So much to do and so little time. After ensuring that Madam Ortan would be cared for by her people, Tyron was able to turn his attention to more important matters. Corpses lay everywhere outside the manor, which simply wouldn’t do. The majority of his skeletons continued to scout the area for any officers who might still be lurking nearby, which meant he was a touch shorthanded. Nevertheless, his minions were committed to the work.

The dead needed to be stripped and the bodies safely stowed within the Ossuary, which meant he needed to summon the doorway once more. To show his respect to the owners of the land, and to avoid a possible confrontation with the survivors, he decided not to take the bodies of the fallen workers. Instead, he commanded a small group of undead to dig a grave for them.

As tempting as it was to take the armour the soldiers had been wearing, he decided against it, and the same went for the priests' staves and robes. Perhaps there were useful and powerful enchantments there which he could study, but such things were also eminently possible to trace. A risk he wasn’t willing to take. Even if the chances they could be found within the Ossuary were infinitesimal, he still didn’t want to assume that chance.

When word of the massacre got out, things would get extremely tense. The church would undoubtedly assume that old god worshipping heretics were responsible and step up their crackdown. That was fine with him. But if they were to determine a Necromancer was responsible, things would become much more difficult for him.

Despite all the precautions he’d taken, the main reason he hadn’t been discovered was because nobody was actively looking for Death Magick. The moment a Necromancer was even suspected, that went out the window. Kenmor would be scoured, the surrounding lands soon after, and any whiff of his spells would be found. For that reason, he spent the next hour attempting to collect every shard of bone from his fallen skeletons and scrub every trace of his magick from the manor and surrounding grounds.

It wasn’t possible to fully do so, of course. Every skeleton left a trace remnant just by walking through an area, which should dissipate naturally over a few days. The cauldrons, and the spells he had cast, left a much more dense residue which needed to be removed.

The job was far from done to his satisfaction, but he couldn’t afford to take any more time. He recalled his minions, then changed his mind and directed them straight into the forest. It was past time to be moving.

“Time to go. If you haven’t packed it, then it isn’t coming,” he announced, striding into the dining room.

The mistress of the house was certainly better than she’d been the last time he’d seen her, with thick bandaging around her middle to hold everything in place, but she was clearly still in great pain.

“Madam Ortan is not in condition to travel,” one of the maids protested softly, unwilling to look at him.

“Then she stays behind and gets killed by the next group of officers,” he stated flatly, “or worse, they can finish what they started. If anyone here doesn’t feel like having their skin peeled off, screaming and crying, condemning your friends and family to end the pain, then get moving.”

Madam Ortan glared at him, but didn’t disagree with anything he said. Instead, she started to rise from her seat, teeth set against the undoubted agony she was suffering.

“There is no choice. We move or we die, and I would much rather all of you live,” she said. “Gather your things quickly, we are leaving.”

Tyron was already striding from the room. He couldn’t afford to waste too much time and energy on these people. He had other priorities, and his own safety to think about. He had extended a way out, they would grasp it, or they would not.

Exiting the manor, he took stock. The cellar had been emptied of everything he had ever touched, most of it stored within the Ossuary. He considered once again if there was anything he needed to collect, then almost cursed himself.

As the surviving staff and residents of the manor rushed to collect whatever they could carry for the hard journey ahead, Tyron similarly rushed to collect valuables: souls.

Although he had secured all the raw materials, the spirits were an equally important ingredient. Considering where he was going, the more spirits he could secure, the better.

However, there was something he found disturbing. The souls of the priests were not to be found. All of the marshals were accounted for, along with the soldiers, but the priests? No matter what he did, he couldn’t conjure forth the ghost of a single one.

Perhaps it was true and they really did ascend into heaven, to live alongside their god for all time? At the very least, they were no longer here, bound to this realm. If they had gone to be with their gods, hopefully they weren’t capable of revealing how they had died. The last thing he needed was dead priests conveying his existence to the Five.

Task done, he called out, once, to those inside the manor, and then began to walk. They spilled out of the doors behind him, still stuffing packs with clothes and supplies, rushing to catch up. Madam Ortan came along behind, three of her staff helping to support the woman by her sides. Already the bandage had begun to be stained with red, but without any healing miracles or spells, there was nothing that could be done. It would be a long journey to Cragwhistle, but for some reason, Tyron believed that she would make it. There was steel in her, and fire burning in her gaze, a heat that he himself was all too familiar with.

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Hate, and an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

Those feelings stirred within him now, as he strode away from the house and into the surrounding grounds. Over the fields and into the woods that pressed up against the border to the central province he walked, the raw, naked fury growing brighter and brighter with every step.

When they drew close, he turned to those following him.

“Wait here. Do not follow me.”

“How long will you be gone?” one dared to ask.

“Not long. You should go back and help the others catch up, but someone needs to remain here, as this is where I’ll return.”

With no more to say, he turned back and continued to stride forward. Five minutes later, he stood before them.

The anger flared within him again, growing so bright and hot it threatened to burn everything else away, but his grief rose alongside it. Despite the years that had passed, the things he had done and the suffering he had endured, his grief remained undiminished.

Tears burned in his eyes as a vice closed around his throat, forcing him to choke. With a monumental effort of will, he mastered himself. There wasn’t time.

Within the clear, crystal-like material, Magnin and Beory lay, perfectly preserved, as they had intended.

His father had advised him to make use of their remains, to create powerful undead from them, but he hadn’t. With his current abilities, there was no way he could make proper use of these two, and he wasn’t sure if he could ever bring himself to.

“Mother, Father. I’m sorry about this, but I’m going to have to disturb your rest.”

When it was done, he returned back to find the others had gathered. Even Madam Ortan had made it, sweat dripping from her forehead as she shuddered and stifled her groans.

“We are nearly there,” he told them. “Let’s get going.”

The shack was exactly as he had left it, the ritual circle preserved perfectly within. Sealed by the alchemical mixture, it wouldn’t be easy to destroy, so he decided not to. If it was found, any mage who studied it would be able to determine its function, to connect to the Abyss, and it would be attributed to the ‘heretics’ who lived here.

However, using it in the future would be out of the question. Once discovered, they would surely trap it, or monitor it in some fashion. This would be the last time he was able to utilise it.

A shame, given how much he had invested in creating it.

“Remain outside,” he told the others, “I will go inside and cast a ritual. This will open a portal to the Abyss, which we will need to travel through to reach our destination.”

To say they weren’t happy to hear this was an understatement, but none protested. Perhaps the presence of several hundred undead was weighing on their minds.

“This is the only way,” he told them. “If you try to travel overland, you will be caught before the sun goes down. Using this method, you will vanish, no trace left behind. After moving through the Abyss, we will pass into a rift-realm. It will be dangerous, but I will keep you safe. From there, we will find the rift that connects to our own realm, pass through, and be at Cragwhistle in less than a day.”

He looked at each of them.

“Whatever warm clothing you have, put it on now. Temperature is… not really a thing in the Abyss, but beyond the rift, we will be in a frozen wasteland. And Cragwhistle isn’t that much warmer.”

Despite their reluctance, and obvious fear, no one disagreed or protested. Perhaps the grim determination showed by Madam Ortan was the deciding factor, and the others simply followed her lead.

Soon, the entrance to the Abyss yawned open within the shack, and Tyron stepped through first.

Within, he found the nothingness-between was the same as it ever was. Hidden voices whispered, tempted, clawed at the edges of his mind, but he warded them off. He wasn’t here for these weak ones, the pilot fish who had attached themselves to the great shark.

With nothing by which to see, moving through the Abyss was an exercise in faith. He almost didn't notice the great creature until it shifted before him, letting itself be known.

It was as if the world itself had moved. An entity so vast, his mind couldn’t fully grasp it, turned its attention to him.

It spoke to him.

The barest brush of its great mind, the faintest whisper of its voice, was almost enough to shatter his sanity on the spot, but Tyron endured. This was a creature of fathomless power within this empty place, and his only way to secure safe passage.

It didn’t have a name, not as a normal person understood them. When referring to itself, Tyron was granted an impression of mind-numbing age, and an endless need to consume.

So he named it Void.

Void spoke to him with a hundred voices, each whispering a different thing. A welcome. A threat. An offer. A secret. A blessing. A curse.

Tyron responded as best he could, accepting the welcome, declining the offers, ignoring the threats, blocking out the secrets.

Void regarded him silently.

Tyron steeled his nerves, and spoke. He told of others needing safe passage through the Abyss.

Void seethed. There was a price.

Tyron rejected it. He could not pay.

A counter offer.

Tyron reluctantly accepted.

Then he reached within his armour and withdrew several stones, each glowing with dense, ethereal light.

He reminded Void of their previous arrangement, and asked if the payment was sufficient.

Void leaned forward eagerly, and in a blink, the souls were gone, drawn from the stone, the echoes of their screams haunting the nothingness around them.

It would do.

Tyron bowed low, though the creature cared not for such gestures. With his mind on the verge of dissolving, he withdrew, gasping, blood dripping from his ears and eyes. After he gathered himself, he brought his minions through, and the survivors, who entered shivering and full of trepidation.

“Do not listen to the voices, if you want to live,” he warned them, then turned to lead the way.

It would be a difficult journey, and not all would make it, but soon they would be free, able to make a new life among others who shared their faith openly.

But for Tyron, the war would continue. He had to grow stronger, he had to learn more, and faster. With the purge in full swing, discontent among the slayers would only grow. With enough pushes, enough words in the right place at the right time, a spark could grow to a blazing inferno, one he would use to burn Kenmor to the ground.