Book of The Dead

Chapter 8: Desire to Slay

Laurel rose and stretched in the early morning light, totally unashamed of her nakedness. Cat-like, she extended her arms forward and arched her back, sighing in satisfaction as the joints loosened with faint popping sounds.

"I still don't know why you do that every morning," Rufus asked from the bed.

"I don't hear you complaining," she said as she began to gather up her clothes and put them on.

"You're leaving already?" Rufus asked, surprised, "I thought you'd want to hang around this morning."

The hunter's daughter rolled her eyes.

"Despite what you might think, I have better things to do than lie in bed with you all day."

"Like what?" the newly minted swordsman asked, his face darkening.

"Like getting levels." Laurel finished dressing herself and started lacing up her worn boots, her nimble hands dancing across the knots. "I'm surprised you aren't out there already, trying to find monsters to kill now that you've got what you want."

She could hear Rufus grunt from the bed as he pulled himself out from under the sheets and began to rummage around her room for his own clothing.

"There's plenty of time for that later," he muttered, "there's other things I have to settle first."

"Like Elsbeth?" Laurel asked archly.

The burly young man froze a moment before he turned to face her with a smirk.

"Is that jealousy I hear?" he said. "From you of all people, I'm shocked."

With barely a pause, she strode toward him until there was barely a hand between them. Confronted by the cool glare of his lover, Rufus drew himself up to his full height, his muscular frame loomed over the slight woman. Undeterred, Laurel smiled for an instant before she drove her fist into his gut at the same moment she stomped her booted right foot down on the swordsman's unprotected toes.

Having the wind driven out of him at the same time his foot exploded in pain left Rufus with little option but to fall back on the bed, wheezing and cursing in equal measure as Laurel stared down at him.

"You might be a decent lay, Rufus, but don't think for a second that I would be jealous over you. You want to screw Elsbeth over? I couldn't care less. If I had other options it might not even be you I shake out of my sheets in the morning."

Rufus glowered at her from the bed as he caught his breath and rubbed his foot.

"Who else? Tyron? That bookworm doesn't have the stamina."

"I'd be willing to find out," she shrugged, "and I would have, if he didn't shoot me down."

"What!?" Rufus gaped.

"Make sure you lock up when you leave."

This chapter upload first at NovelUsb.Com

Unwilling to put up with the muscle-brained antics of the still naked oaf, Laurel turned on her heel and gathered the last few things she needed. Her bow and string in hand, her pack and quiver over her shoulder, she was out of her room in moments and out the front door a few seconds after that. The wooden cabin she shared with her father quickly vanished behind her as she rushed out into the forest, her eyes wide to catch the dim light and her ears alive to the sounds amongst the trees. Her pulse quickened as she stopped to string her bow, bracing the yew with her foot as her hands slipped the string into place without her having to look.

Her father was out here somewhere, just as he almost always was. On days like this she couldn't find it in her to resent him for it. Just like her, he was addicted to the hunt and he could be in the woods for a week before he'd had his fill. Breathing deep, she scented the air and began to scan for prey. She had skills and a class now, like hell she was going to wait.

Back in the cabin, Rufus swore viciously under his breath as he hopped into his clothes. The pain in his stomach flared a few times which caused him to collapse back onto the bed and wait for it to subside. It took longer for his anger to cool and he was out the door and into the cool morning air before he'd managed to calm himself down. Laurel was the kind of girl who never held a grudge. Whatever he'd done to tick her off, she'd likely have forgotten about it by the time she got back. Since he needed her for his plans, he'd put up with the indignity.

It was coming together possibly better than he had even imagined and the young man let out a laugh as his face split into a broad grin. After waiting his whole life, it was finally going to happen. His father was already at work in the smithy when he arrived, the sharp ring of the hammer on the anvil audible from hundreds of metres away. Rufus didn't particularly feel like arguing with the old man, so he snuck in the back door in order to help himself to some breakfast. He was halfway through some cheese on bread when he realised the steady beat of the hammer had stilled.

"Nice to see your manners haven't changed with your awakening then," came a growl from the doorway and Rufus looked up to see the imposing figure of his father looking down at him.

He choked down the suddenly dry bread before he replied.

"H-hey Dad. Didn't want to bother you at work, so I thought I'd just grab a bite before I headed out for the day."

Brindle, the Foxbridge Smith just grunted in reply before he stomped into the room and helped himself to a generous wedge of cheese. Rufus frowned as his father's massive hands came into view and he turned his head to hide his expression.

"Where's mother?" he asked.

"Still sleeping," Brindle replied through a mouthful of ripe cheese, "says her bones hurt."

A flash of anger stole across the younger man's face before it was gone, vanishing as quick as it had appeared. He pushed back his chair as he stood to his full height and looked his father in the eye.

"I'll be heading out then," he said.

Before he could turn to leave, his father spoke again.

"Still planning on going through with your idiot scheme then?"

Anger sparked in Rufus' eyes as his jaw set but he refused to rise to the bait.

"I am," he said.

The Smith wiped his thick hands absently on the leather apron he wore as he shook his head.

"Fool boy," he rumbled, "all you're going to do is get yourself killed and break your mother's heart. For what? So you can dream of being some big shot Slayer in the city?"

His temper flared again and the new Swordsman struggled to contain himself as he stared into the soot covered face of his father. Not trusting himself to reply, he simply stood and glowered, his fists clenched by his side. His father paid this display of anger no mind. Full grown and now with his Class, Rufus was strongly built and physically imposing, but next to the Smith he was a cub next to a bear. Despite not having a combat class, Brindle was likely the second physically strongest person in Foxbridge after Magnin Steelarm himself. If he so chose, he could pick up his son with one hand and throw him through the door. And they both knew it.

Brindle stared hard at his son as he waited. When it became clear Rufus wouldn't rise to the challenge, he leaned to one side to spit before he turned back to the smithy, the door creaking shut behind him as he left. Rufus didn't move for several long seconds, breathing deep as he calmed himself down. He wouldn't achieve anything by trying to fight his old man, he'd learned that lesson the hard way. His time would come, just not yet. When he was ready, he finished eating and made his way out of the house, his mood lightening the moment he set foot outside. He turned to look toward the upstairs window beyond which his mother was resting for a few long seconds before he turned the corner of the Willison's house heading into town.

With a final deep breath, he put his family out of his mind. These next few days would be crucial if he was to realise his dream and he refused to let the chance slip out of his hands. He wasn't going to be buried in Foxbridge, slaving at the forge with Brindle until the old bastard died. He was going to be a Slayer, he was going to be a shield between the darkness and the light. When he came home, he'd be rich as a king and as powerful as Magnin, then things would change.

His mind filled with visions of his triumphant return, a small smile broke out on Rufus' face as he made this way through the morning traffic. Distracted, he arrived at his destination almost before he realised it. The Ranner household where Elsbeth lived with her parents, brother and two sisters was unusually quiet when he arrived and he quickly shook the fantasies out of his head so he could concentrate.

Trying to look nonchalant, the young man walked down a few houses before he turned down a side street, checked behind him and then leapt the fence to his right. Moving swiftly, he kept moving and after surmounting one more fence, he found himself in the Ranner's small yard just outside Elsbeth's window. He tensed for a moment, listening for any sign that he had been discovered, but he heard nothing except quiet weeping coming from the room in front of him. He approached the window in a crouch and tapped gently against the glass, careful not to make too much noise. Not that it did him much good. A moment later, Elsbeth threw the window open and flung her arms around his neck.

"I was rejected by the goddess," she sobbed into his shoulder, "the holy mother shoved me out of the sanctum. What am I going to do, Rufus?"

He raised his arms and gently embraced the girl as he whispered comfort into her ear, trying to keep his voice from betraying the broad smile on his face.

What a waste it would be for you to be locked away in the Church of Purity, healing cripples for scraps of coin. This will be better, you'll see.

It didn't hurt that he would get a rare and powerful healer Class for his burgeoning Slayer team either.

Back in his house, Tyron startled awake and immediately felt a sharp pain in his back. And why the hell was it so dark?! Could it still be night time? Had he slept through the entire day?! Only after he flailed his arms a little did he realise he couldn't see because some paper was stuck to his face, covering his eyes. When he pulled the paper away, light returned and he realised he'd fallen asleep at the table again. Numerous pages covered in his neat scrawl covered the surface, only slightly marred with his drool. Still groggy, he pushed his chair back and stumbled outside, a huge yawn cracking his jaw as he went. He stumbled around the corner from the kitchen and found his father's outdoor shower, installed at the insistence of his mother due to the stink of the man after his outdoor training sessions.

Tyron nearly forgot to disrobe but caught himself just in time before he stepped onto the polished stone and waved a hand in front of the enchantment plate. A few seconds later a burst of cold water rained down on him, instantly shocking him awake.

"Holy shit!" he chattered, rubbing his arms against his suddenly frozen torso, attempting to slap some warmth back into his skin.

After a vigorous scrub he was able to rid himself of the accumulated dust and cobwebs from the previous night's activities. Only when he couldn't stand the cold anymore did he leap out from under the overhead pipe and wave a hand in front of the plate once more, shutting off the flow of water. Now he finally knew why father wanted a fire stone installed along with the water stone behind the plate. His mother would never allow it, she was far too tight with the family purse, pointing out that having an enchanted outdoor shower was already an extravagant expense to begin with. Reminding her that she was the one who insisted it be installed did Magnin more harm than good, which never seemed to stop the man. Thinking of his parent's endless, good hearted bickering brought a smile to the young man's face as he waited for the sun to dry him off before he went inside to find clean clothes.

Much refreshed, he rummaged around for some breakfast before he sat back down to go over his notes. Absentmindedly chewing on his stale bread, he quickly remembered what he'd been up to.

Spellwork. Specifically, the Raise Dead spell. The signature spell of the Necromancer Class and his most powerful weapon. If he to decide to keep his Class and try to survive on his own, outside the law, this spell would either make or break him. The description of the Class was clear, he couldn't get experience and level up by fighting himself, it didn't matter if he slaughtered a thousand monsters on his own, he wouldn't gain a thing. The only way he could improve was by creating undead and having them fight on his behalf, which meant his minions would need to be as powerful as he could possibly make them.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that there would be a huge number of things he could do to better prepare the remains before it even came time to cast the spell. If he were an alchemical master, there might be some way to strengthen the bones using a solution or infusion of some sort. If he were an enchanter it might be possible to saturate the remains with magick, or do a hundred other things to improve their condition. All of that was out of his reach for the moment, he had no knowledge and no resources with which to make it happen, so he fell back to what he did understand and what he was good at: Spellwork.

The budding Necromancer continued to munch away on the hard bread as he was drawn back into his work, his free hand fumbling around the table for his pen and ink as he thought. Before long, he was back at it, scratching away at the pages and trying to unravel the secrets of the complex spell, one layer at a time. His mother's training came alive whenever he did this sort of work, the long hours of studying phrases, the drudgery of pouring through her seemingly bottomless supply of diagrams. If he was honest, it was twice as taxing as his father's sword training, but he enjoyed it far more.

"Concentrate, son!" his mother would rap him on the head whenever his focus would start to waver. When he would give her an indignant look she would smile broadly and his ire would melt away as she ruffled his hair. "If you become a mage, I won't have you throwing spells around like some back-alley Hedge Wizard. A true mage understands their magic, they don't just use it. That's how you level your spells."

"What if I don't get a mage Class?" he could remember the young Tyron protesting. "This will be a complete waste of time!"

His mother had stared down into his eyes from her seat beside him at the table, the sound of his father performing sword drills outside the only other sound they could hear.

"But you might be a mage. And if you are, do you want to be mediocre, or do you want to excel?" she asked.

Faced with that, he'd had little choice but to throw himself into his studies until she was satisfied, and ultimately he'd ended up continuing them even when she wasn't home to make him. Despite never learning many spells, he was confident his fundamental grasp of spell structure and magick were at least decent for his age, especially compared to other kids from the outer provinces. His Status acknowledging he possessed some understanding of the Mystery of Spell Shaping was all the proof he needed.

He could feel that Mystery at work in him now, a faint trickling of sensation that would vanish if he tried to focus on it. It wasn't well understood how they assisted people with tasks, only that they did. Ever since he'd earned it and it’d appeared on his status sheet, he could tell that they were aiding him in some intangible way. He didn't bother focusing on them now, the spell itself was engrossing enough for him. He needed to level up his Raise Dead spell, and to achieve that he needed two things, practice and understanding. It would be hard to practice, he needed relatively fresh corpses for that and it wasn't like he could pop down to market in order to get one. In fact, the two skeletons he prepared the previous night may be the last he would get his hands on, which meant this was the only way he could try to empower the spell before then. With luck, he would be able to raise the level of the spell once through study before he needed to raise his next servants.

There was some debate about whether it was a spell's level that produced increased power, or whether it was the improvement of the mage themselves that was reflected by the level change. His mother believed there were elements of both.

"The Unseen rewards your efforts," she'd said, "if you learn and grow, stretch yourself and your abilities, then you will be granted more power to match."

Tyron was inclined to believe his mother when it came to things like this. After all, who would better understand the workings of the Unseen better than a high-levelled Slayer? A higher levelled Raise Dead spell would mean more powerful skeletons, not only because his own skill would improve, but because the hand of the Unseen would push a little harder for him, which could make all the difference.

For several long hours he continued to scratch away at the page until his hunger forced him to put down his pen and seek out a meal. He stood from the table and stretched, the crack and creak of his bones elicited a quiet laugh. His father would lament he was sinking even further into 'bookworm-hood' as he had phrased it, sitting hunched over a table for so long. Tyron had long suspected that Magnin still held out hope that his son would follow in his footsteps with a warrior style Class, but he had only grown more bookish over the years.

It was close to midday when he emerged blinking into the sun once more and made his way to Leaven St, keeping himself to the edge of the street and allowing the traffic to pass him by. He tried to be unobtrusive as he slipped into the inn, but he should have known it would be a waste of time. He was no more than three steps in the door when his uncle's voice rang throughout the common room.

"AHA!" he shouted. "If it isn't my favourite nephew!"

Immediately half the eyes in the room turned to see the young man standing sheepishly near the wall, observing him for a quiet moment before turning back to their meals, the murmur of conversation rose back to its previous levels. Uncaring of the general mood of the room, the large innkeeper strode across the floor, weaving his way through the tables until he clapped his nephew on both shoulders with his hands.

"How are you doing boy?" Worthy asked, looking sincerely down at Tyron with clear eyes.

The younger man winced under the pressure from those powerful arms. He might run an inn now, but Worthy was once a Slayer and a proud Hammerman at that. His physical stats were no joke and it wasn't uncommon for the man to forget to control himself from time to time.

"I - I'm fine, uncle," Tyron said, trying not to look his uncle in the eye. "Just getting a little hungry and thought a hot meal would be pleasant."

Worthy threw an arm around his shoulders and laughed as he steered him toward the kitchens.

"Of course, a hot meal fixes every ill! Especially when cooked by my wife! I swear by the stones of Sazz himself I've seen her stew knit flesh and mend bones. Isn't that right, darling?"

Unimpressed with her husband's antics, Megan gave him a level stare before turning a more welcoming gaze onto Tyron.

"Hello there lad," she said warmly, "come on in and I'll get you fed. As for you, you'd best get back behind the bar before my wooden spoons finds stones of a different sort."

She waved said implement threateningly and Worthy backed away, his hands raised.

"Threatened? By my own spouse? I'm wounded," he feigned an injured expression, poorly and Megan snorted.

"I'll give you wounded," she threatened him before turning back to her work, her hands flashing over the bench as she chopped, stirred and tested the dishes sizzling away on her stove.

With a final wink to his nephew, Worthy vanished back into the common room and only moments later Tyron heard his bellowing laugh roar out as he exchanged jests with the regulars and he didn't fail to notice the small smile that graced his aunt's face.

"He has a way with people that one," she said to him as she served a generous serving of stew, tearing some bread off a fresh loaf and tossing it into the bowl before putting it down in front of you, "which is why I suspect he's right to be worried about you."

She looked down at him kindly and Tyron felt guilt and shame rise hot in his chest. His family were good people and he was making them worry about him. It wasn't a good feeling, but he just didn't know what else he could do.

"It'll be alright, Aunt Megan," he tried to sound confident as he sought to reassure her. "I just need a few days to sort myself out and then I'll be able to move forward. Things just didn't turn out the way I expected, that's all."

She gave a sigh and reached out to pull him to her in a hug.

"I know you'll be okay, lad," she said. "You're brighter than you've got any right to be and I know you'll land on your feet, no matter what the Gods throw your way. You just need to have that confidence in yourself. It's not the Class that defines a person and only fools think that way."

She pulled away.

"Eat up and go rest. That's all you need to focus on. I'll tell Worthy to make sure that you get your space."

He sat and ate in silence.