Chapter B4C12 - Speak with the Three

Chapter B4C12 - Speak with the Three

“You owe them.”

“Do I really?”

“They have been working tirelessly on your behalf. Far more than your other patrons.”Th.ê most uptodate novels are published on n(0)velbj)n(.)co/m

“Tirelessly?” Tyron barked a laugh. “They’re gods, I’m not even sure they can tire at all. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I gather that they’ve essentially not lifted a finger to help their people for several thousand years. I think they’re due for a little work.”

Munhilde glowered furiously at this disrespect, but Tyron remained unrepentant, glaring back as the now familiar fury kindled in his chest.

“They are the only thing shielding you from the eyes of the five pretenders. If they withdrew their support for a second, you would be seen by the oracles, and the armies of the province would march to cut you down.”

This statement angered Tyron, largely because she was correct. Without their protection, the purge would have been knocking on his door before he’d ever had the chance to learn about it. On top of that, the Crone had been responsible for reinforcing his false visage. There was no chance he could have gotten past the Magisters or resisted the efforts of the noble lady who’d attempted to break his facade. So far, all they’d asked in return was for him to lend his support to the growing rebellion, but he hadn’t needed to do much yet. This demand came right before he had a chance to discharge some part of his debt via working with the rebels in Woodsedge. Once he returned to Kenmor, he’d depend on their support again to protect his identity as Lukas Almsfield.

The fact that she was right didn’t do anything to diffuse his anger. Instead, it only seemed to fan the flames, and he struggled for a moment to contain himself.

“It’s the only ritual to speak with your patrons you haven’t performed,” Munhilde pointed out in a softer tone, perhaps sensing his mood.

He resisted the urge to snarl. There was a good reason he’d never done so. After they’d invaded his dreams and threatened Elsbeth to force him to side with them, they were lucky he hadn’t abandoned them completely.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll do it before I leave Cragwhistle.”

He wanted to be out of this conversation, and he wanted to be out of it now. Arguing with the priestess wasn’t going to get him anywhere. She was right, even if he didn’t want to hear it, and losing his temper here in the middle of town was not something he wanted to be involved in.

Munhilde opened her mouth to say something, but the Necromancer was already stomping away. He didn’t like being in Cragwhistle to start with. Despite spending almost no time in town, he was recognised almost everywhere he went. How was it possible? There were so few who he’d spent any amount of time with in town, but that didn’t seem to matter.

As he walked past buildings, people leaned down to whisper to their children, or watched him from the corner of their eyes. Heck, some just openly stared, not caring if he noticed. He could appreciate how open they were, but he hated being the centre of attention, which he inevitably was inside Cragwhistle.

Perhaps he should have brought fewer skeletons with him. But he wasn’t going anywhere without at least a handful of guards, since he wasn’t able to defend himself well without them.

Before he managed to get out of town, Ortan caught up with him, breathing heavily, as if he’d come running. Tyron didn’t break stride as the larger man gasped for air beside him.

“Thanks... thanks for waiting up,” Ortan wheezed.

“What do you want, Ortan?”

It took a few moments for Ortan to gather his breath.

“I wanted to ask when you were going to get back? There’s a lot of people who wanted to meet and speak with you. We’ve kept most of them away. Well, Elsbeth did most of that, but I helped.”

“What could they possibly have to say to me?”

“I don’t know. Some of these people look at you in an... unhealthy way.”

Tyron glanced at him sideways.

“Unhealthy? According to who?”

“According to straight common sense,” Ortan growled. “And do you really have to bring the undead into town?”

“Yes.”

“Your gods are the ones who demanded I come here. If the only purpose was for you to spit childish insults, then I’ll leave.”

“And how exactly would you leave?” the Messenger drawled from beneath the shadows of his hood.

“I’d rework the ritual to move myself back to the point of origin.”

Not easy to do on the fly, but he could do it.

“Would your magick, even work here? Do you truly understand what this place is?”

“I don’t see the point in speculating, since I don’t believe you have any intention of enlightening me. Since your name is ‘Messenger’, and not ‘Useless piece of shit’, I presume you have something to say to me. What is it?”

“If you do not cease with this disrespect, my gods will shatter your existence like glass!” the Messenger growled.

Tyron raised a brow.

“I’m being disrespectful to you, not them. I believe they know the difference.”

“What you believe bears little resemblance to what is,” the hooded figure hissed. He whirled in place and began to stride away between the trees. “Follow,” came the command, filled with derision and scorn.

There was nothing else to do, so the Necromancer shrugged and began to move forward, trailing after his mysterious guide.

It was such a strange place, this wood. The more he saw, the less certain Tyron became of what it actually was. Were these trees actually trees? Or were they something else entirely? Was it really dirt and roots beneath his feet? Was this place even real in any sense of the word? Time felt strange. Distance felt strange. Much like the Broken Lands, it was as if the normal rules that governed the existence of a being such as himself did not function in this place. What he saw wasn’t what he saw. What he heard wasn’t truly what he heard.

As he puzzled over it, trying to understand just what it was that he was experiencing, the Messenger led him to a clearing, in which he saw three statues.

Except there weren’t three statues.

A Crow perched upon a thin branch, watching him with eyes of thunder. A Rat crawled up from beneath a grasping tree’s roots, chittering with insatiable hunger. An old man, who was also a young man, who was also a newborn babe, who was also a decrepit Crone, grinned at him with a toothless grin, the madness of humanity crowded upon her face.

The Messenger bowed low to each in turn before stepping to the side, and vanishing into the shadows, leaving Tyron alone with the three. With the Three.

The Crow did not speak, and yet it spoke.

DO YOU KNOW, THE NATURE OF MAGICK, THE TRUE IDENTITY OF THAT WHICH INVADES?

All at once, the sheer power of the god washed over Tyron, as those words slammed into his mind. He staggered under the force of it, but held firm.

“No,” he replied when he had steadied. “No I don’t. Magick came through the rifts. Magick corrupts the realms it touches, creating monsters, making rifts, connecting the fallen worlds to their next victims. But I don’t know what it is, or where it came from.”

The Rat stood up on its hind legs.

ENTROPY AFFECTS ALL THINGS. REALMS. GODS. EVEN ENERGY. DO YOU KNOW HOW MAGICK CAN DIE?

The presence of Rot was just as overwhelming as that of his brother god. Tyron reeled before he gathered himself again. What did this question even mean? How to destroy magick? Magick? It was an ever changeable, ever malleable source of energy. It could become fire, water, light, dreams, even death. There was nothing in existence that it couldn’t mimic or influence, but it was never lost.

“I don’t,” he was forced to admit. “I’ve never heard of magick being destroyed, or vanishing. Even when consumed, it merely changes form, or dissipates, only to reform again later.”

The Crone laughed, and a thousand voices laughed along with her.

THEN WE HAVE MUCH WE CAN TEACH YOU.

She grinned.