It was the Ravenwalker that Kelven worried about. How can he hope to defeat something like this? Even with all his power? It seemed an impossible task.
And then there was no time to think.
The werebeast attacked. Kelven danced away, the fortification of grace allowing him to evade the flurry of claws and fangs. Somehow, he managed to land a glancing blow, followed quickly by another. It wasn't enough. The thing that had been Skeeves refused to slow. The wild fervour of its bloodlust drove it on. Kelven made one last attempt to dodge, but he was too slow. Claws tore into his abdomen, ripping and rending into his guts. He staggered and fell backward, the sword tumbling from his hand. A moment later, he found himself on the floor, clutching at his stomach. His hands were slathered in hot, greasy blood.
One look told him it was a fatal wound. Thick bands of muscle had been shorn, opening his bowels. He held his breath against the stench, but his lungs were quick to rebel.
In that moment, Kelven Strall found himself coughing and bleeding, deep in the subterranean chamber of a ruined castle. How did it come to this? It seemed an absurd fate, slaughtered by this mad sorcerer. He looked up, expecting to find the werebeast looming over him, ready to tear his throat out, just as it had done to the wolf. Instead, the monster had turned its attention back to the staggered Ravenwalker.
Not even a quick death. Somehow, the thought stoked Kelven’s anger.
Strangely, some of the pain was already fading. He looked down to find that the flow of blood had slowed to a trickle. There was a warmth in his abdomen. It was faint, barely noticeable beneath the heavy covering of pain, but it was enough. The fortification of healing was buying him time. He knew he wouldn’t escape the Last Wind—his blood would already be turning septic—but he thought that perhaps he could hold it off for just a little longer.
He tore the pack from his back. Fumbling with the straps and canvas, he withdrew the wand of detachment. It was ready for use again. He pressed its rune against his flesh. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he felt the familiar rush of power. All at once, the pain melted away, like hoarfrost beneath the light of the late autumn sun. He was still aware of his wound, but it did not consume his every thought. Slowly, pushed himself to his knees.
One last chance.
His gaze fell on the wand in his hand. Like the others, its power was now expended. He had only a single wand left—the second wand of strength—but the Ravenwalker had warned him against using it.
That’s it!
Kelven withdrew the last wand. He felt the smoothness and weight of its stone in his hand. Locking his eyes on the werebeast, he stumbled forward with all the grace a disembowelled man could manage. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
He took one step, then a second. By the sixth, he was within striking distance of the werebeast. With all the fortified strength that was left to him, he rammed the rune against its exposed back. The creature howled as the wand flared to life. Invisible power flared as fresh strength flowed into thick, bestial muscle.
Blessed Graven One, let this work.
The werebeast laughed and turned. “Foolish little man. What did you think to do? You've only made me stronger!” It took one step toward him. All at once, its veins swelled beneath its fur, becoming as thick as braided rope. Muscle trembled and slowed, rendered immobile by the surging rush of power. The Skeeves-thing hissed and growled, but remained as fixed and unmoving as a bronze casting.
“All power has its limits,” said the Ravenwalker, leaning on his staff as he approached the werebeast. At the same moment, Kelven's legs gave out, and he crumbled to the floor. “Limits that even your own dark ambitions cannot overcome.”
The magus was silent for a moment, regarding the werebeast with sad and solemn eyes. “Do you know why the Stone Seat sends me after apostates like you?” The creature struggled to respond, but the power of the wand had stilled even its voice. The Ravenwalker raised his staff. “Because of this. Veardunim, it's called.” Kelven watched as the weapon shimmered and changed shape, becoming a sword, a spear, a hammer. “An ancient talisman from a time long forgotten. It shifts with the thoughts of its bearer. But it has another purpose—and another name.”
When Ravenwalker raised the weapon, it became a staff once more, hissing with showers of bright green sparks. “Behold the power of the Runebreaker.”
The magus lunged forward, driving the staff into the creature's chest. More sparks flew. The scent of burning fur and charring meat filled the air. Then the staff erupted with a wave of force. Kelven tumbled backward. His head struck against the floor. All the world went dark.
Kelven Strall awoke only once more on this side of the Morning Gate. His eyes came open to a blur of orange light. He was dimly aware of an ache in his head and a pain in his gut, but it felt distant, like an echo heard over a great distance. Slowly, he shifted himself into a sitting position—or as close to it as he could manage. He was in a forest, resting near a small but well-stoked fire. Across the dancing flames sat a man in black.
A man with a ruined face.
The Ravenwalker.
Memories came rushing back. Images of the sorcerer and the old ruins flashed through his mind. The source of the distant pain became clear. He looked down to find the wound carefully bandaged.
“Won’t do any good,” he muttered.
“No,” said the Ravenwalker. “Likely not. But it seemed like the right thing to do.” He regarded Kelven for a long moment. “You very likely saved my life. I thank you for that.”
“Don’t mention it.” Kelven coughed. He spit red.
“That was quick thinking, using the wand to overload his strength.”
“It was a mad gamble. Had no idea if it would work.”
“If it hadn’t, we would have been in trouble.”
“I’d have thought we already were. What happened? After you hit him?”
The Ravenwalker lifted the staff from his lap, turning it over in his hands. He shuddered. “I used Veardunim to tear the runes from him. As a result, his power shattered.”
“Dead?”
The magus nodded.
“Thank the Graven One.”
“I didn't take you for the devout sort.”
“I'm a thief, magus. Not a heathen.” Kelven shifted his weight, struggling to find a comfortable position. Eventually, he abandoned the effort, collapsing onto his back. Trees stretched up all around him, their branches reaching for the heavens. The faint film of dawn was already washing away the stars, even as the whisper of the Last Wind was drawing the life from his body. The moon hung over them like a great, silvery eye. Kelven wondered how many weeks remained before it vanished and the hollow season of winter began. He knew he wouldn't see it. “I'm going to die.”
“Yes.”
Kelven sighed. “I’d hoped to see them again. Just one more time.”
“What are their names?”
“Melina and Quelana. Both the picture of their mother.” He paused, finding that he had to focus on every word. “Cyana. She’d take your breath away, magus. She took mine, years before these blasted lungs failed me. Eyes like jade and hair the colour of dark chai.”
“You’ll see her soon. Beyond the Morning Gate.“
“In the Afterlands. After what, I wonder?”
“That’s a mystery,” said the Ravenwalker, “that the living will never solve.”
“Perhaps not. You’ll look after them, won’t you magus? My girls, I mean.”
“That was the bargain. They’ll be provided for, Kelven. You have my word.”
“Good. That’s good.”
A hush fell over the forest. The fire crackled softly, casting shadows that danced like the phantoms of the dead, calling him home. Kelven watched as those shadows slowly faded into memory. Yes, life had taught him a dozen ways for a man to die. In the end, Kelven could only think of one.
He closed his eyes and let go.
The adventure continues at
varkaschronicles.com
Acknowledgments
My first thanks are always to God, for creating me in His image and giving me the capacity to write and create. Thank you, Lord.
Next, my endless thanks go to my wife, whose love, encouragement and patience seem boundless. I love you more than all the stars.
Lastly, I'd like to a few specific people who helped bring this particular story to its completion.
To Jeremy Carlson, who has been visiting this world since Kelven was little more than a name on a page and the Ravenwalker was just a boy with a bird. You've been in this for the long haul, my friend, and I can't thank you enough.
To Amy Borel whose editing made this story stronger and more enjoyable to read. Thank you!
To Keith Fraser, for his input on the cover design.
And to Jamie Schroeder for the author photography.
Thank you all!
About the Author
Deck Matthews is a pseudonym for one particular Matthew Ward, who lives in Ottawa, Canada with his wife, two daughters and one little fluff ball of a dog named Wicket. He is the creator of the Varkas Chronicles. You can follow along with the adventure on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook.
If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review or sharing it with your friends!
Photography by Hello Lovely Studios
Also Available from Deck Matthews
The Riven Realm
The First of Shadows
Varkas Tales
In the Tower of the Witching Tree
The Melding Thief Page 4