Never Die Twice

A wise person once said that 'routine, in an intelligent man, is a sign of ambition.'

If so, Walter Tye was the most ambitious undead in the world. Unless disturbed or overseeing a crossroads deal like tonight, the necromancer followed a tight schedule.

He opened his magic item shop one hour before sunrise, although he mostly handled his suppliers before welcoming customers at dawn. Morning was the busiest part of the day since adventurers purchased supplies then to tackle the dungeon in the afternoon. Pressure remained strong until roughly two in the afternoon, after which customers became so scarce that it allowed Tye to focus on more unique tasks, such as assisting the blacksmith’s guild to create magical weapons, providing apothecary services to his community, or simply searching for hard to find material.

Since he didn’t need to eat mortal food nor drink, Tye always lied about eating only once in the evening, due to his busy workday; since he had carefully developed a reputation as a workaholic, nobody suspected the truth. He closed the shop at nightfall, then often went to the tavern to play Board &Conquest; more to fuel his gaming addiction than anything else.

When most people went to sleep, the necromancer returned home to work in his secret laboratory after touring the dungeon and overseeing Hagen’s progress with the excavation. He would emerge from his lair at dawn, to repeat the cycle.

Walter Tye was a mask that the necromancer had cultivated for two years, like a wallflower. He was part of the scenery. Nobody paid attention to him, for as far as anybody was concerned, he had always been there.

Leaving him free to spread his roots deep underground…

As he walked through the busy streets of Lyonesse in the afternoon, between the fortifications and the temple district, Tye politely nodded at citizens whom he recognized, a basket full of remedies in hands.

“If you go out at night on the last day of the month, the Ankou will come to take your soul.”

Tye briefly paused, glancing at a trio of children playing dice in a street corner. “That’s stupid,” one of the children said.

“It’s true!” protested a brown-haired kid whom Tye recognized as Emile, the eldest son of the leader of the craftsmen’s guild. “First you will hear a wail, then the sound of a coach approaching. That’s the Ankou’s coach, where he carries the dead of the year to Helheim. If you evade it for the night, you will live for another year, no matter what; but if he catches you, you die by the next morning, and your whole family too!”

“That makes no sense,” the girl laughed. “Mom said you only go to Helheim if you don’t worship any god and die without fighting!”

“Well, your mum doesn’t know anything. If the Ankou gets you, you always go to Helheim.”

Even if Tye hadn’t hunted for sacrifices in Lyonesse itself for a year, and had only fed on troublemakers no one missed back then, the rumors had survived. It had made moving around the countryside harder, as adventurers often sought the ‘death coach’ to kill its rider. Thankfully, if the kids were of any indication, most would remain misinformed.

Sending people to that dreary, gloomy Helheim was the last thing on Tye’s mind.

At the thought, his eyes wandered to the gigantic, distant trunk of the world tree Yggdrasil in the horizon, rising from the ground and reaching up all the way to the skies. The source of all life, and of the System that governed the Nine Worlds.

According to most scholars, the realm of Midgard was flat, a vast continent of land surrounded by waters and the primeval serpent which gave the realm its name. But Midgard was but one world among many, connected by the cosmic tree.

Its roots touched three worlds: the ever-burning Muspelheim, ruled by the Fire King Surtr, the enemy of the world; Niflheim, a cold hell inhabited by fiends; and the dark Helheim, the land of the ‘worthless dead.’

The branches, meanwhile, touched five other worlds. Svartalfheim, kingdom of the dwarves and the dark elves, always at war; Jotunheim, the land of the giants; Alfheim, a world of fairies and elves of light; Vanaheim, home of the Vanir gods, chaotic and wild; and finally Asgard, the supreme world of the civilized Aesir deities.

Only recently had a tenth world been found, one untouched by Yggdrasil: the mysterious Earth, from which the gods summoned ‘heroes’. The process mystified necromancers like Tye, who sought to master the cycle of souls.

Well, he had all the time in the world; or at least until its fated end.

After a short walk, the necromancer reached the temple district. The lion’s share went to Odin’s cathedral, more fortress than a church, but every god had their own seat of worship, separated by canals; even Hel, the dreaded goddess of the underworld, held a patch of land where people buried the criminals, the oathbreakers, and the exiled. Respectable citizens had their corpses cremated.

The church of Balder, the god of beauty, art, and light, was not as impressive as the All-Father’s cathedral, but it certainly stood out for its beautiful architecture, a prism-like, small pyramid seemingly made of crystal with doors of silver. In truth, as the patron god of the city, his church dominated Lyonesse’s politics; and his priests were smart enough not to advertise it. Soft power at its finest.

Tye entered, finding himself walking through exposition rooms showcasing vivid paintings of ancient battles, marble statues of heroes, and other wonders created by the Avalon Kingdom’s greatest artists.

He found the curator and high priestess of Balder, Yseult Whitehand, painting in one of the rooms. Often said to be the most beautiful woman in Lyonesse, she had once been a vision of divinity, a fair maiden seemingly sculpted from silver, with platinum hair and sapphires for eyes. Her modest white silk dress only showcased the perfection of her features, of the face that made men kill one another for.

But even with his treatment, her illness had left marks. She had started to lose hair, revealing the emaciated skull underneath; while she hid it well through careful dressing, she had lost weight. Still, even diminished, an angel was an angel.

“Welcome, my friend,” she told him with a kind smile. “You are late. I was starting to wonder if you had met trouble on your way here.”

“I’m sorry, I was too busy dismembering a chicken for the evening,” Tye said.

“He didn’t run fast enough?” she giggled.

“No, he didn’t,” Tye said with a knowing, cruel smile. “How are you feeling, Milady?”

“Better than yesterday,” Yseult replied. “I no longer lose hair.”

“Good. That means your body is getting used to the treatment.” The earthlanders called her illness ‘cancer,’ and from what Tye had gathered, they hadn’t managed to cure it either. Most [Cure Disease] or [Purge] spells removed foreign bodies, like viruses or bacterias who had yet to develop resistance to magic; but when illness came from the body’s lifeforce itself, they had little effect.

Tye himself would have permanently cured that woman of everything with [Blood Magic] long ago, if the kingdom didn’t outlaw this school of magic. Since other spellcasters could identify traces of his spells, the necromancer instead started working on an alchemical remedy. He knew of an alchemical beverage called [Panacea], which could cure every illness, but he needed ingredients he couldn’t access yet. So he had to settle with delivering his patient less effective elixirs.

The necromancer treated that woman partly out of gratitude for helping him settle in Lyonesse when he first arrived, and mostly for the sake of his research. In his drive to find the ultimate cure for death, Tye had to understand life. If he could cure an illness born of life’s own unchecked growth… these results could help him with a breakthrough.

Tye glanced at the painting, the portrait of a handsome, youthful knight with chestnut hair and noble eyes. His armor seemed woven with flowers, and he carried a harp alongside his sword. “This is the famous Tristan?”

“He will visit me this summer,” the maiden beamed with happiness. “After his introduction ceremony to the Royal Knights.”

The most powerful, highest-leveled champions of the realm; although not all of them were knights, nor even knightly. Tye wondered where that one ranked on the scale. “I am almost finished with your landscape painting,” Yseult told him. “I will have it delivered to your house by the turn of the moon.”

“Take your time,” Tye said before his sharp hearing picked up the sound of two newcomers entering the temple. “Your paintings are lovely, Milady, but I do not help you against payment.”

“I know, but I wish to express my gratitude somehow.”

The steps grew closer, Tye turning around as Yseult did. A strong, powerfully built old man with a grey beard and piercing eyes walked into sight, backed by a freckled, redheaded boy in his teenage years. While the warrior wore thick armor and top-notch equipment, the younger boy, probably the squire wore leather armor too big for him and a bow.

“Ser Sigurd,” Yseult recognized the bigger man, although Tye couldn’t remember that man's name for the unlife of him. “What a joy to see you again, dear knight.”

“You have grown ravishing, milady,” the man said while politely neglecting to mention her illness, before frowning at the sight of Tye.

“Greetings,” the squire shyly bowed to Tye and Yseult. The necromancer couldn’t recognize his accent; probably an earthlander. The older warrior kept his eyes firmly on the alchemist as if struggling to remember him.

“Why the gaze?” Tye asked. “Have we met?”

“No, it can’t be,” the man shook his head. “Can’t be you, unless you haven't aged in thirty years.”

While Tye kept a blank, pallid face, his mind froze. He furiously tried to remember if this man could have crossed his path. Where, when?

“I see that you have taken an apprentice,” Lady Yseult smiled at the man’s squire. “What is your name?”

“P-Percy,” the boy said sheepishly. “Percy Greenfield.”

“The princess Gwenhyfar and the latest promotion of the Royal Academy will soon arrive in your fair city,” Sigurd spoke, all business. “She will visit the temples and the highest institutions, bless everyone… the usual.”

Since the increasing rate of Convergences and the arrival of earthlanders to fight them, the kingdom of Avalon had the brilliant idea to create an institution to manage both. A school which would train the heroes of tomorrow, teaching them magic, combat, leadership, and how to fit into the ruling structure. An organization which only allowed the best of the best, or earthlanders, into its walls, and prepare them to defeat the Five Calamities.

“I will gladly show Her Highness the wonders of Lyonesse,” replied the priestess of Balder, before turning to Tye. “My friend Tye here is a genius [Alchemist]. I am certain the new hopes of our nation will enjoy discussing with him.”

“Oh, you’re an [Alchemist]?” Percy asked him, curious.

“I’m just a shopkeeper,” Tye replied, more bothered by the older warrior than his squire. “I don’t feel well in the spotlight.”

“I see,” the older knight said, his voice betraying no emotion. “Maybe I will buy supplies at your place.”

“You said you were a knight?” Tye fished for information. “A Royal Knight?”

“For thirty years,” the squire boasted for his master, while Sigurd kept a stoic face.

“I retired,” the man said, “Now I’m just an adventurer on a job.”

Royal Knights, thirty years…

Ah yes, the Purge of the Pale Serpents. How could Tye forget that mess? The necromancer must have sighted this Sigurd among the kingdom’s soldiers, as they stormed his order’s Citadel, killed his lich master, and forced him to run for his life. That went so far back, he still needed to breathe back then.

While Sigurd seemingly dropped the matter, Tye wasn’t stupid enough to believe him. Even if the knight truly shrugged him off, a mere word to his fellow Knights could bring heroes to the necromancer’s door.

Should he skip town? No. That would certainly bring suspicion upon him, Hagen hadn’t unearthed enough material yet, and he had grown too fond of Lyonesse to leave. Yseult would probably die without his treatment, and while he could always raise her as an undead, he wouldn’t deprive her of the life she seemed to cherish so much.

He would simply stage an accident. Mercenaries lived short, brutal lives after all. For now, Tye decided to send minions to keep an eye on the former knight until the right opportunity presented itself.

He had more pressing business for tonight.

Driving his black coach, pulled by skeletal horses and guided by a flock of fearsome crows, Tye stopped at the appointed crossroads. His ‘secret suppliers’ awaited him among the trees. The new moon was high in the skies, covering the Forest of Brocéliande in shadows.

For this kind of meeting, Tye had switched clothes for something more impressive to mortals: a crimson cowled cloak, velvet gloves, boots, and most importantly, a silver mask covering his whole face except for his crimson eyes. Demonic runes inscribed on its surface shone with a fiery light, giving the necromancer a fearsome aura.

A mere stage trick, but one he had found useful for business.

Tye glanced at the four men waiting for him, recognizing his usual supplier, the balding, overweight merchant Patrick, and three new crooks with swords. One of them, a snake-eyed swordsman, appraised Tye with a calculating look.

“You’re the client?” he asked, as Tye climbed down his vehicle. Patrick confirmed with a nod. “Who’s inside the coach?”

“You do not want to meet my passengers,” the necromancer replied, his [Mask of the Forsaken] changing his voice into the echo of a legion. “You have the merchandise?”

The man presented him with the prize. A grimoire was as large as a recipe book, with a screaming, grinning face for cover. Together, the teeth had arranged to spell the title: “Mimir’s Testament.”

Its cover seemed made of human skin.

Because the whole book was.

“Can you imagine how many corpses it took to fashion this book?” Tye asked, instantly recognizing the book as the original. “The miles of human skin? The sheer impracticality of the craftsmanship?”

“The money first,” the leader said. Unlike Patrick, who had arranged the meeting and done business with Tye for years, this one didn’t know him enough to trust yet.

Tye grabbed a purse attached to his belt and tossed it to Patrick. The merchant nodded and then opened it, his fellows greedily glancing at the alchemically-created rubies inside. “They are worth eighty thousand gold coins,” the necromancer said. “Twenty thousand each.”

Patrick counted the payment, before nodding at his colleagues. “Good,” the trio’s leader said, but didn’t hand Tye the book. “Now, we can discuss the finder’s fee.”

“The finder’s fee?” the necromancer repeated, frowning behind his mask.

“We suffered significant expenses in obtaining this book. Avoiding knights isn’t cheap.”

“I paid the price Patrick asked for.”

“We didn’t agree to this, Narbon,” said the merchant, apparently as surprised as Tye himself.

“Because you don’t know how business works,” the man replied, before giving the necromancer a crooked smile. “Since this is our first deal, I will give you a discount.”

“And if I refuse?” the necromancer asked.

The man put a hand on his swords, as did the two others. “Then no book.”

“[Spellsight],” Tye whispered in response, seeing the three men appear with colored auras. They had cast protective spells on themselves before the meeting, conveniently keeping Patrick in the dark. They also wielded impressive equipment, such as a [Mystical Sword of Demonslaying].

If they had confronted the average dark wizard, they might have seemed intimidating.

But at level fifty-three with elite classes, the necromancer was in another league entirely. “Does he speak for all of you?” Tye asked. “If you don’t agree with him and rather do a fair deal, please take a step backward in protestation.”

Only Patrick did so, Narbon’s smile turning colder. “No cut for you then,” he said.

“Indeed,” Tye replied. “[Death X].”

The three men dropped dead without a sound. Patrick alone survived and recoiled in horror as the corpses suddenly hit the ground.

Much to Tye’s frustration, he didn’t even get a new level out of it.

“Patrick, I believe in keeping one’s word,” the necromancer said. “Or else, how can we make plans for the future? Existence should be ordered, like undeath. A state without the messy unpredictability of life, nor the sudden interruption of this temporary inconvenience we call death. And I swear it when my work will be finished, death won’t even be that anymore.”

He knew he was rambling and that the merchant was too terrified to truly listen, but Tye liked the sound of his own voice.

“All of this to say, you should select your associates better next time,” the necromancer said, before looting his book from the dead’s hands. “When you meet someone with a coach pulled by dead horses to overcharge him a book made from human skin, it’s not business. It’s natural selection.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Patrick said.

“You can keep the change,” Tye said, letting the merchant flee with his rubies.