It wasn’t too difficult for Tyron to extricate himself. Although, technically speaking, he didn’t. His closest minions weren’t far away and were more than capable of severing the rope for him. Perhaps that did count as doing it himself… a consideration for another time.

Experiencing a vision from the Unseen was not the same thing as resting, so Tyron remained utterly exhausted. Once he was free, he decided to wash himself, drink water and eat before he retired for an extended nap. For security, he pulled the majority of his minions closer to the cave, ensuring his revenants were on the frontlines to hold off the worst of the kin while he slept.

There was still so much that remained for him to do. He wanted to see Dove’s status sheet, he wanted to perform the ritual himself and see what he’d gained, but for now, he allowed himself to put it all from his mind, and rest.

Well, he used a spell to force it from his mind so he could rest.

Tyron awoke feeling sore and as dry as a bone. A week of effort and deprivation wouldn’t be so easy to overcome, even for him. Thankfully, his head felt clearer. After splashing his face with icy water and tending to his hunger, he felt… somewhat better. By the end of the day, he’d be back to normal, but for now, he was able to function just fine.

With a sigh, Tyron released the iron grip he’d placed on his curiosity and raced back to the cave where he snatched up the sheet of paper on the table, still smeared in his dried blood.

Dahved Levan. Through death, you have returned to continue the struggle. Duty is the chain that binds you, anger is the fuel that drives you. Power over the Arcane has always been your goal, and through it, you will exert your will once more.

You have gained the Class: Spectral Summoner.

Conjure forth others to fight on your behalf. The creatures of the Astral Sea will reject a being such as yourself, but those who dwell in the Realm of the Dead will answer your call. To increase your proficiency, contract with the denizens of that dread place and summon them to battle on your behalf.

Class Attributes per level:

Intelligence +1;

Wisdom +1;

Manipulation +3

Skills granted level 1:

Dead Sight

Spells granted level 1:

Spirit Contract

Appeal to the Dead

“I knew Dove wasn’t his real name, the prick,” Tyron muttered.

It appeared Dove had been reset to Level 1 with his rather dramatic change in lifestyle. His general Skills still applied, and they were quite varied, as well as being well-trained. It seemed the former Summoner had expended some Feats to raise the cap on some of his general Skills, though there were some questionable choices.

Although those remained, nothing else did. All the stats he would have gained from his Summoner and sub-class levels were gone. Even his race levels as a human were gone, as his species had changed to Spirit Construct.

Goodness knows what the advantages of that were. Hopefully, Dove would figure it out before long.

He was still in a weakened position, stripped of almost all of his power, but at least now he could do something about it. It was unfortunate, but none of the kin he’d managed to defeat had counted as experience, since he hadn’t possessed a Class at the time. At least from this point forward, he could progress. Although… he’d need to find another source of blood….

That wasn’t Tyron’s problem. Dove had struck out on his own and frankly, it was a load off his mind. Now he had more time and attention to spend on the things he needed to focus on. Namely, getting more powerful.

The past week of distraction hadn’t been kind to Tyron’s minions. He burned Dove’s status sheet and brushed the blanket protecting the entrance to the cave aside as he went to assess the damage. With his focus elsewhere, he hadn’t paid as much attention to the rift-kin assaults, which meant his skeletons had been more or less left to fend for themselves. This was, obviously, sub-optimal. He’d lost two dozen minions, and many others were heavily damaged.

As he ordered his skeletons and tsked over the losses, inspecting each squad in turn, he realised it would be necessary to conduct rather extensive repairs on at least fifty skeletons before they could leave. If he took such weakened minions into the rift on the journey back to Kenmor, the risk they wouldn’t survive the journey would rise precipitously. Tyron wasn’t so enamoured with the process of creating undead he would risk fifty minions. If he worked without pause, it would take him ten hours of gruelling work to repair all the damage.

With a growl, he set his revenants, who had thankfully been protected by their now-battered armour, and his healthiest squads to guard the mountain trail while he set up a work area and set to his task.

~~~

Trennan was not having a good day. Slayers were not the most disciplined of people when they weren’t in the field. He knew that. Everyone knew that.

But it turns out that when they weren’t able to massacre rift-kin to blow off steam, they became positively unruly.

“Arthur, Chol,” he said, infinite weariness audible in his voice. “I’m sorry you got bored of fucking. For the love of the divines, I don’t know why you told me this information, and I do not want to know. I’m having a hard enough time stopping Brigette from chopping down someone in the street, if I have to worry about you two as well, I might just lose my fucking mind.”

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

“We are bored,” Chol said, her arms folded across her chest. “There is nothing to do, and I am even starting to grow tired of my precious Arthur’s company. I never thought I would say that.”

“That’s hurtful, but accurate,” Arthur concurred. The man had a slightly glazed expression, as if he were staring into the world he would rather inhabit. “We’re crammed into these barracks and people are getting fractious. The Weavers are so pissy they’ll screech at you if you drop a pin.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Trenan growled. “You think you’ve got it rough? Imagine being one of the people responsible for keeping this ship afloat. Rent hotel rooms on the opposite side of town and take up a hobby. Knit or something, I don’t fucking care.”

He stood, looming over the two mages.

“The Necromancer should be leaving soon, and then we can get back to doing what we do best: killing kin. Until then, the only thing I ask is that you stay out of fucking trouble. It’s not that hard.”

“We’ve been good,” Arthur snapped. “It’s been a month, Trennan. A month.”

As much as it annoyed him, Arthur made a point. He and Chol had, much as they’d said, spent most of their time shacked up drinking and shagging. Pretty much all the slayers had, but even that wasn’t able to hold their interest indefinitely. Slayers were people who literally grew stronger from killing monsters. If they weren’t progressing toward their next milestone, or grinding their Skills and Abilities, then they tended to get antsy.

Especially low-ranked slayers like the ones on this mountain. The whole barracks was a powder keg on the verge of exploding. He only hoped nobody did anything stupid and got all of them killed.

“Sorry,” he said to Arthur, “I just don’t have a lot of patience right now. Samantha and I have been taking turns keeping watch over the gate at night to make sure nobody tries to attack the Necromancer again. I’m a little sleep deprived.”

The two mages appeared surprised to learn this.

“Has anyone… had a go?” Chol asked.

“Not since Gramble, thank fuck.”

It was only a matter of time, though. Just as he was contemplating how much he hated his life right now, he felt a tap at his shoulder. Shoving his irritation down, Trennan turned and saw a nervous-looking townsman, a regular who served on the wall.

“Phillip, what can I do for you?” he said, somewhat politely.

“Uh, someone is at the gate, to see you.”

Trennan immediately focused.

“When you say 'someone'…?” he trailed off.

The clearly frightened man managed a shaky nod. That was all he needed to hear. Trennan set off at a run and found Ortan already waiting for him. Extending a hand, he shook the man's hand briefly before the two of them stepped through the narrow opening in the gate.

On the other side, they found the Necromancer, accompanied by what appeared to be his entire cohort of skeletons. Lined up in neat ranks, they were like an army, each wielding their dread weapons of bone and headed by the terrifying revenants.

Covered in his dark robe and skeletal armour, the mage was an intimidating sight. He stepped forward, moving to the front of his undead, but not leaving their protective ring entirely.

“Trennan, Ortan, nice to see the two of you again.”

“Tyron,” Ortan said, which caused one of Trennan’s brows to twitch. “I’m going to assume you called us here for a reason?”

There was obvious fear in his tone, and it took a second for the slayer leader to realise why.

He thought the Necromancer was about to wipe out the town.

With a chill, Trennan realised he could do it… easily, if he wanted to. Against this many skeletons, not to mention the powerful mage who controlled them, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

As if sensing their fear, the man held up his hands, palm outwards.

“I come in peace,” he chided the large townsman. “Ortan, you really think I’m going to murder everyone at this point? Come on.”

“I was a little worried when I saw all the skeletons,” Ortan forced a chuckle.

“I figured if I came unprotected I’d likely be jumped by a dozen pissed off slayers,” the mage replied, casting a glance at Trennan, who shrugged.

“Tempers are getting short,” he stated.

“And fair enough too. I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving. I’ll be traversing the rift, which should put a damper on the number of kin leaking through for about half a day, but you’ll be back in business after that.”

“That’s… good news,” Trenna said, a little surprised. Deep down, he wasn’t sure if he’d really believed they would all get out of this alive.

“I’ll be back, of course,” the Necromancer grinned, immediately dampening his spirits again, “but you’ll have a couple of months to yourselves before I return.”

Well, that was something at least.

“If anyone advises you to set up a trap for me, maybe try and persuade them to abandon the idea,” the mage suggested. “Things worked out amicably this time, I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I’m not in control,” Trennan told him honestly. “I’m not able to prevent anything.”

“Well, give it a go. You should also think about the things I said. Carefully.”

“About rebellion, or about your origins?”

“The rebellion, mostly,” the Necromancer said. “It’s only going to grow over the next year, and you’ll be caught up in it by the time I get back. If you want some advice, start training up a few promising villagers; Ortan can recommend some people. They aren’t restricted by the brand, and so long as Poranus is in charge, you’ll be covered by false paperwork.”

Trennan felt distinctly uncomfortable.

“I don’t have any love for the magisters,” he said, which was true, “but I’m not sure if a rebellion is really a good idea.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think, it’s happening.”

“So you say.”

The man nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s true. You don’t really have much evidence other than my word for it. I can only tell you that is going to change, and soon. People are going to come, slayers, volunteers, that sort of thing. Cragwhistle is as far from the empire's control as it is possible to get, and it has a shiny new rift to train unbranded soldiers with. It won’t be long until you have to pick a side, Trennan, and I hope you pick correctly. It’d be a shame for you to die so young.”

With a wave, the mage turned to leave, but Trennan called out before he got far.

“Show me your status sheet,” he said. “Show me that, and I’ll believe you.”

The Necromancer turned back, a frown on his face. He appeared to consider for a time before he responded.

“Fine,” he said, “when I get back, I’ll show you.”

“Why not now?” Trennan challenged.

“Because I’ll have choices to consider, and I want to make sure I hit my next threshold before I conduct the ritual,” came the irritated reply.

That was fair. Nobody wanted others looking over their shoulder, or worse, potentially sabotaging the ritual and costing them precious Class selections.

“See you in a bit.”

The skeletons silently turned on their heels and began to march away, the mage in their midst. Soon, they were lost amongst the trees, no longer able to be seen.

Trennan and Ortan shared a glance before both released a long breath.

“I don’t really want to do this again,” Ortan groaned.

Trennan turned to head back to the barracks; he had good news to share.

“Doesn’t seem like we get a choice.”