After all, that’s why he had done this. His love for her. Wasn’t it his devotion to her that drove him to this burial chamber with the hopes of seeing her again, being with her again? Could they both be redeemed here in the darkness of her crypt? Would death grant them both freedom this night?
He did not know. His mind swam with questions, retracing the steps that brought him here. He exhaled a deep breath, realizing he would not do anything differently. He loved this woman. And he would rather die with his wife than live without her. Even if that meant dying by her hand. “Fitting,” He thought to himself, running a hand through his beard, the grey hair matted by darkened blood tangled around his fingers. His neck still pulsed with pain. He was dead when he walked into this crypt, this place where death was sacred. Something inside him knew he came here with no intention of leaving. Something about remaining in Felmourn comforted him. This town was their home. The hall of the dead, its corridors and chambers running beneath the town, fell silent. Kylan closed his eyes. Images of what Auralyn once looked like, of who she used to be haunted him. Something behind the veil in his mind tortured him because he knew she would never be that woman again. The fire’s rage surged around them, vicious curled tips of flame snapping like whips at their bodies. He looked beyond the creature stalking him, his own movements retreating him backwards with no escape. A sullen realization sank into his chest and Kylan’s shoulders relaxed.
Even if she killed him, the fire would take her before she could make her way outside the crypt and hurt anyone else. Their dance was almost over.
Kylan blinked, his thoughts melting away to reveal the dingy stone walls and flames that surrounded them. Heat flared and sweat poured into his beard and the wounds on his neck. He felt the sting deep beneath the torn flesh. He spun to his right, his ears flooded with the labored cadence of Auralyn’s breathing, the jagged rhythm of her feet scuffing along the dry stone, each sound subtle notes to a haunting melody. The circles they moved in earlier became relics of Kylan’s memory, stored away in the darkest recesses of his mind, the only thing he had left. His to keep forever. Kylan’s eyes searched the golden glow flickering in and out of the shallow darkness. Through his tears, he did not see her. But he felt her. Their song’s crescendo waned and the moment Kylan dreaded arrived, their dance was nearing its end. He squeezed his eyes shut. The silence swelled around him. He opened his eyes, his cheeks wet from tears and looked at Auralyn in the light of his fires burning around them, her crooked arms rising in front of her, burnt sinew and bone with blackened nails. The earlier fear and repulsion that crept up behind his thoughts were now replaced with reverent acceptance.
She moved towards him.
He opened his arms to embrace her one last time. He wrapped his arms around her. Not the creature, but Auralyn. His wife. His beloved. Pain burned into his body, white hot, as her teeth and claws tore through his flesh. Kylan just closed his eyes and imagined them as kisses, Auralyn’s loving strokes across his skin. He envisioned her in his mind, not as she was here in these burial chambers, but as she had once been. Beautiful. Innocent. Adrenaline rushed through his magic-filled veins as his body was shaken with every swipe of her claws. The pain finally receded, morphing back into those kisses, the gentle caress he longed for with every fiber of his being. He would spend his last moments with the woman he loved. Even if it was all in his mind.
This final embrace.
He squeezed his arms around her and held on, even as his vision dimmed. The gem around his neck began glowing, violet light gleaming outwards, casting its amethyst hues of purple and pink across the face of the woman he loved. Kylan remembered the terms of his agreement with the necromancer. The payment he owed, it seemed, was due. The pain of Auralyn’s claws and teeth tearing into his neck was immediate but then came the darkness, and the cold, unforgiving silence.
◆◆◆
“Kylan.”
Kylan floated, formless, surrounded by an icy black void. It started as a whisper, a distant echo in his mind, then emerged closer, and faded again. Time passed, how long he did not know, and the voice returned, swelling from somewhere deep within the silence.
“Kylan, is that you?”
The voice called out to him over and over. He somehow recognized the voice, and the name it called out seemed familiar to him. The darkness before him began to swirl slowly at first and then faster, shifting shades until it became an image, a face. Freckled cheeks with honey-brown eyes. He knew that face. It was her voice. Again the sound cut through the silence, sharp and clear.
“Kylan, where are we?”
We?
He did not know where they were, or how they came to be there. The face hovered in the void before him and then was gone. A name came to him, a name he knew, though he did not know how he knew it.
“Auralyn?”
Hearing his voice echo out into this dark void was as unsettling as hearing her voice responding from the other side of it.
“Auralyn, what’s happening? How are you here? How am I?” Kylan’s voice seemed to ripple out in waves around him. “Is that you, Auralyn?”
“Yes, it’s me. I’m here, Kylan.”
“Where? All I see is darkness.”
Their voices echoed, ships colliding amidst turbulent waves. Hearts beating in sync, keeping time in a timeless place.
“What happened in the crypt, Kylan? I was a monster, wasn’t I? Where are we now? Are we dead, have we crossed over? Where are the mistfields?”
The mistfields of Mi’relor. The plane of existence that warriors and mages emerge after death, hallowed hills and mountains, rolling plains and solemn forests. It was said that the mistfields mirrored the world of the living.
Kylan was silent. She had questions he could not answer. He searched the darkness for clues to their being here. Kylan gathered his thoughts, his memories. He tugged at them, pulled them to him from the vast emptiness. One by one they made anchor, lost ships finding their way to the harbor. And like pinpricks of sunlight through a veil, he remembered. The images collected began stitching together, becoming scenes playing back in his subconscious. He remembered the cold, stale air of the burial crypt. He remembered his wife, Auralyn, and the monster she had become. And he remembered the fire surrounding them. His fire. He could almost feel the heat of the flames emanating from some unseen place around him. For all he knew, the warmth may have come from within him.
And then he remembered dying.
Her voice faded into the background, replaced with unfamiliar sounds that blurred together. Moments later, the sounds were separated and he recognized them clearly. Kylan heard the unmistakable crackle of fire, the subtle roll of a boiling pot, and the clank of glass on wood. Then he heard the rhythm of a heartbeat pulsing against deep, steady breathing. He focused on that sound and connected to it. He opened his eyes.
He was alive.
Kylan’s vision brightened and he was staring at the ceiling of a large room. The right side of the ceiling was lit with the glow of the fire, its crackling more pronounced. Shadows danced along the opposite wall, subtle shapes drifting in and out of view. He followed them along the rafters and down to the walls. He felt the rise and fall of his chest and took deep, slow breaths, savoring each one. The scent of burning wood was the first thing he noticed, traces of fruit and spice beneath it. He squeezed his hands closed and his fingers tangled in layers of smooth fabric.
He was lying in a bed. He remained still, using his eyes and ears to take in his surroundings. The scuff of feet across the floor drew his attention to his right. He turned his head towards the sound. His eyes fell to the window on the other side of the room. The sky was dark shades of violet and indigo. From what he could tell, stars had not yet emerged, not where he could see. He looked below the window to a table and chair, a tall bookshelf behind them against the wall. Books with worn covers lined each shelf. A lower shelf held jars, some large that contained roots and flowers, others were small and held moths and beetles. Memories trickle
d into his mind, a brook running over pebbles and smooth water-worn stones. He had been here before. Soon the waters of his memories began flowing freely. He knew this room.
Movement crossed the edges of his periphery in the shallow darkness. His eyes followed a woman pouring boiling liquid from a pot into several large potion bottles on the table. She turned and set the pot onto the stone hearth of the fireplace. She brushed a length of rust-blonde hair from her face, revealing soft silver eyes. He remembered those eyes. He knew this woman. Morluna, that was her name, wasn’t it?
The necromancer.
Visions flooded his mind and he remembered everything. It all came crashing back to him, the desperation to get his wife back, the betrayal he felt. The pain of being mauled by the twisted corpse of his wife and burning alive. Kylan knew exactly how he died. His heart raced beneath his chest. He became fully aware of himself. He was still dressed, even in his boots and cloak. He raised a hand to his neck, tracing a finger over the scarred skin that ran down over his chest. He was killed by his undead wife. But here he lay, no longer in the crypt. Only a scar to remind him of his wife’s attack. Had the necromancer healed him? There was no lingering pain or any signs he was ever burned. How long had it been since that night in the tomb?
“It doesn’t matter.” He thought to himself. “Alivar’s blessings, I’m alive.”
He remembered his deal with the necromancer. When he died, she got his soul. The amulet she gave him would have captured it, trapping it within the jewel. Then he remembered his wife, Auralyn. It was her voice he had heard in the death void. He reached out with his mind, beyond where he now lay, and tried to connect with her. There was no reply. He just wanted to hear her, speak to her once more. Had her soul been trapped with him? Was her soul in the amulet? Kylan’s mind circled these questions. How could he set her soul free? He couldn’t leave her trapped for eternity, no peace, no salvation. He had to do something. He had to move. He shifted in place, sliding his legs and arms to push himself up.
“You’re awake. Good.”
The necromancer was working with her potions at the table. She turned her head but didn’t look at him. Kylan took her in. Her hair was pulled up and tied with a leather cord. He followed the curve of her neck. She wore thin grey robes that hung low on her shoulders, her sleeves raised and tied at the elbows. The robes were long, piling at her bare feet on the floor. Wide slits were cut along the sides, revealing her legs with each movement. She held a small wooden bowl in one hand. She leaned over the table and sprinkled a pinch of the green powder into each bottle, paying the mage no mind, focused on her work.
“Morluna.” Saying her name out loud sealed this arduous journey with the bitter taste of burnt ash. His words were sour in the back of his throat. “What have you done to me?”
Kylan stood to his feet, rubbing his hands over his forearms. The leather cuffs beneath his palms were still tight. He rolled his wrists and fingers, working the stiffness from his aching muscles. The necromancer placed a cork lid into the last potion bottle and placed them on a small wooden rack beside her alchemy table. She turned to face him and smoothed the folds of her robes, the thin fabric swaying behind her with each step.
“I’ve given you a purpose, mage.” Her silver eyes glinted in the glow of the firelight. “I brought you back from death,” She raised a finger towards him. “with a condition. You are tethered to me by an unbreakable bond of magic and soon, you will serve me to carry out my plans.”
Kylan looked around the room, holding his arms out in front of him. This was no dream. He could recall his own mind, the hum of his magic beneath his skin. He walked towards her, the cadence of his boots echoed in the room. “I know magic, necromancer. While you may have succeeded in bringing me back to life, you have failed to bind me. I am under no spell.”
She grinned, her features darkened in the shadows cast by the fire. She looked menacing, but Kylan faced her. She flicked the remaining dust from her fingers into the fire. Flames flared outwards, bright claws reaching at something unseen, and then receded back into the fireplace. Kylan didn’t flinch.
“You assume I am but a simple necromancer, dabbling in death magic mortals don’t understand. But what you do not understand is that I control the dead as an extension of myself. I feed on the souls of the dead. I have conquered death itself in this mortal realm and sit at the right hand of Kiraak, the first god.” She stepped forward, waving an arm in the air, telling her story.
“I have lived for over three hundred years as Everscia has changed around me, evolving into the land you know today. Through those many years, I have been an innkeeper in Terraak, deckhand on a merchant’s ship in Ke’nora, and in one life I was an alchemist in Coldember.”
She circled Kylan, running a hand over his shoulder, tracing her fingers along his neckline. He fixed his eyes on her as she passed behind him and continued.
“You see, I have lived a thousand lives. Then I came to Velorra many years ago and have lived here in this cottage, simple enough. The townsfolk leave me alone to continue my rituals here in the shadow of Silvermoth. And that is where you come in. There is one last part of my ritual to complete.”
She stood in front of the fire, turning back to face him again.
“The transfer spell that took me years to perfect.”
She raised her hands in the air above her, palms open with fingers curled. Her eyes glowed with a haunting green energy.
“But first, a gift for you.” She said, “I buried something beneath my floor when I brought you from the crypt.” The floorboards between them rattled, shaking dust and debris into the air. Moments later, the floor exploded, splinters and shards of old wood and dirt cast to the far corners of the room. She waved her hands and something rose up from hole in the floor. Kylan watched the green glow of her magic floating over the air, it held something within its form. Grey bones with yellowed ends hovered between them.
“The bones of your beloved.”
The necromancer’s lips curved up into a wicked smile. Kylan’s pulse thumped beneath each breath, he could feel it pulsing in his wrists. Auralyn’s bones? He narrowed his eyes at the mage, his blood warming beneath his skin.
His thoughts flashed back to his time in the burial crypt, to his excitement when Auralyn took her first breath after dying. Pressure built in his chest when he remembered the necromancer’s betrayal. His muscles tightened beneath the strain of his memories. He saw now that she had no intention of helping him get his wife back. Her motives were to further her own agenda.
“I can see you trying to piece it all together, mage. You’re still so caught up on your dearly departed wife that you don’t see the scope of what I’ve got planned, or your role in it all.” She thrust her arms forward, sending the bones across the air, hitting Kylan in the face and chest. They fell with a hollow clack against the floor at his feet. His eyes never left hers, though her voice got under his skin and began taking root. “There is an ancient magic sleeping beneath Silvermoth. I think the school was built there intentionally, though those secrets have long since been forgotten by the common mages. But as head mage, you have access to all of Everscia’s arcane secrets. And when I take over your body, I will have access to those secrets. And to that hidden power.”
Kylan’s stomach twisted, nausea rising into his throat. He couldn’t let her do that. Whatever this sleeping power was beneath the school, it wasn’t something mortal mages should meddle with. He knew he had to stop her. For all of Everscia. She defeated him in the crypt beneath Felmourn. Awakening here in Velorra was his second chance. He had to think quickly, to act quickly. Thoughts swirled in his mind and Kylan went over different scenarios. What could he do? His eyes searched the room for something that would help him, his gaze falling to the bones piled at his feet. Her defiling of the one thing sacred to him set a spark in his chest. Rage burned in his eyes. The magic within him rushed through the rest of his body, flooding his limbs with the most unforgiving element. Fire.
He paused, taking a moment to think through the idea forming in his mind. He had his own plan to consider now. But that meant holding back the impulse to burn it all down. He was one of Everscia’s best mages and head of Silvermoth for a reason. Acting out of impulse and passion is what brought him here to begin with. He had to remain calm.
“You gave me hope that I would get my wife back. You know what happened in that crypt, and it was all nothing more than a piece of this puzzle for you to gain access to Silvermoth.” He stepped to the side, sliding his boots around his wife’s bones. He didn’t want a fight. He didn’t want to damage her body. “I will not allow it.” He calmed himself. He couldn’t use the fury of his fire this time.
She moved towards him and raised her arm, reaching back as if to grasp some unseen artifact. She moved faster than he would have realized, and brought her hand down, smashing her palm into his forehead. Bursts of light and dark exploded within his mind and the room broke away, beam by beam, stone by stone, the roof and floor, pieces of the cottages tore free of one another, revealing the two of them standing amidst a darkened graveyard. Weathered tombstones surrounded them, each one remnants of a life the necromancer had stolen.
There were mages buried here.
Kylan could feel the magic, its undulating currents rushing beneath the surface of the hallowed grounds. He knelt down, his boots sinking into the ground beneath his shifting weight, and dug his fingers into the soft dirt. Kylan thought to himself, scanning his new surroundings. What is this place? Was her home built atop this graveyard of mages? Does she draw power from them, could her source be running dry? Maybe that's why she seeks the power below Silvermoth? A haunting green light glowed from ahead of him. He looked up, turning his eyes to the necromancer standing atop fresh graves. She was glowing with shades of jade and emerald entwined, her aura casting eerie light across the ground.
The Blade Unbroken: Magebreaker Page 2
