Macabre was a word. Disturbing and horrifying because of involvement with or depiction of death and injury. The forum of Amistad, or palace or whatever one wanted to call it was mostly open, built in the traditional platform of a diet with a wide open central amphitheater and many seats for dignitaries in attendance. At the moment, the interim council of Amistad was some thirty strong. And Alex was left staring at twenty one monstrously defiled corpses all bearing the robes of that position, nailed to the wall above the podium at the back of the room, legs and arms splayed out. Their ribs were all open to a man, allowing the organs to hang freely amid the loose piles of intestines spilling out of their split abdominal cavities.
No, not their abdomens, these people were cut from the back, such a mess their bodies were made, their heads twisted and eyes lidless to appear as such. Their spines split the mess of it and contained some of the spillage, the ribs white and visible under the bright lights overhead. A blood eagle had been done to them, and the room was deathly quiet as all things were in this place. In a place of magic one might expect a dark ritual, occultism, but there was no magic to this, just the ultimate form of disrespect, from a northerner's perspective, it was profane beyond belief.
And on each of their foreheads stood a strange arrow pointed upwards, painted in their own viscera about their pallid flesh. Ritualistic filth belonging to no god, secular occultism made manifest, and one must note the stench it spread throughout the diet chamber. No magic, again... Just disrespect, a message sent, it would seem.
“Well,” Sigi cleared her throat, unaffected unlike the others, arms crossed and stoic as usual. “I guess that's that. I've a very busy morning ahead of me, a lucky break I suppose.”
“I would agree with you if your point was that we should be getting the hell out of here,” Tythas replied, clearly terrified by what they were seeing, not one of them was bound to blame him. These were not some random people, these were members of Amistad's council... “That is what you're saying, right? Whatever did that to over 20 archmages... We can't handle them, and you know it.”
Sigi shrugged. “Whatever you'd like, brother milk sipper.” She didn't care if they left or stayed, but she had a great interest in whatever person had done this. Fifteen of those present were junior archmages, that step before taking the peak of what a mage could achieve. There were the Magi, but if one were using that standard it was a lot like telling every knight in the world they could become a hero, which simply wasn't true. To date, there were no known Magi alive, but assuredly those that might be could be counted on one hand.
'Person'. Sigi had referred to the person responsible for this as an individual, but as she turned to leave at her friend's request, there were ten cloaked figures facing her. They'd always been there, too cleverly hidden to notice at first. All in black and wearing masks depicting one emotion or another, like a jester's if not for the violent turn of the steel. So still they might've been as statues, but...
“If you were coming here to do this...” Sigi sighed. “It would have been pertinent to inform us. Blackguard serve us now. Your master is dead and you've a duty.” When more than half of them sagged almost comically in apology, Sigi corrected herself. “I'm not reproaching you, I'm just saying that this must've been a good fight. Next time, just let me know, couldn't stand those mewling bastards.”
“It was no worthy contest,” One of them replied, voice hoarse and fel, a voice none of them recognized. None amongst the blackguard had such a haunting coarseness to their sound either. “They were weak and easily broken. Your wizards are frail, it was hardly a challenge to us. There will be more fights ahead, my love, be patient.”
“Your what...?” Sigi scowled in confused disgust at the masked man but said nothing else. Clearly, something was afoot here and she wanted to investigate it, and fortunately the others followed her lead. Turning back again and stomping down the stairs splitting the diet, followed by the others with the blackguard shadowing them. Moving lithely over the desks like birds of prey, nothing more than a whisper to indicate their movements, ensuring that Alex realized fully well that they were not those undead Tyr had unwittingly sired. Yet based on the words spoken, and the deference they showed the one in the weeping mask that had uttered the words, Tiber was not among them. She had no idea who these people were, but that was not the most important question in her mind.
That silence they'd heard in the hall ended quite swiftly, as they approached the wall where the men and women were hung and torn apart.
Cacophonous sounds of battle came from one of the rear chambers, growing louder by the second. And one by one the figures in black surrounded their entourage to become human shields. A good thing too, as the hail of stone shards and splinters that came from a person flying bodily through the wall would've posed risk of injury otherwise. It was too sudden, too fast, Sigi had barely managed to summon a flickering barrier by the time the body came through.
Another of the blackguard, the man skipping across the terraced seating arrangements, two longswords in hand and in the midst of casting a spell. Thrown but not injured, the tight movements of a gymnast as he recovered. A practiced battlemage, which was even more odd, Tyr had not recruited mages...
The beautiful arcs of light flickering in the air weren't aimed towards the group observing some dozen meters away, yet it set their skin to crawling all the same. Or rather than the magic, it was the almost manic peals of laughter slightly muffled by the black mask shrouding the man's face. Jittery and unnerving in their intensity, harsh and barking. Insane.
Familiar. Eerily familiar.
He was covered in blood, yet didn't bear any mark to indicate it had come from him, moving gracefully to sweep aside a spell coming from the aperture in the wall with his blades, breaking it entirely rather than deflecting it like a normal mage would. Cutting through it, and there was only one 'mage' in the modern era that fought in such a fashion. Him... though perhaps his students as well, if they could be called that.
Alexis stepped forward, shocked at the sight. Only one man fought in that manner...
Through the hole came a figure in luxurious robes of velvet and ermine. Just at a glance one could tell he was a very important individual, and Alex immediately recognized him as the headmaster of the Darius Academy. A school just like the Red Dragon, though significantly smaller and more populated by grown adults, notably all men. She'd heard that he'd recently made his way into the council, a position earned with his achievement of archmage at the ripe age of forty three, quite average for the talented but no less worthy of respect.
As for his name...
Tykr Brandos. And he was currently in the process of throwing spells with an abandon that marked him as an arrogant sort not so used to a real fight. A natural kineticist with a penchant for all things arcane, mixed with the over-the-top explosive force his school was known for.
He was known for being a haughty, hotheaded individual, quick to anger and quite fond of corporal punishment among his student body. Everyone looked the other way though, his youngest student would've been in their mid to late twenties, and as adults in Amistad – it was every man for himself. He sported a split lip and dark bruise on his left eye, but otherwise looked the obvious victor in this contest. Behind him came several more robed figures, eight more mages, mixed of gender and joining him in their assault.
“I'll make sure you stay dead this time, bastard!” Tykr hissed, foaming at the mouth and eyes wild with violent impulse. The blackguard he was facing abruptly stopped laughing, still twirling those blades in almost mockingly slow arcs, smashing spells apart with a lack of apparent effort. Glittering flashes of steel meeting everything they threw at him as if it were child's play, even still, the man with the blades was losing, quite obviously.
“We've royal guests, good sir, where are your manners?” The stranger asked, his voice cracked, raspy with exertion, and again vaguely familiar. “In any case, I told you once and I'll tell you again – there won't be a 'this time' or any time at all. No second chances for you, little man. But you have my word that I won't string you up like the rest, your crimes aren't nearly so vile, thus I'll bury you with your wife in a nice plot of land on your domain. The others...” He tilted his head toward the mages inching into a cordon around him. “You don't need to die, I have no interest in tiny things. Run like those before, go home to your families and shower them with your love. I promise that if you stay you'll never see them again. I will take every limb, I will eat your tongue and pluck out your eyes otherwise.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
A few of these mages seemed to take this claim very seriously, even with an archmage at the head of them and surely incoming reinforcements. They couldn't shake the fear they felt for the man before them. A dead man walking, a man with eleven faces who could not die.
“My crimes? Ha! ” Tykr boomed, he was a man small in stature, evident from his bearing and the overly high soles of his heeled boots that he pulled all the stops to appear taller than he actually was. “Since when do you possess the qualifications to judge me!? I'll kill you, wretch!” Sigi cringed, as did the rest of them, the overly proud often earned that sort of reaction... His hands became hammers wreathed in raw mana, throwing off crackling sparks in the air around him. Preparing himself to go mana down, by the looks of it, in a bid to take his opponent with him and avenge his late wife.
And...
Just then a racket from above rocked the room, and the whole building with it. Shaking the chamber until all was covered in a thick layer of pulverized stone turned dust. A cloud of shattered debris shrouded their vision. Alex could hear groaning at the center of the crater where Tykr had stood, staring face to face with Tyr Faeron as he rubbed his bottom uncomfortably after so awkward a landing. “My ass...” He groaned.
Tykr lay below him, possibly dead, serving as a cushion for Tyr's fall. But his breathing continued after a stitching grunt in his unconsciousness to indicate he was still among the living. At least for now.
“Tyr...” The man with the blades sighed, sounding disappointed at the entry of... His commander? Alex had no idea what the dynamic between Tyr and the blackguard truly was, but it was worth noting that she was so shocked to see him alive that this question didn't stay in her mind for longer than a second. “As I said, I had it under control.”
“I'm sure you did, don't really care though.” Tyr replied, ignoring all of the others for the moment, only addressing the man who'd been the source of Tykr's ire. Tykr. Tyr. Huh... “I was supposed to land in the courtyard but my course was a little off, it's really windy up there. Why are you killing this one anyways? He's not on the list.”
“He beat a servant.” 'Blades' growled. “For not putting enough butter on his toast, leaving her bedridden for two days before firing her for laxity of duty. She was deported because of it, along with her family. After over 15 years of faithful service, mind you.” The man raised a finger, two literal clones of one another, only slightly different enough to identify one from the other.
“Mmm...” Tyr grunted, nodding in contemplation of this before turning and physically tearing three fingers from the man's hand. Ripping them off freely and without hesitation, he had always been chaotic, but this... “I'd say that doesn't deserve death, but make sure that his ex-employee is given five percent of his net wealth to set an example. Fuck it, give it all to her, I don't give a shit.”
“Understood, brother,” Blades replied, “We did, however, kill his wife... She, well...” He inclined his head to indicate one of the many corpses nailed to the wall. “She had a penchant for the young. Watching things, that is, a vile beast of a woman. Her death was slow, as the plan indicated.”
Tyr had a sour look on his face, nodding curtly to indicate his understanding of the implications. He could feel the man below him had no stain such as that on his soul. Nobody was innocent, but he'd always seen those little cracks in character and doubted the older man had any inkling as to the nature of his married partner. Good riddance to her.
“Are they all dead?” Tyr asked.
“Most.” Blades shrugged. “Some ran, don't feel like chasing them, no point. Little things, all of the big ones are dead save two. Wilhelm and Kael.”
“And Leda?”
“Alive and well as Hannah requested.”
Hannah meaning Alex, it was confusing but Tyr was thankful that not all of them were like that. Some were brand new, born from him like clones – others had come from different places. And alongside those of them that had, Tyr's closest confidants had meant something to them. Old memories of consciousnesses 'reincarnated' on this world through his mind splitting, made into literal clones of him, only possessive of their own consciousness. As said, some came from other places and had lived their own lives, and therefore knew most, if not all, of Tyr's comrades, and had a hard time adjusting to different names, and... Stuff... Too confusing to bother with, getting so many copies of himself was a blessing he didn't need to look in the mouth. There was that old want of wishing he could be many places at once, and now, functionally, he could – and he had.
“Good.” Tyr didn't much care about Wilhelm in particular and would likely free him, everything they had seen, so had he. Not quite gestalt in consciousness, but damn close to an independent hive intelligence.
Felt, touched, tasted, it rushed into him all at once after one single night of sleep. Now and as before they were connected, and it wasn't wholly pleasant. Amistad had betrayed him, 'killing' one of the shards, but the way they'd done it was shit and lazy, so the others had brought him back. He stood there with them now, just masked. Resurrection magic, even the real thing, always had a price and the cost of that one had been steep. They all shared the component of Tyr's spira that kept them rooted to their bodies, in soul, always the cost though.
Steep for him, in particular, that being 'Tyr Huron' – no more singing for that one any time soon.
To elaborate on this condition, each and every one of them had unique abilities that Tyr did not. And they organized themselves in service to him, at least for the time being. It was an arrangement that wouldn't last forever, but they were more than willing to cooperate for now, whatever they actually were.
“Can anyone explain to me what the fuck is going on!?” Alex exclaimed, arms wide and voice echoing through the butcher's shop of a chamber. All of the mages who had remained except for Tykr were gone, allowed to flee and leaving them well enough alone. If one Tyr Faeron was terrifying enough, how about a dozen? Whether they were as strong as the one born here on Hjemland was irrelevant. “How are you alive!?”
“Can't die, my guy,” Tyr shrugged. He knew she'd be angry, as would the others, but there'd be time for that eventually. He was 'living his best life' now, and that didn't leave much inside of him to beg her forgiveness. After the bonds on his mind had begun to snap, old things left there by his father to contain him, he found that he was more of a bastard than he'd expected. Fully cognizant of just how selfish and willful he was on the inside. By any other reckoning, he just didn't care anymore. He cared about her, surely, loved her even – but it was not that wholesome kind of partnership one might expect from honest emotion. Not yet, he still had to work on that. “Thought that was obvious.”
He was, however, sorry that she'd been hurt by his supposed death. But at the same time, he was excited by the fact that she'd mourned so readily – validated by the fact she'd wept in some way. Because he was a snake, and he hated it, but Tyr had thrown aside his deprecation a long time ago, he did not need this weakness.
It was bound to confuse anyone, but he wouldn't beg for her understanding either. No, that might be right but the rest of it wasn't. Tyr had been given a gift, or perhaps a curse, unburdened of the weights dulling at his feelings. He'd always been cold, never very emotional unless it was anger, always thinking it was his upbringing – or that other people were simply hysterical.
But that was not the case, he had been burdened by arcane chains to subdue him long ago and was beginning to rip them off. More with each passing day coming loose, the things on him that were designed to slow his ascension and ground his person. He was glad they had existed, if they had not, he would have known true death much earlier in his life, it was not some evil thing, but a benefit, a loving father protecting his baby boy, even. Perhaps.
Still difficult to tell what he was feeling, but everything regarding all of them was easily likened to the obsessive. He'd seen them, and he'd latched onto that and wanted to squeeze them until they popped. Not literally, but the urge to nest was strong in that moment. He understood why. Perhaps there had been a time even he did not remember, after his multiple pseudo awakenings, where his emotions had run out of control and amok.
Through his sacrifice and transformation as a child... In a way he'd grown much stronger than the laws on this planet had allowed for. Breaking a threshold like nobody else had in untold ages, and Jartor had likely done his best to make it right. An effort to fix him, give him time to grow into his vessel.
To make sure the eyes did not turn in this direction. It wasn't purely abusive, his memories had been removed to make him different, and it had. But now Tyr was free and his heart burned like the core of a sun over every little thing. That color was back, but this time it wasn't just a thread of it, the whole world was lit in shades he'd never thought possible, every glimpse of it filling him with wonder.
“Huron,” Tyr said before she could retort, and the largest of all the masked figures grunted dully. His eyes visible through the mask were glassy, apparent that he'd become infirm in the mind through his passage back to life. But his strength and responsiveness was there. That's all Tyr needed. “Actually, all of you can remove your masks, those present can bear witness, they should know, so let's get it over with.”
There in that chamber, the group found themselves staring at no less than twelve vaguely unique approximations of Tyr, standing in a ring all around them.