Book of The Dead

Chapter 23: Rumour and Run

Chapter 23: Rumour and Run

"Did you hear about the Necromancer on the run?"

Tyron's ear jerked and he nearly dropped his cutlery when he heard that. He tried to act calm and pass it off with a cough, but he doubted he'd be winning any awards for his acting skills. He continued to eat as he turned his head to better eavesdrop on the couple seated behind him in the common room.

"I hadn't. A Necromancer you say? Isn't that a rare class?"

"Very. What's more, you know the Steelarms?"

"Of course."

"It's their son!"

"You're shitting me…"

"Wallace! Watch your language!"

"I apologise my dear, you took me by surprise. Are you sure of this?"

"I am! You can see the notice posted on the bounty board outside the marshal’s office."

"Well… that's quite an unfortunate thing. Imagine dedicating your life to protecting the kingdom and having your own child outlawed… just terrible."

"Oh it gets worse," the woman's voice lowered as she leaned into her husband. "From what I was told, the Steelarms were charged with arresting the boy."

Tyron sucked in a breath so fast he almost inhaled his cutlery and immediately erupted in a fit of coughing that resounded throughout the room. A number of people turned to see what the disturbance was and he waved weakly to them once he managed to get his breathing under control, but within his heart was pounding to the point he felt his ribs might break.

His parents, sent to hunt him down?

It was so cruel. So needlessly cruel. There were hundreds of people they could have sent to do it, why did it have to be them? Wouldn't it be a ridiculous waste of resources to have literally the two strongest people in the entire province hunt down a low level, newly awakened like him? It was insane!

It was also hopeless.

Frustration and despair welled up inside him as he realised what this meant for him. They would have to obey, Magnin and Beory. Tyron didn't know how, or why, but he knew that it wasn't possible for the high level Slayers to refuse orders, which meant they would come for him eventually, even if they put it off as long as they could, they would still come for him. And what was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to fight back against them?

His hands curled into fists on the table as he realised the hopelessness of the situation.

No matter what he did, he was going to get caught. There was nowhere he could go where he could avoid them, there was nowhere he could run where they wouldn't find him. He may as well try and run from the wind, or hide from the air. He'd studied his parents career as only an admiring child could, he knew what they were capable of better than almost anyone, he had absolutely no illusions about his ability to avoid them. Which meant he would have to fight them if he wanted to remain free.

Which was… a joke.

How was he supposed to fight his own family? Impossible. And even if he could bring himself to do it, what difference would it make? He may as well try and defeat the sun. They were so far above him, even the Slayers in the keep here, each and every one of whom could snap him like a twig, would stand no chance against either of them, let alone both.

The young Necromancer fought back tears as he tried to stifle the overwhelming feeling of frustration that burned in his chest. Just like that, his future had been cut off. Despite the risks he had taken, and the effort he'd put in, it no longer mattered, had never mattered. He was on a clock. Eventually he would be caught, dragged in and sentenced, it was only a matter of time. The only thing left to determine was what he would do with the time he had remaining.

"Are you alright?" a concerned voice came from behind him.

"Ah, wha-" Tyron jumped and turned to see the couple who had been speaking regarding him with worried expressions.

"I was wondering if you were well, young man, you had a coughing fit and you've sat trembling ever since," the husband told him.

With a start Tyron realised it was true, even now on the table in front of him his two fists were visibly shaking. He snatched them into his lap under the table and tried to force a smile.

"I-I'm alright," he said, "I just… just had my food go down the wrong way. A-and I was surprised to hear what you were talking about. Something about the Steelarms arresting their own son?"

The wife, Yasmin he thought her name was, nodded emphatically as he asked about their discussion.

"Yes, scandalous! From what I hear there was almost a break here in Woodsedge and what does the Baron have his two platinum slayers doing? Forced to hunt for their own child! How terrible…" she grimaced and the husband, Wallace, nodded sympathetically. "From what I heard through the post, they didn't take it lying down though, smashed an entire farm and half a graveyard after being given the orders. The marshals are outraged, but what are they going to do? Arrest them?"

The look on her face suggested she'd like to see them try whilst Tyron tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Of course they did. His heart went out to Mayor Arryn, but he knew Magnin and Beory, they were always going to lash out when given an order like that.

He couldn't help but allow a wry smile to crease his lips as he thought of the two of them throwing their tantrum.

"Well, thanks for sharing," he told the couple as he gave them a polite nod and turned back to his own table, piling his cutlery neatly in the bowl before he pushed back the chair and stood, being sure to push the seat back under the table before he left.

Worthy would clip his ear if he made life hard on the serving staff by blocking their paths with his own laziness.

As he walked toward the butcher's shop, his mind spun with what he had learned. When he tried to think of what he should do, he felt numb, as if the future which had not long ago been a difficult road filled with challenges was now a void, as if it had never been. His path had been severed so sharply he couldn't even feel the pain of the cut. He'd always known that someone would be sent to hunt him down if the marshals failed to find him, but he'd assumed he would have more time. He'd assumed that a regular slayer team would be given the job, not the Century Slayer and the Battle Witch! It was like snapping a twig with a battle axe! Without even realising it Tyron had been stuffed in a cage that he couldn't hope to break out of, all that was left for him was to rattle the bars until his inevitable capture.

Obviously his parents weren't happy about it either, judging by what they'd done in Foxbridge.

If there was one thing in the world that those two hated more than anything else, it was being told they had to do something. He'd long suspected the reason they'd based themselves so far away from the centres of power and wealth, despite reaching the rarefied heights of platinum ranked slayers was that they avoided being told what to do more often than not. Certainly they were asked to take care of this problem, close that rift, kill this monster, but those were the sorts of things they would have done anyway, even if nobody asked them. Roaming about the place fighting rift-kin was basically the only thing they liked.

Besides each other. And him.

He could only imagine the rage they must have experienced. He felt terrible that he had forced them into that position. Though… in truth it wasn't really his fault. He hadn't asked for this class after all, only made the choice that he would keep it. He felt confident that Magnin and Beory supported that decision, it was what they would have done in his place, of that he had no doubt. Whatever means had been employed to force his parents to obey must be dreadful indeed if even they couldn't overcome it. He desperately hoped that they didn't suffer.

No wonder they had unleashed such destruction upon the mayor, no wonder they had lost control to the degree they did. He could imagine their need to unleash their anger. Despite their great power, and innumerable good they’d done protecting others, his parents were selfish creatures, their desire to smash the nearest thing they could when they were enraged was perfectly understandable to him, the person who knew them best.

When he thought of that destruction, his feet stilled on the road for a second as a thought struck him, before he resumed his pace. Magnin and Beory had thrown a tantrum and taken their revenge against Mayor Arryn in one fell stroke, but was there more to it? The more he considered it, the more he felt that this level of retribution, the scale of the devastation seemed excessive, even for those two. Doing something this obvious, this loud, was always going to reverberate around the western province. In another week there probably wouldn't be an inn or tavern in even the smallest village which hadn't heard of it. Perhaps they were trying to reach him? What if they'd been trying to send him a message?

Fight.

They were going to fight against their fate, they wouldn't accept it lying down. He could believe that of them, they were the least controllable people he'd ever heard of, not even their love for him was enough to keep them pinned in one place. Trying to force them to hunt him against their will? They would fight it every step of the way, and they showed that immediately by lashing out at Mayor Arryn. They would fight against it, which meant he should do the same.

He had little faith in his own ability to overcome the odds, but those two? They'd been doing it their entire lives. Perhaps he'd been wrong to despair so quickly. There was still hope, still a chance. He might see it now, but they would, which meant he had to be ready. They would buy him the time he needed, so he had to keep pushing and perhaps, just maybe, somewhere down the line, an opening would present itself whereby he could continue to be free.

Slowly the hopelessness leached out of him and he was left feeling drained of emotion, weak from the waves that had rocked him one after the other. But there wasn't time to lose, he couldn't stand around doing nothing. If his family was going to risk everything in order to buy him time, then he couldn't afford to waste a second. Once more filled with purpose, he lengthened his stride toward his destination, determination welling up. When he finally arrived at the butchers, Hak was already there, slotting his key into the door. When he saw Tyron striding up to him he paused as he recognised something different in the boy's eyes.

"Already?" he shook his head as the lad stopped in front of him, "ya mean ta break your word so soon?"

"I don't want to break my promise, but I do feel compelled to get out there," he replied in a measured tone, "you've been patient and more than fair. What you've taught me over the last few days is something I never would have been able to learn on my own."

And he meant it. Working together with the experienced Hak dismantling had been a fantastic learning experience, the man had been an endless stream of good advice, tips and tricks as well as detailing ways to make the work easier in the field.

"I'd be more than happy to make up the rest of the time I promised you when I'm in town," Tyron offered, "I don't want to short change you."

Hak snorted.

"Ta be fair, the reason I keep yer here so long is ta try an convince ya not to throw yer life away. Don't look like that'll work, will it?"

Tyron chuckled and shook his head.

"Was never going to."

The Butcher shrugged.

"Can't blame an' ol' man fer tryin'," he rumbled.

He was a good man, Hakoth, and under different circumstances Tyron would have been more than happy to finish out his time learning how to properly butcher before he moved to the next part of his plan, but what he'd learned this morning meant he just couldn't afford the time. He didn't want to rush, but the world wasn't going to wait for him.

"Right then Lukas," the big butcher extended his hand, "I'll see ya at work when ya get back."

"Thanks Mr Hakoth."

"Shut up."

The two shook hands and then Hakoth turned back, stepped into his shop and was gone, leaving Tyron standing in the street in the early morning with a heck of a lot to do all of a sudden. It was still early in the morning, likely there wouldn't be any slayer teams heading out into the broken lands any time soon, so he had some time to prepare. His mind started racing as he considered all the things that he needed to organise and it took him several long seconds to realise that despite all the thinking he was doing, he still hadn't moved a step.

"Shit!"

His wits about himself once more, he sped off to the Iron district, only to realise halfway he hadn't brought his money, which necessitated a sprint back to the inn which left him gasping and wheezing. He really needed to work on his fitness…

His coin purse in hand, he returned to the market and engaged in a spending spree that left his finances in a dire state when he was done. For the expedition to come he would need to supply his own equipment and the more he could bring, the more attractive he would be to potential employers. He just hoped he hadn't forgotten anything in his rush.

He hauled back the goods to his room and immediately set about packing. His bedroll and other assorted travelling gear were inspected minutely before being stowed away, along with his newly acquired butcher’s gear, travel rations and a small stash of mage candy. Sword on his hip, brand new stave in his hand, he ran through his mental checklist one more time and found nothing amiss.

Stepping out he locked his door before rushing down the stairs and out the door before the serving girls had a chance to ask him what the rush was. Off he ran through the streets towards the north gate a glimmer of childish excitement budding in his chest. To be a slayer like his parents and stride the broken lands, battling the creatures of the rifts was the first dream of just about everyone he'd ever met and if he was lucky, he might just be stepping out there this very day. It was hard not to get excited.

Heart thumping, he barely noticed the change in scenery around him as he drew closer to the gate. There were fewer pedestrians and shops, the few merchants operating in the area specialising in either emergency medical treatment or weapons. Here too could be found the four temples in Woodsedge, such that the slayers would pass them by as they left the keep and made their way out of the town.

When the gate finally came into view Tyron also got to see something else for the first time: his competition.

Lining the road he could see a hundred, perhaps even more, young adults, just like him, the newly awakened hopefuls who'd rushed to the border in the hopes of making a new life for themselves, gaining levels bit by bit until they finally qualified as full slayers, graduating from these streets into a life of danger and glory up in the keep.

He slowed down as he drew closer and tried to take it all in. There were all sorts assembled here, young men and women in patchwork armour wielding beaten up swords and axes alongside other hopefuls in robes or even rags. Some held signs declaring their skills and qualifications painted with varying degrees of mastery over spelling.

Some of them would be farmhands, unwilling to resign themselves to their fate of working the land, others would be young mages, rangers or fighters who couldn't afford any sort of education, submitting themselves to a baptism of fire in order to transform their lives.

He could sympathise on multiple levels.

His arrival did not go unnoticed and many others eyed him with disgruntled expressions. He realised immediately that he stood out from the others in a few ways, the quality of his gear and clothing did not mark him immediately as poor, unlike almost all of the others, not to mention the clearly expensive blade on his hip. Rather than a desperate newly awakened hoping to join a slayer team as a hired hand, he looked like a merchant's son.

He almost considered heading back to the inn to change, but decided against it at the last minute. He was here now so he might as well stay and see if he managed to get himself hired. He set his teeth and strode forward, aiming for a less crowded area where he could comfortably stand without taking up someone else's space.

It definitely appeared as if the area of the street closer to the keep was the most hotly contested area, which made sense since those were the people the slayers would see first on their way out. Of this stretch of road he ended up placing himself two thirds of the way to the gate, towards the tail end of the crowd. As he took up his position and tried to look competent but not expensive, the girl to his right smiled up at him from her position, sat in the grass.

"First time?" she asked after a few awkward minutes had passed of Tyron maintaining the same pose and expression to the point of cramping.

"That obvious?" he sighed.

"Oh yeah," she grinned. "Not to worry, I was pretty much the same at the start. Fucking desperate to make the right impression I was."

He looked down at her lounging posture on the ground and frowned.

"So… what changed?" he asked, curious.

"Oh, you still need to make the right impression, don't get me wrong. But if I'm going to be out here in the sun all bloody morning then I'm going to make myself comfortable. When a team comes out of the keep, you'll have plenty of time to make yourself look presentable before they reach here, trust me."

Tyron eyeballed the distance and figured she was probably right. From where he stood, the milling crowd of hopefuls blocked sight to the keep anyway. Sighing, he rolled his pack off his shoulder and sat down. The girl smiled at him and extended a hand.

"I'm Cilla," she said, "welcome to Victory road."