B5 Chapter 25 – Return

The city was quiet when Tyron arrived, the sun fading over the horizon and the shadows creeping longer between the stone buildings. Worthy had remained behind for a little longer, helping the Slayers set up a more permanent encampment just outside the Broken Lands.

The rift, which they had tentatively agreed to call Stonebeast, would need to be constantly monitored from this point onward. The worst of the work had been done, clearing out the concentrated kin on this side of the rift. Now the Slayers would do the job they had done for thousands of years within the empire: rift management. Killing the monsters as they came through, going through to the other side and fighting the kin inside their home realm to prevent them from massing, forcing the rift wider from their side.

If done correctly, then no breaks would occur and all would be well. The Broken Lands would slowly begin to shrink as the rifts themselves did, and the amount of magick pouring through to pollute the land would slow down. With gold ranked Slayers, the odds of them being able to successfully manage the rift were extremely high, despite how powerful it was. It made what the Empire had done, allowing their rifts to run out of control so they could keep anyone too powerful under their thumb, even more infuriating in hindsight.

Despite everything, the refugees of the Western Province now living in the ruins of Granin would eventually be far safer from kin than anyone living in the Empire could ever hope to be. There were four or five more rifts that Rurin felt they could reasonably hope to manage and were close enough to have an effect on the city. When Tyron had tamed all of them to the best of his ability and the Slayers established their camps, the kin should be almost totally under control in this area. Even what they had just done would make the ruined city ten times safer.

Bone tired, the Necromancer led his horde down the wide roads, ignoring the onlookers who came out to see him go past, some hopeful, others fearful. Occasionally, there would be one unable to contain their anger, and they would hurl abuse at him until those around them managed to shush them or drag them away.

He ignored them all. When word of his accomplishments at the rift spread around, they would be singing his praises, and he would ignore that too. Despite everything that had been done, there was still so much more to do.

His horde needed to grow. He needed more power, more magick, more knowledge, enough to rival the gods themselves.

How else was he supposed to kill them?

A portion of his army had remained behind to help with the construction and fighting, which would provide a trickle of Levels for his Necromancer Class, but it wasn’t enough. To accelerate his growth, he needed something more, and perhaps Dove had provided him the clue he needed to find it.

When they reached the former temple, Tyron dispersed his minions into the surrounding buildings, little more than warehouses, many with basements that would soon be packed full of skeletons standing shoulder to shoulder. He himself retired into the network of narrow corridors and rooms underneath that had become a sort of Necromantic place of learning. His students were eager to find their own beds, and for once he didn’t disagree with them. Sleep would do him well and sharpen his mind to face the challenges of tomorrow.

Of course, the world was never quite so kind to him.

When he finally reached his own small room and pushed open the door, he found a figure already inside. Dressed in a deep red dress that seemed to flow from her shoulders down to the floor like a waterfall, snow-white skin gleaming like marble in the dim light, the flawlessly featured woman turned to him with a smile.

Red eyes alight, dark hair spilling down to her bare shoulders, Yor was as captivating as ever, a deadly picture of perfection designed to lure in unwary prey.

Tyron forced his fatigue away, his eyes sharpening as his previously sluggish thoughts accelerated to their usual alacrity. He did not want to be eaten alive.

“I was so pleased to receive your message, Tyron,” Yor almost purred, a gloved hand coming to rest on her cheek. “If you’d taken any longer, I’d have started to believe you never wanted to speak to me again.”

“Do we really need to play these games, Yor?” he said directly, expression hardening. “Let us deal straight with each other.”

For a brief moment, she allowed him to see the beast that lay just beneath the thin veneer she laid on top. This was no seductive temptress, no lascivious lady of the night. This was an animal. A killer. Someone who drank life and ate souls without a second thought.

To him, who knew her true nature, the pretense at humanity was absurd, almost offensive.

When the moment passed, she was as she had been before, flawlessly beautiful, her demeanour suggesting she was ever so slightly out of reach… unless…

“Our past dealings have left the Court feeling less well-disposed towards you. My Mistress is wondering if it is worth her while to listen to your requests at all.”

“Be honest, how many blood slaves did you take when the Western Province fell?” he demanded. “Don’t pretend your Mistress wasn’t able to fill her cages and fatten her brood on the people you took from my home.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“As if you care,” Yor said, baring the slightest hint of fang. “Preventing their capture was wholly within your power, all you needed to do was turn away from your petty vengeance and try to achieve something greater, try to become something greater. Instead, you burned it all to the ground, and the poor desperate people had nowhere to turn.”

She sighed mournfully.

“They were so desperate, so frightened, they would reach out to anyone who offered them a hand, even someone like me.”

Then she smiled again.

“Don’t worry, we take good care of them.”

“I bet.”

He’d seen the cages, seen the caverns beneath the Mistress’s mansion. There’d been so much space. Enough for an army of blood slaves.

“I didn’t send you a message so we could talk about this,” Tyron said, not bothering to hide the distaste from his face. “If all you want to do is anger me, then congratulations. If you’re actually interested in making a deal, then we can talk.”

“Are you actually angry, Tyron?” Yor asked, hand on her cheek as she studied him. “It can be hard to tell sometimes with you. I don’t think I’ve ever met a mortal who was quite so hard to read. It’s like you never feel anything at all, always a mask pulled over your face.”

“I’m actually angry. I didn’t do what I did so you could fill your cages with the people of my homeland. It happened anyway, I know that. I have some measure of blame, but having it rubbed in my face by one of your kind… let’s say that I don’t appreciate it.”