B3C73 - The Wight Which Rises (Patreon)

Sorry to keep you waiting BOD readers!

Been a busy week for me this week. My eldest son is heading off to University tomorrow (that's College for any American readers), and as you can imagine it's been a busy time, hanging out with the lad and trying to make sure he's prepared.

Second chapter won't be tomorrow, I'll be driving, but hopefully the day after or the day after.

And I'm really sorry Chrysalis readers for leaving you on such a cliff! Just didn't have time or energy to squeeze out another one.

Be well all!

“You’re looking tired, Master Almsfield.”

Tyron blinked, then turned to look at his apprentice questioningly.

“More than usual, I mean,” Flynn hurriedly added. “I mean, you always look tired, but right now… I’m not trying to be rude, I’m merely observing…”

His master did nothing but maintain that steady stare until the younger man wilted entirely.

“I’m sorry, Master Almsfield. I spoke out of turn.”

Finally, Tyron relented.

“It’s fine. I am fatigued. The past few weeks have been extremely busy, and I’ve found my nights to be filled with work and study. More so than usual. I’m hoping to return to a more normal schedule soon, before I have to leave again.”

Flynn chuckled nervously, visibly pleased to let off the hook for his impolite observations.

“That work ethic is what made you into what you are today. Even Master Willhem has acknowledged your dedication and skill, and he was famous for his single minded pursuit of the Arcanist’s art.”

At the mention of his own Master, Tyron could only smile wearily.

“My own passion for enchanting is like a candle compared to Master Willhem’s roaring bonfire. Perhaps there is such a thing as being too dedicated. He lives for nothing else. Despite all the money and fame he has accumulated, he still burns to perfect his art and nothing else can satisfy him.

“I recommend you work hard, study hard, especially now in your youth, but if you wish to be happy, then do not seek to emulate my, or my Master’s example. When you have achieved success, stop pushing, and cultivate other aspects of your life. You want to get married sometime, don’t you?”

His apprentice froze and blushed. How could anyone be this transparent?

“I do,” Flynn squeeked, then coughed and repeated himself in a lower tone, “ahem… I do, yes.”

Tyron nodded.

“You can’t be married to enchanting and Cerri at the same time. As an example.”

A flustered Flynn, began to try and deflect but Tyron just waved his bluster away.

“Focus. I want us to finish this batch of cores before we close for the night.”

“R-right. Sorry.”

The two fell back to work, each scraping away at the cores before them with their pliance, engraving the sigils that would enable them to function for their intended purpose. These particular cores were intending for water condensing implements, enchanted to draw in water from the air, which was cheaper, magickally, than turning raw magick into a drinkable liquid.

For another two hours they worked, Tyron keeping a close eye on his apprentice, catching mistakes as they happened and providing instruction. For his part, Flynn was extremely grateful for the attention of his Master.

Despite his somewhat weak personality, Tyron was pleased with Flynn. The young man was a good student, a hard worker, when pushed, and had a genuine affinity for the art of enchanting. As the sun dipped over the horizon and the noise downstairs began to die down, they wrapped up, cleaning down their benches, putting away the tools, and settling the cores they had finished into a neat tray, ready to be set the following day.

With a pat on the shoulder and a slight nod, Tyron sent his apprentice on his way and farewelled the rest of his staff before he locked the front door and turned back to his now empty shop.

He was exhausted. Eyes that felt like he’d rubbed them down with sand. A slight trembling in his limbs. Pain in his joints. A permanent sense of fuzz, hovering around the edges of his awareness. All the signs were there, and he knew it well. Right here, in this moment, he should choose to rest.

However, that’s not what he did. Rather than going upstairs for food and sleep, he went into the storeroom, uncovered the secret stairs, and made his way down into his study.

Even in his deprived state, Tyron was self aware enough to give a wry chuckle at his own choices. It was unfortunate, but he and Master Willhem were similar in more ways than one. Willhem had dedicated himself to enchanting and cut almost everything else from his life. The acclaim he received was merely evidence of his mastery, and served no other purpose.

Tyron loved magick, in all its forms, but he was fascinated by Necromancy. Unlike any other form of the magickal arts, it was a puzzle he had to assemble himself, without guidance, without reference. In fact, the complexity was a level above cobbling together a simple puzzle. Tyron was trying to fit the pieces together in the dark, unable to even see their shape, or gain a clue as to what the final picture was meant to be. Everytime the Unseen granted him knowledge, it was like a tiny flash of light, giving him a glimpse of the possibilities, then he was plunged back into the darkness, left to feel his way forward once again.

Were he to meet another person who had been given the Necromancer Class, it’s entirely possible the fundamentals of their spells would be totally different, even though they produced a similar result.

Of course, Tyron was convinced that his version would prove to be superior.

With a sigh, Tyron turned his chair around, facing it away from the desk, and sat, chin propped up on one hand as he beheld what lay before him.

Usually he didn’t allow skeletons to remain in the study once they were animated, there were several nooks and crannies within the sewer in which he could leave them, but these specimens were somewhat different.

A new batch of revenants, the latest amongst his collection. Several of the so-called ‘guild’ had been of a sufficient level and ability that Tyron had felt it would be worth binding them to their remains. After all, a Revenant was able to call upon the Skills they had cultivated in life, though they were usually diminished, and required a prohibitive cost in magick.

For example, ‘Dags’. Supposedly he had earned his nickname for the two daggers he wielded in battle. The man must have been prolific with them, almost reaching level forty in his Cutthroat Class. In life, Dags had been able to execute moves with staggering speed and accuracy. His body, enhanced by the Unseen, was faster, stronger and his ability to control it more finely tuned than would be possible for an unlevelled person.

As a Revenant, that body was gone, only the bones remained. Those muscles and tissues, strengthened by his levels, was replaced by Tyron’s own threads. He was proud of his work, extremely proud, but even he would admit that the weave he produced was not at the same level as what nature and the Unseen could produce.

When his new Revenant attempted to use his abilities, they simply weren’t as good, and the cost for that exertion was not paid by the body, but by Tyron’s available magick.

“Come here, Dags,” he said out loud.

The Revenant turned towards him and walked over, two daggers formed of darkened bone held fast in its hands. Still sat in his chair, Tyron looked up at his minion, stared into its burning, purple eyes. Resentment thrashed there, a raging fire of loathing, anger and fear. The Necromancer could feel it, a scream that filled a frequency right on the edge of his hearing.

This was normal for new Revenants. Some reacted with horror more than anger, some were the reverse. Eventually they would fall to a numb acceptance, but that would take time. Time in which they would rail against the magick that bound them… and fail to even bend it.

“Show me again,” Tyron ordered, gesturing toward the wooden block he’d set atop one of the stone slabs.

Without a word, for he could not speak, the former thief turned, readied himself, then lunged forward.

Fast. Faster even than what he’d seen from the swordsmen he had turned into Revenants. The skeleton flashed across the intervening space, blades snapping out to strike against the already marked wood so quickly he could barely see them.

The drain on his power was considerable. Dags was pushing his undead body to its limit, drawing on all the magick he could push through the threads that bound his frame.

Tyron carefully inspected the Revenant, using every observational tool at his disposal, until finally he placed them down with a sigh.

“Just like I thought,” he muttered to himself. “The weave simply isn’t up to the task.”

For weeks Tyron had hunted down the remnants of the Guild, dismantling the organisation and killing everyone with links to the leadership. Everyone who might have known about his dealings with the thieves should be dead.

But that was only part of why he was so exhausted. Following that burst of nighttime activity, he’d, of course, processed the remains and used them to create new minions. What a waste it would have been to do otherwise!

However, the real reason he was so tired was because of this particular Revenant. Dags had brought into sharp relief the area Tyron was now most lacking, the single greatest flaw in his Necromantic art.

His threading.

Now, Tyron was confident he’d done all he could think of to improve his weaves. He’d tested every variation on the established patterns he could think of, carefully assessed each iteration, before cutting the threads and starting over. Every muscle, every joint, he had exhaustively experimented upon. His current design, by far the best he’d ever made, was a marvel compared to the horrific mess he’d created when starting out.

His skeletons could now move fluidly, more efficiently, properly able to articulate every joint, every finger.

But, as Dags had so amply demonstrated, it simply wasn’t good enough. There was a limit to how much power his current weave could withstand, and even someone as relatively weak as Dags had run into it.

For nights upon nights, Tyron had been trying to find a solution, but so far, he hadn’t been able to do more than slight improvements. He was missing something fundamental, something that would be key to his advancement in the Necromantic arts.

As it stood, even if he were to capture a powerful slayer and turn them into a Revenant, they wouldn’t be able to exert even a fraction of their former strength. The problem was eating away at him, but no matter what he did, he got no closer to a solution.

With a frustrated grunt, Tyron slumped in his chair, rubbing at his eyes with his palms. He was exhausted, drained, there was almost no way he would make a breakthrough in this condition. It was time to go to bed.

However, there was one thing he needed to do first.

His fingers danced in the air and words flowed from his lips as he bent his magick, bent the world itself, to a shape that was more pleasing.

Once again, the pillar of mist took shape, the baleful shade of Filetta contained within.

Release me, she demanded. I have done as you wished. Answered all of your questions. Release me!

Tyron nodded slowly.

“It’s true,” he said, “you’ve cooperated to the best of your ability, as far as I’m aware. All of your former partners have been dealt with. You have my thanks.”

Of course, Tyron had done his best to ratify her words with every other member he’d captured, just to ensure she didn’t omit anything crucial. Despite his efforts, nothing had shaken loose. Filetta, it appeared, had dealt straight with him.

“It’s almost strange how quickly the docks settled. Afterwards, I mean. A powerful group like the Guild, built up over years, vanished overnight. You’d think there’d be more of a disturbance, but life goes on, apparently. All of the territories and businesses you had your fingers in has been snapped up by others. Things are running so smoothly I wonder if the Marshalls even noticed a change.”

I don’t care, the spectre rasped at him, I am dead. Set me free.

Tyron leaned back in his chair.

“I always wonder about this, so I might ask the question, if you’ll forgive me. Why are you spectres so eager to move onto your next destination? Do you really believe it's going to be better than where you are now?

“Even if I released you, no longer called upon your spirit, where do you think you’re going to go? I know for a fact your spirit will remain here, in this realm, for some time, before it finally slips away. So whether I summon you or not, you’re stuck here for the time being, Filetta.”

The spectre hissed angrily at him.

Your call strengthens my bond to this realm. I can feel it. Every time we speak you delay my eventual departure. I no longer want to be here, Tyron. I don’t care where I go, it has to be better than this.

As he understood it, ghosts lived a fairly miserable existence. Every time he looked through the eyes of his own spirit minions, he caught a glimpse of it. Drifting through that mist-filled wasteland, unable to interact with the material world at all. It was little wonder they were so hateful toward the living.

“When you leave this place you will only find yourself within the realm of the dead,” Tyron said softly. “There will be no warm embrace of the Goddess for you, Filetta. I don’t know much about that place, not yet, but I don’t think it’s any better than what you are going through now.”

I’ll take my chances.

Tyron nodded, slowly. Then paused.

“There is an alternative. Not a solution, but a way to lengthen your existence, delay your eventual fall to the realm of death.”

Like them? The spectre hissed, gesturing toward Dags and the like. Bound to your will like a slave? No thanks, Tyron. I have been bound before, and I swore I wouldn’t be again.

“Not like them,” Tyron corrected her. “Those are Revenants, are as you say, they are subservient to my will. They can’t even think about opposing me. That is their fate. However, there is another form of undead. A Wight. You’ll have a greater degree of independence. And… I think… I can give you access to the Unseen again. You’ll be able to gain a Class and level, though it won’t be the same as what you had before.”

Filetta, or at least, her ghost, hesitated for a moment.

What would be the point? For what reason would I exist? I have already lived my life and died. I have no great purpose left unfulfilled.

“I do,” Tyron said quietly.

His true obsession, the endless hunger for vengeance, to see the Magisters dead, burned as bright within him now as it had five years ago above Cragwhistle.

“Let me tell you a little story,” he said, “about my real name, and what we might be able to do together.”