Chapter B3C79 - Take What is Mine

Chapter B3C79 - Take What is Mine

So much to do and so little time. After ensuring that Madam Ortan would be cared for by her people, Tyron was able to turn his attention to more important matters. Corpses lay everywhere outside the manor, which simply wouldnt do. The majority of his skeletons continued to scout the area for any officers who might still be lurking nearby, which meant he was a touch shorthanded. Nevertheless, his minions were committed to the work.

The dead needed to be stripped and the bodies safely stowed within the Ossuary, which meant he needed to summon the doorway once more. To show his respect to the owners of the land, and to avoid a possible confrontation with the survivors, he decided not to take the bodies of the fallen workers. Instead, he commanded a small group of undead to dig a grave for them.

As tempting as it was to take the armour the soldiers had been wearing, he decided against it, and the same went for the priests' staves and robes. Perhaps there were useful and powerful enchantments there which he could study, but such things were also eminently possible to trace. A risk he wasnt willing to take. Even if the chances they could be found within the Ossuary were infinitesimal, he still didnt want to assume that chance.

When word of the massacre got out, things would get extremely tense. The church would undoubtedly assume that old god worshipping heretics were responsible and step up their crackdown. That was fine with him. But if they were to determine a Necromancer was responsible, things would become much more difficult for him.

Despite all the precautions hed taken, the main reason he hadnt been discovered was because nobody was actively looking for Death Magick. The moment a Necromancer was even suspected, that went out the window. Kenmor would be scoured, the surrounding lands soon after, and any whiff of his spells would be found. For that reason, he spent the next hour attempting to collect every shard of bone from his fallen skeletons and scrub every trace of his magick from the manor and surrounding grounds.

It wasnt possible to fully do so, of course. Every skeleton left a trace remnant just by walking through an area, which should dissipate naturally over a few days. The cauldrons, and the spells he had cast, left a much more dense residue which needed to be removed.

The job was far from done to his satisfaction, but he couldnt afford to take any more time. He recalled his minions, then changed his mind and directed them straight into the forest. It was past time to be moving.

Time to go. If you havent packed it, then it isnt coming, he announced, striding into the dining room.

The mistress of the house was certainly better than shed been the last time hed seen her, with thick bandaging around her middle to hold everything in place, but she was clearly still in great pain.

Madam Ortan is not in condition to travel, one of the maids protested softly, unwilling to look at him.

Then she stays behind and gets killed by the next group of officers, he stated flatly, or worse, they can finish what they started. If anyone here doesnt feel like having their skin peeled off, screaming and crying, condemning your friends and family to end the pain, then get moving.

Madam Ortan glared at him, but didnt disagree with anything he said. Instead, she started to rise from her seat, teeth set against the undoubted agony she was suffering.

There is no choice. We move or we die, and I would much rather all of you live, she said. Gather your things quickly, we are leaving.

Tyron was already striding from the room. He couldnt afford to waste too much time and energy on these people. He had other priorities, and his own safety to think about. He had extended a way out, they would grasp it, or they would not.

Exiting the manor, he took stock. The cellar had been emptied of everything he had ever touched, most of it stored within the Ossuary. He considered once again if there was anything he needed to collect, then almost cursed himself.

As the surviving staff and residents of the manor rushed to collect whatever they could carry for the hard journey ahead, Tyron similarly rushed to collect valuables: souls.

Although he had secured all the raw materials, the spirits were an equally important ingredient. Considering where he was going, the more spirits he could secure, the better.

However, there was something he found disturbing. The souls of the priests were not to be found. All of the marshals were accounted for, along with the soldiers, but the priests? No matter what he did, he couldnt conjure forth the ghost of a single one.

Perhaps it was true and they really did ascend into heaven, to live alongside their god for all time? At the very least, they were no longer here, bound to this realm. If they had gone to be with their gods, hopefully they werent capable of revealing how they had died. The last thing he needed was dead priests conveying his existence to the Five.

Task done, he called out, once, to those inside the manor, and then began to walk. They spilled out of the doors behind him, still stuffing packs with clothes and supplies, rushing to catch up. Madam Ortan came along behind, three of her staff helping to support the woman by her sides. Already the bandage had begun to be stained with red, but without any healing miracles or spells, there was nothing that could be done. It would be a long journey to Cragwhistle, but for some reason, Tyron believed that she would make it. There was steel in her, and fire burning in her gaze, a heat that he himself was all too familiar with.

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Hate, and an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

Within, he found the nothingness-between was the same as it ever was. Hidden voices whispered, tempted, clawed at the edges of his mind, but he warded them off. He wasnt here for these weak ones, the pilot fish who had attached themselves to the great shark.

With nothing by which to see, moving through the Abyss was an exercise in faith. He almost didn't notice the great creature until it shifted before him, letting itself be known.

It was as if the world itself had moved. An entity so vast, his mind couldnt fully grasp it, turned its attention to him.

It spoke to him.

The barest brush of its great mind, the faintest whisper of its voice, was almost enough to shatter his sanity on the spot, but Tyron endured. This was a creature of fathomless power within this empty place, and his only way to secure safe passage.

It didnt have a name, not as a normal person understood them. When referring to itself, Tyron was granted an impression of mind-numbing age, and an endless need to consume.

So he named it Void.

Void spoke to him with a hundred voices, each whispering a different thing. A welcome. A threat. An offer. A secret. A blessing. A curse.

Tyron responded as best he could, accepting the welcome, declining the offers, ignoring the threats, blocking out the secrets.

Void regarded him silently.

Tyron steeled his nerves, and spoke. He told of others needing safe passage through the Abyss.

Void seethed. There was a price.

Tyron rejected it. He could not pay.

A counter offer.

Tyron reluctantly accepted.

Then he reached within his armour and withdrew several stones, each glowing with dense, ethereal light.

He reminded Void of their previous arrangement, and asked if the payment was sufficient.

Void leaned forward eagerly, and in a blink, the souls were gone, drawn from the stone, the echoes of their screams haunting the nothingness around them.

It would do.

Tyron bowed low, though the creature cared not for such gestures. With his mind on the verge of dissolving, he withdrew, gasping, blood dripping from his ears and eyes. After he gathered himself, he brought his minions through, and the survivors, who entered shivering and full of trepidation.

Do not listen to the voices, if you want to live, he warned them, then turned to lead the way.

It would be a difficult journey, and not all would make it, but soon they would be free, able to make a new life among others who shared their faith openly.

But for Tyron, the war would continue. He had to grow stronger, he had to learn more, and faster. With the purge in full swing, discontent among the slayers would only grow. With enough pushes, enough words in the right place at the right time, a spark could grow to a blazing inferno, one he would use to burn Kenmor to the ground.