Wraithforged (The Wraithblade Saga Book 2), page 1
“Wraithforged”
Book Two of The Wraithblade Saga series
S.M. Boyce
Copyright © 2022 S.M. Boyce
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without expressed permission from the author.
ISBN: 9781955252171
Cover Art by YAM
Cover Design by Shawn T. King, STK Kreations
Art Direction by Bryce O’Connor
“When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching—they are your family.”
— Jim Butcher
DEDICATION
This one’s for you, Dan.
As much my best friend
as you are my brother.
You breathe life
into stories, into art,
and into Saldia.
Thank you
for all you do
and all that you are.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Epilogue
Thank you!
Chapter 1
THE WRAITH KING
Death spoke his name on the breeze.
The great ghoul lifted his bony head toward the setting sun as he listened to the winds of the dead. The fleeting whisper had been unmistakable, as it had visited him a handful of times thus far in his undead centuries.
He had yet to learn why, but the tides of this world always shifted when he heard it.
As a beam of sunlight hit him, he could almost feel its heat on what used to be his face. The Black Keep Mountains glimmered in the lingering rays of amber daylight, and ribbons of gold glistened in the rock as another dusk fell across his long-lost home. The timeless jet-black peaks pierced the clouds, scraping lines through the churning white fluff.
The bones of his hand clicked against each other as he curled his fingers into a fist. With the simple motion, the sunlit forest around him shifted.
Color drained from the trees, until only the muted browns of tree bark and discarded pine needles remained. The sky dimmed, and the bleak paint strokes of a white-washed world replaced the vibrant greens and blues. It was a world he visited often, an in-between where mortals could no longer see him, but where he could see all.
A massive silhouette passed over the ground, blotting out the sun in this dimension, in a domain everyone passed through at the end of their lives. As the shadow blurred across the evergreens, the wraith merely waited for Death to pass them by.
How curious.
When Death’s shadow had disappeared over the horizon, the wraith returned to the land of the living. The southern wind tore through the trees, churning their fragrant leaves as the world carried on, oblivious to the danger of the Beyond.
He studied the forest, trying to remember what it felt like for a breeze to pass across his face. Even as the grass beneath him rippled like waves on the sea, he felt nothing but the icy surge of magic through the enchanted marrow of his long-dead bones.
Immortality had its price—one he had always been willing to pay.
The whisper floated past again, almost too quiet to hear as the God of Death spoke a new name and chose a new mark. A worthy one, since only the worthy deserved their names spoken by the Creator.
The slap of something wet hitting skin shattered the peaceful evening. Something shifted within the ghoul’s ribs as his host neared—just a flicker, like a candle lighting, but one that nonetheless tracked his tether to this world.
Connor Magnuson stalked through the trees, his bloodstained boots making no sound as he ducked a low-hanging branch and tossed an apple into the air. A few droplets of water shot off the red orb as it spun, and Magnuson caught it with an effortless twist of his callused hand. He bit into it, the crunch snapping through the evening, and his dark gaze shifted toward the ghoul.
You grow fat and lazy, the wraith chided.
Magnuson just laughed.
How irritating.
“I’m fat and lazy, am I?” The man sat on a toppled log and leaned his elbow on one knee as he took another bite of his apple. “I spent three days combing through this overgrown forest for signs of predators. All that, and I barely slept. Studying the land to assess risk was a necessary precaution and a worthwhile delay. You will never convince me otherwise.”
You wasted precious time, the ghoul said. This land is safe, and you found nothing that could threaten your human pets. No living creature got in or out, just as I told you. Even the catacombs remain sealed.
A miracle, really, given all the enchantments taxing Slaybourne’s residual magic, but he wasn’t about to admit as much aloud.
The rush of wings on the air cut through the steady chorus of the breeze, and a brilliant red sparrow landed on a nearby branch. Its body glowed with the fire of a star as it sang into the fading daylight. In its belly, light surged and faded in time with its rhythmic twittering. A soft hum buzzed in its chest as its magic swelled.
In his mortal lifetime, the wraith might have thought the tune to be enchanting. Mesmerizing, even, like the voice of an angel trapped in a tiny ball of feathers.
In death, however, it was just another noise.
As he held the half-eaten apple, Magnuson pointed at the bird. “You say there’s no threat here, and yet the animals have changed over the centuries. They’re not the same breeds that lived here in your day. You said so yourself.”
True, the wraith begrudgingly admitted.
“There you go.” Magnuson bit into his apple with a self-satisfied nod. “The delay was worthwhile. Stop complaining.”
The ghoul studied the tiny sparrow as its crisp song sliced through the air. Though Magnuson had a point, the Wraith King wasn’t going to admit it.
While the towering pines swayed overhead, Magnuson sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. His chest expanded, and his eyes briefly closed as he savored the day—a day the ghoul would never feel.
A white-hot flicker of envy snaked through the Wraith King’s core before he could squelch it. He paced to distract himself, gliding back and forth above the grass.
I have only allowed you this reprieve so that you could recover from your duel with the Starlings, the wraith announced. Get on your feet. We have much to do.
“Oh, is that what this was? A reprieve?” Magnuson grinned and took another bite of his apple. “How considerate of you, Oh Merciful One.”
Another prod. Another joke.
It was odd, really, how much the ghoul enjoyed their banter. He suppressed a chuckle and scanned the forest around them to keep himself occupied. If he had been told in his life how much he would one day appreciate a peasant’s company, he would’ve killed the oracle foolish enough to lie to his face.
But they had no time for this.
Yes, it was a reprieve, the wraith countered. A storm is coming, Magnuson
“I know.” The man’s smirk faded, and he set his free hand on his waist as he studied the forest. He took a few final bites and tossed the apple core into the forest for the deer to finish.
Where is the Bloodbane dagger you procured from Zander Starling?
With an impatient sigh, Magnuson stood and lifted his shirt to reveal the weapon’s ornate leather sheath strapped around his waist. Soft green light radiated against the hilt, and he tugged it loose. The light intensified as it left its casing, and an emerald glow illuminated his face while he studied it. “It’s hard to believe such a tiny blade can inflict so much pain.”
It is a unique enchantment, the wraith agreed. And after we retrieve the second dagger, we can never allow anyone to create a third.
“Think we’re too late?” A frown tugged at the edge of the man’s mouth as he examined a weapon that could kill even the simmering souls.
Doubtful, but we cannot underestimate how badly they want you dead.
“And you,” Magnuson raised one eyebrow as he slid the glowing dagger back into its sheath.
A fair point, but the wraith didn’t reply. His cloak billowed around him, its tattered fibers trembling in the waves of a god’s wrath. Death was up to something, and the ghoul suspected there was more at stake than either he or Magnuson could imagine.
Together, they watched his pristine forest in a rare moment of silence. A deer wandered through the tree trunks on its way toward the apple core, its body half-submerged in the thick green foliage of an unspoiled woodland. The vivid sunlight briefly faded as a cluster of clouds cast a shadow across the idyllic scene, and the wraith allowed himself to savor this moment in a valley he had once feared he would never again see.
Life thrived here, now, in a land he had once destroyed.
Of all the hosts the wraith had endured in his undead life, Magnuson was the first to bring him home. It was a debt the wraith would repay in the only way he knew how: by forging this mortal man into a foe worthy of the gods and, perhaps, even the Creator.
But to conquer Death, one must be unafraid to die.
Don’t get comfortable, Magnuson, the wraith warned. There’s still much for us both to discover. There’s much we don’t understand.
The mortal snorted derisively. “I thought you knew everything.”
This is no time for jokes, peasant, the wraith snapped. Have you never wondered what I am? What you are? Think about it. Our magic does not obey the laws of this world. It cannot be replicated by any potion, nor explained by any book, save perhaps the Deathdread. Have you never wondered why?
The Wraithblade’s eyes narrowed briefly before they glossed over with thought. Evidently, he hadn’t.
The ghoul grunted in frustration. I told you, not long ago, that you are power incarnate. I meant what I said, but it comes at a cost. It’s not your swords or your enhanced senses that give you this unlimited ability, but rather the simple fact that this world does not limit you. You are not bound by the laws of other men. What we must discover, Magnuson, is why—and what your limits truly are.
Magnuson frowned. “Didn’t Aeron Zacharias know?”
He thought he did, but he was wrong. The wraith shook his head, and the frayed edges of his hood drifted side to side with the motion. I’ll tell you a secret, Magnuson, something I have never told any of my hosts. Aeron Zacharias didn’t make me. Not really. He used magic he could never fully understand and shattered natural laws that weren’t meant to be broken to bring me back, yes, but the act of creation itself was beyond him. Whatever made me—and whatever fuels your power—it doesn’t come from Saldia. Whatever it is, it bleeds into this world from the land of the dead. I know that much for certain.
The man went still. He stood there, his face unreadable and stony as he waited for the wraith to continue, but there wasn’t much more to say.
The Wraithblade had to become a master of war and death to survive in a world that would slit his throat at the first sign of weakness. Mastery of that caliber wasn’t something a man could ever complete; it was an art, a lifetime pursuit, one a man had to commit to with every fiber of his being.
Much awaits us both, the Wraith King admitted. I must ensure you are ready for the chaos to come.
As the last threads of light retreated toward the horizon, the char of campfire smoke wafted past. The Wraithblade lifted his chin, and his nose flared at the scent.
Through gaps in the darkening trees, the orange glow of a campfire sprang to life. Silhouettes crossed in front of the flames, casting long shadows behind them, and the quiet murmur of conversation drifted through the forest as Magnuson’s team settled in for the night.
“Chaos. War. Blood. I know it’s all coming.” The Wraithblade stared at the fire and cracked his knuckles. “The best I can do is prepare for it. Worry never did me any good, and it won’t do me any good now. As for what’s coming next, our prisoner most likely has the answers. Our little Starling guest let herself be captured, and I think it’s high time we found out why.”
I’m impressed, Magnuson. With a contented chuckle, the wraith gestured toward his host. I didn’t think you had it in you, but yes—a bit of old-fashioned torture sounds like a delightful way to celebrate coming home.
The man just shook his head in frustration and set one hand on his waist as he watched the ghoul with a disappointed glare.
The wraith shrugged. What?
“You should know me better than that by now.”
And what, precisely, is the alternative? You can’t bluff her into answering.
“Of course I can.” Magnuson pointed at the fire for emphasis. “Watch and learn, you old fart.”
The man strode off toward the campfire without so much as a cracked twig beneath his boots to announce himself to the makeshift band of misfits he had collected thus far. As Magnuson disappeared into the shadows, the wraith rubbed the bony tips of his fingers against the hollow sockets that had once been his eyes and let out an exasperated groan.
Foolishly noble, as always.
Though the mortal man had accomplished much on his own, he would soon learn what it truly meant to be the Wraithblade. Hell itself would knock at Death’s Door in its hunt for Connor Magnuson, and the wraith would see to it they were both ready to answer the call.
Regardless of what Death had in store for them, the monsters of Saldia’s nightmares would soon learn to cower at the mere mention of this new Wraithblade’s name.
The wraith would see to that himself.
***
QUINN
As darkness fell on the valley, Quinn Starling listened to the night.
In every direction around her, glowing meadow grasses swayed in a gentle wind and left emerald imprints on the air—a clear sign of a spellgust deposit nearby, and a considerable one at that. The soft whistle of a breeze through the meadow hummed with life and power, and twittering birdsong filled the sky. A shadow-drenched forest loomed just beyond the field, and somewhere among its oaks and pines, a horde of crickets trilled.
Surrounded by magic and drenched in an ocean of nature’s music, Quinn almost couldn’t believe what she already knew to be true: she now sat in the heart of the notorious Slaybourne Citadel.
A place of evil. A place of death. The home of a warlord whose horrific deeds outlived even his name.
And yet, it was beautiful.
That wench of a necromancer had fixed a new Bluntmar collar around Quinn’s neck, and the infuriating enchantment cut her off from her magic. Quinn had planned for this, of course, but it didn’t make her hate the damn thing any less.
It didn’t matter. She didn’t need her augmentations to observe. From the moment the Wraithblade had brought her here, she had watched his every move. The less she said, the more she heard.
Quinn may have been his prisoner, but she had come here with a purpose, and she had only to wait for one of them to make a mistake. With time, the Wraithblade would realize he shouldn’t have let her in. This close, observing the things he didn’t think she could see, she could do so much more damage than any weapon.
The time had come to learn who this man truly was.
For now, she would merely wait, ever silent and aware, for them to show her their true selves. That was all it took to regain the upper hand, after all. To find what a man truly hid in his heart, she had only to uncover what he wanted most.
If it turned out Saldia would suffer with him in it, she would find a way to slit his throat—even at the cost of her own life.
