B2C30 - Flight South (Patreon)

“Did you hear something?” Tyron asked, coming alert suddenly.

“Uh… no? Obviously, I didn’t fucking hear anything. My hearing isn’t exactly the best it’s ever been right now.”

“Shut up for a second.”

The skull grumbled quietly to himself but fell silent a few moments later as Tyron continued to survey the grassland around them. For two days, they had continued their slow way south, trying to get lost in the winding trails amongst the foothills. It appeared to have worked, at least so far, as they hadn’t seen any Slayers.

They’d managed to find a scattering of rift-kin, which had been somewhat surprising. Small scuttlers, hunting for any grazing animals or remote communities they could find, easily put down by the skeletons.

Tyron cocked his head and listened. The wind was a constant here, whistling between rocks and crags, but even so, he’d thought he heard something.

After a moment, there was no response, so he dropped the bandage in his hands and began to work his magick. Looking through the eyes of his minions, he found nothing, which was somewhat reassuring. Just to be safe, he redistributed a few, increasing the number of skeletons close to the cart.

“You’re as jumpy as a flea in a fire, kid.”

“Do you blame me? If a team of Slayers finds me, even trainees who haven’t reached bronze yet, I’m completely fucked. I’d rather not be dead, Dove.”

“Hey. Living the Lich life can’t be all that bad. I mean, I’m halfway there, and let me tell you…. I can’t even pretend it’s good, actually. This sucks. Are you going to bind that hole in your gut or what?”

After a few more moments, Tyron lowered his head and got back to cleaning his wound. Superhuman physical toughness was one thing, but basic injury care to prevent infection would go a long way. As hard as it had been, he’d had to force himself to stop, hide the cart behind the slope of a hill and remove his bandage to boil it.

The fabric wasn’t the best, but after twenty minutes soaking in water, it was clean enough that he took it out to dry. The wound itself… wasn’t pretty. It still ached like hell, though he was pleased to see it wasn’t puffy or overly red.

If there was any internal damage, he’d have to cross his fingers and hope it was able to resolve itself. Thankfully, the blade hadn’t punctured a lung, but the chance it had perforated his bowel was very real. Unnaturally tough he might be, but there were limits.

Should I try to find a village? See if they have a healer of some kind?

It was highly unlikely that they would, small communities couldn’t afford the ministrations of someone with a proper, dedicated healing Class. More likely he’d find someone with a Skill or two they’d developed to help their neighbours and make a little extra coin on the side.

But did he have the time? He might have to risk it. He finished wrapping the bandage and tied it off before he pulled his shirt back on.

My last clean-ish shirt.

The last one had an unfortunate hole through it, and some rather significant bloodstains. He’d ditched it in a creek when he had the chance.

Worse still, his cloak hadn’t come out unscathed, and there was no replacement for that. Against the cold, he didn’t have an option but to make the best of it.

A moment later, he stilled, then continued to go about his preparations nonchalantly. Several ghosts began to drift to new positions under his mental command.

“Just about time to get moving again,” he said to Dove, as casually as he could manage.

“I mean, I can’t exactly move, you know,” the skull replied acerbically, “I just sit in the back of the wagon for days on end watching the gorgeous scenery go by.”

“Oh, come now, what about the sparkling conversation?”

It was all he could do not to scan the surrounding rock as he kicked over the last of the coals and pulled himself back into the wagon.

“Sparkling? Have you ever met yourself, Tyron? All you talk about is magick and whinge about getting stabbed.”

“All you talk about is magick and how much you miss having a dick.”

“A lot, by the way. My balls are a close second and third, but definitely the dick most.”

The skeletons picked up the cart and began to rattle down the path as Tyron settled, doing his best to appear focused on the bones in front of him.

Surreptitiously, he worked his magick, allowing his eyes to be overtaken by the vision of a ghost. Nothing. He shifted its position. Still nothing.

Perhaps he was just being paranoid….

He tried another ghost. Nothing. One more, nothing. With a sigh, he shifted its orientation, about to give up, when he thought he noticed something.

Did that rock… move?

Keeping the spirit at a slight distance to prevent its cold aura from giving it away, he had it rotate around the suspicious stone to get a better look.

Damn these horrible undead eyes. I swear I saw it shift.

The offending rock was positioned overlooking the slight dip where he’d stopped to make a fire, perfect for someone wanting to observe him. Maybe he was paranoid, but he couldn’t afford to take any chances.

He waited, watching as closely as he could.

There.

That time, he caught it, he was sure of it. Someone was watching.

Blood and bone, he cursed. He’d been found.

He swallowed, then began to prepare another spell as the cart continued to wobble its slow way down the road. There would only be one shot at this, and he had to win.

Once he was ready, he breathed out, then snapped around in his seat, hands outflung to hurl the spell at his intended target.

Dominate Mind!

The instant he moved, the hidden observer did too, breaking cover to escape, but they weren’t quick enough. The spell took hold and Tyron found himself locked in a deadly battle of wills with his opponent.

Using this spell against a person was very different from using it against a rift-kin. The monsters weren’t defenceless against it, far from it, they fought with a desperate, rage-fuelled frenzy, the madness that possessed all kin driving them to push back.

But they weren’t intelligent, they didn’t understand what was happening to them, they just lashed out. It was relatively easy to suppress them as long he was steeled for it.

Using it against a person was another matter. They were more cognizant of the stakes, more cunning in how and when they lashed out.

There was a cry from above as Tyron slammed his will against the observer’s, but he didn’t allow himself to get distracted. The stakes were too high for that.

Eyes closed, sweat burst out off his brow as he brought his mind to bear. The slayer fought back, for it had to be a slayer, their will far stronger than that of the farmer he’d done this to before.

Like trying to pin down a snake, Tyron struggled to grab it safely, but it wasn’t that easy. The slayer writhed in his grip, stabbing in one direction one moment, then in another the next. To be successful, he had to suppress them completely, to the point they surrendered. Fearing for their life, the slayer fought back furiously.

Tyron grit his teeth and abandoned his careful strategy. Trying to pin down a snake without getting bit might be the smarter strategy, but he couldn’t be cautious.

Throwing away his sense of self preservation, he lunged forward with his will, driving directly into the mind of the slayer. In return, he was pummelled, his opponent lashing at him with wild abandon.

He struck back again and again, smashing his will against theirs with cruel purpose. He would drive them to submit, he had to.

A fierce headache blossomed behind his eyes as he was struck over and over, but he had the better of the exchange. Eventually, his opponent weakened, and he closed his grip around their mind ruthlessly.

It was over, and Tyron fought back his distaste at the sensation of holding another’s mind in his grip. He couldn’t be squeamish now, the worst was yet to come.

In a way, it was a good thing he couldn’t see the slayer clearly, whatever they’d done to conceal themselves was still in effect. According to his eyes, he was having a battle of wills with a suspicious rock.

“Kid? What the hell was that? I can’t see.”

“Slayer,” Tyron said tightly.

“Oh, fuck!”

“It’s alright, I’ve suppressed them.”

“Well, that’s nice, I suppose. What happens when you release the spell?”

“Taking care of that now.”

“That sounds ominous. Can always use another corpse for the pile.”

“Not like that….”

With the slayer held tightly in his grip, they were at his mercy. Unable to move or defend themselves, it would be simple to have a skeleton run them through, but that was a dead end, for him.

He was already a marked man, slayers didn’t take it too well when their own were killed, but kicking the hornet nest would only make things worse. If he took more lives, if more slayers disappeared, they’d never stop hunting him.

When the rift-kin were dead and things returned to normal, the slayers would return to the keeps and get back to doing what they do best. If he’d murdered a bunch of them on the way, that wouldn’t happen, they’d stay until he was dead in the ground.

Take a breath, focus, don’t fuck it up.

There hadn’t been a chance to practise this, he didn’t have a target after all. Perhaps he could have asked Yor, but he was likely to end up dead if he did.

Focusing on the magick, he concentrated on the slayer, or more specifically, on their mind. Now that he had them in his control, he was able to implant a suggestion, to persuade them that they had seen something they hadn’t, or more specifically, convince them they hadn’t seen something that they had.

You found nothing. You saw nothing. No sign of a Necromancer. No tracks. No trail. No wagon. Turn and leave.

He repeated the thought over and over again, driving it into the mind he held in his grip. Drumming it over and over again, he gradually felt it take hold, sinking into the thoughts and settling there.

You found nothing. You saw nothing. No sign of a Necromancer. No tracks. No trail. No wagon. Turn and leave.

When he was satisfied, he slowly released his grip, then watched through the eyes of his ghost as the slayer stood, the rock disguise falling away to reveal itself as a cloak.

It was a woman, perhaps, it was hard to tell through the ghost’s eyes, and she walked, zombie-like, away. Tyron breathed a deep sigh of relief and released the spell.

“We need to get moving,” he said to Dove.

“Oh, right. Well I’ll get right fucking on that.”

“Shut up, Dove.”

“More importantly, how in the name of fuck did you get that slayer out of here?”

“Implanted a suggestion in their mind that they’d never found us.”

“Oof. That’s twisted, kid. Manipulating thoughts like that? Disgusting. By the by, think we could stop by a brothel soon? I’ve got some thoughts about this new ability.”

“You’re sickening, you know that?”

Putting the protestations of the skull to one side, Tyron focused on having the skeletons move the cart as quickly as their boney feet would carry them. He needed to get south. Skyice Keep would be his next best bet of finding rift-kin to kill, and perhaps it would be a little safer, being the most isolated slayer-keep in the province.

As long as they didn’t get found again.

“Say, Dove,” he said, as the cart continued to rattle forward, “I had a thought, about ghosts.”

“By the mother’s milkers, kid. Can’t we talk about breasts for a chance?”

“So, to create a ghost, I need to create a type of shell, right? A magickal construct of sorts? I’ve been wondering if I can overlay that. You know the repository ritual?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well…”

The two bounced ideas off each other for the next few hours, until night fell. Yor found them still arguing back and forth and rolled her eyes. Every night started the same way.

______

“How much longer, do you think?” Beory spat through gritted teeth.

Magnin grunted, breath whistling as he tried to suck in air through the pain.

“Not sure,” he gasped. “Th-they’ve started working harder. D-don’t you think?”

They certainly had. It appeared the Magisters had grown tired of their resistance and redoubled their efforts. In a strange way, the increased pain pleased her. No doubt those pricks were sweating right now. They’d never have expected her and Magnin to last as long as they had. Nobody had tried to circumvent the brand in centuries, nobody as good as her, anyway.

The Magisters had been complacent. The fact that she and her husband were still alive was proof enough of that.

“The brands aren’t enough to kill us,” she ground out. “Their only choice is to break us down.”

“Oh?” Magnin tried to chuckle, but it came out as a pained wheeze. “I-it’s working.”

“We’re buying him time. Hold on.”

“Of course.”

He’d done so well, better than expected. His body might be grossly powerful, but his mind and will were more vulnerable.

“Every hour we can give him increases his chances. We have to hold.”

Sweat poured from Magnin’s brow and he grunted with every second breath. She’d never seen him look so worn, not even in his youth.

“Did I ever tell you,” he wheezed, “that I love you?”

Her eyes softened, despite the agony that ripped through her.

“Yes, my heart. Every day.”

“G-good.”

She reached out and place a palm against his face.

“Just a few more days,” she told him. “You can make it.”

“Course I can. Don’t underestimate me, woman.”

“Never.”

Not like the Magisters. They dared to try and clip her wings, Magnin’s wings. Vengeance would find them, the entire empire would burn for what they’d done.

Of that, she was confident.