“I’m innocent! I’ve done nothing wrong!”
Tyron’s head snapped around before he could catch himself. There was a crash as something was knocked over and the sounds of a struggle. People gasped and cried out, some ran, while others drew closer, willing to brave the risk of getting involved to see what was happening.
Most, however, did as Tyron did; avert their gaze, turn away, and keep walking.
This was an all-too-common occurrence over the past few days. Even as he continued to move, the sounds of the scuffle disappearing in the distance, he saw another group of Marshals, this one with a priest in their midst, moving down the street with purpose. The people of Shadetown had grown to dread these little squads of five or six officials. They didn’t search randomly, didn’t accost people at random, they seemed to know exactly who they wanted and where they were, which somehow made them all the more chilling to encounter.
There was only one possible way they could have such accurate information that he could think of, and that was Divine Intervention.
He almost snarled, his upper lip curling with disgust and futile anger. For the first time, the Five deigned to intervene in the Western Province. Not when the gate at Woodsedge became unstable, or when it broke and rift-kin spilled across the land, killing thousands. No, they stepped in now, when the threat to their power was starting to take root.
As the squad approached him, he stepped to the side of the path and kept his eyes down. The grim-faced men and women didn’t glance at him twice, striding past on their way to make another arrest.
Criminals, smugglers, killers, thieves, people who skipped taxes, people who spoke ill of the empire, people who disrespected the magisters, everyone was at risk. Though Tyron suspected that followers of the Three were the primary target for this purge.
He needed to get out of town. He needed to be gone yesterday.
His preparations weren’t complete, but it would have to do. He’d gone out to collect his order for warm winter clothes and seen three arrests and seven groups of officials before he’d even made it back to the shop.
The purge was in full swing here in the capital. Kenmor was gripped by fear as hundreds, even thousands of people were arrested every day and taken no one knew where.
There was no way to know just how rigorous the protections placed on him by the old gods were, and Tyron was in no mood to push his luck. It was past time to get out, and it may be some time before he returned.
The front door of his shop had never looked quite so welcoming to the Necromancer, and he gratefully pulled the door open, manoeuvring around the bulky packages in his arms to squeeze through the entrance. A few moments later, Cerry was by his side.
“Master Almsfield, welcome back! Can I take any of that for you?”
She was smiling, as always, but there was an undercurrent of nervous energy there. The Awakening drew closer every day. He probably should have given her the week off and made Flynn man the desk, but then, perhaps, she was grateful for something to act as a distraction from the upcoming event?
“No, thank you,” he said, “I can take care of it. Look after the shop, I’ll be back down in a minute.”
After unwrapping the bundles, checking he’d gotten what he’d paid for, Tyron immediately packed them away. He would be out of the city before the day was done, but there were a few things he wanted to take care of before then.
First, he sought out Flynn, finding his apprentice hard at work setting cores into appliances in the downstairs storeroom.
“Master Almsfield, is there anything I can do for you?” he asked, looking up from his work.
“I’m going to be leaving earlier than expected. Today. So I wanted to give you some final instructions.”
“Oh,” Flynn said, looking surprised. He sat up at his worktable, pushing away the glass he’d been peering through.
“There should be more than enough cores to keep up stock levels until I get back, but if for some reason I’m delayed and the supply runs out, I want to temporarily shut down the store. Also…”
Tyron hesitated for a moment, unsure how much he should say.
“Should… conditions in Shadetown grow too difficult to do business… you understand me?”
Flynn’s eyes widened, and he nodded, looking nervous.
“If that happens… close the store, and keep your head down. Wait for things to blow over.”
Flynn went to speak, but Tyron cut him off, lifting a pouch full of coins from his belt.
“I’m paying you your bonus early. There’s plenty here for you to live off for a couple months.”
He threw the pouch to his apprentice, who caught it.
“Th–this is too much!” Flynn exclaimed.
“You’ve been an excellent apprentice and have put up with more eccentricity from your teacher than most would be willing to,” Tyron disagreed. “I’ve no complaints about your work ethic, or the quality of what you’ve produced. Take the money.”
Lastly, Tyron produced a key and placed it on the table next to the young man.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“I still have mine, obviously, but make sure you don’t lose this.”
“I won’t, Master Almsfield, of course!”
“Good man.”
With his apprentice dealt with, Tyron went and found Cerry on the shop floor, waiting until she’d finished with her customer before he pulled her aside.
“Yearly bonus,” he said, holding up another pouch, “with something extra thrown in as an Awakening present.”
The young girl flushed, looking embarrassed.
“You didn’t have to do that, Master Almsfield.”
“Nonsense. The store has been a great success in no small part thanks to your efforts. Now, I’ve given special instructions to Flynn regarding the store given the current climate. Talk to him for the details. I expect to be back in two months, but if something goes wrong and you need assistance before then,” he handed her a letter, “you can give this to Master Willhem, and he’ll help you.”
She went pale.
“Master Willhem! I couldn’t possibly!”
“Cerry, it’s fine. I’ve warned him in advance, so it won’t be a surprise in the unlikely event you have to call on him, alright?”
Reluctantly, she nodded, and Tyron passed her the money, along with the letter.
Less than an hour later, he was on the road, tucked away inside a carriage, a pensive expression on his face as the streets of Shadetown rolled by.
During the days long journey to the Ortan estate, Tyron mostly slept. The driver of his carriage, along with those behind, directing the wagon in which he’d packed his things, were paid to push through the day and night, and so they did. With winter approaching, the condition of the roads wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough that they made good time.
There were too many thoughts spinning through the Necromancer’s head for him to be able to rest well. Plans for his time in Cragwhistle. The ongoing purge that would soon spill out across the province. How to advance his Wight project, along with the many others he was working on. Despite his best attempts, thoughts of his ‘patrons’ continued to creep into his head.
The Dark Ones were advancing their plans steadily, drawing the faithful to the remote edge of the Western Province, filling them with belief that Tyron would ‘save’ them. He would do no such thing. All he cared about was executing his vengeance. Elsbeth and her fellow priests would need to take care of the rest.
The Abyss… What could be done? Knowledge had been promised, valuable, powerful secrets… but the price. Could he pay it? Would he even be willing, if he had the chance?
The Scarlet Court. His lip curled just thinking of the vampires. Whatever they had done to him still festered in his mind. To place it there, they had earned his eternal enmity, but they had judged that to be a price worth paying. This was a problem that, as far as he could see, had no solution. If he needed their help to achieve his goals, what could he do to ensure he wasn’t further compromised?
These thoughts and more rattled around in his head, causing his sleep to be fitful and unsatisfying. Not that it was easy to sleep in the back of a moving carriage to start with.
Near the end of the journey, he realised the carriage was slowing earlier than expected. Confused, he pulled back the curtain and looked out the window to see they were still several kilometres from their destination.
Voices could be heard, someone talking to the carriage driver, the gruff man replying in a mollifying tone. This was odd, to say the least.
He stood and opened the door so he could step down and see for himself what was going on. The moment his foot hit the road, it was clear what had happened. There was a blockade across the road.
Tyron frowned and walked forward until he was alongside the driver.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
The driver, a middle-aged man named Giff, leaned and spat over the side of the carriage before replying.
“They’s sayin’ the roads blocked tha way we won ta go.”
There were ten of them, Marshals from the looks of the uniforms, standing astride the road that led to the Ortan estate. He had a bad feeling about this.
He approached the closest officer, who’d been speaking to Giff earlier.
“Can I ask what the problem is, Marshal? I have business at the estate and have been travelling for days from the capital.”
The officer gave Tyron a penetrating stare as he visibly sized him up.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr?”
“Elten. Elten Rirath.”
“Hm. Unfortunately, this road has been barred as the estate is under investigation.”
“Oh my. How terrible.”
“Indeed.”
The Marshal narrowed his eyes.
“Might I enquire as to the nature of your business with the Ortan family?”
“I have family who work on the property,” Tyron replied, trying to appear as a mildly put out city-dweller of means. “I come and visit my uncle and aunt here several times a year. It’s very difficult for me to find time to get away from Kenmor. Are you sure I can’t proceed?”
“You cannot. I’m going to ask you to take the road to the nearby village, Brenith,” the officer stated, pointing down the path. “Find lodging there and wait for an officer of the law to contact you.”
“Am I under arrest?” Tyron gasped.
“No, but we will want to ask you questions regarding your relationship with the estate. If everything is as you say it is, there should be no problem.”
His tone indicated just how likely he thought that eventuality would be.
Internally, Tyron was fuming. The purge had reached this far already. Someone in the city must have been connected to the Ortan’s and been swept up in the arrests. Whatever method they were using to get their suspects to talk, it seemed to be exceptionally effective.
He could feel his connection to the undead stored within the cellar under the manor, stronger than it had been in weeks. His minions were still there, unharmed, but for how long? They represented hundreds of hours of work and a treasure trove of resources that he couldn’t easily replace.
“I will do as you say,” Tyron said, not needing to fake his irritation, “but I’m not happy about it.”
He turned back to the carriage, mind buzzing furiously.
“What did ya want ta do?” Giff asked.
“Just wait here for a moment,” Tyron replied. “I need to think.”
“Aye.”
He climbed back into the carriage and sat carefully, hands folded in front of his face as he considered his options. Would it be possible to sneak onto the estate and free his minions? Unlikely. If the Marshals were going to make a scene and block the road, there would have to be more patrolling the surrounding woods.
Were they going to investigate the entire estate? If so, they may come across the ritual circle he’d constructed and housed in one of the distant corners of the Ortan lands.
They may come across Magnin and Beory….
Tyron stood and exited the carriage again.
“Just going for a piss,” he told Giff and stepped off the road. He walked more than he likely needed to, a hundred metres away from the carriage, hidden behind a copse of trees and shrubs.
There would be mages at the manor who would likely detect what he was doing, but that was fine. He was coming for them next.
He brought up his hands, inhaled a long, slow breath, then began to speak.