Book of The Dead - Chapter B3C47 - Lord of the Ossuary

Tyron didn’t need Dove’s prodding to ensure he was fully prepared to cast this absurdly complex ritual, but that didn’t seem to stop the skeleton-trapped soul. He nitpicked about everything, questioning the young mage three times about every little detail. Was the circle correct? Was it actually correct? How stable were the components used to draw it? Did he realise that drawing the circle with your finger in dust is a fucking stupid idea? Had he double checked his notes and ironed out all the wrinkles? What focus was he using? Was it suitable? Had he checked it was suitable?

And on, and on, and on.

It was incredibly frustrating. Tyron didn’t particularly want to say it, but he knew he was a better mage than Dove, yet he allowed himself to be drawn into arguments over and over again, defending his choices, proving his work and covering each little detail to his mentor’s satisfaction.

Dove managed to drag the process out so long, it was two days after their first conversation in the cave when he was finally prepared to cast the ritual. Which was entirely the point. The former Summoner had delayed as much as he could, forced Tyron to rethink each aspect of the ritual, until the version he was about to cast was vastly superior to what he’d held in his hands two days ago.

In all that time, Tyron’s undead had continued to intercept and destroy the rift-kin descending the mountain, collecting their cores and depositing them just outside the cave. They also kept away the villagers who, for some reason, continued to emerge from Cragwhistle to catch a glimpse of the Necromancer, bowing to him if they happened to see him, bowing to the skeletons if they didn’t.

Which, thanks to minion sight, Tyron also frequently saw.

Standing over the wide, flat rock Tyron had engraved his circle on, he sighed with satisfaction. It was perfect. Each line, loop and whorl, every symbol of arcane power, was without flaw. Which they needed to be if he didn’t want to have the entire thing blow up and kill him. This ritual demanded so much magick, so much power, even the slightest mistake would cause it to backfire with spectacular results.

“Dove,” he said, “I’ve wanted to kill you so many times over the last few days, but, as much as it pains me to say it, thanks. You’ve helped a lot.”

The skeleton shrugged his onyx shoulder bones and chattered his teeth, an annoying habit he’d picked up.

“You’ve got one major flaw when it comes to magick, kid. You’re too damn good. Sometimes, you don’t seem to believe it’s even possible for you to make a mistake.”

“I didn’t,” Tyron pointed out defensively. “All of my work was correct.”

“But it wasn’t complete. You were rushing and you know it. Casting Raise Dead the day after you learned it is fucking crazy enough. A ritual of this size? That’s straight up insane asylum material, and I would know.”

“Why are you making me argue with you? I was in the process of thanking you.”

“I have an argumentative personality.”

“Well shut the fuck up. I’m ready to begin.”

“As you say.”

“And when I’m done, I’ll work on developing a status ritual for you.”

The skeleton stood still, dumbstruck, for once.

“Y-you will? Do you have a lead on one?”

Tyron nodded, a sly grin crossing his face.

“What? You don’t?”

“Eat a sack of dicks.”

“Ah, if you keep talking, I might change my mind.”

Dove mimed locking up his jaw, then dropping the key into his imaginary trousers.

“If you can help keep the villagers away, though, that would be great. I have skeletons positioned along the path, but not that many.”

The vast bulk of his forces were on the mountain, with the rest positioned around the ritual site for protection. At all times, at least twenty skeletons and two of his revenants remained with him, but he was much more comfortable when that number was close to fifty. If the slayers in town teamed up to attack, he had to have at least that many. Thanks to Ortan, he knew that, at this moment in time, such an attack wasn’t very likely.

Unable to talk, thanks to the locking mechanism he’d put in place, Dove gave him a double thumbs up before he turned on his heel and bounced his way down the mountain path, almost skipping.

Tyron shook his head and turned back to his circle, steadying his breathing. For the final time, he checked to ensure he had everything he needed. In his right hand, he gripped the staff his mother had prepared for him. It was still too powerful for him to handle in battle, but as a ritual focus, it would serve him well. On his left hip rested a pouch, the string pulled to reveal the five shards of mage candy contained inside.

At his current constitution and tolerance, five was pushing his limits, and hopefully he wouldn’t need them all. There were several charged cores sewn into his robes, power arrays that he could draw magick from, but each one contained less than a fifth of the energy in a single piece of candy. Satisfied that everything was as ready as it could be, Tyron planted the staff in the groove he had prepared in front of him, raised his hands, and began to speak.

Mage tongue, the words of power, slammed into the air, each syllable a hammerblow that Tyron used to shape reality itself. At his current level of mastery, with the backing of his mysteries, his ability to draw out the full strength of each word was at its peak. Magick flowed out of him, through the staff, which began to resonate with power, then out and into the circle.

Tyron’s hands wove through graceful and deliberate motions, unhurried, forming one sigil, then the next, as he moved through the opening phase of the ritual.

It wasn’t complicated, this part, all he had to do was gather power, but he needed so much. The circle drank in every drop of magick he could give it, the lines slowly emitting a soft glow that grew stronger with each passing moment, but it still wasn’t enough. More. With his words, Tyron continued to pull in more magick, then force it out into the circle. He drained the reserves in his cloak within the first five minutes, choosing to take them early while he still had the attention to spare. Shortly after, he popped the first of his mage candy under his tongue, letting the arcane energy flow into him and fuel his magick.

After fifteen minutes, the circle blazed with power. Ominous, dark purple light, the colour of Death magick, blinded him, but Tyron didn’t need to see to continue the ritual. To him, nothing existed outside of the circle. Not the world, not the rifts, not his vengeance, nothing. There was only the ritual.

Arms spread wide, Tyron brought them down, then up again as he moved to the next phase.

Five syllables, five cracks in the dimensional weave. He heard them, even if there was nothing to see, as the fabric that held the realm together began to break in the air above the ritual circle. Now came the difficult part.

Sweat began to drip from his forehead as Tyron used all his power and control to take hold of those cracks, to mould and shape them. For what came next, they needed to be stable, needed to be mended, without being closed.

To an experienced Dimension Mage, this was their bread and butter, though perhaps not on the same scale, but to Tyron, this was close to uncharted territory. His throat already began to feel raw, his voice strained under the pressure, but he didn’t falter, he had to continue.

The second piece of mage candy went under his tongue as he let the crumbling remains of the first drop to his feet. His forehead was creased in concentration, his words and hands never ceasing their movement. This was a test of his control. If he took too long to stabilise the breaks, he would lose momentum and power, wasting the precious magick he had gathered before the real work had even begun.

Twenty minutes later, he was finally satisfied. Darkness had crept in at the edges of his vision, but he wasn’t sure if that was the fault of his eyes, or if the ritual itself were blurring the edges of reality. In this space, above the circle, the boundary between this realm and others was now not only weakened, but punctured. The cracks had been reformed, shaped into something that vaguely resembled an arch, or perhaps a door.

Here we go.

The power had been gathered, the way had been opened, now it was time to move to the most important and most demanding step. Now it was time to create.

“Los,” Tyron said, his hands pushing outward from his chest.

The ritual circle ignited, sending a shaft of purple light blazing into the sky. Like a dam breaking, a torrent of arcane power roared into the sky, the strength of it enough to vibrate the air. Tyron nearly staggered, almost driven to his knees by the strength of it, but steadied himself at the last moment. Sweat flowed freely now, running in rivulets down his face and into his eyes. To prevent distraction, he shut them. He had to focus.

Once again, he began to speak, rapidly now, words and sigils flashing from one to the next as he sought to dig out a channel to guide the raging waters just a few steps in front of the frothing, crashing waves. All of that power, all of that energy, was gathered, directed and led straight into the arch, and then pushed, forced beyond.

The staff, standing before him, glowed bright with arcane light as it acted to enforce his will. An amplifier and defender all at once, it shielded him from the ravages of the gathered magick even as it aided him to enforce his will upon it.

From down the mountain, Dove looked back over his shoulder as his soul quivered in response to the eruption of power. Through the trees, he could see it, a column of purple light that extended hundreds of metres into the air.

“By the melons!” he gasped.

He’d known the ritual demanded a great deal of power, but he’d never expected the kid to try and pull in this much. Was he trying to get himself killed?!

For a moment, he hesitated, then growled and continued his journey down the path with increased haste. There was no point going back now. What could he do? The ritual had begun and Tyron would either see it through or die in the attempt.

Sure as shit there would be a heck of a lot of attention from Cragwhistle, though. He had to make sure some idiot kid didn’t run up and throw a rock at the Necromancer’s stupid head.

In town, Ortan gaped at the light which had erupted up the mountain. Even during the day, the light seemed to darken around the edges, as if being pushed away from that column of light.

“Orthriss defend me,” he muttered absently, eyes still wide with shock.

Around him, people rushed into the streets, pointing, murmuring, whispering.

What had Tyron done? What was he doing? Wasn’t he trying to lay low?

From the corner of his eye, he saw the slayers gathering outside the barracks, faces grim as they talked amongst themselves. He couldn’t read their body language. Were they fearful? Angry? What would they make of this? No matter what, Ortan feared it wouldn’t be good.

Within the ritual circle, Tyron danced on the edge of oblivion, funnelling the power through the rapidly forming arch and into the space beyond. As he did so, he formed it, shaped it, building even though he didn’t truly understand what he was making. In this, he was guided by the ritual, directed by the Unseen. The pace continued to be high, words and sigils forming rapidly, words tripping from his tongue as his hands flickered from one precise gesture to the next.

Was he on his third shard of candy? Or the fourth? He couldn’t remember. The ritual demanded more power, so more power he gave.

This was the final phase, and Tyron raced to complete it, not wanting to waste a single drop of the magick he had gathered. From within the ritual circle, energy continued to thunder out and into the arch, taking shape on the other side as Tyron managed multiple processes at once.

On and on it went, until his throat was red and raw, his entire body ached and his spirit was gasping, almost squeezed dry of the last of its magick. Even Tyron, with all of his endurance and fortitude, felt himself begin to waver as the ritual went on, well past an hour, and into the second.

When finally it was done, he spoke the last word, formed the last sigil, and collapsed to his knees, hands shaking as he at last relinquished his iron control.

Exhaustion crushed him as the light faded from the circle, yet still, a small, satisfied smile creased his lips.

Before him stood a doorway, wedged in a frame of bones.