Chapter Thirty-Five: Veiling Light

  Selriph could see nothing but pitch black as he fumbled his way through the corridor, his hands reaching into the void; the rough texture of wood was the only indicator of his relative position. Then he felt the empty space where the floor seemed to end—no doubt the flight of stairs that led to the common room below.

  Step by cautious step, he made his way down, met by the faint groan of wood underfoot, amplified loud in his senses due to the dead silence of the inn, punctuated by extremely faint, distant clawing seeping through the walls from the commotion he had witnessed from his room.

  As he came to the landing, the faint silver of the starlit night outside filtered through the gaps of the boarded-up windows, meagrely cutting through the overwhelming darkness that surrounded him.

  Selriph paused, questioning why his instincts had overridden his better judgment and brought him down here.

  What am I even doing…? It’s not like I can even help Eilan. I can’t fight off a horde of wraiths. I should just—

  As if endeavouring to cut off the thought of returning to the relative sanctuary of the room, Selriph felt something touch his shoulder, causing the boy to gasp in startled fright. He jerked back, nearly tripping over the stairs he had just descended.

  To his right, he saw the thing responsible—not a wraith or some otherworldly entity, but the innkeeper, Brynjar, his ginger-red beard barely visible in the surrounding gloom, figure jerked back, mirroring the boy’s sudden fright.

  “By the five! What are you doing down here, lad?” His voice came as an intense whisper.

  “Apologies,” as Selriph found his footing. “Can’t you hear the scratching?” As he gestured towards the barred windows.

  “I’m ain‘t deaf, of course I can! Someone must’ve left a light on or somethin’. Folks here know what to do; just gotta snuff it out.” His whisper held a blend of protest and assurance.

  Selriph’s mind flashed with the image he had seen mere minutes ago: no light from the house, just the wraiths drawn there, as if tempted by some unseen, enticing morsel.

  “They are bearing on Caddock and Eilan’s place. There was no light.” The boy’s whisper came flat.

  “No light? You sure your eyes are okay there, boy?” A low flicker of doubt entered his whisper.

  “Yes, they seemed… agitated,” Selriph replied, just as the scratching intensified, as if in mocking agreement with him. “At this rate, they’ll eventually get through. What’s going on?”

  “How should I know, boy? And even then, what are you going to do? Go out there with your blade? You’d sooner get sucked dry before that does anything to them.” His theatrical gesture towards the estoc that hung at Selriph’s side as if underlining his whispered objection.

  “No, but I can…” Selriph stopped himself, knowing that even if his magic could harm the wraiths, there was no guarantee he could best the horde outside—these were no lethargic ghouls after all.

  Even if he prevailed, the aftermath would involve explaining his magical abilities to the Caddock, the Innkeeper, and the entire village. A trail of his flight, painted in his actions.

  No, he’s right. It’s better just to leave them. Besides, they are just nobodies…

  Selriph’s gaze drifted away from Brynjar’s dark silhouette, as if he were averting his eyes due to the shameful self-preservation of his thoughts. His gaze landed in the gloom, toward the table where he had first become acquainted with the father-and-son duo.

  What followed was not a call to action due to some na?ve notion of heroism or aiding someone in dire need.

  Instead, this stemmed from a simple realisation, sparked by his initial meeting with Eilan.

  The reason the wraiths gravitated to the house—or rather, the boy within.

  The magical energy radiating from the young boy’s leaking aura, like blood spilt in shark-infested waters.

  Selriph felt the curious and disapproving gaze of the innkeeper on him as he leveraged the parrying dagger on the boarded nails of the door—an attempt to secure an exit via the kitchen.

  Selriph had only the tactile feeling of the knife and the faint silhouette of the nails to work with as he undid the implements holding the boards in place. Behind him, he could hear the innkeeper’s whispered protests, although Brynjar made no physical attempt to stop the youth.

  Perhaps the innkeeper was unwilling to hinder someone who had so swiftly drawn a weapon and moved directly for the door, or maybe it was because Selriph exuded an air of assuredness, despite the relative blindness of the surrounding darkness.

  This wasn’t some spontaneous act of heroism on the youth’s part—his lesson in Caer Eldralis taught him the folly of such impulses. Before this, he had stared almost blankly into the darkness for a full minute, his mind racing to process the implications of his realisation about Eilan and to weigh his courses of action.

  Only once a logical solution crystallised in his thoughts did his muscles finally respond, as if freed from the shackles of restraint brought by measured contemplation.

  With the last board lowered as gently as a sleeping cub, Selriph’s focus broadened just enough to hear Brynjar’s final protests.

  “Before you step out there to your death, boy, at least tell me what you plan to do so I can put it in your obituary.” His voice was heavy with concern, despite his choice of words.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The youth turned back, meeting the bearded silhouette of the innkeeper. His answer was wordless; he lifted the pendant around his neck with his thumb, dangling it in display.

  Selriph could swear he saw the innkeeper’s expression contort into further confusion, despite the darkness they were in. This was met with a relaxation of the silhouette’s shoulders—either resignation or assurance.

  Then Selriph turned silently, unbolting the door. The cool night air rushed in as the boy slipped out like a silent shadow into the waiting village. The door closed behind him, the work of the innkeeper.

  Out in the open, the frosty night breeze carried not just the scent of grass and manure, but also the sound of demented clawing from beyond the village square, accompanied by the soft murmur of the brook that gave the town its namesake.

  Driven by pure muscle memory—honed by his many stealthy escapades in Caer Eldralis—the boy moved through the village. He poised his hands, not with his blades, but ready to flare with arcane defence if needed, as a last resort.

  As he navigated behind the buildings that dotted the perimeter of the village square, he caught glimpses of the commotion caused by the body of wraiths. Each passing glance gave him valuable information.

  There seemed to be three, five at most, of them, and they were scoring and clawing along the wooden structure of the building—the door, the walls, but critically, the windows, which were likely the least secure.

  From a distance, he could not make out their integrity, but the distant groans of wood and splintering—whether real or a figment of Selriph’s worry—signalled an evident need for urgency.

  There was no way the wood would hold until sunrise.

  Barring the fortuitous arrival of the absent knight, Selriph’s stealthy and timely intervention was all that stood between Eilan and Caddock ending up as withered husks come morning.

  Just a couple more corners, come around the back—there has to be a way in.

  The sound of wood splintering and scratching became a stark reality as he finally approached the back of the house, the next obstacle in his way — the lack of a door, just boarded-up windows.

  Damn it, I can’t shift the earth below to get sight of its interior.

  Selriph’s face pressed against the windows, his eyes scanning the starlit surface of the wood.

  Please let there be a gap… I just need—there!

  Through a gap perhaps just wide enough for two coins to fit through, Selriph glimpsed the interior. The features were barely identifiable, but, in the middle of the main living space, beyond the nebulous silhouettes of furniture, hanging objects, and a silent hearth, were the two figures in a deadly predicament: a larger one holding a child in a protective embrace.

  Selriph inhaled sharply yet silently into his nostrils, the next phase of the plan and the only thing he could not control: the reaction of the two occupants to what he was about to do.

  The image of the tome flickered in his mind. The most basic of cantrips came into form as the faintest blue of arcane pulsed from his hand.

  Beyond the gap, a spark flickered to life inside the house, drawing startled jolts from the two desperate occupants. It coalesced into an indescribable translucent blue energy mass. The orb-like mass morphed into a disc-like shape, with a series of smaller, appendage-like lumps beginning to protrude from it. At first, it seemed almost unnatural, unnerving even.

  But as the seconds passed, it formed into something instantly recognisable.

  The unmistakable form of a hand, formed of pure arcane energy.

  The glow emanating from the Arcane Hand spell was faint, as if faltering—not from a lack of skill, but from the boy’s intense concentration to keep the magical output as low as possible, lest Selriph’s own magical display draw the unwanted ire of the wraiths clawing away at the front of the structure.

  Slowly, beyond the faint light of the mystical hand, Selriph could see Caddock’s figure approach it in cautious steps.

  Selriph focused on his arcane construct, willing it to perform its gestures at a calm, gradual pace—in an attempt not to startle his potential rescuee. The palm turned away from Caddock’s approach, followed by the flexing of the four fingers.

  A clear signal of beckoning, towards the window.

  As the man continued to approach, the Arcane Hand moved once more. This time, all but the pointer finger curled towards the palm, directing Caddock’s gaze to the gap where Selriph was peeking through.

  Caddock’s figure slowly loomed into view as Selriph prepared the words, ready to be dispensed in a calm tone the moment the man came into whispering earshot.

  “It’s Sel, let me in. I can help. Please.”

  For a few tense moments, nothing greeted the boy except Caddock’s tense figure. His expression was a mix of recognition, confusion, and scepticism.

  Then, the distinct splintering and buckling of wood came from beyond, as if prodding the man out of his state of hesitation.

  “Quick, we don’t have much time,” Selriph’s voice was brief, laced with whispered urgency.

  A nod was all that met Selriph, perhaps even a flicker of trust in the desperate father’s eyes. Caddock’s figure moved, revealing the crude claw hammer in his hands—a futile weapon of defence against the wraiths, but the precise tool needed to pry the nails holding the boards.

  Without a sound, the nails loosened, followed by a plank. It sufficed, but was still far from a comfortable opening for the youth to squeeze through.

  As Selriph crawled through, the mage hand flickered out of existence as he carefully slithered into the meagre gap. As his hands met the cold wood, he was helped up by the calloused palms of the father. Behind him, the figure of the boy cowered behind a table, eyes fixed on Selriph.

  “What in the Five was that? What are you doing here?” Caddock’s whispered voice came.

  Selriph stared at the concerned parent in the gloom as his hands moved to the trinket around his neck, placing it on the boy. “Eilan has holy potential. Wraiths are drawn to him. Place this on his neck. Quick!” His whisper was laced with urgency.

  Caddock held the trinket in his hand, glancing at Selriph with inquiry before he paced back to his son, whose expression evinced recognition of their unexpected guest.

  Before the Caddock knees met the wooden floor, his son, Eilan, uttered three words.

  “I trust him.”

  Selriph witnessed the boy reaching out for the trinket, placing it over his neck. Even in the deep darkness, Selriph could make out his expression, one of confusion over the strange sensation the trinket would bring on its bearer.

  For a few critical moments, it seemed the trinket had no effect. The scratching maintained its intensity, and the wood beyond finally allowed light to seep through.

  Damn… was I too slow?

  Selriph’s hand moved instinctively to his estoc, the ingrained gesture overriding the futility of the motion.

  Then slowly, like the moments after a blaze peaks, the horrifying chorus of scratches diminished. It was as if the wraiths were slowly realising or questioning the sudden absence of the tasty morsel that had lain beyond the walls they had been clawing at for what seemed like an eternity.

  Selriph inhaled, eyes closed, feeling the magical energy around him, around himself. The cloak tightened as if in a protective wrapping around him.

  Nothing, no discernible trace of magical energy, light, holy, or arcane. Mundane, just like the rest of the village.

  With it, the scratching finally came to a halt. A dead silence finally permeated the town, reassuring more than dreadful.

  And for the rest of the night, the only sounds came from the rustle of wind, the pacing of feet from other curious night creatures roaming under the lunar eclipsed sky, and the wisp of the wraiths taking to the humble offerings scattered throughout town, unaware of the feast they had nearly stumbled upon.

  What felt like an eternity passed as the three lay in abject stillness in the house.

  The signal of the end of the ordeal finally came, not as a triumphant fanfare.

  But a change in light, the first of the golden rays filtering through the cracks in the walls.

  Morning had finally come.