Book of The Dead

Chapter 36: In The Rifts

He couldn't do it, in the end. There wasn't much he could do, but he did his best to bury Cilla a short distance away from the site of her death. Even with the help of his skeletons, it took hours to shift enough dirt, not that their bony hands were much help. Once the hole had been dug deep enough that he judged scavengers wouldn't try to dig her up, he unceremoniously took hold of her body and placed her in it.

It felt wrong. As if he weren't treating her remains with enough respect, but everything that had made her the person she was no longer remained in the lifeless husk that she had left behind. He knew better than the reality of what remained after death. Even so, he tried to arrange her body with some semblance of grace and dignity before he scooped the soft earth over her, covering her frozen expression of terror and pain with loam.

A simple stick was planted to mark the grave, he wasn't handy enough to fashion anything more decorative.

Job done, he stood for a long moment in silence looking down on what he'd done, thinking of the person who now lay before him, several feet deep under loose soil. Then he turned away. He had things to do.

He couldn't bring himself to raise Cilla as a minion, to strip away her flesh and make use of her bones, but the others were still fair game. He'd been foolish remaining in this area as long as he had when clearly there were powerful rift-kin roaming this far out and he didn't want to stay any longer than he had to.

He found two leafy branches and stacked four bodies on them. Even after stripping them of their armour they were still too heavy for him to drag without the aid of his minions. Having his skeletons help pull made the burden on his arms lighter, but it increased the drag on his magick, forcing him to stop and rest before he'd even reached halfway back to his resting place.

He grabbed one of his diminishing supply of arcane crystals and placed it in his mouth, under his tongue, to help recover his energy faster. He wanted to get further from the rifts quickly. Things were clearly deteriorating faster than he had anticipated.

After half an hour he felt ready to try again and this time he managed to make it back to the bungalow before he collapsed, dumping the thick ends of the branches on the ground which caused the four bodies to roll unceremoniously onto the dirt. He didn't care, he was exhausted in every way a person could be. Arms shaking from fatigue he opened up his pack and unwrapped some provisions, desperate to get some energy back into his body. Then he sat on his blankets and studied, pouring through his notes on Raise Dead, marking out potential improvements and changes to the arcane symbols used in the spell.

He tried to convince himself he was making good use of his time but deep down he knew he was just avoiding what was going to come next.

If the four bodies he had recovered were going to be turned into skeletons, then they needed to be skeletons. Which meant they could not have any flesh on their bodies.

He'd known this was the case back when he took the Butchery skill. Not only would having a basic knowledge of the practice make him a more attractive hire to prospective teams, but actually taking the skill with one of his precious general skill selections would help him improve faster. As a secondary benefit, he'd be able to prepare remains in exactly the way he was planning to, but now that it came to it, he was far more squeamish than he'd expected.

His stomach churned unpleasantly and he tasted bile in his throat but he resolutely ignored it as long as he could as he tried to immerse himself in the study of his signature magick.

It was helpful that Raise Dead was a fascinating and complex piece of spellwork. Hundreds of sigils placed in a precise order laid out the verbal component, with additional markings written alongside for the corresponding gestures. It was a potent and flexible spell, truly intricate in its application, far more difficult to perform and understand than the basic cantrips he'd managed to teach himself. With this one pattern, he could raise two different types of undead, skeletons or zombies, and he believed that with the right preparation, even more variants would be possible.

The spell itself was adaptable, responding to the remains that were presented to it, the difference maker was what he did beforehand rather than what he did during the casting itself.

Which gave rise to an interesting line of thought. It may be possible for him to excise, or at least modify certain portions of the spell, streamline the process in order to specialise it for raising only his preferred type of undead. He had no intentions of creating any zombies for the time being, or perhaps in the future, it was an inefficient use of his time and materials, doubly so considering his choice of feat. Such speculation would require an in-depth breakdown of every single portion of the spell as he attempted to interpret each individual slice on a granular level.

He didn't have the time for that right now, not when the benefits were nebulous at best or didn't exist at worst. He would be better served continuing his attempts to modify the spell by improving the three main components of its makeup: the artificial mind, the link with himself and the infusion of magick that animated the remains.

For now, he had little idea on how to improve the mind, it was complex and involved many elements he didn't fully understand, but his work on improving the efficiency of the link, as well as achieving greater saturation of magick were improving steadily.

Finally he sighed and snapped his book shut. He couldn't put it off any longer, the light was beginning to fade and if he didn't start now it'd be too dark to work. The last thing he wanted to do was create light out in the open and paint a target on his back in these dangerous woods.

Better to get the work done, then relocate further back again. If he was lucky he might find better shelter in which he could complete his work and create his four newest minions. Right now he wouldn't be able to sustain that many, but if he were lucky and gained a few levels in his Necromancer class, perhaps even one in Anathema, then he might be able to sustain it.

Enough distractions. He walked to his pack and pulled out his butcher's tools before he hesitated. After a pause to firm his resolve he turned and walked to the remains, still where he had left them.

It had been several days since these slayers had fallen and already they stank. Perhaps the task might have been easier if they were in a more advanced state of decay, they may have been less recognizable as people. As it was he could recognise them at the slayers who had recruited Cilla and walked out of Woodsedge not so long ago.

His hand tightened around the hilt of his cleaver as his stomach heaved.

I really don't want to have to do this.

For a moment he wavered, and reached desperately for other options. Surely there were other remains he could access safely. If he looked around his current location, he might be able to track some down. Anything he'd found on patrol with Dove's team was off limits unless he was truly desperate. Searching his current location would take time. Too much time. He'd already been hunting around his bungalow for two days and found nothing.

He had to do it.

Face set in grim lines, he moved to the first corpse and dragged it to a clear patch of ground. Then he dug a hole to one side, and after a moment's thought, dug another using his small hand spade. He'd thought to have a place he dispose of the flesh when he was done, but figured he might need another for the contents of his stomach.

No way I get through this with the contents of my stomach.

With one final grimace, he took hold of the knife and got to work.

Within the broken lands.

"On a scale of one to fucked, how bad is it?" Rogil asked as he stared out over the Rifts.

The portals to Nagrythyn crackled with an energy that they hadn't possessed the last time they'd come out. The size and number of rift-kin who loitered around was greater also. Even worse, in the hazy, misted landscape beyond the rifts the gathered hordes of rift-kin railed, pressing against the boundary between one world and the next.

"We are beyond fucked," Dove reported, his usual flippant manner nowhere to be seen. "You guys were here basically a week ago and already it's turned to this? The instability of the rifts is rising, fast. To find out why, we'd need to go through to the other side, but I'm not sure that's a good idea right now."

"If we were to go through, what are the odds you'd be able to pinpoint the issue?" the team leader asked him, still studying the distant rifts.

"Not that great. I may be dimension mage adjacent, but I don’t' know as much as they do about the important stuff. Honestly? In normal circumstances I think the Steelarms would already have been called to come and deal with this."

The sturdy fighter nodded as his eyes continued to flick from detail to detail, taking in the environment and using his decades of experience to filter what was important from the dross. Finally he closed his eyes for a brief moment.

His team was strong, close to promotion, but pushing through the numbers below without any support would be pushing it. Nagrythyn was considered on the lower end of rift worlds in terms of threat, the kin that emerged from the rifts were usually knee to waist high insect-like creatures that could be threatening in numbers, but lacked the punch to deal with more powerful slayers. With the state of things right now, too many were able to cross over, and the larger kin were becoming too common. As tall as a person, or even a horse in some cases, they were much more dangerous. Harder to kill and deadlier, such creatures were the threats that even old heads like Rogil needed to be careful around.

If the really big ones came through, then they would need gold ranks to take care of it, and there were none within a hundred kilometres.

"You don't think Magnin and Beory will be sent? Even if we ask for their help?" he turned to the mage and asked.

Dove hesitated before he went ahead and spat it out.

"What I'm worried about is that they won't come, even if they are asked. Why would they risk their necks out here while their only child is on the run?"

"They would deny the brand?" Rogil said, as if stating that they would explode the sun.

"Rogil, they are already doing that."

The mage let his words sink in for a moment before he continued.

"Do you seriously think that their kid would last more than a day or two if they were seriously looking? Think about who we're talking about for one fucking second. If they wanted to catch him, he'd be caught by now. I have no idea how, but they are holding on. How long they can do it, I have no clue, but they are doing it all the same."

"You really think they'd leave us out here to die?"

Even in the dire situation they found themselves in, Dove couldn't help but laugh.

"Fucking what? You know as well as I do that those two don't give a shit, not really. What they've done, they did for themselves. I respect the hell out of them, but I'm not blind to reality. You know that's the case, Rogil, don't tell me otherwise."

The older man nodded slowly and hung his head as he thought.

"Let's get back to the others," he said as he stood.

The two crept slowly through the undergrowth until they found Aryll and Monica hidden in the shade of a broken tree.

"How's it look?" Monica whispered nervously.

"Shit," Dove replied.

She flicked an irritated glance at the Summoner before she turned to Rogil, the question in her eyes.

"Really shit," the team leader confirmed in his deep, rumbling voice. "The rifts are going out of control, and fast. If nothing is done, they might tear in as little as a week."

"A week?" Monica blanched. "You can't be serious."

The fighter nodded.

"I've seen it before. Once the buildup starts, if you don't jump on it straight away, it'll escalate quickly."

"What are we going to do then?" Aryll broke in. "Are we going to sit on our backsides or are we going to go through and fix it?"

The scout looked impatient, but underneath the surface Rogil could sense an undercurrent of nervousness that she tried to hide. She was scared, as anyone would be.

He looked her directly in the eye as he spoke.

"It's too dangerous for the four of us to go through on our own. It's not happening."

He repeated himself as Aryll looked to interrupt him. He glared until she backed down and was prepared to listen.

"But we do need to move fast. This is what we are going to do. We'll sweep this area clean, try to release the pressure around the rifts before we head back to the keep and get multiple teams out here as quick as we can. Then, with enough numbers, we can push through and try to clear out the other side. I have to warn you, the number of kin loitering around the rifts is high, it's going to be a tough fight just to thin them down."

Dove nodded in confirmation.

"So we go hard, we keep it clean and by the books. We can't help if we're dead. Got it?"

The others indicated their agreement and Rogil quickly sketched out a plan of attack before they broke off and headed to their positions.

Crouched behind a fallen log, Dove looked out over the twisted landscape of the broken lands, the curling storm overhead no stranger to him after long years as a slayer. He mentally ticked down the time as he readied his summoning rituals. One minute before the agreed five had passed he began to cast. He might not be as talented as that damned kid, but he knew these spells like he knew the palm of his hand. Extremely well.

The words of power rolled continuously from his tongue as he reached out to connect with the Astral and enact the contracts he had forged there.

As they always did, his partners, his friends, answered his call.

A gigantic, glittering wolf formed by his side, followed by a coiled, hooded serpent that entwined itself around him. Overhead, a harsh birdcall sounded out, alerting the others that he had finished preparing.

"Go get 'em," he encouraged his summons and the intelligent beings from another plane responded to his words, the wolf dashing forward with blistering speed, faster than the eye could follow before it fell on the nearest monster and began to rip it to pieces with its powerful jaws.

The snake looked at him for a moment before it hissed softly and began to follow in the star wolf's footsteps at a more sedate pace. Once it crested the ridge overlooking the rifts, the snake reared up, its hood flaring as bolts of pure astral magick began to appear in the air around it. The energy shimmered in place for a moment before it streaked through the air, punching holes in the chitin of every rift-kin unfortunate enough to become a target.

Dove watched his two strongest summons go to work through the eyes of the hawk above, but he didn't rest on his laurels. Sitting back and letting his allies do all the work was the first mistake many a young summoner, himself included had made. Already his hands were forming patterns in the air as he spoke, conducting another ritual.

As Rogil's blurred form streaked from the tree line, his blade slashing out with inhuman speed and strength to bisect a large monster in a single blow, Dove completed his second spell.

A hundred metres above his head, a portal span into existence that emanated a dark blue light which seemed to expand, creeping outwards each moment the shining circle existed. The Astral Gateway. Had taken him ages to master this magick after he'd hit level forty. Dove looked up at it with satisfaction as stray, wild astral creatures began to poke their noses through. The moment they caught sight of the rift-kin below, they went wild, rushing through to throw themselves on their hated foes with savage abandon.

Dove grinned.

"Time to feast!"