Chapter Nineteen-point-Seven: Disaster’s Wake

  The woodsman’s eyes glinted with pride as he limped over to Selriph. A shadow of pain lingered on his face through the faint smile.

  Selriph stepped closer, his brows furrowed in concern. “Are you alright?” as he gazed at the small patch of blackened flesh near Hagan’s left ankle. “I can try to patch you up. Picked up a few tricks from the Shera people.”

  The woodsman curtly nodded in response to the suggestion. Selriph paused in front of him as he knelt. Hovering his palm over the darkened skin, Selriph summoned green-blue energy into it, ready to nourish the aftermath of the necrotic damage with his life energy.

  Hagan offered no protest as a soft hum hung between them. “Just a scratch, but I won’t complain if you know what you are doing.” As the healthy, ruddy flesh encroached on the wound, replacing the blackened tissue with newly healed skin.

  He moved his leg around on the ball joint of his ankle. “Not bad at all, kid”. Selriph stepped around to his back, his gaze fixed on the crisscross of crimson seeping through the tunic.

  Unexpectedly, Hagan gave a quick wave-off as he paced over to the large pouch and retrieved it from the underbrush. From it, he produced a small glass vial, its contents a golden-red liquid.

  “This’ll do the rest of it," he muttered. He unplugged the cork-stopper and took a long swig. A shudder ran through him as the potion went down, and a soothing warmth spread from his gut.

  Selriph blinked as he flicked his hand, dispelling the magical energy. “You had a healing potion this whole time? Could’ve told me before I made you my first test subject.”

  Hagan offered a dry chuckle in reply.

  As the liquid took effect, Selriph heard the faint sound of flesh rebinding, a muffled, almost sticky whisper like the sound of leather being carefully stretched and bound. The tension around Hagan’s eyes eased, the taut line along his jaw relaxed, and his expression returned to its neutral state.

  With the woodsman’s condition no longer a concern. Selriph turned his attention to his own body. To the best of his knowledge, he bore only minor surface cuts from the recent encounter—the scratches from a scarcely evaded strike, from the prick of sharp thorns from underbrush—nothing his body couldn’t heal on its own.

  Around them, the forest was eerily still. The pressure Selriph had felt had disappeared, no doubt due to the death throes of its source that had rung mere moments before. Smoke hung low in the air, acrid and bitter, still rising from the smouldering remains of the necromancer, or whatever vile label suited the pile of charred organic matter that remained.

  Selriph glanced at Hagan, whose hands were rummaging through the two pouches on his person, his eyes fixed in appraisal and concern. Satisfied with the woodsman’s condition, Selriph turned away and approached the necromancer’s corpse, where the hilt of his Estoc still jutted from the charred ribcage.

  The air was heavy near the body, thick with the pungent stench of burnt, rotted flesh. Dying embers glowed around it, still-smouldering fragments of both foliage and humanoid remains. The Estoc, once a shining, polished blade, was now covered in black and soot.

  Selriph crouched beside the remains, reaching out toward the weapon. As his fingers curled around the hilt, his eyes widened as he felt and witnessed the damage to his blade.

  The once-pristine weapon was warped and pitted near the tip. The arcane heat completely burnt through the hilt’s leather grip, charring the metal beneath. Layers of black obscured the intricate details of the deeply charred crossguard.

  “What the...” Selriph murmured, his voice low with disbelief.

  Hagan paced over, his interest piqued by the boy’s subdued yet concerned reaction. He then lowered himself beside Selriph, inspecting the Estoc.

  “That’s… somethin’ lad…” he said quietly, his tone a mix of admiration and concern. He ran a calloused finger along the damaged edge of the blade. “That was no ordinary bolt of fire. This looked like you dipped that into a furnace or placed it in the path of a sun blade strike or something.”

  Selriph’s brow furrowed. His memories traced back to the smouldering remains of the earthen dummies Vick had conjured. Vick’s label of a walking disaster might have felt like hyperbole then, but the harsh reality was indelibly written in the state of his Estoc.

  He held up the marred armament, an imperfect silhouette in the dimly lit forest. Glinting faintly in the fading light.

  Hagan nodded solemnly. “Vickthar must have had an interesting time with you.” He patted the youth on the shoulder as he paced north before turning around slightly. “The Templars have no idea what they passed up.”

  Selriph gave a wistful smile. “No, they didn’t…”

  A pause hung in the air as Selriph’s mind raced with a messy recollection of images. The state of his weapon, however, grounded him back to the present.

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  “Shame about my blade though… I wish I had repair tools on hand…”

  “You’ll have your chance,” Hagan replied, beckoning with a hand. “But first, we move—don’t want any more unsightly things wandering into us.”

  Selriph rose to his feet, gripping the damaged weapon tightly as he slid it back into its scabbard. The forest was still, as if in silent shock from the battle that had taken place. Every sound, every twig that snapped underfoot, rang through the darkened woods as he caught up with the muscular, framed figure ahead.

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  The trek back to Hagan’s lodge was quiet–too quiet. Only the occasional whisper of wind and hoot of an owl through the canopy. The sounds of the nocturnal creatures were conspicuously absent, as if hesitant to resume in the wake of recent events.

  As the dense trees made way for the familiar forest clearing, the three moons bathed it in a gentle light. Their glow picked out the darkened silhouette of the lodge, its windows merging with the deeper shadows. However, the sight brought a sense of peace. He was back somewhere safe.

  “Glad we reached this abode safe and sound.” Hagan said, his voice low and tired.

  “Yeah,” Selriph added, “hopefully Relia is still awake.”

  Hagan let out a soft chuckle, the sound rasping in his throat. “I doubt that, lad. It’s well past midnight; a lady needs her sleep.”

  He stepped forward and pushed open the lodge’s doors, his motion careful to avoid the creak of the hinges. Inside, the faint lingering smell of woodsmoke drifted from the hearth. The moonlight filtered through the windows, where Emmett the dire wolf lay in silent repose, undisturbed by his tamer’s return.

  Hagan moved to the table as he took out a firestarter and relit the candles on the tables and above the hearth. “Lass has to be asleep by now, but she will be glad to see you in the morning.”

  Selriph followed, slower now. He leaned his battered Estoc against the nearest wall. The blade, once meticulously maintained, now looked like a relic pulled from a battlefield. Chipped, scorched. The warped hilt felt horrible, awkward in his hand.

  Hagan noticed the way Selriph looked at it and stepped close over, examining the blade. Resting a firm hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about that now, got what you need. Won’t do the job of a ?bladesmith, but good enough.” he moved to settle the two pouches near the main table. “You can tend to it once you’ve had some rest.”

  Selriph let out a soft breath. “I… thanks, was almost worried I had to rebind the hilt in leaves.”

  Hagan let out a small chuckle. “No need for that, got these goods from Tamros himself, better than anything you pick up in the woods. Trust me.”

  Hagan moved over to the kitchen, grabbing a piece of stale bread and some butter. “You should call it a night, lad; we had a day.”

  “A little difficult with what we went through, going to be hard to sleep,” Selriph said as he settled his items near his bedroll.

  Hagan turned toward the kitchen area, pulled two clay mugs from a shelf, and uncorked a small vial of amber-hued liquid. “I’ve got something for that. I have had sleepless nights, especially out hunting. Forest takes its toll, but it also gives back.”

  He handed one mug to Selriph, who took it with a curious glance.

  “What is this drink? Some sort of sleep-inducing ale?” he asked, lifting the mug toward the nearest candle for a better look.

  The liquid shimmered in the soft glow, deep amber with faint sparkles of silver and gold. As it swirled, the flecks floated like stars in the night sky. It was beautiful in a quiet, alchemical way.

  Hagan gave a faint smile. “Smart lad. A blend of forest herbs, a touch of moonstone dust for dream clarity, and just a pinch of silver flakes to promote healing. Not a masterwork brew, but it works just the same. After tonight, it’s exactly what you need.”

  Selriph nodded. “Fair enough. If my dreams are pleasant, I will be sure to let you know.” Selriph took a cautious sip of the draught, then another. The taste was surprisingly pleasant—a sweet aftertaste with a deep, earthy undertone, the sweetness more of an olfactory experience than an actual flavour on his tongue.

  As the liquid flowed down his throat, a warm tingling spread from his chest outward, seeping into his limbs like an invisible blanket.

  “I appreciate it, Hagan. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, lad.”

  Selriph’s eyes grew heavy almost immediately, his body feeling a wave of relaxation like he had just emerged from the upper ring’s bathhouse.

  “Wow… you were not exaggerating,” he murmured, his voice dropping as tiredness came over him. “I’m just gonna… go lie down. Hit the bedroll. We’ll talk tactics for the infiltration with Relia... in the morning.”

  “Rest well, Selriph,” Hagan said, his voice low, almost echoing as it drifted through the rising fog of sleep. “Tomorrow, we’ll go over everything,” Hagan stated, starting to sort through the supplies. Selriph watched from his periphery as Emmett the dire wolf calmly waltzed up to the woodsman.

  Selriph stumbled toward the corner where his bedroll lay waiting. The warmth of the lodge pressed in around him, quiet and safe. He collapsed onto the bedding, exhaling one last time as the concoction dragged him under. His eyelids fluttered. His last sight was the moonlit, dimmed ceiling of the lodge.

  Hagan stood by the table, sorting through the supplies they had procured, his gaze intermittently on the boy whom tiredness and sleep had finally claimed.

  The world twisted.

  Selriph stood within the cold, unyielding stone walls of the Templar barracks. He was in that cell. A feeling of suffocation overcame him. Harsh footsteps echoed through the hall as he felt the pain in his ribs.

  Captain Thorne emerged from the gloom. His eyes burned with contempt, with loathing, and with glee. “You can’t hide forever, boy”, the Captain sneered. “This is where you belong.”

  Selriph tried to answer, to defy him, but his voice failed to materialise. His throat closed around the words. He could only watch.

  Then, the walls began to change. Stone morphed into a grotesque assortment of discarded items: food waste, loose scraps of metal. Unsanitary water began to flood the room, the stench filling his nostrils. Rotted limbs clamped down, holding his arms and legs immovably.

  Thorne’s armoured form wavered, replaced by a skeletal figure whose hand shot out, its bony grasp seizing Selriph’s throat. Selriph struggled, tried to break free, but his limbs were inert, unresponsive as suffocation claimed him.

  He tried to scream.

  But all that came out was silence.

  No one was listening to the plight of the boy pulled under by the weight of his helplessness.