Chapter 18 #2
Mortandagh went down into the basement and entered the cold chamber where Cassian’s body was preserved.
It was not his place to bring him back to life.
He was in love with Lesya, and his fate belonged to her.
Mortandagh did not entertain the thought of using Cassian’s corpse as a bartering tool.
No matter what happened, he was going to give the corpse to Lesya.
He would take great joy in witnessing a real life Aeternumancy resurrection, and then he’d take even greater joy in having his friend back.
If he were to raise Cassian right now, it would not be a true resurrection.
Viktor placed a hand on Cassian’s cold face and said, “Your body is sacrosanct. So is your soul, brother. I shall do right by you. I promise. I promise you I will bring Lesya back.”
Without Cassian, without someone to give him constant information around all the contracts that he was bound by, Mortandagh had suffered. And yet, there was a part of him that was thankful for the way everything was happening on a much faster timeline.
The war was upon Aladria.
With this thought, Mortandagh closed the cold chamber and locked it. He put the key inside his jacket and tapped it twice to assure himself. Now it was time to go to the prison.
But when he exited the town hall, there was Edda and Delver, waiting for him. They looked perplexed.
“Tell me,” Viktor said. “And don’t mince words.”
“The headmaster is going to take Lesya to the Doldrum Isles today. He seems to be distracted. His magic around his hidden manor fluctuates. We have a location,” Edda said. “Should I prepare the army?”
“Not just yet. It could be a trap. Let me go and find out. And if it is indeed a trap, then we’ll head directly to the Doldrum Isles. If not, then I will call you there. But my instinct tells me it is a trap. Nevertheless, if it is, I wish to witness it.”
* * *
He went to the location that Edda had given him and found the trap. The empty manor. The explosives set in place for him. He absorbed the fire and came back, frustrated, angered. He’d expected the trap, but he had not expected it to be so deliberate. It was as if Eldric was laughing at him.
“Prepare the forces,” Mortandagh said, his blood boiling. Yes, he’d expected this to happen, but there was an inkling of hope that was smote in flames. The flames that had raged around him burned within.
He was going to do something about Eldric.
There had always been a kind of begrudging respect—such as exists between two mages of rivaling strength—between the two.
Perhaps that was a delusion, thought Mortandagh.
When he dwelled more on this thread, he became even more livid, finding the root of Eldric’s pride.
The Sunflame Spear. That’s why he was so confident that he could beat Viktor again.
The spear was believed to be a holy relic of Sol himself.
Eldric thought he had already killed him with it.
He had killed a shadow and nothing more.
Viktor had never let that relic find the real body.
If it ever did, he did not know what would be left.
Mortandagh had often thought about it, but hadn’t considered the achievability of it until now. He could get his hands on the Sunflame Spear. Rob them of their one weapon against him. Destroy their weapon, shatter their confidence, beat them into submission, and win the war.
Once they were out of the way, he could do right by Aeterna and by Aladria itself.
And then he would rest. But until such a time, no rest for the wicked.
Speaking of wicked…
* * *
Mortandagh, in his nomadic robe, stepped up to the enormous prison cell holding the Vanguard members. More than a hundred of them, they huddled together, giving each other false courage, promising to break free from here.
Clive Bane stood amongst them at the front.
“Viktor,” Clive said. “What do you intend to do with us?”
Despite the fact that Clive was a soldier on the opposite side, Viktor had a great deal of respect for him.
It was really brave and rather foolish what Clive had done.
But yet, to put oneself in the way of harm and certain death for the sake of something that you believe in so deeply—well, how was that any different from what Mortandagh had done in his life?
And so, as he talked to Clive, he did so with respect, mincing no words.
“I intend to get back at the Vanguard.”
“Haven’t you gotten back at them enough?” Clive said, waving his arm at all of the Vanguard soldiers who were locked inside.
“I’m afraid not, Clive. This is war.”
“Who says so?” Clive asked. “You and who else?”
“Your beloved headmaster. He cast the first stone. He continues casting stones, and here we are. And now I have stones of my own to cast.”
The Vanguard soldiers murmured amongst themselves behind bars. They had tried everything to break free, and yet the beauty of the magic-deterrence field in this prison was that it prohibited them from doing so. Standing there, they were no more than just mere prisoners.
Viktor Mortandagh had his goal in front of his eyes.
He knew that the way to the Sunflame Spear was not straightforward, that he could not simply walk into Umbrveyl and pluck the spear from where it hung.
More importantly, he was certain that the power of this holy relic would harm him in some way or other, but he wasn’t above manipulating others to fetch it for him, and that’s why he was here.
There were types of magic that allowed a mage to do the impossible, but those types of magic came at a great cost. Even Mortandagh was wary of Hell-craft, and yet, as he stood here, looking at all the sacrifices that stood on two legs on the other side of the bars, he realized that just this once he could entertain Hell-craft as a viable option.
“Gentlemen,” Mortandagh said, “it was an honor fighting against you in this war. Know that even in your deaths, your life will serve a greater purpose.”
There were no theatrics to the way he killed them all.
He simply raised his channeling device, and hundreds of throats slit open.
All of the bodies collapsed in the prison cell, reminding Mortandagh of what this building was once, long before it was turned into a prison, long before it was destroyed.
Once, this was the killing floor for cattle.
That’s why the floor was smooth marble, for better accommodation of blood.
Mortandagh hadn’t changed the floor; only the layout of the building.
He watched all the corpses lying atop each other in a pile of blood and split necks.
He stepped inside, ignoring the screams of horror of the only two survivors in the prison, Freya Drummond and Theo Cohen.
Mortandagh steeped himself in blood, dousing his arms in blood, and created a sigil in the air, and because his hands were filled with blood, the sigil held bright scorch marks suspended in the darkness, and from them emerged flames, and from this portal of fire stepped through a demon.
The demon stared around the room, assessing what had happened. He had a most bureaucratic look on his ghastly face, and quickly understood why he was summoned here.
“What name should I address you by?” Mortandagh said.
“You may call me Surgath,” the demon said.
“Surgath, demon of Hell, witness the blood sacrifice I offer to your realm in return for a favor.”