Wraithblade (The Wraithblade Saga Book 1), page 1
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Copyright © 2020 by Wispvine Publishing, L. L. C.
Cover and art copyright © 2020 by Wispvine Publishing, L. L. C.
Book design and layout copyright © 2020 by Wispvine Publishing, L. L. C.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, places, names, and/or people—living, dead, or otherwise—is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
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1st Edition
Books by S. M. Boyce
The Wraithblade Saga
Wraithblade
Wraith of Kings
The Grimoire Saga
Lichgates
Treason
Heritage
Illusion
The Misanthrope
The First Vagabond: Rise of a Hero
Standalone Novels
Ari
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Contents
Book Description
Map of Saldia
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
Acknowledgments
You’re Missing Out…
About the Author
Books by S. M. Boyce
Book Description
Are you the hunter—or the prey?
The Ancient Woods of Saldia hold secrets. The gnarled oaks are home to murderers, slavers, and the legendary blightwolves that ravage the countryside by the light of the twin moons.
In a world of rabid wolves the size of horses, not-so-extinct dragons, and magical reagents that grow over every inch of the land, tonight is unique.
Tonight, a merciless king dies alone in the forest.
Tonight, an usurper rises from within the ranks of the king’s trusted noblemen.
Tonight, ancient enchantments are unleashed upon an unsuspecting world.
At the center of it all is the most ruthless and powerful magic this land has ever seen—the Wraith King, a once-dead warlord brought back by the most formidable necromancer to ever live.
As a specter of death, the Wraith King cannot exist without a host. Deep amongst the trunks of a long-forgotten forest, he just found his next master. But as the weeks blur by, the question arises: will the mortal remain in control, or will the ghost overtake the man who controls his power?
Are you ready to wield the Wraithblade?
Gather your allies and pray to your gods if you have them, because it’s time to find out.
Strap in for the ride of your life as you experience heart-pounding adventure, brutal close-quarter battles, and an elaborate magical world that will leave you reeling with endless possibilities. Hero or villain? Champion or corpse? Legend, or just another man forgotten by the pages of history? Choose your path wisely. You won't get a second chance.
Map of Saldia
To view the map, click here. Wander through Saldia and follow along with this map customized for Wraithblade (Wraithblade Saga #1).
This one’s for you, Dad.
The anchor in any storm,
the breeze in my sails,
the lighthouse on the rocky coast,
and a guiding light in the darkness.
“Though you plant the seed of thought in another, be patient, for how and when it sprouts is not yours to control.”
—unknown
Chapter One
King Henry
“Damn them.”
Henry sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as the searing pain in his side scorched his withered soul. Hot blood streamed over his fingers from the many stab wounds in his back and stomach. His shirt stuck to his chest, the Montgomery family crest woven into its silk threads stained almost black.
Those traitors.
Those thieves.
Come to take his throne.
His throat tightened, and he could no longer quell the violent cough building in his chest. Dark red splatters hit the ancient stone in the labyrinth of corridors beneath his great castle. These passageways were as old as the land around them, as steeped in blood as they were in history.
Henry refused to become a mere footnote in the books the scribes kept.
His knees buckled, and the corridor tilted beneath him. The cold air of the castle depths stung his throat as he pressed his shaky fingers against the cool rock for balance. His vision blurred from the loss of blood, and he paused for a moment to breathe. To regain his composure.
Somewhere behind him, the drip of water hitting stone echoed through the hall, steady as the ticking of a clock.
He would not have long until they found him once again. His escape from the attack had been a fluke, really—a stroke of luck amidst the chaos. If he were to survive this treason, he would need to act quickly.
Each breath tasted of iron and rust. With every beat of his racing heart, a bit more of his life poured into his hand. He couldn’t cover all the wounds to stem the bubbling flood, but he did somehow force himself to stagger on. Each step left a thin trail of dark red along the gray rock beneath him, enough for even a novice tracker to spot and follow. He couldn’t hide his route. Not anymore.
He had one last hope, now. Only one escape from the walls that should have protected him.
His leather boot caught on a raised stone in the castle floor—his castle, damn it all—and he stumbled. The cold, rocky wall caught him, and a jagged corner on one of the blocks dug into his arm as he struggled to catch his balance. He coughed, and more spatters of red flecked the ground before him.
He had to get to the Rift.
It was his only hope.
“Just die, you coward,” a voice echoed down the hall. “Come out here and die like a man.”
One of the hunters, searching for him.
You are near death, a grim voice said, echoing through his mind like a reaper.
Unprompted, a specter appeared before him—a once-great king’s ghost that had granted him so much. His fame. His wealth. His title. This ghoul alone had gotten Henry to where he was, and now it seemed as though the creature would be his undoing.
The Wraith King.
It was the chill down a grown man’s spine, present and able to kill even when it couldn’t be seen. Henry was immune to its sword and bony fingers, the only man alive to claim as much.
“Move,” Henry demanded, blood pooling on his tongue.
It didn’t.
Henry p
“Kill them,” Henry demanded with a weak nod over his shoulder. “You could decimate them all.”
Perhaps, if not for the blades two of them wield, it admitted. They have prepared for tonight, and you have not. They have something that can kill even me, and you are not worth dying for.
“Coward,” Henry muttered, still stumbling forward.
The creature laughed, the rasp dry and haunting. I am wise when you would be a fool, old man. I lose very little if you die.
Henry scoffed, and more blood pooled in his mouth alongside his growing disdain for this… this thing. This wretch didn’t obey him. It merely tolerated his presence, when once they had conquered entire armies together. To think of the sheer number of men he had killed to control this monster—even his own soldiers, his own friends—and now, he wanted nothing more than to rid himself of it.
It had cursed him.
Henry pushed his dying body toward a great archway at the end of the hall, toward the lone sconce flickering in the shadows of an ancient chamber. His vision blurred again, and the fire’s amber light floated farther away with every step.
Lost in his pain, consumed by his singular purpose, Henry’s ragged breaths caught in his chest like cold air on a mountain. This far beneath his castle, in tunnels only a handful of souls knew existed, he would make his escape. He would heal, and he would return with a vengeance.
This far gone in the power of the Wraith King, vengeance was all he knew.
The archway finally neared, as did the elaborate circle of glistening green stone in the center of the small room beyond it.
By some miracle, he had made it to the Rift—a pillar of magic that had cost more coin to construct than most kingdoms hoarded in their treasuries over an entire century. Though some said it was old as time itself, Henry knew better. As breathtaking as it was to behold, this enchantment was made by men, and the legends elevated its status beyond what it was in order to keep its power from the common folk.
The commoners were given trinkets—toys to play with, devoid of real magic. True power, like this, was reserved for kings.
For men like Henry.
His knees fell hard on the gem-like stone, and he leaned a bloody hand against the perfectly polished crystal for support. As he stained it red with what little life he had left, the pillar glowed beneath him.
Magic this powerful demanded sacrifice to function. He would oblige it, but not with his own body. To use the Rift, he had to bleed a man dry, and he wouldn’t sacrifice himself.
Now, he simply had to wait for one of those fools to find him.
He strained his ear, listening intently now that he had made it. The distant drip of water, slow and rhythmic, filled the void between him and the traitors, until—there, yes. There, through the steady pulse of the water, came the dull echo of footsteps, emerging like a beast from the shadows.
It seemed he wouldn’t have to wait long.
Raggedly breathing as he knelt on the glowing platform, Henry briefly closed his eyes. He couldn’t sleep. With this much blood loss, sleep would mean death. He merely needed a moment, just one, to catch his breath.
“There you are,” one of the hunters said, his voice louder now.
“That’s right,” Henry replied gruffly. “Here I am.”
He could feel the weight of the assassin’s stare on his neck. With his back to the traitor, he could imagine the smirk of a common man who thought he could kill a king.
But Henry was the Chosen One.
A man of the people, ascended to royalty by the Fates themselves. He had scraped his way through hell to claim the great throne of Saldia. He had united the continent beneath his might. He had forced kings and queens alike bow before him, only to slice off their heads as punishment for their rebellions against his rule.
He would not lose it all tonight.
Normally, a single man would hardly be a challenge, but after the attack, every breath ended with the question of whether or not the next would come.
Henry had to conserve every ounce of energy if he was going to survive this.
And he would. He had to. With the suffering he had endured up to this point, this would not be his day to die.
After all, there was retribution to be had. There was still much blood to spill before he went to the grave—and more souls to take with him along the way.
Chapter Two
Connor
The chilling howl of the blightwolves echoed through the dense trees of the Ancient Woods. In reply, a cold wind kicked through the canopy of the wise old forest. The rushing torrent of air crashed through leaves like waves on a shore, momentarily even louder than the creatures haunting its grove. This wood had seen kingdoms rise and fall in its many centuries, and the mournful cry of the giant wolves held little fear for these timeless oaks.
The howl briefly faded, echoing across the mountains.
An omen of death.
Any breathing thing in its right mind froze in place, waiting for the terrors to pass through the cold spring night.
The hard branch of an old oak pressed against Connor Magnuson’s back as he adjusted in his perch, high in the canopy. He had learned early on to sleep in the trees. It was a lesson he had gathered from all the skeletons he had stumbled across in his travels through this forest, their bones gnawed through and licked clean.
Blightwolves showed no mercy—not to man, woman, or child. Legend said they knew only hunger. Death would come for Connor eventually, but he hadn’t clawed his way through life thus far to end up as some beast’s dinner.
The brisk wind hounded the oaks again. His tree swayed as he tightened his threadbare coat and rubbed his arms to keep warm. Though he sometimes thought of home, of the small manor his father had built back in Kirkwall, he had long ago stopped wishing for fire and solace in the night. Those were luxuries out in this forest he had chosen to call home—luxuries a drifter like him couldn’t afford.
He settled into the rhythm of the breeze through the gnarled oaks around him, a song he had grown accustomed to during his years in this massive stretch of forest: the creak of withered trunks as the wind danced through them; the clatter of leaves, like applause from a long-dead crowd to a performance even time had forgotten; his own quiet breath, added like an afterthought to an orchestra.
And a scream, shrill and short, in the distance.
It snapped Connor from his sleep like a slap to the face. He stiffened, straining to hear it again through the gale. It might’ve been a dream, nothing but a memory he had so often tried to bury. After all, it had sounded so familiar.
