Book of The Dead

Not for the first time, Preston wished he were out fighting. He turned his head away from the empty road in front of them toward the Soldier beside him, a footman named Rylat, with the tanned complexion of someone from further south.

Probably explained his odd name.

“Do you think the heretics will attack us here?” he asked.

Not for the first time, Rylat scowled behind the visor of his helmet and gripped the haft of his spear tight.

“Preston, you are on duty at the Jorlin family estate. You’re a professional Soldier, so act like it, or I will tell the sergeant how distractible you are. I assume he’ll have even less patience for your whining than I do!”

With a mighty thud, he slammed the butt of his spear into the cobbled road, putting an end to the conversation. For his part, Preston merely rolled his eyes, which luckily his fellow Soldier couldn’t see, and returned to the task at hand: watching the empty road and field.

Putting up with guard duty was painful at the best of times, but he’d always managed it in the past. He was, after all, a professional warrior in service of the Noble Houses, the descendants of divinity. He trained hard, diligently worked on his Skills and abilities, and was good at what he did.

But things were different now. Most of the Soldiers were absent, taken out of the estate and sent into the field to fight against the heretics, while he was made to remain here and perform even more mind-numbing guard duty than before!

Why? Was he not worthy? Preston had placed in the top half of all Soldiers in the last dueling competition, he knew he was good enough! The thought of being left out grated at him, but the thought that he might have been considered not good enough grated at him even more.

Keen for something to do, Preston turned his Unseen-blessed eyes upon the road to see the distant smudge rolling toward the gates.

“I think so. He’s late,” Preston said.

The estate ran on a strict schedule, even more so during the current troubles, and deliveries were supposed to be done before lunch. Morning shifts were much more entertaining for this reason. Dozens of deliveries, each needing to be inspected, lots to do, plenty of back and forth. The second shift, literally nothing happened. But, Theo was running well behind, it was mid-afternoon, and it would still take the better part of an hour for the wagon to arrive.

“Theo’s never late,” Rylat stated.

“Could have just broken an axle or something,” Preston reasoned.

“We’ll play it safe. I’ll notify the sergeant.”

“About a late delivery?”

The protest fell on deaf ears since Rylat was already moving. He turned and marched to the gatehouse just inside the wall, entering a moment later. With his enhanced senses, Preston could hear the muffled conversation taking place inside, but he merely shook his head. He wished something nefarious would happen; at least then he’d have something to do.

There were a hundred things that could have caused the grizzled wagoneer to be late on his delivery, each more dull and uninteresting than the last. The casks hadn’t been loaded on time. The roads were degraded. The vineyard had been behind preparing the wine and cheese. A minute later, Rylat returned to his post and resumed his silent contemplation of the road and fields. When the wagon had covered half the distance toward the estate, Preston was surprised to find the sergeant had emerged from the gate house to join them, peering into the distance.

“That’s not Theo,” the sergeant observed.

“What?” Preston said, and looked again, closer this time.

Theo made a delivery every week, so he was familiar to almost every Soldier who served on the estate. Where Preston expected to see an old, ginger-haired man with a bristling moustache, he instead saw a wiry, pale-faced youth with sandy blond hair inexpertly guiding the horses before him down the road.

“That’s definitely Theo’s wagon, though, right?” Preston asked, holding a hand over his eyes to block the sun to get a better view.

“It is,” Sergeant Keens agreed. “We’ll need to do a full inspection when they arrive, along with a truth reading.”

“A truth reading? Is that necessary?”

Surely, that was excessive for a delivery of wine and cheese for the family.

“Protocol, Footman Preston. Unless any of you recognise this individual, then this is their first visit to the estate. We go by the book. I’ll get the Priest.”

“He’ll be happy.”

“Father Olthis serves the Children of Divinity. I’m sure he will be pious enough to fulfil his duty.”

Unlikely.

Not only did Father Olthis serve the Jorlin’s, he was a Jorlin. Because of course, what Noble family would trust some random Priest with the protection of their estate? None, of course. Better to keep such matters within the family.

It was an open secret that second and third children sent off to the Priesthood tended to have mixed feelings about the post, at best. They went from being the Hand of the Gods, to the Servants of the Gods.

Quite the demotion.

As it was, Father Olthis arrived looking none too pleased about being pulled from his chapel, but nevertheless, he waited patiently alongside the rest of them as they watched the wagon cover the last few kilometres.

When it finally arrived, the young man holding the reigns drew the wagon inexpertly to a stop, already apologising before the wheels had finished turning.

“Sorry about being late, my lords. There’s been some unexpected difficulties today.”

“So I see,” Sergeant Keens grunted from behind his visor. “Hop down from there so we can speak eye to eye.”

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“Oh, of course!”

Clearly nervous, the young man climbed down from the driver's seat and landed heavily in front of them, wincing a little as his boots met the stone road.

“Do you have your documents?” Keens asked, holding out a hand.

“Yes, absolutely. One moment…”

The wagon driver reached into his worn, brown coat and started rummaging through his pockets.

“Ah, here is a letter from Wagoneer Theo Fetterman, explaining his absence today. Broke his foot, poor man. Here’s the letter of receipt from the Baln Brooks Vineyard and… I’m sure I have them here somewhere… ah! Here are my papers.”

The sergeant accepted each of these, running his eyes down each page rapidly while Preston put himself in position to rush the young man should the need arise, trying to look nonchalant as he did so.

“Mister… Booker?”

“Yes, my lord. Frederick Booker. I keep the ledgers for Mr. Theo, driving wagons isn’t exactly one of my Skills, but there was nobody else, and Mr Theo wouldn’t dream of missing this delivery.”

“I imagine not,” Keens grunted.

Not with the rates the houses paid.

The sergeant finished reading, folded the pages up and tucked them inside his armour.

“Rylat, inspect the wagon. Father Olthis, if you please.”

With a scowl, the Priest stepped forward, raised one hand, and began to chant. Soon, his hand emitted a soft, ethereal light that he held towards the wagon driver, who looked at it apprehensively.

“Answer my questions, that the gods might judge your answers to be true,” the Priest intoned. “What is your name?”

“M-my name? Ah! My name is Frederick Booker, my lord. Father.”

“Did Theo Fetterman break his foot?”

“Y-yes. His ankle. This morning.”

“Did you collect these casks from the Jaln Brook vineyard?”

“I did. Father.”

The Priest turned to the sergeant, his hand still held aloft.

“I trust that is sufficient?”

“Does he speak the truth?”

“I would have told you if he did not,” the Priest said, his tone clipped.

“Thank you for your time, Father Olthis,” sergeant Keens bowed. “We are grateful for your assistance.”

With a scoff, the Priest lowered his hand, letting the glow fade, and strode away, robes fluttering in the breeze. Meanwhile, Rylat was carefully moving among the casks loaded onto the back of the wagon, a crystal array held in his hand.

“What does the crystal do?” the wagon driver asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

Keens didn’t bother to answer, but Preston chuckled at the young man’s naive attitude.

“The array emits a light that breaks illusions. Making sure some nasty mage isn’t sneaking something into the estate that they shouldn’t.”

“I see,” Frederick said, though it was clear he did not.

“Come with me,” sergeant Keens said. “We will perform a routine status inspection in the guardhouse, then you’ll be clear to enter the estate.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Rylat inspected every inch of the wagon, going above and beyond what was expected while Preston watched from the ground. Dedication was one thing, but this was becoming excessive. Still, he said nothing as the inspection was finished and the sergeant returned with the clerk turned wagoneer in tow. By this time, the sun had begun to dip over the horizon, and even if his fellow Soldiers weren’t, Preston was quite eager for the shift to end.

“Ah, quick question, if you don’t mind,” Frederick said, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his head. “Is there any chance you could put me up in the stable overnight? I’m not all that good at steering the horses, as you’ve seen. It’ll be pitch black long before I make it back to the city.”

An unorthodox request, but not unheard of.

“There’s spare rooms in the barracks,” sergeant Keens told him. “No need to use the stable.”

“Well, that’s very generous of you,” Frederick smiled. “I’ll get this wagon unloaded and make my way back here once the horses are stabled. Will you still be on duty?”

“For two hours,” Keens confirmed.

“Again, thank you. I was terrified I’d be caught out there in the dark,” Frederick laughed nervously. “It’s rather dangerous to be alone on the roads these days.”

With another awkward laugh, the young man climbed back into the driver's seat of the wagon and began to guide the horses forward. There would be further inspections and questioning once he reached the storehouse, then more again at the stable.

Preston shrugged his shoulders and returned to his duty, staring out once again to the darkening field of nothing before the gate. Shortly before their shift ended, a flustered-looking Frederick appeared, bowing and apologising until Keens grew irritated and told him to stop. They took him over to the barracks and had the housekeepers put him up in one of the empty rooms.

His shift finally over, Preston headed straight to the drill yard, hoping to work out his frustration. After a few drills and several duels, three of which he won, two which he lost, he went straight for the bathhouse to soak his cares away before he retired to prepare for another day.

Just because night had fallen didn’t mean nothing was happening in the barracks, however. There would be two shifts overnight, the guardhouses, walls and watchposts manned at all hours of the day and night. For now, that was someone else’s problem, and by the time he finally found his bunk and rolled in, Preston was already half asleep.

Frederick Booker, however, was not asleep. He stood, alone in his room, arms pressed into the wall on either side of the mirror, gaze fixated on the reflection staring back at him.

A subtle light flicked in his eyes, and he blinked feverishly. Gradually, his expression began to shift and his gaze hardened, until, finally, he drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“That was… unpleasant,” he muttered to himself, running a hand across his face as he shuddered.

He had learned just enough about magick from his mind-affecting spells to get himself into trouble. It had seemed like a trivial thing, to manipulate his own mental state, but he hadn’t appreciated just how… disturbing it would be. He had honestly believed that he had been Frederick Booker. If his construct hadn’t timed out correctly, would he have lived the rest of his life that way?

Eventually what he’d done to Theo would have come undone, and the man would have realised he had never met Frederick Booker and had handled his own finances his entire life.

After another deep, steadying breath, he passed his hand over his face and watched as the false face wavered, then dissolved, revealing his true features beneath. It was not an improvement. He looked gaunt, almost haggard, and he’d probably lost weight, again. Thankfully, the staff had been friendly and fed him a full meal. A kindness they would soon doubtlessly regret.

As the night deepened, Tyron went to work. He withdrew a stick of chalk and bag of sand from his pack, innocuous enough items they would pass unremarked, but were capable of being used as a ritual medium. As quietly as he could, he used the chalk to draw arrays of runes around the room. Starting in the corners, he then moved to the centre of each wall, then the floor and ceiling. He worked at a smooth and steady pace, his hand never wavering as each intricate pattern and design was completed flawlessly on the first attempt. When it was done, he took the small knife from his pack and drew the blade in a long, shallow line down his arm.

It wasn’t easy to cut into his hardened flesh, but he managed it eventually, though the process was more messy than he would have liked. Using his fingers, he felt around until he located what he was looking for, withdrawing the slivers of crystal from within the wound. These he cleaned in the washbasin before drying them and binding them into his arrays.

Slowly, they began to absorb scraps of ambient magick, emitting a soft glow while Tyron bound his wound. He watched the cores carefully, assessing the strength of the light they gave off, until at last he was satisfied. Taking the sand, he began to draw the ritual circle on the floor.

He’d stepped out of the space, and though it was close, there would be enough room for his purposes. Dove had once called him a madman for performing a ritual in conditions similar to these, but what choice did he have? Attempting to bring even the simplest of magickal tools or ritual aids would have given him away instantly.

Besides, it was in conditions like this that he truly thrived.

With a confident hand, he swept from rune to rune, widening the circle as he went. Sigil after sigil, array after array, until finally, it was done.

Within the Jorlin estate, surrounded by deadly foes, Tyron Steelarm raised his hands, and began to speak.

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