Chapter B2C20 - Step Beyond the Veil

Chapter B2C20 - Step Beyond the Veil

“Kid, as much as I admire your colossal sack, I’m worried those same pendulous balls are blocking your vision, like a hairy, wrinkled blindfold. This is not a good idea.”

“In an unusual turn of events, I find myself agreeing with the skull,” Yor said. “There is too much risk involved. These are powers far beyond your ken. Perhaps one day, you will speak with beings such as these, but that day is far from this one.”

Tyron dropped the bag he was rummaging through and turned to face his companions, his brow creased with anger.

“Then what do you expect me to do?” he said, voice sharp and hard. “I don’t have unlimited time, like you keep telling me, I have to rush, but how? Stuck in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to hunt, unable to move lest I’m caught. If I don’t advance, then I’m as good as dead, but I can’t do anything.”

It was unusual for Tyron to be this harsh, and it was clear, even to Dove, who was gradually losing his eye for human emotion, that he was close to breaking under the pressure.

Retreating to this cave and advancing his Class had been a necessary step, and an important milestone, but it had also been a trap. As the young Necromancer had said, he was stuck.

“I understand what you’re saying, kid. I really do. But if you’re going to take risks to get out of this situation, then I can suggest other, less dangerous alternatives. For example, run across the plains stark naked with a sign saying ‘Necromancer’ dangling from your rod.”

Yor glanced down at the skull.

“Wouldn’t he have to be....?”

“As red, and as hard as an Ironwood Staff, yes. It’d be a challenge, but I think the kid would be up for it. He can rise to the occasion. If anything, the experience might harden him a little. Let him know that the real world won’t let him slide in without resistance.”

“Is this funny to you?” Tyron asked, anger bubbling beneath his tone.

“No! It’s not fucking funny! You understand that what you’re proposing is obscenely dangerous, right? My dead body is a hundred kilometres away and I still feel it edging toward the nearest door.”

The skull’s eyes flashed with purple light.

“I am dead serious when I say that trying to move across the plains and avoid capture is less risky than this. You should seriously consider it.”

“Even if I manage to cross, where would I go?” Tyron asked tiredly.

He’d considered this. He’d considered everything, this was his last choice, not his first. Options were dropping away by the hour like sand slipping through his fingers. If he managed to sneak past the slayers and marshals rolling out over the plains, he could then travel to another slayer keep and try his luck hunting stray rift-kin. Except, it would simply take too long.

Forget the difficulty of hiding his undead, both during the journey and after they arrived, or whether he would even have sufficient hunting to level up, he would never get there. His parents would eventually be compelled to get him, it was only a question of when. He had to act as if he had less than a month left.

“Any other rift in the province is too far for me to reach in time, as well you know,” he continued. “I don’t have a choice. I’d rather not do this, believe me, but what else can I do? I’m not trying to align myself with the Abyss, but if I can negotiate somehow, they might be able to provide an answer that can help me. It’s desperate, I know, but I am desperate. Without throwing myself to the Old Gods, or making myself a vampire, I don’t see any other path to find a way out.”

He was clearly frustrated. Tyron didn’t want to rely on the patrons in any way if he could help it, yet circumstances kept driving him towards them. If any of the three would have information that could help him, it would be the Abyss, and with the spirit of Davon bound to the stone in his pocket, he had something he could use to pay for it that wasn’t his eternal servitude.

“My presence may help, somewhat,” Yor said, “but it is far from an aegis of protection. The Abyss isn’t known for its adherence to rules or etiquette. The entities you seek may rip you apart the moment they see you.”

“But not you?” Tyron asked, eyes sharpening.

“No. I have the means to protect myself, even in that place. I would not risk eternity for you, Tyron.”

He grunted. That made sense. The Vampire was happy to have him in her debt, but not so much she’d risk herself unnecessarily. He thought of how she had intervened to save him from the Dark Ones. She’d been afraid then, though she’d hidden it well. With her Mistress’ protection, Yor had been able to negotiate with creatures far beyond her in power. It was exactly that display that had convinced him his current course of action was possible.

“Good. I’m going to prepare the ritual. I’ll be ready in two hours, then we go through.”

“Is that really enough time for you?” Yor asked, an elegant brow arched.

Tyron nodded.

“Of course. I’ve performed this ritual before, I know how it works. Having said that, I have a few ideas on it. Dove? Are you willing to help me go through a few things, or are you going to sulk?”

“By the ripe tits of the Holy Mother, kid. You really know how to try a person’s patience. I’m dead and you still manage to piss me off. Yes I’ll help you. I just want you to know that I’m not happy about it. You’re probably right about doing this, but by my own shiny bone-head, I don’t like it.”

“Fine.”

He strode over and picked up the skull.

“Let’s get to work.”

“You think I’m not scared? At least you don’t have the voices in your head.”

“True. They don’t seem interested in the dead.”

“If you’re quite finished chatting,” Yor interjected, “we should advance. I cannot protect you forever.”

For the first time, Tyron noticed that she seemed weakened, a slight tremor to her movements, a tiny quaver in her voice. What she’d done for them was draining to her, massively so.

“Alright,” he said. “How do we proceed?”

“Simply walk. When we are far enough from the tear, that which you seek will make itself known to you, but it cannot approach a breach in the veil. To do so would damage it, and your world.”

“We walk? On what?”

Tyron had no language to explain the place he found himself in. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, and yet....

He could talk, he stood upon... something, and out there, beyond the reach of the light that Yor created, he could sense them, the abyssals, circling them as sharks eyeing helpless prey. Their voices were audible, but muted, scratched at the edges, as if they spoke to each other from close, yet far away at the same time. His eyes swam whenever he tried to focus, on anything at all.

And always the voices, whispering, pushing.

“I honestly cannot explain. Walk, and try not to think about it.”

And so they did. Shakily at first, they stepped away from the tear, which faded into the blackness behind them as they walked further out into the void. To help distract him from the voices, he engaged Dove in a hushed conversation about the Abyss, though there was nothing new the Summoner could tell him.

When at last the tear had shrunk to almost nothing, Yor held up a hand, suddenly tense.

Tyron froze, his eyes flicking uselessly around, meeting nothing but darkness on every side.

And then the darkness moved.

His mind creaked under the strain as it tried to process what continued to happen around him, yet failed. Dove was more articulate.

“Fuck. Me,” the skull rasped.

The... entity, was enormous beyond comprehension. Larger than a mountain, larger than a mountain range, it enveloped them, almost completely, only a small gap remained back to the tear.

Yet he couldn’t see it. There was nothing to see. Whatever it was, it gave off no light, or sound. The Abyss was a void, the place between places, where nothing existed. The being before them was that nothing made manifest, a terrible state made manifest.

“It’s listening,” Yor breathed to them. “Produce your offering.”

Tyron stood transfixed, almost not hearing her. This had been a mistake. This was something that even the Old Gods deferred to. What had he really hoped to achieve here?

Hand shaking, he withdrew the stone from a pocket within his coat and held it aloft. Such a pitiful offering, compared to the being in front of him. He could not feel more insignificant, more inconsequential, than he did at this moment. This entity could smash the entire western province with a stroke, if it were able to touch it.

The darkness around them stilled, for a brief moment, then two things happened at once.

First, the stone in Tyron’s hand crumbled to dust that bled into the void and vanished, consumed. There may have been a cry, a wail of despair that reverberated around them, or perhaps not.

The second thing to occur was a blast of searing pain that stabbed deep into the Necromancer’s mind. He threw his head back and screamed through gritted teeth as images burned themselves into his consciousness, too bright for him to comprehend.

The agony was short lived, as he was unable to withstand it for long. Before the presence was done, he felt his legs give way as the pain receded and blessed oblivion embraced him.

He awoke with a start to find himself inside the cave, staring up at Yor, who looked down at him solemnly, a hint of concern on her sculpted features. His head pounded, and he felt as if his blood crawled through his veins.

“What you just did was remarkably dangerous,” the vampire stated, “I hope you were able to gain what you were looking for.”

Tyron leaned back and closed his eyes. His entire body shook, with relief, or shock, or fear, he didn’t know. He’d been so stupid, and yet, he hadn’t failed.

He nodded shakily. Somehow, the being had understood what he needed, in a way.

In the back of his mind, knowledge burned, uncomfortably. Were he to lift a hand and point, he could precisely identify the location of Monty and his remaining bandits.