B5 Chapter 2 – The Storm Rolls

It took Tyron a day to tend to the storm rods. Of course, Master Willhem, which is how Tyron still thought of the demi-lich, worked as well, repairing more than half of them. However, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed that his former teacher continued to avoid him, refusing even to communicate through the conduit they shared.

He’d been patient with the Master Arcanist, giving him time and space to adjust to his new existence, but it didn’t seem to be working. He wasn’t sure if Willhem resented him for bringing him back from the dead, or felt betrayed by the deception Tyron had played on him, or simply detested being an undead. The demi-lich’s thoughts were completely masked to him at all times, and Tyron hadn’t done anything to force the issue.

Which was how it would remain, for the time being. He needed his Master’s help, and he would get it one way or another, but he would much prefer it if he could treat him as an equal, rather than a servant.

By the time he finished the maintenance, the storm overhead had reached a boiling point. It was disturbing, to say the least, watching the sky tear itself apart in much the same way it had in the worlds beyond the rifts. To think that just over the mountains from the Empire, the realm they inhabited was already so far gone, almost completely lost to the kin and magick that poured out in an unending tide.

When he made his way back to his quarters, the first crashing booms erupted overhead.

Tyron knew what would follow. Wild and untamed magick would clash overhead, a storm of power that would produce fire, wind, lightning, ice, and other, less mundane magickal effects. Without the knowledge he’d gained from the Old Gods regarding the nature of magick, he wouldn’t have been able to create the rods and keep the city safe at all.

He pushed all other concerns from his mind as he made his way, finally, to his own home amidst the ruins. Not that it was much of a house. He strode up the cracked and damaged steps towards what had once been a grand entrance. Of the columns that had once flanked the doorway, little remained but the base, the stone sheared through as if by a knife. Stepping inside, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling to note the progress that had been made.

His skeletons had been hard at work trying to repair the roof, but it was slow going. Such a large building required an ungodly amount of time, effort and resources to repair, and with literally millions of people trying to create a new life for themselves in the city, it would have been absurd for him to claim all the stone required to cover it.

His undead spent nine-tenths of their efforts assisting people around the city and working on civil projects—clearing the streets, cleaning out usable buildings and helping to enforce order. The rest was spent on his own projects, and among those, the roof he didn’t really need or use didn’t rank all that highly.

Hopefully, whatever progress had been made wasn’t torn away in this latest storm.

The inside of the building was cavernous, a vast open space still littered with dust and chunks of stone. At the far end, the altar was suspiciously still intact, along with the three grand statues positioned in alcoves behind it: Crone, Raven and Rot.

Whatever the Old Gods might be, they were certainly petty enough to protect their own statues during the downfall of a civilisation, apparently. Perhaps they had anticipated the day when people returned to this lost city and made use of their old temple.

Well, too bad. Tyron had claimed it for himself, and precious few people were even aware this place was a temple at all. Besides, he wasn’t interested in this open and exposed space, he did all of his work in the complex below.

He turned to his right and made his way down the broad stairs on the side of the chamber, his undead filing down along with him. A heavy wooden double-door blocked the way down, and Tyron knocked firmly before waiting for a moment. He could sense his undead on the other side, and all throughout the rooms below, of course, but he wasn’t the only living occupant of this place.

It took a little while, but eventually he heard movement on the other side of the door, followed by a voice calling out.

“Hello? What do you want?”

“To get inside,” Tyron replied.

“Oh shit!”

There was a scramble before someone yanked on the door. It swung open to reveal a mousy young woman with thin wisps of hair falling down over her pale face and large bags under her eyes.

“Master Steelarm!” Briss exclaimed, bowing at the sight of him. “Welcome back.”

“You look tired,” he said, striding past. “Why?”

“I’ve been working on something with Georg,” she replied, scurrying to fall in beside him. “We think we might have found a way to improve the longevity of his zombies.”

“Don’t adopt my worst habits,” he warned her for the hundredth time. “You work better with frequent rest and a clear head.”

“Of course,” she replied, straight-faced, and he grimaced.

Being a good teacher was something he strove to be, but being a good role model was another thing entirely.

“Gather the others in the living room,” he told her. “I have news and tasks for each of you.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t want to rest and have something to eat?” Briss asked, and he turned a glare on her. She merely stared back at him, blank-faced, until Tyron rolled his eyes.

“I’ll eat while we talk,” he conceded, waving her off.

Without another word, the young woman turned and dashed away through the narrow corridor, looking for her fellow Necromancy students.

More accurately, looking for Tyron’s students. With so many having come across from the western province, and the Old Gods meddling with the Awakening, there were more and more Necromancers emerging. Most of them stayed here, beneath the temple, but Tyron hadn’t the time to teach all of them directly, so that duty had been passed down to his own students.

Tyron passed orders amongst his wights and allowed them to see to the dispensation of his minions. Many of the skeletons he’d taken outside the city were in need of repair to their bones, armour or weapons, and some required all three. A huge amount of work that would likely have to be pushed onto the less experienced Necromancers. They couldn’t do the job as well as he could, not nearly, but more and more, Tyron was coming to grips with the fact that he could only be in so many places at once.

For now, he was able to ensure that all the revenants, wights and demi-liches in his service were still maintained personally, but soon even that might be beyond him.

With a few more orders, he had the undead carrying the various books, scrolls and other prizes from his journey to sort and stow much of it, while some he told to follow him.

The living room was, much as it sounded, a comfortable, shared space with a crackling fire, bright lights, soft chairs and many, many bookshelves. Tyron took off his bone armour, allowing his minions to place it carefully on the stand in the corner. Freed from the weight after months on end, he allowed himself to sink into a chair while a skeleton appeared carrying a covered plate.

Fresh bread, butter and steamed vegetables greeted him when the cloth was removed. A feast, under current conditions. He would have to thank whoever was in charge of the kitchens for their generosity.