Book of The Dead

With each step Elsbeth took, crystal shards crunched underfoot. The ground was littered with them, broken from the larger clusters that burst through the ground, rising as high as a house at their largest. To think that crystallised magick, a precious resource over the mountains, was so absurdly abundant here.

It sickened her.

She cast her gaze across the plains and barely recognised her own world. There were almost no trees, no grass or greenery of any kind. Instead, a blasted wasteland of crystal shards and sandy, dry soil extended in every direction she turned, only terminating at the Barrier Mountains, scraping the sky to the east.

When they had finally been forced to flee through the mountains, a part of her had been filled with hope, dreaming that life away from the Empire would be better than it had been before. Reality was not so kind.

A presence within her spirit stirred, and the Priestess clasped her hands before her chest and closed her eyes. Slowly, the sensation grew as a being so much greater than herself reached out to speak into her heart.

A hard land will make a hard people. We will pour out our blessings on the worthy and upon this land. Fear for the people, and we will not fail to judge them.

The touch of The Three receded and Elsbeth released a shuddering breath. More often than ever before, the Old Gods were willing to speak to their Priesthood, taking a more direct hand. Perhaps they had foreseen this future all along? They intended for the western province to be wholly destroyed so that they could create a new land, carved out of the wilds for their followers to inhabit?

That wasn’t for her to worry about. The Gods knew her heart, knew what concerned her the most. She would continue to fear for the people and hold them up in prayer. Then, they would be judged, but there was nothing else she could do.

Footsteps approached from behind, easy to hear thanks to the crunching of crystal.

“Not that I can see,” Elsbeth said, turning to face her old teacher.

The older woman was smiling, not an expression that Elsbeth had grown accustomed to seeing on her face over the years they had known each other. Despite the frostbite that had taken three of her fingers, Munhilde had been more at peace than ever after crossing the mountains. Elsbeth had asked her about it, and had been told that living out from under the thumb of The Divines had been like being able to breathe freely for the first time.

“At least there aren’t any kin nearby,” Munhilde noted, scanning their surroundings. “Good to see the Slayers are doing their work properly.”

“They’ve been fighting constantly,” Elsbeth chided her.

“So? That’s what they do. Come back to the settlement, there’s nothing to be gained from standing out here.”

“Alright,” Elsbeth sighed, and began to walk back with her teacher turned friend.

“The Mages were forecasting another magick storm in a few days,” Munhilde told her, looping her arm through Elsbeth’s and patting her on the shoulder.

“Are the rods going to hold?” she replied, worried. “They’ve been taking a beating recently.”

“Getting information out of the lich is well beyond me,” Munhilde said. “I’ve met taciturn people in my life, but getting words from that particular undead has proven to be harder than getting blood from a stone.”

“I’ll try. He’s been a little more open with me.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

The two chatted back and forth as they continued to walk through the wasteland. In the distance, what had begun as a crooked smudge rapidly grew as the ruins of what had once been a great city came into view.

Broken stone littered the ground around them, enormous foundation stones, some several metres wide, jutting up from where they were half buried in the dirt. Elsbeth wasn’t sure what manner of kin had torn this once-thriving city apart, but she hoped she never saw one.

They began to see smoke rising and further signs of activity until finally, once they were well inside the circle of the ruined walls, they came across the first of the small settlements. Haggard-looking men and women came out from their homes amidst the rubble to greet the Priestesses as they passed, asking for news or for blessings. Many had perished in the western province, some had refused to leave, either not believing the Empire would destroy them, or simply lacking the will to start over somewhere else.

Millions had died, but millions had survived, and begun the great migration to the west. The mountain crossing had been perilous, especially difficult for the very young, and the very old, and many hadn’t made it. Adapting to life in these harsh conditions had claimed more. But now, two years after the city of Kenmor had fallen, life was beginning to feel at least a little normal for the survivors.

Whenever she was asked for prayer, Elsbeth was more than happy to stop and spend time with the people, calling on the Old Gods to turn their gaze favourably upon those who called on them. It was unlikely they would listen; Crone, Raven and Rot would judge who was worthy, and who was not, without much care for her input.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

The closer they drew to the centre of the ruins, the more people, and the more signs of habitation they found, until they eventually wound their way to the city centre, where the first signs of fresh water could be seen.

In the very centre of the lost city, a fountain had once stood. An enormous edifice, dozens of metres across, which had once been topped with a grand statue, perhaps depicting a ruler, or hero of the long-dead people of Granin. Now, a different stone sat in its place upon the plinth, a rock which, when the light fell upon it just right, seemed to resemble an old man laughing. From beneath that rock, an endless wellspring of water flowed forth, filling the fountain basin and overflowing into the garden plots that had been constructed all around it.

This was where the settlement was at its busiest. The grand plaza of the ruined city had been turned into the last safe haven of those who had fled from the western province, the only place with potable water and fertile soil in the entire wasteland. All around the outskirts of the open space, great poles had been planted, rising ten metres into the air and crackling with power at the tip.

It was around the base of one of these that Elsbeth found what she was looking for.

The presence of the dead was everywhere in the settlement. Patrols walked the streets, skeletons worked alongside the living to dig the channels, clear the debris, work the plots. Even without the presence of their master, the wights and demi-liches were able to command the lesser undead, and it was one of these she was looking for.

Twenty skeletons, a wight and a demi-lich had gathered around the base of one of the rods, and after bidding farewell to Munhilde, Elsbeth strode toward them before stopping a respectful distance away.

As she watched, the demi-lich floated before the rod, one skeletal hand extended, causing the complex sigil patterns engraved on the wooden surface to glow.

“You can approach, young one,” the lich said at last, lowering his hand.

Elsbeth walked toward the group, watched carefully by the attendant wight, but she paid them no mind.

“Master Willhem, it’s nice to see you again,” she said.

The demi-lich turned his hollow-eyed stare on her.

“I think you are the only one who greets me like that,” the Arcanist said, his voice ethereal and ghostly.

“You may not be alive any longer, but you are still Master Willhem, and you’ve done so much to help people. I wouldn’t dare not show my respect.”

An empty chuckle emanated from the lich.

“It’s nice to be appreciated,” he said. “I suppose you came to ask about the rods?”

“I did,” Elsbeth confirmed, “Munhilde told me there should be another magick storm soon. I was hoping you would be able to tell me if they’ll be able to protect us.”

Master Willhem looked up at the rod, then at the raging skies above.

“I never imagined I would see such raw, unbridled power,” he sighed, then extended a hand to touch the wood once more. “I’ve been doing work on the rods for the last few days, but there are so many, it’s unlikely I’ll get to them all before the storm arrives. The ones I’ve fixed will function properly, but I can’t guarantee them all.”

Elsbeth bowed her head.

“That’s all we can ask of you, Master Willhem. Thank you for your efforts.”

“It isn’t like I have much choice. My pupil has asked me to do it, though I was going to anyway.”

The demi-lich snorted, or tried to. Sometimes it seemed as if he still hadn’t adapted to being dead, despite the passage of years since the transition.

“Do you mean Tyron is coming back? He’s been gone for months.”

“Should be back in an hour or two, the brat,” Willhem groused. “If you see him, tell him to help me with these damn rods. If he wants to collect and ground enough magick to scour an entire city, then he better come and assist. I’m too old for this.”

“You could tell him yourself?” Elsbeth suggested gently.

The lich stared at her with his blank eyes.

“I think not,” he said shortly, then turned away, drifting just above the ground as he moved to the next rod.

Elsbeth sighed. It was a shame Master Willhem found it so difficult to reconcile with his former student, and Tyron was surprisingly reluctant to force the issue. If she were to guess, she would say that the former Arcanist was the one person he actually felt bad for having turned into an undead.

If the Necromancer was returning, then he would be coming from the south. Elsbeth looked over the plaza once more before she smiled to herself and began to walk to the southern end of the ruins.

Spotting Tyron coming back was much easier than she’d expected; the horde of skeletons gave him away. Rows of undead, marching in perfect unison, walked directly into the city as Elsbeth watched them go past. Eventually, in the middle of the column, she found Tyron and Dove, bickering as usual.

“Welcome back,” she greeted them. “Nice to see you getting along so well.”

“The best part of coming back here,” Tyron grunted, “is having someone else for Dove to annoy.”

“I’ll stick to you like glue,” Dove declared. “No distractions this time.”

“You won’t last five minutes.”

Before they could get caught up in another argument of Dove’s devising, Elsbeth interjected.

“You’ve been gone for months this time. Was it worthwhile? Are the Dust Folk going to help us?”

“They are,” Tyron confirmed, “and I was able to get a glimpse at some of their scrolls. We can expect the first caravan in a week or two. I’ll have a talk with Master Willhem and see if we can put together the things they want before they arrive.”

“Master Willhem is busy right now checking up on the rods,” she told him. “They’re expecting another storm in the next few days, and he’s not sure he can get to all of them in time.”

Tyron looked irritated, then sighed.

“He still refuses to reach out to me, doesn’t he?”

“Seems that way,” Elsbeth confirmed. She fell in alongside her old friend as they walked back into the city. “I don’t think he’s comfortable with what happened to him.”

It was interesting to see how people responded to Tyron as he returned. Faces peeked out from behind the buildings, or looked down from above, out of crumbling windows from two-story buildings overlooking the road.

Some were filled with light and hope, others, fear and disgust. Tyron remained a controversial figure amongst the survivors. Some praised him for his role in protecting and saving them, other blamed him for all that had befallen the western province.

“We found the tomb of Ahrinan the Black, by the way,” Dove said. “Apparently, he was a bit of an amateur.”

“What? Really?” Elsbeth exclaimed. “You found it?”

Tyron nodded.

“There is a lot I can learn from what we recovered. It’s just that his spellwork was crude,” he said, glaring at Dove.

Overhead, the clouds stormed and rolled, light flashing and coiling as the magick gathered and intensified.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!