B5 Chapter 48 – The God in the Machine

Work consumed Tyron. There was a great deal to do, and he keenly felt the pressure of time weighing on his back. Despite his confidence, he knew that a single false step would spell his doom. He didn’t underestimate the Death Lords, he believed they were every bit as powerful as Dove had said they were. Should they notice him, he would be destroyed as easily as a human swatting a fly.

So he poured his energy and expertise into establishing a boundary around the site of the gate, creating a field that would conceal every tiny ebb of magick that took place within. In many ways, he was held back by only having a single demi-lich able to assist him with the delicate enchanting work, even if that individual was Master Willhem.

While the rest of the horde established a perimeter, keeping low amongst the dunes of powdered stone and skulls, the two of them laboured over posts that they planted at equal intervals, each a single node in a greater array that slowly took shape over the following hours and days.

All the while, the eerie atmosphere that pervaded the realm of the dead pressed in around them. The darkness, the suffocating thickness of Death Magick, the absence of sound and colour and… anything. It was so quiet, the only things he ever heard were the clicking of skeletal heels against stone and the trickling and shifting of the grit as it cascaded down the face of the dunes.

This was not a place for the living, and it seemed as if the Realm was intent on reminding him of that fact with every passing moment. Indeed, the only thing keeping him alive was the reservoir of power the Old Gods had stowed away in the walking flesh sack that had been Rolan. Without that, he wouldn’t be able to exist here for even a minute, and it was a limited resource.

It had been a monumental effort to arrive here, yet now the only way to survive was to leave.

Quickly.

Yet he couldn’t do that either. With a sigh, Tyron stepped back from the final post, stretching his back and blinking his eyes. The air, if it even was air, was so dead in this place he felt like it was eating into his eyes and lungs. Every breath tasted like a tomb, and exhaling felt like it sapped the very life essence from his flesh. It was exhausting simply existing in this place, pushing even the indefatigable Necromancer to his limits.

“It should hold,” Willhem said, “though I will have to maintain it carefully. If you need me for other projects, it will prove difficult to ensure no sign of our presence leaks.”

Tyron nodded.

“I get it. I’ll entrust you with this, Master Willhem. With all that needs to be done here, I don’t imagine these wards will be enough without your expert touch. I won’t draw you away unless the situation is dire.”

The demi-lich studied him with hollow eyes, the red crystal growths within his skull sparkling with arcane energy.

“That would be wise,” he said, before turning to drift away.

With the final post in place, the array covered an area a kilometre by a kilometre, a tiny island of sanctuary within a hostile world. Performing any sort of magick outside of this space could well be enough to get him killed, but he would still have to do it.

In the centre of the array, Tyron’s tent had been erected, a simple affair of brown hide, with a desk, bed and bookshelf as the only furniture. A small chest held his spare books and ink, and a lightweight chair for him to sit in.

There was no wind of any sort within the Realm of the Dead, but at least the tent provided cover and contained the light he needed to work by. As much as the Necromancer wanted to sit down and try to work on the next of the many problems he was faced with, he couldn’t, since Dove had taken up the seat, his feet propped up on the table as he leaned back.

“Weren’t you ever told not to lean in your seat?” Tyron remarked.

“What can I say? I’m a rebel. I live dangerously. On the edge. Mavericks like me don’t live by the same rules as petty mortals like you, Tyron. We’re bold, adventurous. We sail where others are afraid to go, blaze trails that-Ack!”

Dove’s diatribe was somewhat rudely cut off when Tyron, having heard enough, kicked the chair out from under him, sending the skeletal construct tumbling to the floor.

A person could land in quite an ungraceful heap, but a skeleton was capable of so much more. Arms, legs and ribs seemed to tangle with each other in a bizarre display as Dove glared up at Tyron from the floor.

“That… was the act of a small man,” he said spitefully.

“Get out of my chair, Dove,” Tyron sighed.

“That would have been easier before you acted on your petty jealousy!” the skeleton growled as he slowly managed to pick himself up.

“I don’t have the patience for your games, Dove,” Tyron said, not bothering to apologise. “I’ve a lot to do if I don’t want to die here, and burning time dealing with your antics is not something I’m interested in entertaining.”

“Hah! I knew you weren’t as confident as you looked! Yes. Yesssss! Tell me the truth, you actually are trapped here, right? You’re desperate, panicking, worried you’ll suffocate to death in a realm that rejects your very existence.”

Dove leapt over to Tyron, his skull right next to the Necromancer’s ear as Tyron tried to ignore him. Irritated, he shooed the skeleton away, batting at his face with the back of his hand.

“No, I’m not trapped here. Getting out of this place is the part I’m most confident about.”

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“Fuck,” Dove cursed. “You got my hopes up there for a minute. Fine, I’ll bite. What are you worried about?”

Tyron had several books open on the desk before him now, flicking through them in turn as he sought the references he required.

“Getting here was one thing, getting out of here is another, but if that’s all I achieve, then I still won’t survive. I need to get stronger, much stronger, and fighting kin in the wastelands wasn’t going to get me where I need to be in the time I need to be there.”

“And where do you need to be?” Dove asked him.

“I need to be platinum,” Tyron replied, as if it were obvious. He started to jot down notes as he thought. “I can’t defeat an army of golds as a gold. I need levels, and in addition to that, I need materials. Powerful minions that can fight against gold calibre warriors. I have to find these things here, in the Realm of the Dead, before I go back.”

Dove stared, then burst out laughing.

“You can’t be serious! Trying to snatch resources from beneath the eyes of the Death Lords is like pinching gold from in front of a dragon’s nose! It’s even worse than that, you don’t have any idea how things work here. You can’t find the gold, and if you did, you don’t know how to mine it, and if you did, you don’t know how to refine it, and if you did, you don’t know how to smelt it. And even if you figure all of that out, because you’re so fucking smart, you then need to turn it into coins, then swan off into the night without being eaten by the dragon who watched you do the entire, fucking, process!”

“I have to agree with you, Dove,” Tyron sighed. “It’s not a smart plan, but it’s all I have left available. I can’t expect to bring down gods without taking a few risks, now can I?”

He continued to scribble away at his notes as Dove chuckled to himself.