22. Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Hello, vilaschs .” Even the Julran word for ‘ my dearest’ sent a pang of loneliness to my heart as it echoed through the vast library.
I remembered Mother calling that out in this very room when I came back from riding with Father, the both of us tracking melting snow throughout the palace despite the maids’ admonishments to find her here.
So many wonderful memories, blessedly untarnished, flickered across my mind's eye as I took in the dark study again.
What I had traveled all this way for sat innocuously on a small pedestal, safely held in a crystal case as if it were an exhibit piece meant for the Covenant Library.
It was a national treasure in its own right, but its importance had long been lost to history.
It took a place of importance right in the middle of the library.
Even stepping near it, I could feel powerful magic tease my senses through the thick walls of its case, like the burn of breathing too deeply of frigid air.
My left hand curled into a tight fist, and without giving myself too much time to think of the pain punched a hole straight through the side of the crystal case.
A brief flash of purple responded to the violent attack on the wards protecting the case.
They were never meant to stand this long.
Just like everything else in this dilapidated kingdom, they were abandoned and forgotten, holding on by their own indomitable strength.
Once the case was broken, a low hum filled the study.
Its resonance seemed to settle in my chest like a deep purr.
If I could give an emotion to the simple, leather-bound book resting in the shattered glass, it felt like the tome was… happy. Like it had a life of its own.
Drip, drip, drip.
The light patter of liquid hitting the stone floor drew my attention to the hand I’d punched the case with. Uncurling it, I examined the split knuckles, now dripping sluggish, deep-red blood. “Might as well put this to good use.”
I reached back into the broken case, slowly stretching my bloody hand toward the dormant tome resting on a purple cushion.
As my hand moved closer, the thrumming power grew stronger until it practically vibrated in my chest. Little droplets of blood dribbled across the cushion, and the tome flared to life with a blast of magic that shattered the rest of the crystal that housed it.
Shards flew everywhere, slicing skin on my face and arms from the blow.
An excitement that wasn’t mine lit me up from the inside.
The promise of slaking a thirst so deep and ravenous made the thick tome tremble, the Wiran ruby flashing unnaturally as it recognized its owner even in this body.
From beneath my feet, a low rumble shook the library floor, subtle at first but quickly growing to match the tome’s voracity until shards of crystal danced across the stone.
It was the call of the restless dead, welcoming their last remaining ruler home.
“I know, I know.” The gruff voice of my borrowed body was not as comforting as I’d like. “Let’s go put ourselves back where we belong.”
The massive Wiran ruby—easily the size of a fist—pulsed a bright red again, its rhythm quickening as blood dripped closer to it.
On the first droplet to hit the textured leather cover, the ruby drew it in to quench its century-long thirst. This was the main reason Wiran rubies were not ideal pieces for jewelry; their vampiric tendencies made for better magic amplifiers than decorative gems. Just like Wira herself, they took their payment for power in blood.
If left unattended, or with someone weak like Nebold, they would eventually dull and lose their magic completely.
I had spilled a lot of blood to keep this one satiated long enough for me to come back to it.
A lot of Golathian blood, specifically. Whoever was unlucky enough to have been captured during the Frigid War was left in a large tub with my tome, their throats and wrists slit deep enough to pour out their lifeblood and allow the Wiran ruby to drink up.
A sharp blast shook the study, very different from the rumbling purr beneath the palace, and knocked me from my vacant thoughts. Someone was knocking at the front gate, none too politely. And I had a feeling it wasn’t Beolf and his merry men.
“Looks like we have visitors.”
As much as I would have liked to take my time waking my tome, time was of the essence.
I pulled my bleeding hand back and reached for the dagger at my hip, cutting a deep slash across the meaty palm of this body and planting it firmly on the Wiran ruby.
It drank eagerly, not letting a single drop trickle onto the leather, and as it did, the book began to tremble.
By the time it had its fill, the page edges were tinted red as if every one was dipped in blood.
That was my cue to pick the Tome of Wira up and tuck under my arm as it thrummed happily.
“Come here,” I cooed, as if talking to a favorite pet. “We have people to kill and dead to raise.”
Walking along the Clifftombs battlements brought a refreshing clarity to my exceedingly scattering mind.
This last transfer was the worst by far.
Coordination of this body was beginning to dwindle, and it was getting harder to focus my mind on even the simplest task.
I needed to place my soul back in my original body soon, or I feared there would be little to put back.
Whoever was trying to break down the drawbridge wards was going to see a very unhinged and merciless side of my magic. I just had to get over the nausea already bubbling in my stomach at the thought of looking down off the wall.
Another heavy thud slammed against the ward, and I took a steadying breath before leaning over the parapet just enough to see below.
If I hadn’t already been gritting my teeth out of fear, I’d be grinding them now at the outrage that was turning my blood to acid.
All along the other side of the deep moat spellcasters were scattered, dressed in ragged furs and carrying crude weapons strapped to their backs as their hands wove elaborate patterns in the air.
Pale red auras enveloped their arms from elbows to fingertips, and it seemed like they were collecting magic, sending it to one person directly across from the closed drawbridge.
He was dressed very differently from the rest, probably marking him as someone of higher rank among the tribe.
The head of a great beast decorated his own, covered in snow-white fur with hollowed eyes and a mouth filled with sharp ivory teeth.
The rest of the pelt draped over the man’s broad back, leaving his torso exposed in nothing more than a long-sleeved leather tunic left open at the front.
Sigils painted in white covered every inch of bare skin across his broad chest. His whole body practically vibrated while he held his arms outstretched, that red haze covering all of him, and he swayed to an unheard rhythm.
Even as I watched, one of the other tribesmen at the edge of the group dropped to their knees, hands clutching at their chest with scrabbling fingers before falling face-first into the snow.
That ominous glow left their body, and they fell still.
This magic was far beyond their very human, very mortal capabilities.
“Shit,” I cursed.
The next blow they dealt could take the whole wall down, if it was strong enough to suck the lives out of those spellcasters. Another two fell to the ground in the next breath. The man in the middle glowed even brighter.
I had to take out the whole fucking mob to stop that spell.
My neck popped when I rolled my head on it, loosening some muscles that had tightened in my shoulders while watching the tribe lay siege to the drawbridge ward.
The Clifftombs had never fallen from invaders, even in the Frigid War, and I would be damned if it fell while I stood on its walls.
I pulled the Tome of Wira from under my arm and hefted it in one hand; the weight satisfying in my grip as it fell open in a flurry of pages.
The tome knew what spell I needed. Or rather, what spell it allowed its power to be used for. Cheeky thing.
Blood from my cut hand smeared across the pages before being sucked in, and the archaic symbols of the Old Language sparked alive with their own purple glow.
A low hum filled the air as the tome’s spell charged, pulling its power from the blood sacrifice and settling an oppressive weight around my shoulders.
It was almost… like a dampness accumulating in the bitter cold, or a sodden blanket being draped over me and left to stiffen in the freezing wind.
My eyes snapped open—I hadn’t noticed they were closed—when a voiceless command resonated in my head from the tome.
I did what it told me to, sweeping my hand swiftly off the pages like brushing away dust. A deafening boom nearly ruptured my eardrums as a massive blast of magic arced from it, slicing through the group below like a farmer’s scythe through dead stalks.
As one, the group fell to the ground, limbs splayed as they fell where they stood.
All except one in the very back, high up on a hill just outside the old hamlet, sitting on a kisteral now exposed once their cover was blown down.
Their hand was raised in front of them, fingers splayed wide, as blue sparks of magic sizzled in the air around them.
The spell I’d cast had rippled across the ground and slammed against a shield, a rather powerful one at that.
It felt as if our gazes were tangled, like I was looking across the battlefield and staring into the eyes of the opposing general at war.
Like the Frigid War all over again, but this time I was much stronger and my opponent was wholly unknown to me.
Finally, after what felt like hours staring each other down, the cloaked figure pulled their kisteral around and retreated through the broken streets of the Clifftombs’ borough toward the surrounding hills.
I wasn’t fooled. This was just the first battle. But next time, I would bring an army that couldn’t die.