Book 5 – Prologue (cont)

“I told you I would find it.”

“But you didn’t; I found it.”

“It’s almost as if you’re suggesting my totem pole provided no value whatsoever.”

“I’m not suggesting it, Dove, I’m outright saying it.”

The skeletal form of the once-living Summoner turned its back in outrage, flicking the crumbling bones of the snake he’d attached around his waist over his shoulder.

“I’m telling you upfront, Tyron, this partnership isn’t going to last without mutual respect.”

“Respectfully, shut the fuck up. I’m working.”

Dove briefly considered unleashing his marrow hound on the Necromancer, but thought better of it. Even as a joke, attacking someone much stronger than himself with an undead entity conjured from the realm of death itself was probably a bad idea.

Instead, he watched as Tyron muttered to himself, cast magick and mucked about with runes for ten minutes before getting bored.

“This tomb has been sealed for hundreds of years. What are the odds any defences are still functional? You can probably crack the door open and stroll inside without a care.”

Tyron lowered his hands and turned his unfeeling gaze upon the oddly dressed skeleton.

Dove was still wearing the armour Tyron had crafted for him, along with a tattered robe that seemed to be for dramatic effect only, and the snake dangling between his legs, of course. Even for an animated construct of onyx bones, he looked utterly ridiculous. The Summoner had always been eccentric in life, and it seemed death had only driven him further in his pursuit of the absurd. Or it had simply driven him mad.

“Arihnan the Black was the most powerful and feared Necromancer on record before me,” he said, completely without ego. “If I had built it, the enchantments I built into a tomb to protect my secrets would grow stronger over time, not weaker.”

“Yes, but you’re weird,” Dove pointed out, “and we have no evidence to suggest that Mr Black was an enchanter of anything like your skill. Even if he was the best Necromancer around, he had to make these runes himself, or hire someone to do it for him.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable thing to say. Tyron considered for a moment. It was true he’d been having trouble finding any significant source of arcane energy that would indicate the presence of a trap, but he’d thought perhaps they were simply very well made. This was supposed to be the greatest Necromantic treasure trove in the realm, there was no way it wasn’t heavily defended… right?

“Fine,” Tyron said, giving up. “I’ll send in some minions.”

“Rude,” Filetta said from her spot against the wall.

“I mean regular skeletons,” Tyron defended himself. “I wasn’t going to send you in first.”

“Of course he wasn’t going to do that,” Dove stated, leaping to the wight’s side and swinging his snake suggestively. “He wouldn’t dare interrupt our special time.”

She grabbed him by the skull, jamming her fingers into his empty eye-sockets before she spun, whipping him off his feet and slamming him into the ground.

“You’re disgusting,” she told him as she rose and sauntered over to the Necromancer. “Besides, I’m spoken for.”

“What?” Dove gasped, horrified, from his mangled position on the floor, “Tyron, you betrayed me?!”

“Shut up, both of you,” Tyron rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to go in there, be careful. Take some minions with you, use them to feel out for traps.”

“I will,” she said, waving him off.

Several skeletons ran down from further back in the underground passage on Filleta’s command. She ordered them forward, and in short order, the undead had managed to haul the slabs that served as the seal for the tomb out of the way.

The tunnel filled with thick, stale air as the long-trapped atmosphere within was finally released. They were already deep underground. It was warm, but the air was still and cloying. Dove tilted his head as Filetta and the minions stepped into the darkness, looking at Tyron.

“Don’t you need air to breathe?” he asked. “I know your heart situation is… out of the ordinary, but you still breathe, right?”

“I do.”

Dove waited, but there didn’t seem to be more coming.

“So… how are you fine down here?” he pressed. “You don’t enjoy my particular advantage of being a spirit yearning for the void but mercilessly lashed to an attractive stone form.”

“Yearning for the void?” Tyron asked, brow raised. “I can set you free right now if you want.”

“No thanks,” Dove said quickly as he picked himself up from the floor. “I’ve become too familiar with the Realm of the Dead to be at all interested in an extended visit. That place is… cold.”

Tyron stared at his former mentor with hard eyes. He’d been asking Dove to share his knowledge of the Realm of the Dead ever since meeting up with him before crossing the mountains. However, Dove had proven to be less than willing to say anything about the place, dropping cryptic hints and avoiding the topic whenever possible. The search for the tomb of Arihnan was a worthwhile distraction, but the time he would need to be more forceful with his questions was soon approaching.

Stolen story; please report.

Sound from within the tomb distracted him, and he turned to see the glowing light of ethereal flesh drawing closer. It soon resolved into the form of Filetta.

“You should probably come and see this,” she said.

He held out an open palm and conjured a globe of light to hover above it, casting shadows deep into the tomb and began to walk forward, but not before he summoned more of his undead to his side.

The bulk of his army remained at the settlement, helping to carve out a safe haven amidst the chaos that now filled what had once been the Empire of Granin. That didn’t mean he hadn’t brought enough to keep him safe.

Surrounded by heavily armoured wights and revenants, Tyron stepped over the threshold and into the tomb. The change in the air was immediate, the stink of rot and mould somehow clinging to the walls despite the long centuries that had passed.

The narrow pathway soon opened up to a larger chamber, with rows upon rows of stone slabs, each with a concave depression carved out of the surface. Tyron ran his hand along one. The stonework was starting to crumble, but it was clear there had been a channel running out one end. He frowned and stepped around to the head of the slab, poking with his foot until he found what he was looking for.

“What’s that?” Dove asked, wandering over to peer at the ground.

“They drained bodies of blood on these slabs,” Tyron said, pointing to the shallow bowl that formed the surface and the narrow opening that let the blood flow out. “You can see they let it fall here into this gutter, where it pooled and ran that way. There was probably a collection point for each row.”

“Wouldn’t it just thicken up and turn to mush?” Dove asked, perplexed. “Blood doesn’t flow like water, that’s just bullshit.”