Chapter B6C10 - Lost One

“Georg was pretty vocal right from the beginning,” Richard explained hesitantly after he’d sat down and Tyron had poured them some water. “I… I don’t think he ever fully trusted you, and once you were gone, he started trying to persuade us to take the chance to leave with him and start afresh somewhere else.”

“I told him he was a fool,” Briss interjected flatly. “I have no idea what made him think he would be safer somewhere else, with no friends, no support, than he would be here, but he refused to listen. Idiot.”

Richard looked a little uncomfortable but didn’t disagree with what his fellow student had said. Tyron merely sat and listened, showing no sign of wanting to speak, so his student continued the tale.

“I’m not trying to defend Georg, but there was a lot of uncertainty at that time. People were afraid and there were a lot of arguments about what we should do. The Slayers showed no sign of leaving, which settled things for most people, but others weren’t so sure.

“He was convinced you would fail and that the city would be flattened by the Empire, so he tried to persuade anyone who would listen to leave with him. When we wouldn’t agree… he turned to the other students. Given the pervading sentiment of fear, there were a lot of people willing to listen.”

“How much of that fear was due to Georg running his mouth every hour of every day?” Briss spat, bristling like a cat. “With one of our master’s top students telling everyone he was as good as dead, of course people panicked!”

“Briss,” Richard said, levelling her a stare.

“What?” she said, then relented. “Fine, I’ll be quiet.”

“Thank you. Anyway, uh, well… eventually he managed to convince enough people to leave that I guess he felt… satisfied? Or maybe confident that they would survive? Regardless, two weeks ago, they left on Lofis’ day in the dead of the night. Didn’t say anything to anyone, just up and vanished. Families woke up to find someone had left, no notes, nothing. He didn’t… he didn’t even say goodbye to us, he just… left.”

All in all, it wasn’t a major crisis. Georg had managed to convince a handful of students to go with him. It appeared as though he’d been fairly selective with who he had allowed to join his group as well, making sure he included a few Corpse Handlers, a Bone Weaver, a few Hunters and others with wilderness and medical-related Classes and skills, but no other Necromancers.

He didn’t want to have anyone to compete with when it came to remains, but he did want others who could support his growth. No doubt he’d come to rely on their help and already specialised away from the basic handling of materials, as Tyron had done, but much earlier in his growth. Almost nobody older than Georg was included, certainly no one who had influence or sway even close to what he himself possessed. He intended to be the leader and was careful that nobody could undermine his position. Having shaped his little splinter group, he’d left, making a clean break with the other survivors.

As to where he’d gone… if Tyron had to hazard a guess, probably to the north. By skirting around the northern border of the Western Province, he could reach the colder climate and try to sneak into the Northern Province.

In the south, under the intense heat, dead flesh would only rot all the faster, slowing his zombies down and making any remains they found less likely to be viable for him to raise. Or perhaps he’d found a technique that would help mitigate such factors? Tyron began to wonder how that might work, but quickly shook the thought out of his head. Ultimately, it didn’t matter.

Richard, it seemed, had more to say. When Tyron turned his gaze back to his two students, Briss was glaring at him while Richard shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“There’s… more. Georg… uh… he sort of… raided our supply of remains, before he left. He took a lot of cores and basically all of the viable bodies. Well, viable for him anyway.”

“He took almost athirdof the bones,” Briss hissed like a kettle.

“Well, yes, he uh… he did that too.”

Tyron could tell they both expected him to be furious, perhaps to swear he would hunt down Georg and extract his soul in payment for this betrayal, but he found he was largely unmoved by it. Georg had always been the most independently minded of his students, the one most resistant to a lifetime of study under Tyron as his ‘master’. A former farmhand, he was used to doing things the hard way and figuring it out on his own.

All in all, this wasn’t an entirely unexpected move. Georg may not have even truly believed that Tyron would perish, but had simply taken the opportunity to convince the people he needed to join him when he left.

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Perhaps hewouldhave been upset by the pillaging of the very limited supply of remains here in the wasteland, but that was before he had created the relays. Right now, his minions were sweeping up skeletons in their thousands inside the Western Province. He had no shortage of materials at all.

“Georg is free to go his own way,” Tyron said with a shrug, “as he always was.”

It was almost amusing to see the tension drain out of the remaining two. Just what had they thought he was going to do? Chase after him? He probably could if he wanted to, but what benefit would he gain? Tyron’s focus was singular: the downfall of the Empire by the death of its gods. Nothing else mattered besides that.

“Putting the lost student aside, I want to hear about your progress. What new abilities and techniques have you learned while I was gone? You’ve reached silver rank, haven’t you?”

They had, as it turned out. Tyron listened keenly as they excitedly explained their choices and new abilities, asking for the occasional demonstration so he could see the magick in action. They didn’t have anything exceptionally remarkable to show him, but Briss had grown significantly in her skill with ghosts. She now had the ability to create several different varieties and, according to her, they had proven to be very useful in the field.

In return, he tried to lead her gently down the road towards Soul Magick and the ways it could interact with spirits. He was far from a ghost expert, but what little he knew, he was happy to share.

Richard continued to follow in Tyron’s footsteps, and therefore had the least to share in terms of discoveries. His Class choices hadn’t been the same as Tyron’s, but he was dedicated to his craft and had continued to practice relentlessly. His spellwork continued to develop at a rapid pace, and Tyron was impressed with his progress, giving him another series of exercises he could use to further improve his diction, vocal stamina and finger dexterity.

Afterwards, he had them lead him through the underground complex and discuss how their own students were progressing. Poking his nose into every room, Tyron took some time to speak with every group, from the Corpse Handlers to the Bone Weavers, listening to their discoveries, sharing his insights and imparting what he could. Although it took the rest of the day, he didn’t consider it a waste, and he was pleased to see that everyone had improved overall.

Ideally, he’d like to recruit some of these people and disperse them amongst his different workshop groups, but doing so neatly would be a significant challenge. Not to mention the time and energy he would have to expend ensuring the wights kept them alive.

People needed food, and sleep, and warmth, after all, things the average undead had long ago started to forget. Without Filetta, they wouldn’t have brought Tyron food unless he’d specifically asked for it, which would have been rare indeed.

By the time he was done, the sun had long set, and he stepped out of the underground complex into the street to find it lit by enchanted globes on poles running alongside the street. Even at this late hour, there was a significant amount of traffic, people heading home, or perhaps walking to the few inns and gathering places that had begun to open around the city.

Idly, he wondered how long it would take for this wasteland to return to some semblance of normality. Right now, the land itself was saturated in magick, but perhaps, in a hundred years, it would be possible for nature to return, returning the land which had once belonged to Granin into something like what it had been before.

Until then, the people of the city had adapted remarkably well to life here. Now that the Western Province was somewhat liberated, he’d thought that folk may want to return, to pick up the pieces of their lives there, but perhaps not. Perhaps they would choose to remain here instead, far from the Empire and the conflict to come.

After two nights of sleep in a row, Tyron was far too well-rested to want to go back to his aunt and uncle’s home; he had far too much energy.

Waiting for him in the street, his relay, Filetta and a small gathering of skeletons stood, unnaturally still and unmoving.

“I think it’s past your bedtime,” she said as he approached, a mocking grin on her ghostly features.

“Very funny,” Tyron said, raising his hands.

People jumped away as he began to speak the words of power, fearful of the impact each syllable had on reality, and putting distance between themselves and the Necromancer. He paid them no mind.

Soon, the door to the Ossuary materialised before him and Tyron stepped forward, opened it, then strode inside.

There were two demi-liches permanently stationed within to facilitate the creation of new undead, and they didn’t look up from their work as he entered. Just inside the doorway, a new addition, a specialised relay, sat, a permanent installation that had only been completed in the last few days.

Filetta and his guards entered alongside him, while one demi-lich stepped outside.

It wasn’t possible to dismiss the Ossuary from inside it, after all.

Taking control of the demi-lich, Tyron cast magick through it, closing the door and dismissing the Ossuary while he was still inside.

For a moment, he felt a strange disorientation as he was set adrift, cut off from his home realm and set floating in a sort of limbo, but the moment passed. Turning to the relay installed on the floor, he found it was functioning correctly, he was still connected to his minions.

Dimensional indeed.

Again, Tyron reached out to connect with a demi-lich, but not the same one as before. Once more, the door to the Ossuary was summoned, and again there was a strange, almost queasy feeling as one realm connected to another. Stepping forward, he opened the door and was immediately blasted in the face with sleet and ice.

“You should probably put on your armour,” Filetta told him and Tyron nodded. He’d gotten used to moving without it recently, but she was right. Looking up, tall mountains towered overhead, the sound of distant fighting barely audible over the constant hail of wind and snow. Thousands of undead stood to attention around the Ossuary door, ready for the assault on the rift at Skyice Keep.