Spellscribed: Ascension (25 page)

Endrance stepped over the skeleton proceeding down the passage onto the walkways. As he did, he tried to figure out how to better aim the coins. If they could stick to his palm they might actually be useful.

He remembered something that he had thought was fun as a kid, where jokingly his father had tried to show him how to balance a spoon on his nose. He failed several times before his father revealed the secret was to breathe on the inside of the spoon first, making it moist. Endrance sighed and looked down at one of the coins. Embarrassed despite the fact he was, for all intents and purposes, alone, Endrance put one to his lips and licked it before trying to stick the wet side to his palm. It stuck well enough and he was able to hold out his hand with the coin attached for a few seconds before it slipped off. It wasn’t very long, but it was long enough.

“I’m just glad Joven isn’t here to see me.” Endrance muttered. “He’d probably find it hilarious.”

Following the trail seemed simple, until he made it to the main walkway. There, a second skeleton was approaching his side passage. Using the trick he had figured out, he was able to aim the coin before firing and scored a direct hit on his first try. Even if it wasn’t destroyed, the skeleton was
knocked off the bridge and fell to shatter on the stone below. After that, he felt slightly less embarrassed.

The pattern of blood droplets stopped at the main bridge and Endrance looked about, worried that they had merely thrown her off the side. He looked down the bridge towards the king’s tomb and felt dread begin creeping up his spine again. The doors of Rothel’s tomb were open. He knew then there was only one place she could have been taken.

Endrance balked; he knew what lay within, and he would be incapable of handling anything that went on inside. He also knew he was not welcome in Rothel’s tomb anymore, for reasons that he was unable to fathom. The wizard took a steadying breath, squared his shoulders, and headed into the tomb. He didn’t have much choice; whoever it was had forced the issue.

Another wolfman leapt down the stone steps at Bridget. She ducked under it, shouldering its legs out from under it as she ascended. The wolfman landed in a tumble, immediately being set upon by two more barbarian warriors following closely behind the Draugnoa as she stormed up to the top of the outer walls of the city.

Clearing the landing, she swung her blade, cleaving through the next wolfman’s neck. She kicked the still twitching body over, pushing through the fatigue making her arm feel like lead. It had been the first battle she had been in since she had lost her arm, and she had been fighting for hours on the front line of several heated skirmishes. Even before her injury, she would have been exhausted.

Now, she worked twice as hard and still could not escape the fact she was not good enough. That fear gripped her, driving her to fight harder and harder. She had been clawed a few times, but the newly made armor protected her well and her companions had been able to bandage her up. She was starting to recognize she had been acting recklessly, but it was too close to the end of the fight to stop. Just a bit further, and the walls would be back under barbarian control in the first day.

It had better be soon, as the night was falling swiftly. Soon the suns would set, and they would lose much of their advantages. The dead wolfmen didn’t need to sleep, eat, or drink. They also seemed much better able to fight in darkness than an average barbarian.

She pressed forward, stepping under the next wolfman’s swipe and chopping into its knees. As it fell over she hopped past it, striking to disable and delay instead of killing. The men behind her rushed up and were glad to finish off every legless or torn open wolfman she left in her wake.

The wolfman had a grip on her one arm, and the other dug into the metal bands on her right side. His initial bite had only caught on the metal pauldron, but she was pinned.

Bridget struggled, but could not muster anywhere near enough strength to force it off of her. The wolfman released her shoulder armor from his jaws, saliva and clotted blood alike dripping from its mouth as it raised its head to aim its next bite. It lunged forward and Bridget threw her head to the side. Hot pain flashed across the left side of her face, but she heard a crunch as its muzzle cracked into the stone beneath her.

The wolfman’s head rose again, this time its jaw crooked and battered, but it was going to try again all the same. Bridget snarled back at it, knowing that it was the end-

An arrow appeared to suddenly sprout from the wolfman’s head, sidetracking its plans as one of Balator’s archers saved her. The wolfman crashed down on top of her, dead. Bridget sighed in relief as the dead thing went still. A few seconds later, she took a steadying breath as she tried to shift the wolfman off of her. Though she had fought through more hundred and fifty pound emaciated wolfmen than she was capable of counting, it felt many dozen times heavier than it should have.

She was able to finally wriggle free from the wolfman, rising to her feet as she took stock of the battle. The stairs and fifty feet of wall in either direction were being held by the team she had led up to the wall. They had lost a few more men, but they still had over three quarters of their force. Fortunately, the upper walls weren’t heavily occupied. Bridget looked around for a weapon of some sort, since hers had been lost. She yanked a short sword free from the scabbard of a fallen warrior and moved to the section of wall with the heaviest resistance.

Panting, she approached slowly, trying to steal a few seconds to recover. She had been fighting hard for a long time; no one would begrudge her falling back and letting fresh troops take the front line. Bridget refused to accept it, instead struggling ahead. She had been one of three Ergknoa to prove the strongest and most capable, and she had to prove that she was still that good, even lacking her arm. It was nagging at her, and she couldn’t let herself be weak. Not again.

She watched as she approached the battle and was dismayed that the fight was going well in their favor. She wouldn’t be able to join into the fight without throwing things off; on top of the walls there wasn’t enough room to maneuver effectively. Trying to push into the fight could get a man killed.

Frustrated, she paced back and forth alongside a few other warriors, unable to get into the fray with the limited space to fight in. The way the battle was going, they were heading towards a swift victory. With unknown hundreds of their numbers depleted by whatever freakish magic Endrance had wrought, the wolfmen had been far easier to fight through than if they had had as strong a presence as in the initial attack.

Looking back into the bowl, Bridget couldn’t help but watch the orb of ice, mist, and lightning as it revolved peacefully in the air, like an icy moon too close to the earth. It was almost pretty, if one could discount the grisly shapes trapped within.

Endrance had to have gotten more powerful, she realized. The last time she saw him cast the spell to pull the water up from the
reservoir, it had only lasted, at most, half an hour to maybe forty-five minutes. This time, even after freezing it and electrocuting it, the orb still hovered there hours after its creation.

Maybe… maybe he was getting powerful enough that he could do something to fix her arm? She felt a glimmer of hope spark up, something she had pushed out of the realm of possibility long ago. After all, if Endrance had the power to save her missing arm, she wouldn’t have lost it in the first place, right?

But if it were a matter of getting strong enough, then maybe he actually could bring it back for her. She no longer believed he owed her anything; she had lost it doing her duty to him.

Still, having it back would be amazing, something miraculous.

A hole opened up in the line of warriors and a single wolfman slipped past the defenders. Bridget lifted her sword and took a step forward expectantly. Before she could close on the thing, it suddenly sprouted several arrows and fell to the stones. A warrior next to her rushed past to fill the gap in the line. She growled angrily, frustrated.

Depressingly, the battle was starting to wind down. The last few wolfmen fell, and below she could hear cheering as the massive black iron gates of Balator swung closed. The men on the wall finished off the last remaining few, but didn’t cheer.

Wondering why, Bridget turned to look out over the wall. It was immediately evident.

Thousands more wolfmen were pouring in across the flatlands around the gates. Amassing outside of arrow range, the hordes of mindless wolfmen were getting larger by the hour. Bridget’s breath caught in her throat, her heart skipping a beat. Suddenly, the rush of achieving a victory at the gates seemed less significant compared to what fights lay before her people.

“Gods…” She whispered, “I hope Endrance has a plan.”

Endrance didn’t have a plan. So, he decided that instead of skulking down the only passage inside, he’d be bold and walk on in. Whoever had left the doors open had meant it as an invitation for him, after all. He kept a couple of coins in his right hand, pocketed the rest and walked down the passage.

He emerged into the ancient king’s chamber. As before, treasures were piled around a central dais, with a black iron sarcophagus held pinned by chains. The only difference was, this time, several candles were lit in the room and the light made him wince as he approached. Endrance stopped using his dark vision and tried to adjust to the sudden change in light.

Jalyin was lying on the stone next to the sarcophagus, blood trickling from her temple. Her eyes were closed and Endrance could not tell from his position if she was still alive.

“She still breathes,” A disembodied voice resonated through the chamber. “But only barely.”

Endrance recognized the voice. He looked around, but didn’t find the source. He sighed, shaking his head. “I thought you wanted me to never return.”

“I changed my mind.” The phantom voice echoed. The resonance could be felt deep in Endrance’s chest.

The mage shook his head. “No, you didn’t.” He replied. “You’re dead. The dead cannot ‘change their minds.’ They cannot change anything.”

“I can’t?” the voice responded. “I guess you’re right. I can’t.”

Endrance swallowed his fear, preparing for a possible conflict. “Show yourself, great King Rothel.”

The ghost of King Rothel, the first and most important king in Balator’s history, seemed to coalesce into view standing behind the sarcophagus. Massive in life, his spectral form was a
reflection of his amazing physical power. Swathed in ghostly plate armor, the king was an intimidating man. His eyes were white orbs; Endrance had learned that he had been struck blind in his later years.

Rothel seemed to be observing the mage without looking directly at him. “You’ve grown more powerful, nephew.” The ghost stated.

“I have.” Endrance replied honestly, concerned he would not be able to talk his way out of a conflict. The ghost was hundreds of years old and still clung to its intellect, making it one of the most powerful spirits he’d ever read about. “But I don’t know what you mean by calling me your Nephew.”

“You don’t?” Rothel asked. “I suppose you don’t.”

Endrance waited a moment. Rothel didn’t seem willing to say more, so he hesitantly took a step forward. “Why am I here, if you didn’t want me to be here?”

Rothel tilted his head down, towards the assassin. “There is a threat to my kingdom, and only an inheritor stands a chance of saving it.”

“You mean the wolfmen?” Endrance asked. “Balator’s been able to fight off wolfmen before.”

“The wolfmen are but a sign.” Rothel replied.
“A sign that it has begun again.”

“I don’t understand.” Endrance replied. “What has begun?”

Rothel turned away, holding out a mailed hand. A mace slid free from the pile of valuables and landed in his hand. Endrance could see the black steel handle through the ghost’s mailed fist.

He turned back towards Endrance and the mage tensed, ready to sling a spell in defense of Jalyin. Rothel noticed his sudden preparedness and tilted his head.

“This Aelfar is no ally to my kingdom.” Rothel replied. “Why do you move to save her?”

Endrance grimaced as he spoke. “This one is… important to me still. She has information that I need.”

Rothel watched him unblinking for several seconds before replying. “Then you should step closer, and when she dies you will get everything you want.”

Endrance faltered. “What?” he asked. “How did you know I could do that?”

“All of your kind can.” The phantom king replied. “It was obvious from the moment I sensed you.”

“My kind?”
Endrance felt a trickle of cold down his spine. He thought he couldn’t have been more terrified and confused, and he was proven wrong.

“Your kind is why we have a threat to the kingdom, and why the dead rise outside the walls.” Rothel replied. “The dead remember their oaths.”

“Oath? Kind?” Endrance asked, nearly overwhelmed with confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t?” Rothel replied. “I suppose you don’t.”

The king dropped the mace near Jalyin’s head and stepped down the dais towards the mage. “When the wars were over, every living member of Balator swore an oath: that no Mercanian should ever reside upon the throne. The dead would not rest should it ever come to pass that one did.”

Endrance only vaguely remembered the name from before. “I don’t understand.” He replied. “The Mercanians were wiped out before the founding of Ironsoul, or even the disparate kingdoms before that. The Mercanians don’t exist anymore.”

“They don’t?” Rothel asked. “No… they live on.”

“Even if there were survivors, wouldn’t the Mercanians just end up breeding out through the other nations that formed? How would the dead above even know if someone of Mercanian descent even existed, much less became ruler?”

Rothel blinked at him, though his eyes looked through him. “There are creatures that can breed with the ordinary and still reproduce.”

“You’re referring to magically charged creatures.” Endrance replied. “Like Elves or the Shard Wasps of the Amber Satrap. They are naturally
magical, and not mundane creatures.”

“Yes.” Rothel replied.

“So you’re saying the Mercanians were not a nation of humans?”

“They weren’t. They may have looked mortal, but they were far from it.”

“So you’re trying to tell me I’m one of them?” Endrance asked.

“You…” Rothel began. “Appear human.”

Endrance nodded. “So if I seem to be human, and the Mercanians are not human, then how can I be one of them?”

“When you are.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does, if you think about it.”

“I don’t want to think about it!” Endrance exclaimed. “I’ve gone sixteen years and never heard anything even remotely hinting that I may be related to them!”

The mage sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Sure, I may have a psychotic, undead archmagus that I’m pretty sure is my long lost mother who seems dedicated to either killing me or saving me, or possibly both; but I have never seen evidence anywhere that I’m not human!”

“You must not be ready for this.” Rothel replied. “It is too soon.”

“Look, you say this stuff, but you’ve been trapped down here for ages, how do you know what’s really going on out there? Not to mention I’ve never sat on the throne!” Endrance knew he was shouting at a ghost powerful enough to reach through several of his wards and do gods knew what else, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care about it at the moment.

“I’m certain you were there.” Rothel replied. “You also broke it. With the body of the last king.”

“Well, he was summoning demons.” Endrance replied.

“You were right to kill him.” Rothel replied. “But you have set in motion things you will have to stop if you want to save my people.”

“I get the feeling I’m not going to like this.” Endrance said with a sigh.

“The dead of Balator will continue their uprising until a king of Balatoran blood sits upon the throne.”

“But they aren’t Balatoran dead.” Endrance protested. “They’re wolfmen.”

Rothel didn’t respond.

“You’re also saying that the wolfmen are from Balator.” Endrance muttered.
“Just great. Was anything I was ever taught actually true?”

“That is for you to decide.” Rothel replied.

“So look,” Endrance replied. “I would get the information I need from her, but I don’t want to kill her just to get that info. I just can’t do it, nor can I allow someone to do it for me. That is just not who I am.”

Rothel turned towards the elf. “Something must be done.”

“I’ll remove her, if you let me. And I’ll get on putting a successor on the throne.” Endrance stated. “Just wait. I have a question.”

Rothel turned to him again.

“Joven says he is from the line of Rothel, does that mean he’s your descendant?” Endrance asked.

“Your guardian.”
Rothel replied. “Yes, but only barely so. The blood has diluted greatly since then.”

“So would his line be… suitable?”

The phantom king smiled. “Yes.”

Endrance nodded, noting to have that conversation with Joven after he returned to the surface.
If the wolfmen hadn’t killed him. “That’s good to know. If I may leave…”

Rothel swiftly faded from view. “Do what you will, but do not return again.”

“I’ll try.” Endrance replied. “But I may need to explore the catacombs around your tomb.”

“Those matter not…” the voice faded in strength. The candles simultaneously went out. Endrance’s dark vision shifted on almost immediately.

Endrance looked around, unable to see anything else moving about. He approached the dais and climbed the steps. He knelt down and touched a hand to Jalyin’s neck. He felt a weak pulse and could tell there was blood dribbling from her pretty lips.

Endrance realized that hauling her anywhere would be futility. He closed his eyes, recalling the spell he had designed. The wizard quickly undid the buckles of her leathers. Her chest exposed, he was able to see the central point where the curse was originating from. He pocketed the coins and drew his dagger, slicing a thin cut across the length of the pad of his thumb. As his blood welled up in the cut, he used his thumb to draw several small and precise symbols around the central point.

Five minutes of careful work produced multiple layers of arcane script written in his blood across the smooth deeply tanned skin of her torso. He would have been blushing from the exposure of her body, not even mentioning the fact that he’d had to touch part of her breast as he wrote upon her, but he had been so focused on the task on hand that it might as well have been a canvas he was painting on. Those painting skills helped him precisely control his movements.

Endrance finished his work upon her body, and then went to work on his own exposed chest. He had to work carefully, since he was looking down at an awkward angle and he was working entirely in the dark. A small benefit of using his dark vision to perform the ritual was that he would
not get thrown off by any shadows cast by conventional light sources. Soon, he had a nearly identical set of script across his body, the center of which lay over his heart.

Endrance finished the terminus for the spell and immediately set to enacting the spell. If he waited too long, the blood would completely dry even in the damp atmosphere, and the sympathy it afforded him would be lost. He began incanting the words of power needed while he concentrated on the effects he was trying to evoke. Chanting, he wiped the trickle of blood from her face with his injured thumb, waited a moment for their blood to mingle, and quickly drew a rune in the center of the circle he had put on her representing exchange. He drew up power of his own, fed it into his blood and released the spell by drawing the same rune in the center of his markings as he spoke the final word.

Endrance felt the power he drew up flow into the spell. The lines of blood written on their bodies grew bright in a second, nearly blinding him with ruddy, red and gold light. Endrance could smell burning skin as murky, cloudy blood boiled out of the rune on Jalyin’s body. She groaned and her body arched as she thrashed unconsciously. A cloud of the substance filtered out of her body, drifting into his rune. From him, traces of golden light traveled in wisps into her.

The curse was drawn into his body and Endrance waited to feel the effects of it. He felt nothing. The spell completed, and he became mentally aware that the curse had been entirely drawn from her body and replaced with a like amount of his life energy. He still didn’t feel any worse, nor had any blackened veins appeared on his flesh. He had designed the spell to filter the necromantic energy of the curse, but it should still have had some impact on him.

He sat back on his heels, thinking. It had been just like the energy affecting the wolfmen above. It had nearly killed Joven, but did nothing to him. What caused that effect?

A possibility nagged at him that he had not considered before. Magical creatures were not affected by energy the same way that normal mundane creatures were. Because of their nature,
magical beings had an equivalent of an immune system that controlled and regulated the way that magic flowed through their body. The more powerful the creature, the more it could naturally resist energies like curses that would have instantly slain a mundane variant. To them, things like curses were more like a disease than something supernatural.

Since Jalyin was an elf, which made her a magical being as far as Endrance’s education could tell him,
then the only reason that she was sickened and not killed by the curse was that her latent power was not strong enough to fight it off. Of course, if Endrance was a similar creature, being a mage was the simplest explanation. Having been trained to handle power in vast quantities, and experienced enough to hold reserves several times more than she could, he was powerful enough to simply be immune to the effects.