Book of The Dead

Chapter 20: Lessons Learned

"You look like shit."

Hakoth looked at the kid who stood leaning against his door as if he might fall over if the wood weren't propping him up. He knew he'd been pushing him hard, but he didn't think he'd been pushing him this hard. He almost felt bad. Almost.

"I still expect a full day of work out of you," he warned the lad.

Tyron just nodded, he didn't have the spare energy to bother trying to come up with a clever or even polite response. Instead he just shuffled to the side so the Butcher had room to open his shop and took slow measured breaths to try and settle the food in his stomach. He'd made it back to the inn, somehow, and practically crawled up the stairs before slumping into bed, dried blood all over his face. He'd woken up three hours later feeling like burnt death, washed himself as best he could and staggered into town for his shift at the butcher’s.

At least he'd managed to put on fresh clothing, what he'd worn yesterday would likely need to be tossed into a fire, it was in no condition to be seen in public and wouldn't ever be again. Which meant more expenses. He sighed. He'd need to start earning money soon, and to have a better chance of that, he needed this Butcher to teach him something.

He worked through the day in a complete daze, moving on autopilot more often than not. He managed to summon enough focus to avoid any major errors, but he was still reprimanded by an irritated Hakoth on several occasions. After he'd cut himself for the third time whilst sharpening the Butcher cursed him and sent him out of the shop on delivery, but not before he carefully bandaged the wound with a poultice he kept in his work station. Tyron didn't really fancy being out in the sun, or in public, but at least he wouldn't be able to actively harm himself with sharp objects.

He blinked repeatedly to try and clear the grainy feeling from his eyes as he stood in front of the desk, Madeleine looking back at him with a concerned expression on her face.

"Tyron? Are you okay?"

"I'm just really tired," he tried to smile and failed utterly, looking more like a grimace.

"Maybe you need to take the day off? I can talk to dad about it if you want? In fact I -"

"No, please. It's fine. I just need to push through the day, get some sleep tonight and I'll be right as rain tomorrow, I promise."

"If you're sure…"

"I am."

He leaned to the side a little too far and almost fell over before he caught himself.

"For real," he added.

"Rrright," she said.

She looked down and rummaged through the neatly organised stack of pages next to the account book on the bench, causing Tyron's weary gaze to drop down almost against his will.

"Here," she said, pulling out a note and handing it too him. "This delivery is to the Gilded Swan, it's three streets over and all they're after is a couple of hams. The food is good at the Swan and I don't expect you back for at least an hour."

She leaned forward to make sure she had his attention.

"Got that?"

He blinked. Slowly.

"You forgot to carry the four here," he pointed at a particular line in the ledger before he grasped the note and wandered toward the back of the shop. After a few long seconds a thought bubbled up in his head. "Hm? Oh. Ah, thank you," he said, turning back to Madeleine with a bob of the head as he finally realised what she'd done for him. Under the watchful eye of Hak he gathered the hams from the cool room, carefully packed them before he hefted the box under his arm and walked out through the front door, passing the butcher's daughter who was busy double checking her figures.

Though it was only a stone's throw away, in his befuddled state it still took an embarrassing amount of time for Tyron to find it. Once inside he delivered the meat to the kitchen before he slumped into a chair and took a moment to rest his eyes.

"Did you hear about the marshals? The merchant Fillus was arrested for questioning this morning!"

"Oh my!"

Tyron's eyes snapped open and he sat up quickly in his chair, too quickly as it turned out, almost falling off and catching himself at the last moment. His antics naturally drew the eye of the two serving maids gossiping near his table.

"Almost went on a trip didn't you?" one laughed. "You alright there, love?"

"Yeah thanks," he didn't need to pretend to be embarrassed at his slip, "must have dozed off there. Any chance I can grab a plate… possibly an ale?"

"Sure thing. I'll be right back."

The older of the two smiled and took his order back to the kitchen as Tyron turned to the other.

"Sorry to intrude, but I heard you were saying something about a merchant getting arrested?"

Her eyes widened and she leapt at the chance to continue to discuss the latest scandal.

"Yes!" she leaned in conspiratorially. "I haven't heard why, but my cousin Eustace is a secretary for the crown records at the customs depot and she said the entire place was turned out by the marshals in the early morning. Dozens of people were dragged off to be questioned, including Fillus, which is just shocking."

Her expression said that he should share her amazement but he had no idea why.

"Sorry," he grimace/smiled, "I'm pretty new in town, who's Fillus?"

"Oh! He's the richest merchant in Woodsedge, moves goods for the Slayer Keep, monster parts and rare materials as I understand it. Apparently they homed in on his warehouses most of all and he was dragged out of bed and hauled down the street! I would have killed to have seen it myself!"

Sorry Fillus.

Looks like the poor man must have been the owner of that empty building in the corner of the lot that he'd used last night. The serving girl continued to provide a steady stream of rumours and guesses as to the root cause of it all whilst Tyron tried to suppress the shiver running down his back. They turned up in the early morning? Exactly how long after he'd gotten out, barely functioning, did they arrive? He might have escaped discovery by a matter of minutes. And he wasn't out of the clear yet! He had no alibi for last night!

"Here you are love. House ale and a steak. Ought to put a little meat on your bones."

He glanced up to see the other girl had returned to his table and placed a frothing mug alongside a plate loaded with meat, gravy and roast vegetables. The smell was fantastic, yet his stomach churned with the thought of his perhaps imminent arrest.

"Thanks so much," he managed, "I appreciate it."

"Come on Liz, let's leave the young fellow to his meal," she reached to grab her co-worker and the two of them moved away through the common room, taking orders and clearing tables as Tyron sat, his thoughts buzzing in his head.

May as well eat. Think about everything else later.

He hadn't been eating enough over the last few days, pretty much only a full meal for dinner. Despite his sudden lack of appetite, he forced himself to clear the plate and drink the ale. He wasn't normally a drinker, but after the night he'd had, something steadying was just what he needed. Didn't hurt that the house brew had a light fruity flavour, quite opposed to the heavy, dark stuff his father preferred to drink. And did he detect a bit of honey?

After finishing his meal he waited another fifteen minutes for his stomach to settle before he thanked the girls and paid before he made his way back to Hakoth's. He'd been gone a little over an hour as it turned out, but Madeleine merely waved him in as she continued going through the books. The Butcher only grunted when he reappeared and gave him more jobs to do. For the rest of the afternoon he continued to work but he felt as if the gruff man was going easy on him. It was possible that his daughter had a word with him, despite being asked not to. As it was he still felt completely drained at the end of the day but as before he waited for Hakoth to lock up before leaving.

"I'm sorry about today, Mr Hakoth. It won't happen again," he assured the butcher as he locked the door.

He got a grunt as a reply, which was what he'd expected. He turned to leave only for the man to speak before he'd taken a step.

"See you tomorrow," he said.

"See you tomorrow, Mr Hakoth."

Another grunt and the two parted ways, moving in opposite directions as night fell over the town. Despite everything he wanted to do, Tyron knew he was at the end of his rope. After another hearty meal that sat heavily in his stomach, he climbed the stairs, locked the door behind him, kicked off his shoes and made himself comfortable in bed. He hadn't had to do it for a while, but he decided this was the perfect moment for a sleep spell, which he cast easily thanks to his improved stats.

The moment the magick was completed he felt his eyelids dragging down as all thoughts of marshals and arrests faded to nothing and sleep claimed him.

Elsewhere in Woodsedge.

Marshal Langdon looked down at the dust covered floor of what at one time had been a shed used to store Fillus Moran's coach and was now the centre of a major investigation. The acrid tang of magick was still in the air, so thick he could almost taste it, even all these hours later. He frowned as he crouched down and settled on his heels as he looked over the remains of what had surely been a ritual circle. The caster had done well to obscure most of their work but the tell-tale signs were still there, including the burn residue of what had been an arcane flame. Factors such as this could help them determine the exact spell that had been cast, which would help them drill down to a potential class and level of the caster.

"Langdon?" a voice called from behind him.

"What is it Wallir?" he replied without taking his eyes off the ground.

"The Summoner is here, the one I told you about this morning. He was cleared by the captain an hour ago so I brought him straight over."

"Good. Send him in."

Some low voices exchanged words before the sound of soft footfalls entered his ears. Acute hearing was a very useful feat for an investigator to have. He didn't turn as a new presence made itself known behind him.

"Hole-ee-shit. Are you telling me this maniac just drew his protective circle in dust? That's insane. Certified insane. If I didn't see it for myself and someone told me I'd have punched both of us in the face."

"Mr Levan, I presume?"

"Please, call me Dove."

"Of course, Mr Levan."

The Summoner sighed. It was going to be like that, was it?

"All right, may as well get on with it. Let me know what you need so I can get myself back to bed. No offense intended, but this hasn't exactly been a good day for me. As far as cells go, it was comfortable enough but being innocent and incarcerated just rubs a man the wrong way, you know?"

"As refreshing as your levity might be, Mr Levan, I find the concept of an abyssal summoning and the hundreds, likely thousands of deaths that would result from such an act of slightly more importance that a day of your freedom."

"And if I didn't agree?"

"I wouldn't give a shit. Now that you've been cleared of possible involvement you can offer your expertise as the highest level Summoner in the area and then, as you say, go back to bed while we try and prevent this from happening again."

The marshal had not turned around once during his conversation, he remained crouched low, his eyes roaming over the remnants of the circle as he spoke. After an awkward pause where Dove stood idly swinging his hands together, he decided to step forward.

"Well, I can take a look, but it might help if you can tell me what you've worked out already. That might save us both some time."

The marshal began pointing at several things of note.

"The suspect is likely male, judging by the size of the foot and length of the stride which you can measure there, and over there. The circle was drawn with the index finger, most likely right hand based on the angle of the impressions. Entry to this room was gained through that window, no teleportation or apparition magick used. The guards neither saw nor heard anything, which leads me to conclude that the suspect either utilised a dampening spell or the guards are incompetent, likely both."

He shifted his position to get a better angle on the centre of the circle.

"It doesn't seem that the culprit was here for long. Two, maybe three nights were spent setting up the ritual, which speaks of both competence and confidence. My estimate is a mage, likely with a level in the mid-thirties to forties, a little shy of six feet tall, right handed and with extensive experience in summoning magick."

Dove listened patiently only to have his face sour as the description went on.

"Balls. I'm still under suspicion, aren't I?"

The marshal finally stood and turned to face him.

"What do you think?" marshal Langdon asked him.

"I think that every time some shit goes down your morons find the nearest Slayer and start rattling their cage."

The marshal sighed.

"How often do you think a Slayer goes rogue out here, Mr Levan? Take a guess."

Dove just stared back at him, refusing to answer.

"Two per year, at least. There are always casualties. Innocents caught up in the fray, when one of you snaps. And you know something? Most of those innocents are other Slayers, murdered out on the job, or killed in their sleep. It's very hard to see it coming. I've never been able to. One day a perfectly fine Slayer, maybe getting a little too close to the next rank-up just decides to go out with a bang."

The Summoner didn't blink.

"I find it a little hard to blame them sometimes," he admitted. "Knowing what we know. Do you?"

"No. I don't."

The two men stared at each other for a long moment before Dove shrugged and stepped around the other.

"Well, let me take a look. The faster we catch the prick who did this the faster I get my name cleared and go back to doing what I truly love: killing rift-kin to keep fine, law-abiding citizens like you safe."

After a moment magick ignited just beyond his eyes, two rings of green light that rotated and flared as he carefully looked around the room.

"Well, I can tell you that whoever did this is batshit crazy. Drawing a circle by hand, in the dust? That is the act of someone with truly, truly pendulous nads, or someone with an extreme level of skill. It's also smart. No ritual mediums? No wardings? No arcane focus? The spell residue is all kinds of fucked up, I can't read a thing, and that's because there was no container for it. The moment the spell collapsed it all went to nothing, which is clearly a deliberate choice on the part of the caster."

"Why do you think the spell failed?"

"Well, I take it we're confident that the caster survived?"

The marshal nodded.

"Well that rules out the most likely theory. If the spell was in fact a summoning, then it could have failed for a number of reasons, lapse in concentration, ran out of juice, something spooked him or he just ran out of time and ended the spell in order to make a getaway."

"You said if it were a summoning?"

"It's possible that the caster merely wanted to contact the abyss, as opposed to summoning an abyssal. From what I know there's all sorts of creepy shit you can learn, though as I understand it most mages go mad when they try it. He may also have wanted to try and establish a contract with the creature, possibly for a summoning in the future."

He paused for a moment and rolled his eyes.

"Which would be another reason that I'm suspect. Selene's tits this is a pain. Right. No teleportation magick also makes sense, you wouldn't want to do it anywhere near your ritual site since any disturbance to the dimensional weave could disrupt the spell. Whoever did this knew what the fuck they were doing, that's for sure. They also had to know that their spell would be detected. Which means they must have planned out a response to what will follow."

"You don't suspect a cultist?"

Dove waved a hand dismissively.

"Hell no. This kind of spellwork is hard, and more than that, takes a damn tough mind. A cracked in the head lunatic doesn't have what it takes to pull this off and the better put together ones have no reason to antagonize the authorities and do it in the middle of a town. Not unless there is something going on much deeper than what I can understand."

The marshal paused thoughtfully.

"Any idea what sort of class might have done this?"

Dove shook his head.

"Impossible to say. A Summoner could, but they would have to be taught the spell since, as I'm sure you know, it isn't a class choice available to us. Dark Summoner on the other hand, definitely does get access, but they sure as heck don't advertise themselves. Tricky one would be a Dimension Mage. They're the real experts when it comes to spellwork like this, what I do is of a very different flavour, though they're both wine I suppose. As you suggested, an Arcane Cultist of some variety could have access to the spell, I sure as shit wouldn’t know. Other than that, literally any mage with big enough balls to need a wheelbarrow to go walking and someone to teach them."

"What about a Necromancer?" the marshal asked.

"A what?" Dove turned to face him, surprise on his face.

"Reports came in of a young man who unlocked Necromancer in his awakening a week ago. In Foxbridge. Went rogue, currently missing."

The Slayer's face went slack for a moment as he gaped at the marshal, turned back to the circle and then back to the marshal once more.

"Are you seriously suggesting that an eighteen year old kid who had his class for a week would be capable of something like this? Seriously?"

Langdon didn't reply. Dove pushed a hand through his wild and unkempt hair.

"Alright, look. As far as I know a low level Necromancer can't do shit except create basic undead. If one were somehow able to learn this spell and pull it off under these circumstances then they would have to be the reborn god of fucking magick, Tel'anan himself."

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