Book of The Dead - Chapter B3C37 - The Terrible Price He Paid

Pierce the Veil was one of the first Rituals Tyron had ever learned. Unwieldy and mind-bendingly complex as it had been to him at the time, now he viewed the magick as a blunt instrument. Sometimes he wondered if the Abyss wanted any of those who contacted them with this spell to survive at all. In essence, all it did was manifest the veil, which was rather difficult, then poke a hole in it, which wasn’t.

After that, the ritual caster was pretty much on their own.

The ritual circle was some protection, of course, at least physically. In reality, the mind of the caster was almost totally vulnerable to the psychic emanations of the Abyss and almost certain to go mad. If the madness didn’t win, then the opening in the veil almost certainly would. The creatures of the Abyss hungered to be free of that place. Tyron had felt that desperate desire from them and the intensity of it had shaken him to the core. Why, and for what purpose, he didn’t know, but it was certainly real, they wanted out, even if it meant death. Any opening in the veil was like lighting a candle at night next to a swamp. Insects rushed to the flame the same way the Abyssals moved to the ritual site.

Of course, the opening was small, only one could hope to get through, but what happened when one did? They, of course, would devour everything they could find, the first of which would be the one who had cast the stupid ritual in the first place.

So Tyron had been forced to find other ways to communicate with the Abyss that didn’t involve offering himself up on a silver platter. Learning the rudiments of their speech had been the first step. Heavily modifying Pierce the Veil had been second. As it turned out, one could conceal the opening in the veil if you knew how, which had been very tricky to figure out. Also, it was possible to communicate with the creatures on the other side without allowing them through. Of course, they would hunt for the opening, which put the conversation on something of a clock, but it was possible.

Using this method, Tyron had been able to construct a couple of deals. Hopefully, they would stand him in good stead now.

Night closed around him tightly, but it didn’t bother him. As requested, Mrs Ortan had allowed the construction of a small ritual site disguised as a woodman’s lodge on the outskirts of her property. The Necromancer had spent the better part of five days ensuring it was enchanted to his satisfaction. No whisper of the magick he conducted here could ever be allowed to leak, that had been the conditions placed on him, which he would have adhered to anyway. The less chance of his secrets leaking, the better he felt.

Instead of drawing his ritual circle in dust, as he had the first time, the young mage had taken more conventional steps, painting the elaborate design on the smooth floor with a magickally charged alchemical paint. When it was done to his satisfaction, he painted over it with a special, clear sealant. These components cost a fortune, but would be well worth it to ensure his defence was as strong as possible and impossible to disrupt. If all went well, he would be able to use this circle over and over again in the future, without having to start from scratch every time.

Once the floor was completed to his satisfaction, Tyron turned to the walls. Soon, those too were covered in arcane sigils arranged in loops and whorls, arrays into which he embedded cores to power them. Finally, he brought out the ladder and began the difficult task of painting the ceiling. Eventually, that too was completed, a complex enchantment that covered every centimetre of available space.

Ever since Yor had accompanied him into the Abyss, Tyron had never stepped foot into that place again, but to complete his aims, this time he must, and without her help. Owing favours to the vampires was becoming more and more dangerous. He could no longer afford to lean on them for anything he might conceivably be able to do himself. He could only hope he was as prepared as thought he was.

“So that’s it then?” Dove asked as Tyron stepped out through the heavy oak door and leaned the ladder against the stone wall. “Are we ready to go?”

Outside the small building, under the cover of the thick foliage overhead, stood Tyron’s full army of undead. Silent ranks of skeletal warriors armed with their weapons of bone, each with the glowing purple eyes of the dead.

“Almost there,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I’ve finished the circles. All I need to do now is affix the ritual focus and we’ll be as prepared as we can be.”

“It’ll be fine, kid,” Dove assured him, “I worked on those circles with you, they’re as watertight as any I’ve ever seen. It’ll be a piece of piss, you’ll see.”

As much as he wished he shared the optimism of the skeleton-bound spirit, he simply didn’t. The Abyss was dangerous, deadly dangerous. It’s not as if the Dark Ones or the Scarlett Court were particularly safe, but they were at pains to put a human face to themselves. Human-ish, anyway. Yor was terrifying, but she was like a kitten compared to the real monsters who lurked in that realm of neverending night. The Old Gods worked through their priests most of the time, which was a lot more comfortable than being summoned to stand before them. He could still remember how it had felt, those titanic, alien presences looking down on him from a distance. He shivered.

With the Abyss, there was none of that, no kind face, no childhood friend, no gentle touch. Instead, there were only ravenous entities from a realm beyond realms, creatures of madness and hunger who were inimical to life.

“We’ll do it tomorrow,” Tyron said over his shoulder as he re-entered the building to retrieve the rest of his tools and paints. “It’ll take a couple of hours to settle the focus, then we can go ahead and cast the ritual. If all goes well, we can secure travel through the Abyss and be out the other side by the end of the day.”

With great care, he began to store his implements away in the case he had commissioned for them. Each of his implements nestled into their own pocket of shaped velvet, the container itself enchanted against jostling and moisture. These tools would be needed when he got to his destination, desperately needed. Tyron didn’t intend this to be a one way trip, which meant he had to construct another circle on the other side in order to get back.

“Come on! Surely we can do it tonight. A little more work and bam, it’s done and we can get through.”

Tyron turned to glare at the skeleton.

“I’m the one casting the Ritual, and I say tomorrow. I want to be fully rested before exposing myself to the Abyss, nothing less is acceptable. Are you trying to get us both killed?”

Dove scratched at the side of his skull.

“Techincally…” he began.

“You can’t be killed, yes, I get it,” Tyron ground out.

The skeleton picked at the robes Tyron had made him wear.

“Do I really have to keep these on? It seems kind of restrictive and unnecessary. You know what? I never understood people who preferred to go nude before, but now I’m starting to get it. Clothes are a prison. Free your mind, Tyron.”

“Keep them on and shut up,” the Necromancer snapped.

He flung himself into his bedroll.

“I’m going to sleep. See you in the morning.”

“Fine. Be that way.”

When he awoke the next morning, Tyron yawned and stretched, thinking idly of the comforts of his home in the city. The store would be fine in his absence. Plenty of stock had been set aside, instructions had been given to the staff and Flynn could handle the rest without Tyron looking over his shoulder. Hopefully. To the regular folk of the city, Lukas Almsfield was on a sabbatical, taking a rest after working hard to establish his business.

He rubbed at his eyes before he turned to look at his skeletal army, only to blink when he noticed something out of place.

“Dove,” he groaned as he kicked himself free from his blankets.

At some point during the night, the former-Summoner had ‘freed’ himself of his robes and dressed Rufus in them. Now he was probably hiding amongst the ranks, pretending to be a regular minion. This had become his new favourite pastime and Tyron found it exceptionally irritating.

With a thought, he commanded all of the skeletons to kneel, which they did instantly. One skeleton was a beat too slow. Soon, that skeleton had been seized and dragged to the front by the others.

“How dare you rise against me, your skeletal brethren?” Dove howled. “Are we not bone brothers, initiated in the ways of bone? This is a betrayal of the gravest kind! You’ll all be dead by sundown!”

“Dove, how in the name of all that is holy did you ever manage to get yourself onto a slayer team? Second question, how did you manage to stay on one?”

The skeleton huffed and wrestled himself free of the minions who had deposited him in front of their master.

“Some people find my antics charming and humorous.”

“No they don’t.”

“It was mostly because Summoners are rare and I was good at it.”

“I thought so.”

Dove re-robed himself and promised to behave, so Tyron opted not to tie him to a tree while he finished his work. The focus he had purchased for this ritual was specifically designed to channel dimensional energies, commonly used by Summoners and the like, and by affixing it in place, Tyron could double its effectiveness. He’d no longer be able to use it for anything other than operating this specific ritual circle, but he had arrived at a place such luxuries were well within his means.

After a couple of hours, he was done. He took some time to refresh himself by washing in a nearby stream, put on clean clothes and eat a hot meal, letting the food settle before he packed up the camp with Dove’s assistance. Finally, all was prepared.

Despite the dread that tickled at the edges of his mind, Tyron firmed his resolve. He had prepared well for this, it would go well. In one hand, he gripped the case filled with the soul beads before he carefully placed it inside his inner pocket. He would need both hands for the Ritual. With a final nod to Dove, Tyron stepped inside the stone building and closed the door behind him, locking it with an audible click.

“Light.”

He conjured a small globe and hung it directly overhead before he took a deep breath and stood before the ritual focus. Without delay, he raised his hands and began to speak.

The first syllable to leave his lips seemed to impact the air before him, as if reality resisted the push of his magick, but Tyron held firm, his hands moving gracefully from sigil to sigil as his words continued to roll from his tongue. Gradually, resistance faded as reality began to bend to his will and the ritual circle slowly began to flare into life. To manifest the veil was still a difficult process, and Tyron applied all his focus to ensure there were no mistakes, no hesitations or slips in this part of the spell.

Eventually, the grey haze appeared before him, and Tyron moved seamlessly to the next phase of the Ritual. Before the opening could be made, it must be concealed from the creatures of the nightmarish place. Deftly, he wove sigils and spoke the words of power, his every utterance now reverberating like thunder within that small room.

Magick poured from him in an endless tide as he weaved it with unmatched dexterity and skill. When he had bound this section of the veil with powerful arrays of concealment, he proceeded to form a needle of magick, one so fine as to be almost invisible, crafted to pierce the wall between this realm and the realm that was not. With utmost precision, he perforated the veil ever so slightly, creating an infinitesimal gap.

Even this was dangerous. He could hear them already, the whispers, tugging at his mind, daring him to come forward, to reveal himself, and in return, they promised such secrets that set his heart aflame. Steadied by his protections, this was not enough to fray his resolve. Carefully, ever so carefully, he extended the ritual through the gap and into the Abyss, seeking.

Ah’karesh. Theo’razzn. Chironusbolg.

Barely a breath, he spoke these words into the Abyss, repeating them like a mantra. Over and over again, for hours, he held that gap in the veil, sweat dripping down his face as the abyssals began to swarm, catching scent of his world, until finally, a voice spoke back.

With a trembling hand, Tyron reached within his robe and took hold of the case. He opened it and extended it before him.

For a moment, he heard nothing, then he heard it, so soft as to almost be inaudible, so deep it rattled his bones, a sigh, filled with longing, with hunger.

The tiny gap in the veil expanded in an instant, and for only the second time, Tyron stepped forward and into the Abyss.