B5 Chapter 11 – Marshalling

“Nice to see you again, lad,” Worthy grinned broadly before enfolding his nephew in a massive hug. Despite putting his armour on earlier, Tyron still felt his ribs creak as the massive Hammerman squeezed him tight.

The man was gaining levels as a gold, so it shouldn’t be surprising his strength was climbing at meteoric rates.

“Uncle,” Tyron greeted him, giving him a one-armed hug back. The other was holding his staff. “How’s Aunt Meg?”

“She’s getting sick of vegetables,” he laughed, letting go and planting his hands on his hips. “When are we going to get some proper meat?”

“When we have land for pasture? I don’t see all that much grass around, Uncle. Do you?”

All around the camp was a blasted wasteland of shattered crystal spires and barren soil, without a hint of green.

“You’ll figure something out,” Worthy grinned, “otherwise what use is that massive brain of yours? If you’re here to speak to Rurin about the rift, you should go visit Meg while I round everyone up. She misses you.”

Impatient as he was to get moving, he wouldn’t disappoint his aunt again.

“Alright. I’ll meet you at the fire in fifteen minutes.”

“Good lad.”

His Aunt was indeed pleased to meet him. After another, less crushing hug, he was forced to sit at the table and eat a bowl of stew, which was delicious, as they exchanged small talk. It was pleasant, to sit and pretend that nothing had changed, that he was still the boy who slept in her attic and the world hadn’t been turned upside down. That Magnin and Beory might wander home any minute. Before he stood to leave, his Aunt cupped his cheek and ruffled his hair, just as she had when he was little.

“Make sure Worthy comes home safe,” she asked him. She wore a smile, but there was no masking the fear in her eyes.

“I’ll do everything I can to keep him safe,” he promised.

That earned him a squeeze on the shoulder and a slightly warmer smile, then he was off to the central bonfire. Worthy had indeed managed to round up everyone of note, including Rurin, Timothy, a few other gold Slayers, along with Elsbeth and Munhilde.

Tyron walked up to the priestesses, a curious expression on his face. Before he could even ask why they were present, Elsbeth took the words out of his mouth.

“Gods,” she said.

“Gods?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded.

Presumably the Three wanted to get involved in this project in a more direct fashion, and what better way to do that than through their loyal Priesthood?

“They aren’t planning anything… disruptive… are they?” he asked, one brow raised.

“When aren’t they?” Munhilde snorted, which elicited a helpless shrug from Elsbeth.

“As far we know,” the blonde Priestess followed quickly, “they aren’t looking to do anything. We’ve… well, I’ve only been asked to observe and help where I can. I swear by Crone, Raven and Rot.”

“I might have been asked to do the same, I might have not. Who can say?” Munhilde said, then laughed at Tyron’s scowl. “If you want more definitive information, you can always ask them yourself.”

“I’ll pass,” he muttered.

He was keeping his interactions with his patrons to a minimum at the moment, hoping to amass more power before he allowed any of them to get their claws in him again.

“Tyron Steelarm, as I live and breathe,” a boisterous voice called, and he turned to see Rurin striding towards him, a broad grin on her face.

The once leader of the Woodsedge Slayer rebellion hadn’t changed much over the last few years. She’d always looked like the grizzled veteran that she was, and besides a few new scars and a couple of extra silver hairs, she was just as she’d been before. Timothy, on the other hand, looked significantly more careworn, as the task of logistics and organising the Slayers had largely fallen onto his plate, despite his best efforts to push it off onto someone else.

“Nice to see you two,” Tyron said, extending a hand to shake. “Is everything ready to seize the rift?”

“Excuse me. You should really buy a girl a drink before you try and take her to a nightmare tear in space,” Rurin said, winking. “Are we all business today?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, face blank. “My undead are already pushing towards the rift, and I would like to have Slayer support before they get overwhelmed.”

“Well, that’s taken the fun out of it,” Rurin complained. “Since we don’t have much else to do, I’m sure I can rustle up a good number of gold and silver rankers to help you out. Heck, I might go myself.”

“I’m going too, obviously,” Worthy remarked.

“Is Trenan and his group around?” Tyron asked. “They should probably tag along. There’s going to be a lot of kin to kill. A good chance for the silvers to pick up some levels.”

“I assume that’s why you brought your apprentices,” Rurin nodded.

Tyron shot her a glance.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“I have my ways, boy,” she grinned.

“Scouts tracked you out of the city,” Worthy said, drawing a scowl from his old friend.

“You favour that boy too much,” she said, punching him in the arm.

“You don’t say? I favour my only surviving kin. What has the world come to?”

“Alright, shut up.”

The Necromancer ignored their friendly bickering and focused on his plan.

“I expect to take no more than three days to get my horde in position at the rift. Can your people be ready by then?”

When it came to killing kin, Rurin was as sharp as a blade, despite her unserious demeanor.

“You’ll have to push hard to make it that quickly dragging zombies and the like around,” she mused, rubbing her chin in thought. “We can get there easily enough, especially since we’ll be taking the safer path. I assume you’ll be swinging west?”

“That’s right.”