Wraithblade (The Wraithblade Saga Book 1), page 14
More importantly, Connor wasn’t a man of fear. The Ancient Woods and the monsters lurking in the trees had carved the terror out of his heart years ago. With no family and nothing to lose, nothing scared him anymore, least of all the threat of damnation.
He had looked death in the eye too often to fear it.
“You want blood,” he said, his voice calm and steady despite the howling gale around him.
I do, the wraith confirmed.
“You want war.”
Correct.
“You won’t get either from me.” He tossed the stunning black blades to the soil at his feet. They smacked against the dirt, dissolving into wisps of smoke that faded into the cyclone around him.
The gale dispersed. The howling stopped, and the leaves gently fluttered to the ground like snow on a still day. Connor’s ear rang in the sudden silence, but he stood taller and dared the ghost to make the next move.
You refuse to give me what I desire because you know so little about what awaits you. About what’s possible.
“Enlighten me, then.”
The ghost laughed and circled him, those bony hands behind his back. You’ve never seen true power, but you will. It’s coming for you. It wants you dead. You said you know of potions? Fool, I can assure you those are but peasants’ playthings compared to what lies before us.
Connor scoffed. “If the legends are true, you used potions more than anyone. You decimated entire armies with your concoctions.”
Wrong, the ghost corrected, looming overhead. I destroyed them with enchantments. With augmentations. Potions are baubles, nothing but a means to an end. It’s the enchantments that hold true power. Enchantments like those swords. Enchantments like the one in your chest.
The ghoul prodded the scar on his sternum with a skeletal finger. A surge of pain shot through him at the ghost’s touch. His head thudded with a dull ache as he steeled himself and pushed through the wave, refusing to let the agony it show on his face.
You don’t have a single augmentation, not even one for hygiene. The dead king lifted his chin, a hint of disdain in his voice. You stand no chance against an augmented warrior, much less one with an enchanted weapon. Tell me, have you ever watched a soldier wielding an enchanted blade? Have you watched an augmented soldier fight? Do you have any inkling of what lies ahead of you? Of what you could be if only you listened to me?
Connor simply crossed his arms and let the silence linger. In the dead king’s anger, he was starting to reveal truths about magic Connor had never heard before.
Best to let the fool speak and betray what he knew. It would likely come in useful.
When the first real danger crosses your path, you will die, the Wraith King warned. Spellgust is the breath of life, you infuriating peasant, but you’ve barely touched it. Augmentations and enchanted items—the powerful ones, anyway—connect to the body. As a soldier trains, each movement, each motion, comes to mean something unique to the magic they wield. Spellgust connects to the blood, and their muscle memory and training grants them complete control over their power. The soldiers you will face were forged in the most refined spellgust known to this world. You merely fell into a puddle.
It had no doubt been intended as an insult, but the lecture gave Connor an idea.
The ghost said something else, but he tuned out the grim voice so he could focus. If the swords were truly connected to him, as the wraith had said, they couldn’t have been destroyed by simply throwing them to the ground.
His heels dug into the dirt, and he tried to recall the weight of the blades in his palm. The way they had balanced so effortlessly in his grip. The exhilarating rush of inhuman strength as he had sliced through a tree in a single blow.
Of the raw power.
As he sat with the memory, leaning into it with his full focus, the black swords materialized in his palms with a puff of midnight smoke. Dark flames licked the air as the black steel glinted in the low light of the forest.
With a devious grin, he spun the swords in his palms and aimed the tip of each blade at the skeleton floating before him. His eyes narrowed as he dared the ghoul to continue insulting him. “You were saying?”
Impressive, the Wraith King admitted, not bothering to mask the annoyance in his voice. You have potential. I’ve had worse students.
“I've had better teachers,” he countered.
The ghost huffed in anger.
Another rush of agony splintered through Connor’s side as the Bloodbane wound spasmed yet again. The ghoul flinched, and the dead king’s bony hands pressed against his own cloak as Connor clenched his jaw to ride out the pain.
Both of them shared the same injury, a stark reminder of their connection despite their hatred for each other.
As the rush of agony faded, Connor’s stomach growled, evidently unsatisfied with the feast of seared meat and bread he’d eaten barely two hours ago.
He leaned against a tree trunk as nausea burned in the back of his throat. “What the hell is this insatiable hunger? Is this your doing, too? I've been ravenous since I woke up. I can’t seem to get enough food.”
You don't think all of this power comes without a cost, do you? The Wraith King floated through the trees, darting between the oaks as he spoke. Your body is taxed from hosting both your soul and mine. It will need more food, more sex, and more water. It will burn hotter. You will never again feel the hot buzz of too much ale because you will never be able to drink enough to obtain it. You're not just a man anymore. You're something greater, and that comes at a price. I have always found it's best to take what you need, as even a king would quickly run out of coin otherwise, the ghost added, pointing a bony finger in the vague direction of the house in the trees.
At Ethan's family.
On instinct, Connor raised the flaming black steel and stood between the ghost and the Finns. “You will not touch them.”
The Wraith King chuckled. The harsh laughter cut through Connor’s head, quick and humorless, and the ghoul dissolved into the breeze.
Once again, he stood alone in the silent forest.
Take this time to heal, but do not dally, the phantom’s ghoulish voice echoed in Connor’s mind, despite the empty woods around him. You are useless while injured, but I will not be patient for long.
Connor pivoted on his heel, scanning the depths of the trees, but nothing darted between the old oaks even as the ghost spoke.
I need blood, the wraith continued. War. Battle. I am not satisfied living as a drifter in the woods. Your life as a vagrant is over.
“Don’t you threaten me,” Connor warned, glaring into the night.
The ghoul didn’t respond.
A flock of bats fluttered overhead, their leathery wings snapping against the air as they screeched into the night. He waited, his new swords at the ready as the tiny shadows careened through the air, but the ghoul didn’t reappear.
The Wraith King was gone, but his bloodlust would lure him back.
It was just a matter of time, and when the wraith’s grim voice echoed through his mind again, Connor would be ready.
Chapter Fourteen
Connor
Still tense and on edge as the forest hummed with life around him, Connor examined the flaming black swords in his palms.
He hated to admit it, but the Wraith King was right. If he walked around with blades like these, he would get the sort of attention he didn’t want.
Without the Wraith King’s help, he had to figure out how to get rid of them.
They had disappeared when he’d dropped them before, but with weapons as beautiful as these, he refused to treat them with such disrespect regardless of where they’d come from.
Adapt or die. One way or another, he would figure this out on his own, wraith be damned.
If the wraith was to be believed, it all came down to muscle memory. In his years with Beck Arbor, Connor had unconsciously picked up the habit of twisting his wrists outward the second or so before he sheathed his blades. It was a quiet habit, one that had snuck up on him from his time shoveling hay. The motions were so similar he barely registered the difference, and to him, it had always meant the duel was done.
He drummed his fingertips lightly against the swords in his hands. Briefly, he rolled out his shoulders as he lifted the blades before him.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered to himself.
With a quick twist of his wrists, he gently loosened his fingers and waited to see what would happen.
The flaming blades shifted in his palms and nearly slid out of his grip, but they didn’t fade. He frowned in disappointment.
“Okay,” he said as another flock of bats fluttered by. He squared his shoulders and deepened his stance, his heel grinding into the soil as he watched the swords intensely.
Muscle memory.
Practiced ease.
This had to be quick. Intuitive. He had to get out of his own head and let the magic connect to his body instead.
Again, he twisted his wrists outward and loosened his grip in one fluid motion. This time, the enchanted weapons dissolved in a puff of black smoke.
“Ha!” Connor stared at his now-empty palms and grinned with victory. To hell with the ghost. He could figure this out on his own.
He absently curled his fingers as the cloud hiding the moons slipped away, and a gentle blue light returned to the meadow. How surreal to think he could summon blades at will.
An orphaned drifter now had magic even the lords and kings of this world probably wanted. Otmund couldn’t possibly have been alone in the hunt, not for power like this. Once they found Connor, he would never have another moment of peace.
To take the advantage, he needed to uncover the truth—of what he was, of what he could do, and of those who hunted him.
And, perhaps, find a necromancer to help him make sense of it all.
As his thoughts raced with risk and possibility, he returned to the house in the trees. The path took nearly an hour as he debated his options, and he only broke from his thoughts when the crash of the waterfall thundered through the forest.
The rumble of water grew louder and louder with each step. Though the falls masked most of the woodland creatures’ nightly song, his ear still twitched at the occasional snap of a twig.
Nothing escaped his notice. Not anymore.
Though the wound in his side screamed in protest as he reached for the ladder nailed to the tree trunk, he climbed into the canopy. After only a few minutes, he heaved himself through the gap in the porch. The tired wood creaked beneath his weight, and he doubted this house would last long.
The Finns had abandoned it, and in its retirement, the decaying wood had lost its fight with time. They needed to build a new home and let this one die.
On the other side of the closed front door, a board creaked. A man let out a slow sigh, the sound muffled by the thick wood between them, and Connor paused with his hand on the doorknob.
Apparently, Ethan had waited up for him.
How odd.
He opened the door to find Ethan sitting on one of the stools in the kitchen, elbows resting on his knees as he stared into the stove’s red embers. A puff of smoke spiraled out of the open stove while Connor paused at the threshold. The oven cast a warm and soothing glow across the cozy space even as a cold wind snaked through the open entry.
Ethan shivered. “Shut the door.”
The latch clicked shut as he indulged Ethan’s request. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, waiting in the house’s warm silence. A man who hadn’t slept in close to two days wouldn’t have sat awake long into the night unless he’d felt the need.
“That first room is yours,” Ethan said with a nod toward the hallway. “It’s not much, but you’re welcome to it.”
Connor’s eyebrows furrowed as he peered into the narrow corridor. In the dark hallway, he noticed a sliver of a doorframe, the rest of it just out of sight. “Thanks. I promise I won’t stay long.”
“Nonsense. The room is yours, Connor. Stay as long as you like and come back whenever you want. We’ll make sure there’s an extra room in the new house, too, once we finish it.”
The man’s generosity left him speechless. Each time he thought he understood the Finns, they managed to surprise him yet again.
Ethan nodded toward the porch. “Did you find what you were looking for out there in the woods?”
“I did,” he answered, uninterested in discussing it further.
For their own safety, the Finns didn’t need to know about the Wraith King.
He walked into the hall, ready to put this day to bed, but Ethan grabbed his forearm as he passed. The grip rooted him in place, strong and sturdy.
Connor had broken men’s noses for less, but he allowed it for now. The Finns had been good to him, and he tried to show a bit of patience.
“I know you're caught in the middle of something dangerous, Connor,” Ethan said quietly. “Something deadly. All those men? All those bodies? It has to be the sort of thing that’ll chase a man across the plains.”
Connor didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
“Kiera said she saw something out in those woods,” Ethan continued. “Something she had never seen before. Something she couldn’t name.”
Disappointment snaked through Connor as he watched the man piece it all together.
He’d encountered kindness in the past, long before the Finns. Once or twice, he’d been offered room and board with the warning it would eventually end. No matter how hard he worked or what he did to help, their compassion never lasted long. Even Beck Arbor had sent him packing, and he’d learned over the years that no family welcomed a lost orphan into their home for long.
Once a vagrant, always a vagrant. The forest was the only home he had left.
“It’s fine,” he said in the silence that followed. “I’ll leave.”
“What? No, Connor, no. That’s not what I meant at all.” Ethan waved the thought away. “I know you probably won't stay here long, but there's always a room for you with us. No matter what’s chasing you. No matter what trouble you find yourself in. Whenever you need to escape whatever is waiting for you out there, I want you to come here. We're grateful to you, and if you want the change of pace, you don’t have to be a vagrant wandering the woods anymore.”
Truth be told, Connor didn't know what to say. He stood there for a moment in numb surprise, caught off guard by the idea that anyone would’ve invited him into their home—not temporarily, but always.
No one had offered him that before.
When he regained his composure, he simply nodded in gratitude. Ethan released his hold on Connor’s arm and stared again into the oven. The burly man’s eyes closed, and a small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as the warm embers cast an amber glow against his face.
Connor stepped into the small room they had offered him and shut the door. At first, he could only stare at the honey-brown walls, still looking for the catch. The lie. The con. As the quiet seconds ticked by, his gaze eventually drifted to the simple wooden bed along the far wall and the hand-carved dresser sitting opposite.
A palace, really, for a drifter like him.
Chapter Fifteen
Otmund
Otmund reclined in an ornate mahogany chair as the heel of his palm pressed against the white marble table before him. Through the open windows and the blue silk curtains lining the stone walls of the northern tower, the sun shone brilliantly on Lunestone.
Home of the Lightseers. Home of his favorite—and most treacherous—toys.
He drummed his fingers on the cold table in time to the steady cadence of footsteps by the windows. His nails tapped along the rigid and unyielding stone, the marble not unlike the man who paced along the far wall.
In the silence that stretched between them in the opulent meeting room, Otmund waited. The pacing stopped, and Teagan Starling set his hands behind his back as he gazed out over the lake. The chatter of voices below wafted through the open panes as the curtains floated gently on the early spring air.
Though he wished the Starling patriarch would say something already and get this over with, Otmund stretched his fingers out over the marble to keep himself from breaking the lull in their conversation. He curled his hands into fists several times to keep himself from speaking.
In any negotiation with a Starling, the first to talk always lost.
Teagan’s broad shoulders blocked out much of the sun glinting off the water below. His white suit stretched against his muscled bulk, the hardened warrior in better shape at fifty-six than most men were in their entire lives. That trademark Starling hair of his caught the light, the strands still ablaze with the reds, oranges, and gold of a flame despite his age.
Once a soldier, Teagan had retired to rule the most powerful magical religion in Saldia. He controlled their army, their elite assassins, their crusades against the necromancers, and most importantly, their enforcement of magical law amongst the common folk.
The Lightseers.
He governed them all from Lunestone, ordered them to fight the necromancers he told people to fear, and used his position to undermine and execute the enemies who threatened his wealth. All in the name of preserving Saldia.
And thus, why he had proven so useful to Otmund.
The distant crash of Everdale Falls rumbled through the sky, and the occasional creak of a mast or the flapping sails of a delivery ship piercing the otherwise quiet room. The world beyond continued as it always had, peaceful and still despite the clandestine uprising currently underway.
The people hadn't yet learned the king was dead, but it couldn't be hidden for much longer. As soon as the commoners knew, they would need to see his successor. They would need a story to believe, to cling to, to assure them their new ruler was the rightful one.
With no heir to the throne, and given the queen’s disappearance, filling King Henry's chair would be no easy task.
