Lena patted her bag. “I brought reading material for a reason.” She gave her friend a smile.
It was a smile that did not instill confidence, for Ingrid said, “Right. I knew I shouldn’t anticipate any help from you. So when I come back, you’ll be here, nose-deep in that book and not off somewhere on a mini-adventure? Lena, what game are you playing at?”
“No game at all,” she said quickly, keying Ingrid into the fact that there was most certainly a game. It was one that she wanted to do herself, though. Even if she didn’t go through with her first apprentice’s exam, the High Enchanter was making her study just as rigorously as her peers. She was fine with that. She liked studying, and she wanted her dissertation to be the best it could be.
“Uh-huh,” Ingrid said, shrugging. “Just be safe. And no playing with fire.” She meant it as a joke and as she walked away, Lena watched her, frowning slightly. “And when it’s time to write your dissertation, remind me to be absolutely no help to you!”
Fire was not something Lena enjoyed thinking about. Fire was too dangerous, too destructive and consuming. Fire was not an element she wanted to touch ever again. No firestorm spells for her.
Lena waited until she was sure her friend was not coming back. She sat with her legs crossed beneath her bag, quickly undoing the strap and pulling out the book. Tome was much more appropriate. Almost as thick as her hand, ancient. Its pages were yellow and crusty. Its thick black leather binding was frayed in places, a sketch of an eye atop a hand on its face. She might have taken it without permission from the College’s library—the part of the library that was strictly for enchanters—but a book was a book, right? And she was pretty certain it was about runes. The sigil on its cover often went hand-in-hand with runes.
Besides, she might need it for her dissertation. If this worked, if she found it and was able to study the runes, she’d be able to whip out a presentation that every enchanter would love, even High Enchanter Gregain.
The runes of old heroes were lost in death. Runes were, millennia ago, what non-magic-wielding men and women could instill in their flesh, both similar and dissimilar to tattoos. More like magical scars. Runes could turn a normal man into an elemental-wielding warrior. Non-mages were what Rivaini needed to fully show Sumer that it would not bow to its pompous legion or its machinations. And a non-mage who could display magic? It would be the perfect ace in the hole. And rune-covered men and women wouldn’t have the risk of possession.
Did Lena believe any man or woman—or even child, for that matter—should wield magic? No, but she wasn’t the type to say no one should have that kind of power, either. The hearts of mankind were all different shades of grey. It truly depended on the wielder, and not all were as awful at magic as Lena was. She wasn’t naive enough to think that she was the run of the mill mage. If anything, she was the odd one out.
Lena gently opened the tome’s binding, retrieving the hastily-drawn map she’d put there days ago, when Ingrid first said they were coming here after Gregain signed off on the excursion. Now was her time to shine. She put together pieces of old stories, puzzled things together enough to discover that the King’s Gardens were not always hills of green and trees.
The King’s Gardens used to be a gravesite. Old heroes who had given their lives for the empire of Rivaini, which was now no longer an empire but a small kingdom whose borders seemed to close in from each side more so as the years went on.
Lena got to her feet after sliding the tome back into her bag. Her fingers clutched the map, and she did her best to follow it. All she had to do was find one entrance. How hard could it be?
The darkness hummed. It ebbed and flowed with a life it should not have. Time mattered little to it, but time was what it seemed to hate above all else. How long was it stuck here, in this tomb, forced to linger in a corporeal form as mankind went on, forgetting how hard they fought for the very lands they now sowed? How long indeed.
It was one particularly monotonous day when the darkness felt something tug at its tendrils. Though it did not have a form, a body, it still could feel. It still held a mind that wandered. This peculiar feeling called to mind a single word: life.
How glorious it would be to be free of this prison, to escape these stone walls, to feed on life. Because that was what it was: Hunger. A leech. Hunger knew desire for only one thing. It wanted to consume. To devour. Its black, misty form shook. Its powers extended to the extremes.
Hunger would be released on this day and rid itself of the skeleton it shared this tomb with.
It took Lena far too long, but she found it. Of course, it was just a mossy stone, but it was what she was looking for. Time had aged this place, nature had retaken it. The King’s Gardens grew over it, and almost everyone forgot about the skeletons they hunted over.
Folding the map and stuffing it into her bag, Lena skipped to the stone. It was taller than her, wider by a few feet, and a lot heavier. She pushed her entire body against it, but it didn’t budge. After a minute of trying, she sighed, stepping back. It was an inconspicuous location, a small overhang nestled between two scarred trees, a mound of grass to the unsuspecting eye. She knew better.
She just…couldn’t seem to get in.
Lena stood back, hands on her hips. The wind rustled between the trees, caressing her bare neck, and for a moment, she simply gazed at the mossy stone beneath her hat. Ages ago, once the burial site was full, it was blocked off and forgotten. All the heroes whose bones rested here, they didn’t deserve to be forgotten.
A small feeling twinged her heartstrings. Lena had to get in there. She didn’t like resorting to magic, but it was the only way. She returned to the stone, placing her hands on the rock, focusing all her energy to her palms. Once she augmented the strength of her hands, she was able to push the stone out of the way. A foot or so, at least. Enough that she could squeeze in.
The bare minimum was all Lena was comfortable in doing when magic was involved.
Lena slid through, working to light a mini-torch she had in her bag. As she struck the flint, the stone door behind her fell closed, abruptly shutting her off from the outside world. She jumped a bit, let out a sharp squeal. She sounded like a child, not the eighteen-year-old she was.
It would be alright. She’d just have to use a little more magic to get out. She wasn’t going to panic. She was going to breathe in and out and focus on that for a bit, even though she knew her torch wouldn’t last forever. No panic attacks here, not today. Today was for runes and discovering long-forgotten techniques.
Her fingers tight on the torch, she shivered as she went deeper into the crypt. The walls were full of cobwebs, and it took some time to find the torches hanging there. Each time she passed one, she lit it, just in case hers gave out before she made her way back. Spiders scurried away, scuttling in their webs. The entranceway of the crypt was nothing but stone walls; no statues or carvings or coffins.
It wasn’t so bad in here, she decided. A little gloomy and creepy, but not bad.
The air was stale though, and the further Lena went in the harder it was to breathe. Chills crept up her arms, and she shook the feeling off. Dead people did not frighten her. They were bones now, almost dust. She simply had to find the inner sanctum, read the runes on the walls, and study the bones that used to house flesh that had runes.
Would the bones be dust? Would the bones be intact? Would they hold traces of magic still, after all these years? Runes had to have an effect on the non-mages who took them on, but in all the reading Lena did, she only found rumors at best. Nothing definite. It was like history wanted to forget about runes entirely.
Lena eventually slowed when she reached the inner sanctum. She must’ve been beneath a hill outside, for the sanctum opened up wide, its ceilings nearly as tall as the houses in Rivaini. Hollowed-out rock, stones of warriors gripping swords, kneeling with their faces bent. Everything was covered in cobwebs and dust, but it was still inspiring.
She went around and lit the torches
hanging on the walls. The sanctum had numerous branches, crypts full of stone coffins lining their walls. An eerie sight, but as long as the dead stayed dead, Lena could handle this.
A low humming thrummed in her ears and she froze, tilting her head to better listen. It wasn’t a voice; it was barely audible, but she heard it, felt it deep within her. Lena did not like the feeling, but at the same time she didn’t turn tail and run. Almost in a trance, she sat cross-legged, setting her torch down.
What was she doing?
And why couldn’t she stop?
Her hands swung her bag around, and she retrieved the book. Her hand was foreign to her as she ran it along its edges. She was both inside her body but not. It was like she could not control what she did, watching from afar as she opened the book to the first full page of ancient text that she knew she could not read; she’d only brought it for comparison, rough translation for the few pages of runes in the back.
No. No, no, no.
It was just like before. That night when she destroyed the only family, the only love she’d ever had, only this time felt more real, because she was old enough to understand her actions.
Lena should not have come here with such gallant ideas.
Yes. Finally, an adventurer, and a mage at that. How lucky Hunger was, for there could not have been a better interloper. Her mind was perfect—soft, supple, malleable in every way. She had not completed her training yet, for the gates that were in every mind of stronger, more mature mages were not erected. It was all too easy for Hunger to touch her mind, to tempt it, to ease it towards what must be done.
Hunger was not a Demon. Not anymore. Hunger hadn’t a need for a corporal form; it did not lust after the bodies of other humans, wanting to be inside and in control—something they never were in their true form. A Demon was a Demon, uncontrollable and driven by a single purpose, whatever purpose it was. Hunger was so…very…hungry. First thing was first.
She’d have to let it out.
As Hunger touched her mind, tainting her just enough to make her want more, giving her a taste of the darkness that it was, it sped through her mind, her memories, saw her past and her regrets. How very human. She had raw power. If she tried, if she put herself to the task, she could easily become a great mage. Hunger also saw that she did not know of a spell to unleash it.
But she had the book, and perhaps the book was all she needed.
Hunger watched from below, from its stone prison, listening with ears it did not have as she began reading the first page. The ground shook with vehemence, and the walls around Hunger cracked. Yes, it thought, more.
The mage was riddled with self-doubt as she continued reading. If Hunger had a body, it would’ve smiled at her misery. Pain was not its forte, but that did not mean it did not enjoy seeing it.
The ground shook again, and this time—this time it was finally enough for Hunger to fly from its prison. As it encircled the sanctum, clinging to the ceiling in its misty form, it saw that it had been trapped in a tomb, a stone carving of a man on its rectangular face. Its last human body, a man Hunger joined with. And what a one it was.
A hero, one whom everyone adored. A man whom everyone loved. A man who was all too willing to accept Hunger inside him, to allow it to take root in his mind. Unlike Demons, Hunger did not take full control. It instead watched from the inside as darkness tainted him. A hero on the outside, but a villain on the inside.
Pressed against the ceiling, Hunger would’ve smiled if it had a mouth as it watched the mage girl snap out of it. Perhaps it had found a new mind to play with.
Lena shook her head, her hands flying over her open mouth. What was she doing? Why did she read from the book? She only brought it to reference the runes in the back pages, not to—to read from. She didn’t even know what archaic language it was.
She let out a groan, hurrying as she stuffed the book into her bag, grabbed the torch and stood. The ground shook below her, the walls crumbled around her. A gust of wind blew the hat off her head, sending it flying. She had to get out of here. Had to go back the way she came and hope that she could call forth a bit more magic to move the stone again. Ingrid would kill her if she didn’t come back.
Then again, if she didn’t come back, Ingrid’s wrath was the last thing she’d have to worry about.
Lena shook off the headache that formed in her brain—it felt almost as if…as if something had tried to get inside her. And, she realized, it succeeded. She never would’ve read from the book otherwise. What did her reading do? Why did the earth shake and tremble around her? How—
The halls connected to the sanctum shook, and Lena stepped forward, leaning over the dusty coffin that lay in the center of the sanctum. It was broken, and inside, she could see a skeleton, its bones white and gnarly. They were moving.
That’s what the shaking was. The dead were coming to life.
“Well, shit.” Lena reached for the book one more time. If reading from it could summon the dead, surely doing it again would stop it? Or perhaps she should read from another passage—try to, at least? No, she couldn’t. There was no telling what else this book could do.
Still, her hand fumbled with the pages. The sound of breaking stone ruptured the silence. Lena should have stumbled back the way she came, but she couldn’t leave this mess. There were dozens of people in the area partaking in the hunt. Lords would not be able to defend themselves from undead attacks, nor would any of Rivaini’s citizens, unless they were mages.
She thought about the dead’s weaknesses. Electricity for the bones, fire for those who had flesh…though, Lena wasn’t so sure that any of them would have flesh after being dead for so long.
The tomb before her shook, and Lena shouted, “No, not you! You stay put!” Her eyes fell to the pages. In the dim light, the words seemed even more foreign. How was she supposed to read this? What brought on her sudden knowledge before?
Lena had the worst luck when it came to magic.
“Uh,” she muttered, heaving a breath before starting to hurriedly read the incantation. She tried to repeat what she said before, but she knew she butchered certain non-words as soon as they came out of her lips.
This sucked.
A minute passed, and the rumbling stopped. No more stones broken, no more tombs escaped. That, Lena realized, was only because a mob of skeletons surrounded her on either side, blocking her escape route. The only place she could safely back up to was the coffin in the center of the sanctum—and even that was asking for trouble. Or a bony hand around her neck.
This was it. This was how she was going to die. All from reading a book that she shouldn’t have been able to read in the first place. What horrid luck. She was so stupid. So foolish.
Her breathing came short, and while she knew she could try to call forth a lightning bolt or two—just enough that she could dart past them—the mere thought of conjuring an element sent her over the edge. Lena collapsed to her knees, holding the book between herself and the imminent squad of doom before her. All she could do was focus on not passing out.
Yeah. Staying alive for her death would be a plus.
Darkness. Darkness was all Valerius knew…until it wasn’t. Darkness was all he remembered, until his mind recalled the day when he drank from that goblet, looked the King in his tired eyes, ignorant of the fact that the bastard had poisoned it. Clearly, he was still very much alive, and King Midas was going to get a sword in his gut for that.
Valerius wasn’t usually one for revenge—he’d never taint himself with such evil thoughts—but being poisoned was not something he was accustomed to dealing with.
His eyes struggled to open, and the eyelids felt like stone as he opened them to an almost pure black. No, not quite; there was a dull orange hue, a fleck of light, just beyond the confines of his entrapment.
Valerius steeled himself. If it were Midas coming to check to see if he was dead, the King had another thing coming. Valerius sat up, breaking through the stone that covered his bottom half
, jumping out of a tomb of some sort, landing on his feet before the holder of the torch.
Or rather before the cowering figure who’d dropped the torch. A woman, no more than a girl by the way she cowered beneath a large book, just into her adulthood, breathing erratically. Valerius was going to say something to her, ask if she were the reason he was here, but his words were cut off by a crowd of hulking skeletons wearing the battle armor of their glory days. Some still held their favorite weapons, old, dull swords and axes.
Valerius felt a smile creep along his lips. Midas had taken him for dead just a tad too soon. These were the halls of the dead and Valerius was still very much alive. He might’ve felt a little worse for wear, but he was alive. Midas would pay for his treachery.
The girl probably worked for him, in over her head.
Ah, well. He’d save her from the horde of skeletons, and then he’d deal with her.
Tamlen Grey was not a good man. Many hated him for what he did, for what he tried to do, but in his eyes, he was only righting the wrongs that mankind had made. Men. Men were the reason people like Tamlen were fearful of their own abilities, the reason why self-control was not taught. No mage could ever control his or herself when they were so bloody power-hungry, could they?
No.
Mages were not hungry for power. Mages did not like starting fires they could not put out. No control was no way to live a life. Tamlen only wanted those like him to be respected, to have the place in society they should. It was an age-old war, the war between those with magic and those without. King Midas might’ve had a non-mage magic-wielder on his side, but…
Tamlen’s eyes flew open in the darkness. He could see nothing, but he could feel everything. A sharp pain in his side, his hand went to his lower abdomen, finding that he was naked. The feeling of metal sliding through his body made him want to vomit. There was no wound, though; only a scar.
A scar? How much time had passed since that bastard Valerius stuck him through?
Spells and Necromancy: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 1) Page 2
