Book of The Dead
Chapter B5: A New Gate

Worthy Steelarm was in something of an awkward position. People kept coming up to him as if he were in charge, no matter how many times he politely, firmly, emphatically assured them that he was not. Slayers didn’t have someone in charge, that wasn’t how they operated. They got together, thought about what needed to be done, then they worked out who would be best suited to doing it, then they went and fucking did it! Why were perfectly sensible Gold ranked Slayers coming up to him and asking if he thought their decisions were good?

He didn’t know! He didn’t want to know!

Was it something to do with being a Steelarm? Were Slayers just drawn to them or something? He tried to think back to his own mother and father, both Slayers, but they had died on the job while he and Magnin were quite young. They’d been respected, sure, that was evident in the way their former teammates had banded together to make sure the two brothers were able to grow up safely. Not an unusual story in the Slayer community, common as muck.

Magnin had been an outlier, in basically every way imaginable. Slayers practically worshipped the ground he walked on from the moment he’d had his Awakening till the day he died. They’d follow him around like puppies, even much older and higher level ones, wanting to know what he thought about this or that, get his advice, or just watch him.

It had been weird. The man couldn’t stand in a bar and drink without a small crowd just… being there. Looking. Not brave enough to approach, but unwilling to go away, like moths drawn to a flame but with just enough sense to know they’d get their noses cut off if they got too close.

Magnin was prepared to laugh off most things, but Worthy’s brother had been much happier when he was on his own. Beory had been in much the same boat. When the two of them were together, their moth-drawing powers multiplied exponentially. It was no surprise when they’d effectively withdrawn themselves from any decision making process and just done their own thing.

Now that people were coming to see him, Worthy was more and more tempted to do the same.

“My love?” he called.

“Yes?” his wife Meg called from the kitchen. “What is it?”

“How would you feel about living in a tent and constantly being on the move?”

With a sturdy pot under one arm that she was vigorously mixing with a spoon held with the other, his plump and pretty darling walked into the room, a quizzical look on her face.

“Worthy, what are you talking about?”

“It’s these damned people,” he sighed, waving his hand at the door he had only moments ago closed in the face of yet another Slayer asking for his thoughts on some bollocks. “They never stop coming to ask me about random nonsense I don’t know anything about.”

“Well you are a very capable man. Handsome too.”

Somehow, after all these years, he still couldn’t resist the silly grin that crept over his face.

“Nice of you to say so,” he said, stroking his moustache.

Damned thing probably needed a trim.

She withdrew the spoon and prodded him on the chest with it.

“You’re a powerful and experienced Slayer, Worthy. Of course they want to get your advice.”

“But I’m not in charge!” he protested. Then reached down to wipe off the batter his wife had left on his shirt. Sticking his finger in his mouth, he nodded appreciatively. Some sort of ginger biscuit? He could hardly wait. “Nobody is in charge of Slayers. We’re Slayers!” he exclaimed while chewing on the sticky batter.

Meg rolled her eyes as she continued to stir, her arm never ceasing its steady motion.

“Yes, yes, you’re all freedom-loving warriors of light and justice.”

“Well, I don’t know about the others, but I certainly am,” Worthy declared, puffing out his chest.

Meg laughed before her smile slipped and she appeared a little downcast.

“They’re probably just nervous, Worthy. After what happened on the mountain, I think even the Slayers are looking for a little leadership. Nobody wants to stand around waiting for the Empire to come back with an army we can’t defeat.”

The Hammerman paused, then sighed. He stepped over to his wife and enfolded her in his burly arms.

“It’ll be fine, love,” he assured her. “The lad will think of something. There’s no need for us to lose hope.”

Indeed, a pall had fallen over the entire city once word had spread. Everyone had known the Empire would come at some point, but the appearance and then withdrawal of the army had put everyone on edge. If they came back. When they came back…

“Speaking of our boy,” Meg said finally, pushing Worthy back and looking up into his eyes, “shouldn’t you go and check on him? We haven’t seen him in days.”

Worthy grunted.

“Not unusual for him, even when he was a lad. He’s probably buried in a book.”

“Then drag him home for a proper meal,” she said, prodding him with the spoon again. “He doesn’t eat properly.”

“Alright, woman, enough with the spoon. I’m going, I’m going.”

It would be a good chance for him to avoid the Slayers looking for his opinion as well. He was no more than two steps out the door when he heard someone call his name, which was when he started sprinting.

At times, he was still shocked at just how fast he’d become. The power he gained with each and every level at the gold ranks was shocking to him. Even if he hadn’t gained that many levels, the abilities and single feat his new Class had granted him put the others to shame. He could barely imagine what it would be like to cross the next threshold. Not that he expected he ever would.

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Magnin had fought like a demon for decades to get there, practically living in the rifts. There weren’t many who could do such a thing and not go mad, let alone survive.

Despite the wary air that had fallen over the city since the withdrawal of the Empire, Worthy was still shocked at just how far things had come since they’d arrived. When the refugees had arrived, this nameless city of Granin had been a crumbling ruin infested with kin, without a shred of decent soil or a single undamaged structure. The work continued, but the transformation was startling. Houses, shops, a tavern or two, all made possible by the remarkable magick engineering Tyron had created with the help of Master Willhem.

Without large numbers of specialist water mages, it was apparently rather complicated to convert magick into fresh water wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Getting water wasn’t hard, but something similar to actual, natural water was difficult, and required vast amounts of energy. Despite the challenges, the city was slowly coming to life, with more crops being grown every day, reducing the need to ration and finally allowing people to loosen their belts a little.

With solid roofs over their heads and reliable food on the table, there was life and hope coming back to the people who had managed to escape the Empire’s wrath.

At least so far.

Tyron himself was still based in the labyrinth beneath the temple structure close to the centre of the city. The vast building was still under repairs, skeletons crawling over the structure, clearing the rubble and preparing the way for the new building to take shape. Recreating an ancient temple wasn’t high on anyone’s list of priorities right now, so no living workers had been allocated to the task, but at least the ruin was almost cleared away, leaving a clean slate for when the time came. For now, Worthy nodded to the undead standing guard outside the main entrance to the complex below, unsurprised when he didn’t get a response. They didn’t stop him, that was enough.

Getting any sort of response out of the dead was becoming an increasingly rare occurrence, outside of a few unique individuals who held fast to what remained of their personalities.

Stepping into the complex, Worthy was always surprised by the smell, or rather the lack of one. He’d seen what went on down here, students working on corpses, raising zombies, butchering the dead, crafting with bones and all sorts of nasty business. He always expected the place to stink like his socks, but it never did. Somehow, they’d set up a ventilation system that kept the air moving down here.

Thick as he was, Worthy felt well out of place as he squeezed past the much smaller students in the narrow corridors, but no one stopped him as he made his way toward the centre of the complex, angling towards Tyron’s rooms. When he arrived, he pounded on the door, knowing a regular knock wouldn’t be enough to get his nephew’s attention. After a pause, he thumped the door again, putting a bit of shoulder into it.

The wood splintered around the hinges.

“Oh shit!” Worthy cursed, looking up and down the corridor to see if anyone had noticed. Luckily, he was alone.

Whistling to himself, he tried the handle and found it unlocked, so he stepped inside to find the room pitch black inside. What in the world was going on in here?

Someone was here, more than one someone, if his senses weren’t playing tricks, but other than the scratch of a pen on paper, he didn’t hear much at all.

“Tyron?” he called, but didn’t get a response.

Worthy could see fairly well in darkness, but he was no scout. He kicked a few pieces of furniture in the sitting room before he made his way to the study. The soft glow coming from under the door told him this was where his oblivious nephew was working.

He reached up to knock again, being careful to restrain his strength this time, only for the door to swing open just before he could.

The black skeletal frame of the madman Tyron had resurrected stood in the doorway, somehow communicating a vast feeling of despair by posture alone.

“Save me.”

The voice emanated from within the skull, and no matter how many times he heard the undead speak, it still sent a slight shiver down the Hammerman's spine. It just didn’t sound right. He had no idea how the mechanism behind their speech worked, they didn’t have a mouth or tongue, obviously, but the words echoed out as if coming from another realm, distant and hollow.

“Save you?” Worthy frowned. “From what?”

“Shut the door, Dove,” Tyron said from within the study. “Or I’ll do it again.”

He still hasn’t noticed I’m here, Worthy thought, resigned. The boy had always been this way, even when he was a lad.

“Boy, your uncle is here,” he announced, brushing past the skeleton, who hastily slammed the door.

His nephew slowly turned away from the page in front of him, as if reluctant to tear his gaze away for a few seconds. Even when he noticed Worthy approaching, he still blinked a few times, as if the runes and sigils were still dancing in front of his eyes.

“Uncle? Wha-”

He didn’t finish the sentence before Worthy grabbed him by the shoulders, hauled him out of his chair and wrapped him in a bear hug, pounding him on the back.

“Your Aunt was worried about you, boy, I came to see what kept you away from her cookpot for so long. You know we’ve been getting the odd chicken to cook recently? If you turn up tonight, there might be a good stew on the hearth for you!”

After saying so, he held Tyron at arm’s length, noting the dark circles under his eyes, pale complexion and vague look in his eyes. This boy…

“Perhaps I should leave you and your uncle to this… moment,” a sultry voice said from behind Tyron.

Startled, Worthy shifted slightly to see the figure sitting next to his nephew at the desk. Immediately, his guard was up. Nobody looked that good. Nobody natural, or human.

“I’m not sure we’ve met, Ms…” he said.

“You may call me Ms Kiris. Or Yor, if you would like to be more intimate.”

“I wouldn’t,” Worthy said bluntly.

Tyron laughed.

“Ha! I don’t think I’ve ever seen… I shouldn’t expect any less from you, Uncle Worthy.”

Yor sniffed and turned back to the pages scattered in front of her.

“Are you going to finish this so I can leave? I have no desire to be here any longer. There is no proper place for me to rest during the day.”

“You’ve been using my bed?” Tyron protested with a frown.

Worthy’s brows went up.

“They are hardly sufficient,” she replied.

“Please… I’m begging you… just fuck already,” Dove pleaded from his knees by the door.

Worthy’s brows went a little higher.

“What?” Tyron choked. “Why?”

“So I can escape while you’re distracted.”

“Stop whining, both of you,” Tyron scowled. “We’re nearly done.”

“What are you working on, lad?” Worthy asked him quickly, before he got drawn back into the work.

Tyron picked up a page to explain, but Worthy cut him off with a hand.

“Don’t tell me how it works, I don’t understand any of it. Just tell me what it does.”

“Oh, right.”

Scratching the back of his head, he went on to explain what he was trying to achieve and why. Needless to say, Worthy was a little stunned.

“You found… the afterlife? Where our souls go when we die?” he muttered.

“Yes,” Tyron said casually, “though I don’t think we remember much of our ‘selves’ when we get there. It takes years for our spirits to disappear from this realm. And I strongly believe that some are actually claimed by the Divines upon death, so they may have created a ‘heaven’ of their own.”

“But The Three haven’t?” Worthy wondered.

All this spiritual talk was passing by him for the most part. He’d never been much of a church kind of fellow. Most Slayers weren’t, to be fair.

“They have… in a sense,” Tyron hedged. “Regardless, it doesn’t matter. What I’ve been doing is trying to create a stable gateway into the Realm of the Dead.”

“But for what purpose? What can you actually gain there?”

“Souls,” Tyron shrugged. “A whole lot of souls. Among other things.”