The Spellblade

With a face twisted by anger and derision, Vasilia strode into the main chamber once more, unleashing soulfire upon the Tyrian. His body shook, tremors of pain overtaking him, but he had tasted it before and knew to expect it. Regaining control of himself, he reached out with his magic to seize every item he could and hurl all of it at his enemy. Chairs, tables, cups, jars, clothing, all of it came like a hurricane against her.

Vasilia shielded herself, a shimmer surrounding her, to protect against the onslaught. Arn noted she did not use elemental magic like the spellbreaker had; they fought in different ways. Perhaps that left her susceptible to such attacks. He grasped the sword in his hand, fuelling wrath into the rune blade, and spoke a single word in Tyrian.

Fire erupted to wreathe around the steel, and he leapt forward to strike at her. Still in the air, she seized him with a magical fist like before and threw him against the wall. Groaning with pain, Arn realised he needed to weaken her first. He called upon the part of himself that had been buried the deepest since his capture. He called upon the strongest power that a skáld possessed. He called upon his galdr.

A song came from his lips, and into it, he wove his words of fire and fury, revenge and retribution. To him, it sounded sweeter than mead on the tip of his tongue; to any other listener, it was a cacophony. Shrieking, Vasilia fell to her knees, clutching her ears. Blood appeared between her fingers.

Seizing his opportunity, Arn leapt forward once more and attacked with his sword wreathed in flames. In the last moment, Vasilia shielded herself, pure magic surrounding her, to protect against the attack.

Arn struck again and again, knowing she would run out of spellpower. He kept up the pressure, a Tyrian spellblade unleashed at last, and a match even for the mages of Archen.

Crouching with a sudden drop, Vasilia grabbed the golden chains that her servant had left on the floor, and she flung them at Arn. They could not harm him, but they disrupted his magic and the flow of his movements. As he cast them aside, he saw a long blade consisting of pure magic, shimmering green like a venomous snake and wielded by her hand, and she thrust it into him.

Arn had no defensive spells to protect against this, and the sorcerous dagger pierced his flesh. As she pulled back, the wound began to bleed profusely, far greater than the severity of the injury would suggest. Stepping back, Vasilia smiled with disdain.

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Magic of an unknown nature coursed like poison through Arn. He staggered back a few paces, and the flames on his sword became extinguished. Despite the tremors of pain in his body, his mind remained clear. He was weak after many days imprisoned; being chained by gold had not helped either. He did not need to kill this wizard – but he did need to survive that he might rescue his brothers, still incarcerated.

Summoning another rune of repulsion in the air, Arn blasted Vasilia back, hurling her away. His decision made, he ran clear across the chamber and leapt out the open window.

As he descended through the air at full speed, the ground approaching at an alarming pace, Arn called upon the runes on his body, granting him swiftness and strength to slam his sword into the stonework of the tower, arresting his fall. The sudden stop nearly tore his arm off, but his magic proved sufficient to save him, allowing him to keep his grip. One hand digging into the cracks between the stones, the other pulled out the blade and stuck it awkwardly into his belt, and he began his climb down.

*

Everything hurt. The damage done to his shoulder pulsated with pain. His rune of recovery burned with effort, but it could not help, as all its power was spent on the wound in his stomach that would not close. Arn imagined that without the rune, he would have bled out by now; while being alive was preferable, it left him weakened. Still, he ought to have enough strength left in him to deal with ordinary guards and see his brothers freed.

Reaching the ground, Arn noticed stares, but nobody accosted or approached the bleeding man who had just climbed down the Tower of the Arcane. It was daylight, and he was going to attract attention – nothing to be done about that. He set into motion. The dungeons lay central in the city, and thus not far from the arena; a route he knew well.

Trying to avoid the main roads, Arn hastened through alleys. After a while, he felt strong enough to run, despite his oozing wound. He marvelled at his own constitution until he realised something else was afoot. The fight with the spellbreaker many days ago had left him drained, and he had been chained with gold since, preventing his power from rejuvenating. Yet he had used both galdr and runes fighting against the white-clad wizard. Unlike those of the minor kind inked on his body, using the major runes demanded spellpower, which he should be empty of.

All the pieces fell into place. The reason his magic was so strong, and the reason that the Archean madwoman wanted to do the ritual today. The conjunction in the sky. The stars aligned, the moon moved into place, and magic overflowed onto the lands.

This had saved Arn’s life, replenishing power he otherwise did not possess, but he remembered what Helena had told him. The day of the conjunction would be celebrated with games. His brothers were not in the dungeons. Hoping he would not arrive too late, the Tyrian ran towards the arena. Even from afar, he could hear the shouting and clamour of countless spectators.

In the sky above, the sunlight concealed from human eyes Malac ascending, slowly approaching his zenith to complete the conjunction with the other stars; in faraway Archen, a fateful battle was being fought.