside.

"You can't be serious!" he spluttered. "You really think this man isn't a slayer? Or isn't wounded? Use the eyes in your head! And why would we lie to you?"

As he finished speaking to someone inside the gate, the farmer stood up straight and looked down on them once more.

"I wouldn't rightly know. Maybe you're trying to steal from us and this is all a trick. For the time being, we'll let you in, but I want you to give your weapons and things over to my boys first."

The gate opened with a loud creak and six young men, some of whom Tyron unfortunately recognised, emerged from inside, each of them holding a cudgel or simple weapon in hand. They had ugly expressions on their faces as they approached and Tyron felt a souring in his gut.

"We shouldn't have come here," he said as he backed away slowly, "we can leave."

With a mental command he brought his skeletons closer, the four undead causing the six assailants to hesitate a moment.

"I don’t think you should," the farmer told him and Tyron looked up to see he'd been joined by several other farmhands, men and women both, all with bows drawn. "At least, not while carrying all of those burdens."

Just how much theft do these pricks commit?! This is madness!

"Are you really going to attack a slayer?" Tyron demanded incredulously. "That's suicide!"

The farmer laughed.

"They can't fight back, so it seems perfectly safe to me."

Dove fell forward, barely catching himself on the wolf's back as he stretched his neck and whispered a few words into the wolf's ear. Then he clutched his wound, and rolled from its back, landing on the ground with a thud. Tyron knelt by his side, trying to help, but the Summoner weakly pushed him away.

"Give me some space, kid," he whispered, "this is going... to suck."

The wolf growled then, its teeth bare as it began to pad toward the approaching farmhands. Before Tyron understood what was happening, before he could react in any way, the wolf dashed forward, its jaws snapping down, and the screaming began. Who was louder, the farmers or Dove, Tyron would never be able to say.

The stench of blood was thick in the air when it was over. Numb to it all, Tyron tried not to look at the mangled bodies that lay everywhere inside the compound. He especially didn't notice the younger ones. Instead, he focused on Dove. The slayer had reacted the moment his wolf had attacked, screaming in pain and writhing on the ground until he'd passed out completely close to the end. When the wolf had padded back out, its muzzle and fur slick with gore, Tyron had done his best to carry the mage inside the compound and comfortably arrange him on a bed.

He ransacked the house to find bandages, fresh water and any herbs he could that looked remotely medicinal before he came back and peeled away the encrusted rag and what was left of Dove's shirt. Only then did he get a look at the true extent of the wound and he sucked in a breath when he laid eyes on it. The moment the bandage was torn away, the sickly scent of infection filled the air, black blood oozing through the filth and mess that remained of the Summoner's guts.

"Holy shit," Tyron stammered as he tried to clean it as best he could. "Holy shit."

The man should have been dead. Without the unnatural resilience someone of his high level could achieve, he likely would be. But even the highest level slayers weren't immortal, some things just couldn't be survived.

"Kid," Tyron heard a whisper and he looked down to see the mage's eyes were open again. "Leave it... and... listen."

Tyron blinked away a few tears and tried to take hold of himself. He couldn't keep acting foolish, he wouldn't do things that were useless. A part of him wanted to argue, to keep trying to treat the wound, to convince Dove to keep fighting, but he knew it wouldn't help. Instead, he leaned down close so he could hear him speak.

Dove coughed and spat another wad of blood onto the pillow beside him.

"Fuck... that hurts. Not as bad... as the brand though... holy shit... that was bad."

He drew a few slow breaths.

"Once I'm dead... you should look for a cellar... the wards... are in my pack... you'll... figure it out... you gifted fucker. Just remember, who's to blame... not you... magisters. Always... those pricks... wouldn't let your... folks come and help... rather let... everyone die... than admit they... fucked up."

He fell silent as he gathered his strength again.

"Stay hidden..." he whispered, "grow strong... then... fuck some shit up... as long as you take... a few of them down... with you... then it was all worth it..."

Tyron nodded as his eyes blurred.

"You're special... kid... reborn god... of fucking magick... I'm telling you... fucking... big... balls..."

The mage's voice faded as he slipped out of consciousness, but Tyron remained kneeling by the bedside for another hour, until the Summoner passed away.

Completely numb, Tyron stared down at the remains of his... friend, unable to process his grief or shock at what his life had become. He stared down at the face of the Summoner for a long time before his eyes began to trail aimlessly around the room, his head shifting of its own volition.

Then his gaze fell on his pack where he had dropped it on the floor. The contents had spilled and he stared at those next. Some dried meat, his ritual focus, a steel mug, his notebook. Almost as if he were in a trance, he moved to the notebook and picked it up, idly flicking through the pages as his eyes began to focus, finally, on something, the notes, the sigils and runes he had scrawled inside. As he often had during his life without ever realising it, he avoided his pain by diving into something he felt he could control.

Magick.

A day later, Tyron, on his hands and knees, stared down at the polished skull before him. Globes of light hung in the air of the cellar, illuminating the nine concentric circles that had been drawn on the floor. To one side sat the ritual focus, abandoned now that the working was finally complete.

The Necromancer was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands were shaking as he continued to stare at the skull, searching it for any sign he had been successful. He tasted bile in his throat, but he didn’t care, this had consumed him for twenty four hours straight and he had thought of nothing else, done nothing else but prepare for his moment since. His eyes burned with a manic light as he stared, drool sliding from his chin as he concentrated his whole being on that one skull.

At first, there was nothing, but his eyes didn't waver. Then, a flicker, the faintest hint of purple flame ignited within those empty sockets. Slowly at first, but with growing speed, the flame grew until it burned just as bright as with any other minion.

A rictus grin spread across Tyron's face as he saw the skull come to life, but still he didn't move. He hadn't succeeded yet.

The skull sat lifelessly on the ground in the centre of the intricate ritual circle for a long moment. Then a voice emanated from it.

"Oh you fucking didn't."