Book of The Dead

Chapter 40: Rising High

Chapter 40: Rising High

Magnin grit his teeth as a fresh wave of pain wracked his body. It was unimaginable agony. Every nerve was on fire, every inch of his flesh burned. It felt as if his eyeballs were melting.

"How the fuck is it hitting my eyes?" he groaned.

Beside him, Beory spoke through gritted teeth.

"It's hurting your soul… not your body. Didn't we… talk about this?"

A low moan leaked out of her husband as he fell onto his side, his hands clenched around his forearms. Just like that, the two of them continued to endure the relentless torture that radiated from the brand. It continued for hours that felt like years as the two silently endured, drawing comfort from each other's presence. If they’d been forced to go through it alone, who knows if they would have lasted?

Shivering uncontrollably as her soul itself spasmed within her body, Beory remained sitting, her knees pulled up to her chest and her eyes squeezed shut. She was the first to notice the agony recede, just a hair.

Her mind sharpened, dragged itself out of the pain induced fugue she had sunk into. She focused on her suffering, measuring the minute changes in agony as it continued to fade. She maintained this vigil for another hour until she began to feel confident it wouldn't resurge again.

The pain continued to fall back, returning to the constant, still agonising, but far more endurable level that they had grown accustomed to over the previous week. Magnin spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground and rose scrubbing at his face.

"Pah! Bit my damn cheek again," he muttered.

"Do you need healing?" she asked.

He eyed his wife's haggard condition.

"Not at all," he smiled, wincing as his soul flared with agony for a brief moment. "I'll heal quickly, you know that."

Not concerned with him after he denied needing aid, Beory collapsed into their shared blankets, her skin pale and hair matted with sweat. She lay there for a long while, just breathing as she reveled in her reduced level of suffering. In the back of her mind was always the certain knowledge that it would return, but for now she tried to let herself rest.

"Come on, darling," Magnin finally prodded her arm. "I've got tea and food here. Sit up and eat."

She pouted and rolled away from him.

"I feel sick. I don't want to eat."

He prodded her again.

"And who was it who said we should make sure we eat and drink every time it fades? Huh? Who might that have been?"

He poked her a few more times with his index finger as he spoke, his strength easily enough to make her roll with even a gentle prod.

She swiped at his hand before she rolled back and sat up, flinching as she did.

"It sounds like good advice, so it must have been me," she said.

"Right," Magnin grinned. "So here, eat up."

He passed her a tray with a steaming cup of tea and a bowl of thin broth. They'd found it difficult to keep down heavier meals during their regular remote torture appointments, but something like this they could manage.

The two ate in silence for a moment and the atmosphere within the tent returned to a state more familiar to them. They had spent more nights together like this than they had in any other manner in their years together. More time on the road than at home.

After they ate, the two sat in comfortable silence for a time before Beory spoke.

"Do you think they're becoming more desperate? The pain has come more often than before. And it lasts longer."

"They're definitely putting more effort into it," Magnin agreed with a wry grin. "With all of the countermeasures we put in place, I can't believe it still hurts this bad. Anyone else would be dead by now, surely. Even the others of our rank."

"Don't underestimate those old farts," she warned him, "they've been playing this game a lot longer than us."

"And yet we're the ones who were put in this position," he countered. "None of them dared to push like we did."

Beory shrugged and nodded. She couldn't disagree with that. As far as they knew, they were the first to try and rise above the ceiling that had been placed over their heads. As if they could stand it. The pain flared inside once again and she tensed until it settled back down. It wouldn't have been the first time they'd been hit multiple times in a short span of time. Having just eaten, she hoped for a longer gap. Covering themselves with vomit during torture offended her sensibilities on multiple levels. She fell silent as her thoughts turned darker. The relentless pain was more draining than she'd anticipated, she was no stranger to suffering after all. Perhaps she'd been naive, underestimating the brand. The Magisters had controlled slayers as strong as herself and Magin for over a thousand years. Would they be able to do something that nobody else had dared to even try? Doubt reared its ugly head.

Magnin placed his hand gently on her shoulder.

"How long are we going to be able to hold on?" she whispered, tears beginning to drip from her eyes. "A few weeks? How much can Tyron do in such a small amount of time… even he won't be able to rise that far."

Her husband gave her shoulder a light squeeze, careful to regulate his massive strength.

"Don't underestimate our boy," he laughed. "He's got the best of you and me in him after all. One month and he'll shake the foundations of the world."

Beory sniffed and smiled before she tilted her head until she rested on Magnin's arm, wiping away her tears as she did so.

"If only we could buy more time."

The mightiest swordsman in the province leaned over and embraced his wife.

"Don't worry," he spoke into her hair as he held her close, "we've done everything we can. Tyron will succeed where we have failed. We have to believe in him. Alright?"

Beory nodded into his chest.

"Alright."

They remained like that, holding each other close until the pain began to flare once more. They separated then, careful that they didn't hurt each other as they were wracked with agony. It lasted longer this time, but still they endured.

Elsewhere.

Poranus stepped away from the brand array with a grimace. Where each of his hands had been placed on the wall, two glittering sigils glowed red, nestled amongst hundreds of similar yet dim images, mocking him with their continued resistance.

"Damn monsters," he spat.

He shook his hands as he returned them to the long sleeves of his robes and turned away. He was completely tapped out of magick. Again. He staggered slightly as he made his way out of the crucible, cursing under his breath.

Those stubborn pricks. If they'd just hurry up and kill the brat, or better yet themselves, then he wouldn't have to do this every day. Out in the corridor, he made his way slowly past a few doors until he stopped and slammed his fist into the next.

"Herath! It's your turn. Hurry up!"

From beyond the thick wood came the sound of someone scrabbling before the door was pulled open by a disheveled mage, his messy blonde hair a clear sign he'd been asleep.

"Already?" he gaped. "The four of you couldn't hold on for a day?"

The other Magister's face twisted.

"You know we were asked to increase the output, you cretin. Not all of us are blessed with stores of magick like you! How long do you think we can maintain this output? Now shut up and go do your job."

"I haven't even recharged fully yet," Herath grumbled as he shut the door to get dressed, leaving Poranus to steam in the corridor.

When he finally emerged, the young mage was immaculately dressed and presented, his robes fresh and his hair clearly combed. Poranus ground his teeth.

"You made me wait so you could comb your hair?" he growled.

Herath waved a hand.

"One cannot administer the will of the gods without putting one's best foot forward, wouldn't you agree, brother?"

The young Magister offered a short bow to his senior before he turned and wandered down the corridor on his way to the crucible. Despite the anger he felt, Poranus swallowed it and forced himself to walk further. He had one more report to make before he could rest for the night. Or at least, rest for however many hours the others could buy pouring all of their energy into those sigils.

How much more can you take, Magnin, Beory? I hope it's me when you break. I want to feel you submit to the will of the gods.

It was unthinkable that they'd managed to hold on as long as they had, but every day surely brought them closer to the moment they couldn't take any more. Then the threat would be eliminated and they could move on without this shadow hanging over their heads.

It was clearly night, judging by the guttering torches that burned from their sconces on the walls. It had become hard to track the days over the last week. All he really knew were the chamber he rested in and the crucible, shift after shift, being woken whenever the rotation decreed it was his turn to feed all of his magick to the brand. He was drained, more irritable than usual, and liable to let his thoughts slip, something he couldn't afford for his next appointment.

Be calm. Deep breaths. Focus your mind.

Once he reached the decorated door, flanked by twisted gargoyle statues that watched him with cold, metallic eyes, he paused to gather himself before he reached out and knocked gently.

"Enter," came a soft voice from the other side.

With one last slow breath, he turned the handle and pulled the door open, straining a little as he did so. He was sure that was deliberate. There was no reason to have mages, with famously low strength, open such an obnoxiously heavy door unless it was on purpose. She wanted them to enter straining and sweating. He refused to show it.

Attempting to act as nonchalant as he could, he braced his feet and guided the door to close softly rather than letting it swing shut. He'd heard one mage had let it slam behind them, and the punishment they'd received curled his toes.

"You asked me to report after my next shift, Lady Erryn, and so I am here."

The office in which he found himself was lavish. Every furnishing, every tastefully arranged ornament, spoke of extreme wealth. Materials only found in the most perilous of rifts abounded. The mirror on the wall was edged with Dream Crystal. The rug beneath his fight glittered with emerald light of Fire Rubies. Even the desk was a statement of status, elegantly carved from the heartwood of a Soul Pine, it practically shined under the flickering light that touched it.

Compared to the room, the woman behind the desk could be described as plain, though to utter such thoughts out loud would condemn him to a painful death. Of middle age, her brown curls had lost their youthful bounce and her face had begun to show the lines of age, one would think the Lady was a healthy forty years old, but Poranus knew it to be a lie. She'd looked exactly the same for the decade that he'd known her.

He approached the desk and carefully offered a low bow. His form was as perfect as he could manage. He held that position, bent at the waist, his hands spread wide and facing the floor as the woman behind the desk continued to work, the scratching of her pen and the crackling fire the only sounds.

Sweat began to bead on his brow as he struggled to contain his position. He battled to restrain the slight shake in his arms as he concentrated on breathing softly as the moment dragged out by the will of the woman before him. His ire rose as each second passed and he fought against that too. He couldn't lose his temper, that was what she wanted.

"You may rise," came her soft voice, finally.

He straightened slowly and saw that she was looking at him now. Her crystal blue eyes pierced him, and he was shocked again by just how cold they were. He almost felt as if he weren't looking at a human at all.

Unhurried, Lady Erryn placed her pen down and neatly arranged the papers on her desk before she placed her hands flat on the table and spoke again.

"You may report now, Magister Poranus."

He nodded.

"As requested the intensity of stimulation given through the Mark has been increased. As a consequence, we are draining our magick quicker than before and do not have enough time to replenish our reserves before we are called on again. As a result the gaps between sessions are beginning to grow longer."

She didn't reply, only continued to stare. He felt sweat begin to slide down his back. He firmed his tone.

"If we are to continue then I suggest that more Mages be assigned to the task. A longer rotation will allow us to stimulate the Mark for longer and bring an end to this affair all the sooner."

No expression flickered across the face of the woman before him. It was unnerving.

"Four Magisters unable to bring two slayers to heel. Such a thing has never happened since the Ascension. If word of this matter were to spread, it may be enough for the aristocracy to question the competence of your order. At such a critical time, are you capable enough to be the instrument of our will?"

He couldn't help a spike or indignation that flared inside him.

"We are agents of the Divines," he almost growled.

Lady Erryn watched him dispassionately.

"And they speak through the High King and those born of his court. As it has always been."

Poranus quickly bowed his head.

"Of course, Lady Erryn, it is as you say."

Internally he cursed his lax tongue. How close to extermination did he want to treat this day?

She let him stew for a time before she continued.

"As I'm sure you're aware, the Steelarms are of particular interest to the Baron. This situation needs to be brought to a swift resolution so that we may turn our attention to other matters. I will assign two more mages to your team, Magister Poranus. Surely then you will have the capacity to humble a pair of slayers who seek to rise above their station."

As if Magnin and Beory Steelarm were in any way ordinary slayers.

He wisely kept his complaints to himself and bowed once more.

"I thank you, Lady Erryn. With your leave?"

She waved a hand and he nodded before he turned and left, not bothering to hide his struggle with the door. He was exhausted. Another two mages would help tremendously, but he had a sneaking suspicion it still wouldn't be resolved quickly. Once back in his rooms, he took a shard of Arcane Crystal and placed it in his mouth before he slumped into his bed.

A little rest would do him good.