Chapter Fifty: Splintered Steed

  Selriph felt the cold wind buffeting against him, the same force aiding the dire wolf in its effort to fully unearth the fallen steed. As the seconds passed, the snow washed off the broken form of the horse, whining in pain.

  “Emmett, halt!” Selriph roared, and the sound reverberated across the area; it was a powerful cry that would have made even the most courageous knight freeze, a roar that felt like it could unleash another snowslide.

  The wolf terminated all motion, as if time stood still.

  The appraising youth moved closer, placing a placating palm out to his left, his voice laced with apology and calm.

  “Sorry, don’t disturb her. Just keep the poor girl calm…” Selriph’s voice trailed off as Emmett turned to the prone steed, a soft, low growl as it placed its paw on the fallen gulper horse.

  Okay… this will stop any risk of further infection… but this is a right mess.

  He examined the deformed limb, but it wasn’t the sight that bothered him. He had, after all, butchered close to three dozen animals in the seventeen cycles he had been graced with on Bestriel, the material plane.

  The task before him loomed, essentially insurmountable. Surface lesions, grazes, even sword wounds? That would be within his purview of expertise. From the time he could distinguish a sword from a spear, that had been a component of his Daryth family training.

  That experience wasn’t limited to the noble privilege he was born into. Riders in the various strata were trained to preserve their steeds in prime condition, dress the wound as best they could, and bring them to a cleric or experienced healer. The horse, a steadfast companion, could live to see another day, ready to unleash its fury on the empire’s enemies, both those who sought to tear it apart from within and those who opposed it from without.

  This macabre sight before him? The splintered bone protruding through the twisted knot with the rest of the horse’s legs pointed heavenward? The sign seemed to beckon the horse toward an afterlife—if one existed for equines.

  What in the gods, how do we even begin? The only thing that could work is…

  Selriph’s mind drifted to the contents of the snow-covered pouch that hung on his side, holding the second item the librarian Gerey had left him. The scroll that could heal grievous wounds — even one such as this—the youth had witnessed its power before in his time under Brytic Thorne’s command.

  His mind flashed to the training expedition in the Alderfell wilds, a fellow initiate—one that Selriph had a cordial impression of—mauled by a salamander, healed to near perfection by a holy cleric; employing the same energies entombed in the runic glyphs of the parchment he held in his possession.

  After the incident, the boy contemplated whether that event was simply a sadistic trial designed by the Templars to test their faith.

  Should I use it… on the horse of all things…?

  With his numb fingers, he unfastened the pouch, feeling past the frost as he looked for the scroll, noting its faint magical energy and rough texture.

  The arcane energy pricked, sending a jolt through his skin—a reminder of the first time he had attempted to heal himself, the invisible cuts from the backlash of the failed healing cantrip.

  His hand shivered, not from the pain of the memory or the cold, but from the effort of the magic he had just displayed.

  With my magical reserves like this, could I even cast the spell?

  The sight of the heavy breathing of the horse accompanied the rising, unthinkable tide of the coming thought.

  Maybe it is better to put her out of her misery… I could just procure another mount.

  As soon as the thought crossed into the threshold of his mind, his neck twitched, jerking in abject, primal disagreement at the cruel, calculative contemplation that he had just indulged in.

  No, there has to be a way. I brought her up here after all…

  He rummaged through his bag, past papers, herbs, and leather, until he found something firm: clear glass.

  He looked down at the liquid, its red-gold colour brightened by the mountain sunlight around him.

  The potion of healing—the second one that the woodsman had left him with.

  Hold on, with this… perhaps…

  Selriph focused on the splintered bone, mirroring a tree torn apart by natural forces—just like the frosty onslaught that ripped the horse’s thigh.

  The runaway’s brow furrowed at the grim task his mind was conjuring, face now pretzeled with uncertainty—not because of doubt, but because of the pain the procedure would inflict on the poor horse.

  He looked at the equidae, which had heavy-lidded eyes, unreadable. It was the ever-stoic gaze of the dire wolf, along with its comforting paw placed over the silky mane of the horse billowing in the frosty wind, that pushed Selriph over the precipice of doubt into action.

  Selriph moved fluidly as he planted his feet before Nightwind, a soft voice of instruction barely above the wind.

  “Step back for a second,” words directed at his canidae partner as cyan-blue arcane energy flared one more, the tendrils extended from the mage’s outstretched hands into the snowy surface, tracing a near-perfect rectangle around the horse.

  He raised his palms skyward, and the very snow below the equidae compacted and solidified to his will, forming a solid, glacier-like platform that erupted from the ground. As this platform rose, the loose powder beneath the horse fused into a chiselled surface.

  The closest thing that could resemble the ornate altar of healing, functional for the grim task the boy was about to attempt.

  “This will hurt, but try to keep her calm…” The words were firm despite the doubt about whether Emmett even understood such an instruction. Either way, the wolf’s gaze landed on its animal counterpart’s eyes, their breathing somehow in sync.

  As Selriph moved, cryomantic energy took shape around the horse’s leg, forming icy tendrils. These threads solidified into an arch, akin to a shackle, serving as a surgical restraint on the upper part of the ravaged thigh–the one still parallel to the surface.

  The horse offered a low nicker, which was likely because of the intense cold of the ice against its leg. Selriph hoped it would serve two purposes: to provide some level of numbness to the horse’s thigh, but also to restrain the animal from thrashing about at the delicate move he was about to attempt.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Selriph surveyed the twisted knot, the splinters of white protruding through the blue-greyish knot of anguish.

  This is going to hurt…

  The boy wrapped his hands around the knee joint and the hock of Nightwind’s leg, the cryomantic energy still flowing, like a leash onto the icy arc over the upper horse’s upper thigh.

  “Are you okay so far, girl?” Selriph whispered, holding the skyward section of the limb firm, bracing against any desperate flailing from the horse.

  The horse growled, a low, cryptic sound. What mattered was that she wasn’t panicked. Her breathing slowed, and as if soothed by the dire wolf beside her, their eyes closed, almost in a sedative trance.

  “Here goes nothing…” Selriph whispered, inaudible in the soft, frosty breeze that signalled the prelude to the gruesome adjustment that was about to occur.

  The frigid air entered Selriph’s nostrils as his muscles braced; the motion played in his mind before it became reality. With a light exhale, Selriph gripped and tightened, knuckles whitening as he gradually pushed the limb downwards, soft crackles and pops escaping the mangled joint as the limb began its corrective descent.

  The horse’s eyes shot open, a growl escaping, its other limbs twitching in pain. The arcane energy around the disabled limb was the only thing preventing the horse’s involuntary protest from worsening its injury in the midst of the restorative reshaping.

  Selriph’s unwavering focus remained fixed on the corrective action. The sound of Emmett’s low growl accompanied him, mixed with a punctuation of whimpers—almost sympathetic pity. The horse’s body tensed, not resisting the owner’s attempt to address it, but likely trying to override its instinct to flail in flight, which could be a fatal disruption to the delicate task.

  “Stay calm, girl… almost there…” As the horse’s hock and hoof neared the icy platform, Selriph felt a resistance, one that could only be overcome with a surgical shove.

  Pop

  The sound was like a deafening crack. The splintered bone disappeared beneath the skin as the limb returned to some level of normalcy, if one were to ignore the pooling blood near the fracture point and the torn flesh around it.

  Selriph let out the pent-up tension in his ribcage—the first hurdle overcome. Now his hands, stiff and exhausted from the physical act, rummaged once more through his pack for the crimson vial.

  As he moved to uncork the bottle, he knew that this was probably the most dangerous part of the procedure thus far. He wasn’t sure whether the concoction sufficed to mend the crude aftermath. After all, even if flesh and skin rebounded, it was unlikely that the rendered bone would heal properly, given the crude manner in which he had corrected it.

  Not to mention that he hadn’t cleaned the wound, something that the healing potion could do by proxy, but it gave him pause, nonetheless.

  Selriph held his breath as the golden-crimson liquid poured over the razed region of the horse’s limb, its viscous content like honey over the wound. With it came a soft, golden light as the flesh began to rebind, the remaining splinters fading beneath the soft-pink flesh that enveloped the wound.

  The coppery smell of blood made way for the sweet-herbal aroma of the potion—cleanser, disinfectant, and healing accelerant.

  As the last of the bottle’s contents left its glassy abode, the glow faded, leaving behind the result: the limb in a semblance of normalcy, where bone protruded through flesh, replaced by a tentative, almost fabric-like layer of fresh, pulsing skin. The surroundings were still ravaged, resembling a single lush seedling in a cracked wasteland of drought, scarcely nourished by the life-saving balm from the heavens.

  The whined grunts from the horse slowly faded as it came into some semblance of calm. Emmett’s eyes fluttered open, and he tilted his head in curiosity, perhaps even amazement at the result, regardless of its imperfection compared to a master healer.

  The exhausted youth’s legs gave way as his bottom found rest on the snow, protected from the frost by the thick fur cloak. The boy’s sheer focused willpower that had held the cryomantic energy together sputtered, loosening the icy shackles into soft, coarse snow around the horse’s thigh.

  Selriph’s ribcage rose and fell as his vision swirled, the exhaustion catching up to him.

  “Just… give me a rest… for a moment,” as he waved dismissively towards the wolf that had begun its lope to him.

  The boy’s gaze landed on the clouded peaks above, a silent curse leaving his lips while he allowed himself some respite.

  The sight — or rather, the result before him, at the rocky cliff that had become exposed from? the avalanche.

  In his vision, the outstretched hand remained inert—a testament to the impotent state of Selriph’s terramancy.

  “Damn it. Come on, work.” Selriph closed his eyes as he willed the image of rigid, maroon pillars in his mind; the gravelly static of terramantic energy flared in his arms.

  Before he felt the sting—not just in the left cheek where the elf had struck him, but also the haunting memories in his mind.

  The arcane energy fizzled, as if attempted by the most incompetent of novice mages, ones who held a fraction of Selriph’s raw arcane and intellectual potential.

  Not that the youth had any point of reference; that was merely frustrated conjecture.

  “Blast it, why isn’t it working?! It has been days, and yet, even now!” His voice cracked as he protested, the sound nearly a squeal that resonated up towards the mountain.

  Selriph traced to his pack and the supplies that he had scavenged around the snow–buried belongings—ripped off of Nightwind’s figure during the avalanche.

  His rations, bedrolls, and other essentials. But crucially, no wooden or solid implement to create a splint for the horse.

  Damn it, if I cannot form one out of terramancy. How am I supposed to get us moving?

  Selriph shook his head, pulling the wrapped objects through the snow, his eyes fixed on the setting sun painting the western mountains, its light slicing through the snowy, angular formations, a sign that night was coming.

  Selriph paused at the raised platform, his eyes tracing Emmett, who stared expectantly at the supplies in the frost—almost anticipating the intent to cover ground.

  “Thanks, friend, but give me a moment…” Selriph’s voice trailed off as he continued his contemplative pondering

  The good wolf can haul the supplies Nightwind carried. But the issue is the horse. It can’t possibly walk in this state.

  The phantom of the sound of a cracking pop flashed in Selriph’s head, the horse crumbling once more back to the floor, as it tried to stand on its four legs.

  No, judging from its injuries, it might be able to support itself on its remaining three legs.

  That was a conclusion that Selriph had come to not thirty minutes prior; however, it came down to a singular need—a splint or at least, something to restrain the horse’s injured limb while they attempted the descent.

  I have no choice… let’s hope I have enough left in me…

  Selriph gestured to Emmett, pointing his finger at the bundled supply. The wolf trotted to the supplies, a still, understanding rhythm to its gait as its fangs wrapped around the fibrous ropes, as it began to pull the supplies ahead of the boy, eastwards, towards the decline.

  Selriph then placed a reassuring hand on Nightwind’s back, a soft consolation coming from the boy, almost soothing, song-like. “Just a little further, girl, just enough to find a place to make a proper camp…”

  Nightwind’s eyes blinked as its muscles began to stir. In the same moment, Selriph’s arcane energy flared once more—the azure blue of neutral–non-elemental magic wrapped around the back leg of the horse, in a protective cocoon. One tight enough to discourage the horse from moving it, but not enough to cause overt discomfort.

  Then, with his other hand, a wisp of magical energy formed below the horse’s torso, a buoyant disc that gently aided the horse in what would have been a clumsy stumble back onto its feet.

  Selriph, arms wide, wiggled his fingers, causing faint ripples in the mystical energy surrounding the horse, compelling it to move. The semi-levitation reduced the strain on the bruised and weary form of the horse, while the improvised arcane splint protected the ravaged limb from any further disturbance, at least until they could find shelter.

  And so the trio began their slow, tortoise-paced descent eastwards, the wolf taking the lead, allowing Selriph and his mind to focus on maintaining the delicate, supportive arcane wrapping around the horse.

  For what felt like an eternity—which was likely a mere twenty minutes—they trekked, only the howl of the wind and the sleety shuffle of the supplies dragged by the dire wolf accompanied their trek. Selriph focused on maintaining his steady breath, his body fluctuating between trembling and rigidity due to the strain of magic.

  Come on, anything, a decent rock face away from the windshear, enough for us to make—

  Then finally, something came into view. Initially, in the cloudy, darkening sky, it appeared to be a product of his imagination.

  Or rather, it seemed like an image straight out of his dream—a campus of stone, nestled in the embrace of the northeast face of Mount Galbus, veiled by the coming darkness and covered in a fresh layer of snow over its half-ruined form.

  The stone walls, battered and scarred, were almost indistinguishable from the same grey shade of the surrounding rocks from a distance.

  And in the middle, the only intact structure, like a beacon drawing him to it, a signal of the respite in his dream, and now, a sign of the fortuitous nest of rest.

  A tower.

  Kela’s words reemerged in Selriph’s mind, now muttered under his breath.

  “The Greyspire Mage’s College…”