Chapter B3C47 - Lord of the Ossuary

Chapter B3C47 - Lord of the Ossuary

Tyron didn’t need Dove’s prodding to ensure he was fully prepared to cast this absurdly complex ritual, but that didn’t seem to stop the skeleton-trapped soul. He nitpicked about everything, questioning the young mage three times about every little detail. Was the circle correct? Was it actually correct? How stable were the components used to draw it? Did he realise that drawing the circle with your finger in dust is a fucking stupid idea? Had he double checked his notes and ironed out all the wrinkles? What focus was he using? Was it suitable? Had he checked it was suitable?

And on, and on, and on.

It was incredibly frustrating. Tyron didn’t particularly want to say it, but he knew he was a better mage than Dove, yet he allowed himself to be drawn into arguments over and over again, defending his choices, proving his work and covering each little detail to his mentor’s satisfaction.

Dove managed to drag the process out so long, it was two days after their first conversation in the cave when he was finally prepared to cast the ritual. Which was entirely the point. The former Summoner had delayed as much as he could, forced Tyron to rethink each aspect of the ritual, until the version he was about to cast was vastly superior to what he’d held in his hands two days ago.

In all that time, Tyron’s undead had continued to intercept and destroy the rift-kin descending the mountain, collecting their cores and depositing them just outside the cave. They also kept away the villagers who, for some reason, continued to emerge from Cragwhistle to catch a glimpse of the Necromancer, bowing to him if they happened to see him, bowing to the skeletons if they didn’t.

Which, thanks to minion sight, Tyron also frequently saw.

Standing over the wide, flat rock Tyron had engraved his circle on, he sighed with satisfaction. It was perfect. Each line, loop and whorl, every symbol of arcane power, was without flaw. Which they needed to be if he didn’t want to have the entire thing blow up and kill him. This ritual demanded so much magick, so much power, even the slightest mistake would cause it to backfire with spectacular results.

“Dove,” he said, “I’ve wanted to kill you so many times over the last few days, but, as much as it pains me to say it, thanks. You’ve helped a lot.”

The skeleton shrugged his onyx shoulder bones and chattered his teeth, an annoying habit he’d picked up.

“You’ve got one major flaw when it comes to magick, kid. You’re too damn good. Sometimes, you don’t seem to believe it's even possible for you to make a mistake.”

“I didn’t,” Tyron pointed out defensively. “All of my work was correct.”

“But it wasn’t complete. You were rushing and you know it. Casting Raise Dead the day after you learned it is fucking crazy enough. A ritual of this size? That’s straight up insane asylum material, and I would know.”

“Why are you making me argue with you? I was in the process of thanking you.”

“I have an argumentative personality.”

“Well shut the fuck up. I’m ready to begin.”

“As you say.”

“And when I’m done, I’ll work on developing a status ritual for you.”

The skeleton stood still, dumbstruck, for once.

“Y-you will? Do you have a lead on one?”

Tyron nodded, a sly grin crossing his face.

“Los,” Tyron said, his hands pushing outward from his chest.

The ritual circle ignited, sending a shaft of purple light blazing into the sky. Like a dam breaking, a torrent of arcane power roared into the sky, the strength of it enough to vibrate the air. Tyron nearly staggered, almost driven to his knees by the strength of it, but steadied himself at the last moment. Sweat flowed freely now, running in rivulets down his face and into his eyes. To prevent distraction, he shut them. He had to focus.

Once again, he began to speak, rapidly now, words and sigils flashing from one to the next as he sought to dig out a channel to guide the raging waters just a few steps in front of the frothing, crashing waves. All of that power, all of that energy, was gathered, directed and led straight into the arch, and then pushed, forced beyond.

The staff, standing before him, glowed bright with arcane light as it acted to enforce his will. An amplifier and defender all at once, it shielded him from the ravages of the gathered magick even as it aided him to enforce his will upon it.

From down the mountain, Dove looked back over his shoulder as his soul quivered in response to the eruption of power. Through the trees, he could see it, a column of purple light that extended hundreds of metres into the air.

“By the melons!” he gasped.

He’d known the ritual demanded a great deal of power, but he’d never expected the kid to try and pull in this much. Was he trying to get himself killed?!

For a moment, he hesitated, then growled and continued his journey down the path with increased haste. There was no point going back now. What could he do? The ritual had begun and Tyron would either see it through or die in the attempt.

Sure as shit there would be a heck of a lot of attention from Cragwhistle, though. He had to make sure some idiot kid didn’t run up and throw a rock at the Necromancer’s stupid head.

In town, Ortan gaped at the light which had erupted up the mountain. Even during the day, the light seemed to darken around the edges, as if being pushed away from that column of light.

“Orthriss defend me,” he muttered absently, eyes still wide with shock.

Around him, people rushed into the streets, pointing, murmuring, whispering.

What had Tyron done? What was he doing? Wasn’t he trying to lay low?

From the corner of his eye, he saw the slayers gathering outside the barracks, faces grim as they talked amongst themselves. He couldn’t read their body language. Were they fearful? Angry? What would they make of this? No matter what, Ortan feared it wouldn’t be good.

Within the ritual circle, Tyron danced on the edge of oblivion, funnelling the power through the rapidly forming arch and into the space beyond. As he did so, he formed it, shaped it, building even though he didn’t truly understand what he was making. In this, he was guided by the ritual, directed by the Unseen. The pace continued to be high, words and sigils forming rapidly, words tripping from his tongue as his hands flickered from one precise gesture to the next.

Was he on his third shard of candy? Or the fourth? He couldn’t remember. The ritual demanded more power, so more power he gave.

This was the final phase, and Tyron raced to complete it, not wanting to waste a single drop of the magick he had gathered. From within the ritual circle, energy continued to thunder out and into the arch, taking shape on the other side as Tyron managed multiple processes at once.

On and on it went, until his throat was red and raw, his entire body ached and his spirit was gasping, almost squeezed dry of the last of its magick. Even Tyron, with all of his endurance and fortitude, felt himself begin to waver as the ritual went on, well past an hour, and into the second.

When finally it was done, he spoke the last word, formed the last sigil, and collapsed to his knees, hands shaking as he at last relinquished his iron control.

Exhaustion crushed him as the light faded from the circle, yet still, a small, satisfied smile creased his lips.

Before him stood a doorway, wedged in a frame of bones.