Silence. The air was still in the large, cavernous nave of the desecrated temple of Illephrre. It was as if the sudden absence of adrenaline-fueled desperation and rage had left a void in its wake —one too substantial to be filled by exhalations of relief or by the bitter smiles of the haggard victors. That wouldn't have been the case, Ben thought, as neither himself nor his companions had reason to celebrate the defeat of the abomination, the Matron of the Hand. He swept his gaze across the room, yet could not find the one responsible for the two arrows that saved his teacher's life.
A dragging of steel against stone drew the War Dancer’s attention to his mentor's diminutive, stoic figure. Ainsle retrieved the short sword she had discarded during her attempt to evade the Matron’s final attack. A clatter of steel on stone was heard as the old Berserker dropped the dagger held in her offhand; she took three steps toward the twitching form of the arachnid creature and raised the plain blade above her head in a two-handed grip. Wordlessly, the Champion of Vengeance began to hack at the humanoid neck of the Matron, her face impassive as the obsidian horns began to crumble into dust; the glow in her single crimson eye faded to the familiar steel blue.
Ben stared for a few heartbeats before being jostled by a body impacting his back, arms wrapping tightly around his waist. He looked down to see his Keeper's soft, pale hands claw into him desperately. Ann held Ben from behind as he felt her chest against his lower back rise and fall with deep, steady breaths.
“I thought I lost you,” the blonde-haired woman said after a moment.
Ben felt the intoxicating battle Aura recede, and pain flared in his right shoulder, causing him to wince. “I’m fine. She got me in the shoulder with that red beam attack.”
Ann released him from her hug and stepped before him to inspect the wound with furrowed brows, her lips drawn. She leaned closer and squinted at his shoulder, and Ben glanced at the source of pain to see a small scorched hole in his gambeson.
Ann bit her lip. “My heart, we need to get to safety,” she said before meeting his gaze with slanted brows. “This wound shows signs of necrosis, the signature magic of…” she glanced at the corpse of the giant spider creature. Ainsle had begun stomping the severed human head into a sickly paste. “Sister Justina…”
Ben clenched his jaw yet nodded and patted his Keeper on the shoulder with his uninjured left arm. “Okay. Let’s get June out of here. Kieran. He…” Ben trailed off as he glanced at the heap of black robes roughly fifteen paces away. “Take June back to the medbay, please. I’ll stay with Ainsle… and tend to Kieran.”
Ann hesitated for a beat. She leaned closer by a fraction before withdrawing and dipping her head. “As you wish, my heart.”
He watched as his Keeper led a sobbing, exhausted June from the nave. Ben thought that the adrenaline and rage had subsided, and the reality of the events only moments prior had finally settled on the young Evoker. The dull thuds, crunching, and squelching of bone and brain matter ceased —punctuated by the clatter of a discarded short sword on the smooth stone floor. Ben turned and met his mentor’s gaze. Ainsle’s expression had remained disturbingly impassive. She nodded, and he returned the gesture after a heartbeat before both almost simultaneously turned their heads toward the body of their companion.
“Help me with him, will you?” Ainsle said in a near whisper, eye not leaving the prone form of Kieran. “Bertie would wanna give him a proper burial.”
Ben sniffed to prevent himself from recoiling at the sheer pain radiating from his mentor’s tone. “Okay,” he said, and the pair silently walked to their fallen friend.
As they approached the body, Ainsle paused abruptly before dashing and kneeling amidst the wreckage of wood and ash. She leaned over the corpse and reached out.
“What the fuck?” exclaimed the Berserker.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Ainsle said as she frantically patted the black robes on the floor.
Ben rushed forward and knelt beside the old woman. His brows furrowed as he beheld the scene before him. Kieran’s plain black robes and well-crafted satchel were there, yet his body was… “Ash?” he said as he reached out with his left arm and grabbed a handful of the grey flaky dust. “Does it have something to do with him being half Nihilstrae?” he asked, and when the Berserker frowned, he added. “Half demon, I mean… He said he didn’t like being called that, so I made it a point to remember the correct term.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” Ainsle began, the uncertainty evident in her terse tone. She grunted and shook her head. “I don’t bloody know. But this ain’t right. His Dad would wanna keep to tradition and…” She paused, and her brows furrowed. She met Ben’s gaze for several long seconds before seemingly coming to a conclusion —nose scrunched, and mouth grimaced. “You know what?”
Ben tilted his head and raised his brows questioningly after the Berserker didn’t elaborate.
“Fuck the Old Ways, all of it. If this-” She turned her head and gestured with an open palm to the empty, surrounding chamber. “-is what you get for following tradition. For believing in this depraved fucking religion, then… then they can shove it up their arses for all I bloody care.”
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
Ben considered his mentor’s words for a few heartbeats. He stared down at the remains of his friend and spoke quietly. “There’s reason to believe Nachannu’s followers infiltrated the temple a few hundred years ago. Ethel said-”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what that old hag said. She’s just as bad as the rest of them,” Ainsle growled an interruption. She grabbed his injured shoulder, causing him to wince in pain, and stared into his eyes, her face still contorted into a sneer. “You know how I found myself in the capital when I was a girl? I was fucking chosen to be sent -no, sacrificed to this piece of shit religion. The old bastards were so happy that the ‘Keepers’ had found one worthy to become an Acolyte of the faith.”
“What happened?” he asked as he gently removed the gauntleted grip from his wounded shoulder.
“I come from a small village, kind of like that shithole, Skalt, but much further north. Every spring, the Priestesses would come down from the temple to collect tithes from cunts too lame or old to make the pilgrimage. Sometimes, they would take young girls with them. Sometimes not. When I saw my drunken bastard of an old man come home with a pouch of coin, I knew I was fucked.”
“What did you do?”
“We ran. Declan and me.” Ainsle chuckled bitterly. “I was a stupid girl back then. I thought I loved him, shit; I was pregnant with his child when he died on the way to the big city. The cold got him… I woke one morning about two days into the trek —camped under a cypress tree to get out of the snow— the fire must’ve died during the night… his frozen body protected me and Keagan from the chill.”
Ben saw her nose quiver at the recollection, and he reached out to place his mentor’s forehead on his left shoulder. Ainsle leaned into the embrace as Ben rested his head atop hers. She continued, voice muffled by the thick fabric of his gambeson.
“All those fuckers have given us is suffering. The Elders were selling our girls off while preaching about the Old Ways… Honor and the power of a word given. Pacts. All bullshit.” The old Berserker sniffed and disentangled herself from Ben. “Now look. Look what they have done,” she said as she bent down to grip the black robes with shaky hands slowly.
Ben watched as his mentor, Ainsle, the Champion of Vengeance, wept. Silently. Tears flowing freely from a single eye clenched shut. Her shoulders shuddered with each tumultuous breath. He watched on with an aching chest, unable to shed tears, which further amplified the grief that roiled deep within —he wondered if it would hurt less if he could cry to allow the sorrow an outlet.
The pair gathered their composure after several long minutes, which felt short to Ben. The real grieving would have to wait, he thought. Ainsle sniffed; her bloodshot eye was framed by puffed lids, glistening from tears shed. She met his gaze and dipped her head in silence.
“I’ll collect his things. We should join up with the others and talk about what’s happening next,” Ben said after clearing his throat.
“Right, Benny boy,” said Ainsle. Her raspy voice was hoarser from the short mourning. “I’ll give you a hand.”
The old Berserker dusted off the robes before folding them neatly while Ben collected the satchel he’d given Kieran as a gift before their journey north. As he picked up the leather bag, he noticed a small scorch mark on the bottom corner of the grey leather. He brought the satchel closer to his face to inspect the burn when a glint in his periphery drew his attention to the ash on the floor. He turned to see a small bead attached to a chain amidst the black and grey soot; he retrieved the object and wiped it clean on his padded gambeson.
The bead was, in fact, a smooth sphere the size of an eyeball made of a semi-transparent amber stone, inset to a silver claw attached to delicate links of the same material. Glowing red striations under its surface pulsed in a rhythmic pattern of a slowed heartbeat. He held the small sphere —warm to the touch— and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
“That was Matty’s,” said Ainsle. “His mum’s focus, I think. You know, the things those magic people use to cast their spells?”
“A focus? Like that staff we found?” Ben asked.
“Yeah. She made it herself when that cunty McSummoner keeled over. The old girl started doing some serious damage after that, is all I know.”
“I see. I think Bertram would want this back,” Ben said as he placed the necklace into the satchel.
After retrieving their weapons from the area near the Matron’s corpse, the pair left the nave to head back toward the medbay. Ben’s thoughts wandered as they walked. The revelations of the day, the poor decisions he’d made, and the loss of his companion were a distraction as they entered the narthex. His foot caught on an errant piece of wood, undoubtedly from the door June had obliterated earlier, and he stumbled before steadying his footing. The quick motion upended the open satchel, and three books, several scrolls, and a few empty vials spilled out onto the floor.
Ainsle shook her head and continued onward down the passageway as Ben hurriedly gathered the items from his late companion’s satchel. Halfway through retrieving the bits and pieces, a particular book stood out to him. It was newer than the other two, with a relatively clean leather cover and white pages versus the yellowed ones he’d seen the Apprentice Necromancer read during the quiet evenings. He opened the tome, and his eyes drew into a line as he found a folded piece of parchment pressed between pages about halfway through. Glancing at the pages while removing the folded parchment, he noticed that only the book's first half contained writing —the latter pages were blank— it appeared to be a work in progress.
He frowned as he read ‘Ben’ before unfolding the letter. His eyes widened, and he felt the warmth of a single tear caress his cheek.
----------------------------------------
Dear Ben,
My Dear Master Ben,
Ben,
We’ve spoken about the potential of your conduits developing, your new limbs having allowed an unprecedented lev
Remember when you woke up in my Master’s basement?
As per your request to learn about the Arcane arts, I have developed a structured curriculum
I’ve prepared a spellbook, with annotations (in the event you’d like to study at your own pace), of Cantrips and Novice level spells for you to learn —and add to once you’ve mastered the basics.
Your gift meant a great deal to me. It was so thoughtful and unexpected, I
I hope you will enjoy diving into the mysteries of the arcane as much as I have.
Yours sincerely,
Your friend,
-K
----------------------------------------