Chapter Forty: Arcane Foundations IV: Silence and Shadows

  The rays of the morning sun hugged the jagged peaks of the Greyspire Mountains, the soft, golden corona hugging the silhouettes like a long-lost lover. The snowy slopes of the mountain whipped by the drafts above, mirrored by the fresh breeze at its base; the black Gulper horse’s mane ruffled softly in the wind.

  Nightwind’s facade was a deadpan stare as she munched on the grass. Emmett stared curiously, head tilted at the conversation that brewed between the newly acquainted female companion and Selriph.

  “I cannot believe you can melt iron and yet you haven’t learned how to cast muffle steps or shadow veil.” Kela twirled her staff in a florid gesture as if punctuating her incredulous reaction.

  “My training was … interrupted. Show it to me again. With the theory from the tome, this shouldn’t take long,” Selriph replied. The arcane energy in his hand fizzled as he focused his attention on the elven youth.

  “You are either extremely confident or extremely ignorant—something my brother has in ample spades. These spells took me days to learn. She spoke sceptically as arcane energy hummed in her staff.

  “Well, unlike your brother, I don’t believe that sneaking past a giant scarab beetle to whatever vault you are searching is my idea of a good plan.” Selriph’s reply came dry, yet almost factual.

  “At least we are agreed there; maybe the two of us can get along.” A brief chuckle escaped her lips.

  Selriph’s mind flashed with the images of the ratways, the comforting warmth of Hagan’s lodge.

  Then, the cold, damp air of the warehouse—the trap, something he could have averted if he hadn’t indulged in the sentimentality brought about by the woodsman and the woman he rescued from the rapids.

  His reply came as cold as the mountain wind. “We are in accord, but I do not plan to tarry.” Selriph’s eyes traced Kela’s graceful features—the pointed ears and angular face, a portrait of aesthetics framed by her soft golden hair—reminiscent of the masterwork painting that he’d admired at the Daryth estate.

  The only thing that marred the pleasing sight was the faint scowl of disappointment that touched her lips.

  Selriph’s voice came formal, in an attempt at placation. “As much as I enjoy your company in this brief … acquaintanceship.”

  Kela’s gaze landed on Selriph’s, an unreadable expression of appraisal flashing, cutting through the touch of gloom on her face.

  “If this is your idea of an acquaintance, what is your idea of friendship?”

  Selriph’s reply came flat. “A partnership that doesn’t get me killed.”

  Kela’s brows perked up, as if seeing the unsaid currents of Selriph’s words. “Sounds like you have a tale. Save that for the campfire tonight; we have a trek ahead.”

  “Don’t forget the lesson; let’s get this done before your brother emerges with his focusing orb. Show me the spell again. I would like to learn it in a timely manner.” Selriph’s reply came as he entered an observant stance once more.

  With a silent nod, Kela gestured with her staff, shaping the incantation with her lips, the words escaping in a low whisper—all but inaudible.

  Arcane wisps trailed the fluid motions, like schools of glowing fish, swam elegantly downward, gathering at the soles of her feet. As they gathered, they coalesced into a thin, convex disc of light.

  A near-translucent veil, with the grass visible through the edges of the spell, much like the masterwork stained-glass in the Caer Eldralis cathedral.

  Kela stamped dramatically with her feet. The expected thud of leather against soft grass was completely absent, instead replaced by the ripple of the arcane disc underfoot.

  “There, not a sound.” She winked at Selriph, a small, expectant smile playing on her lips.

  However, Selriph’s gaze remained fixed on the arcane membrane as his magical senses tried to decipher the spell’s makeup, its frequency.

  It wasn’t entirely different from the suppress aura spell that had become a constant companion to his skin. However, he felt a subtle difference; instead of the paradoxical blanket of cold and warmth, this arcane manifestation seemed to form a ‘buffer’ or ‘emptiness’ where air should have been, between the soles and the ground.

  So the spell somehow stops the transmission of sound from the impact…? How would I visualise that…?

  He paused, hand stroking his chin.

  Cannot hurt to ask her...

  Then the query bubbled to his lips, “What imagery did you use?”

  By the time Selriph’s gaze landed on her face, an expression of disappointment and confusion. “Imagery? You just use the incantation; we have the same text,” she gestured to the Tome of Arcane Foundations that lay on a loose boulder, next to Selriph’s pouch.

  “But in that moment when the spell forms, what goes through your head?” Selriph’s question came with a diagnostic flatness of an apothecary.

  “I… I don’t understand your question. The incantation focuses the intent, no? The Runic Formulae are standard all over the continent.” Kela’s eyebrows raised, bewilderment building.

  “No, what I mean is: what if you wanted to do it silently, without an incantation, no words, rather than a mutter—we need to be stealthy.” Selriph paced over to the tome, to the open page titled ‘Muffled Steps’.

  “I… wait. How have you learned your spells?” Kela’s voice was low, as anticipation built.

  “Silently, I had eyes on me; if I made a single noise, I would have been found out.”

  A pedantic contradiction pricked at the edge of Selriph’s thoughts: the healing cantrip, or rather, his attempts at learning it, along with the fiery display at the warehouse, an application of scroll-casting, were the exception to the statement he just uttered.

  “You learnt the spells silently? You mean, even that arcane counterforce?!” Her eyes widened as the realisation started to dawn on her.

  “Arcane counterforce? You mean what I used to undo the earthen shackles?” His voice rose.

  “Yes, that! You… do you even know what tier that spell is! Don’t tell me you learnt that silently.” A mix of horror and abject shock brimmed over her face.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “According to the person who gave me that tome, it was a crude third-tier display. Why…?” Selriph picked up the tome and pointed to the handwritten notes on the margins, in Vick’s hand.

  She stepped back paces as if she had seen the twisted visage of a twitching phantom.

  “I don’t believe it; prove it.”

  Selriph silently tilted his head, his right brow lowered in expectant elaboration.

  “By Naultik’s scrying,” Kela scoffed, her voice now brimming with incredulous protest. “If you can truly cast a new spell like muffle steps without an incantation, then show me.”

  “I…”

  Selriph stared at the arcane tome, the incantation–the runic language roughly translated: ‘Veila, Silenta do Sonus’. The frequency, the signature Selriph felt from Kela’s demonstration flashed in his mind, a budding sprout for his conception of the spell.

  He gently placed the tome down, as if it were the holy gospel of Saint Martius, recited in evening prayers in the Templar chapel.

  Then he closed his eyes, tuning once more into the arcane energy, the life energy within and without. The image coalesced in his mind.

  A veil, a void that would impede sound from manifesting.

  The image was nebulous as he traced the surrounding air with loose, outstretched fingers, feeling the air, the waves, and tendrils of sounds around him.

  Then the lucidity came, along with the materialisation of thin, translucent-blue strands of arcane, each hollow within, devoid of air, held out by the thin, impregnable fabric of arcane, like the tensile strength of a spider’s silk.

  In the black void of his closed eyes, Selriph saw the magic. Guided by his fluid gestures, trails of arcane energy gathered beneath his feet like a chorus of choreographed dancers. A comforting hum pulsed in his body, its rhythm blending with the ambient life force he had attuned to.

  A state of tranquillity that brimmed with absolute focus.

  Then his instincts guided him, forming the arcane energy into two thin discs beneath his feet—no, a thin sheet of fabric that veiled his entire body from his waist down.

  Selriph then tested the spell; he stamped his feet against the rocky ground he stood on, but the anticipated sound never came. He then tapped his thighs, only to be met with the pure absence of sound.

  Only then did he open his eyes, his gaze fixed on the mesmerising sheets of arcane energy that hugged his lower body, a transparent veil of power as delicate as the finest silk.

  Then, he lifted his head to meet the eyes of the elven youth, who was merely two cycles older than him.

  Despite the minor difference in their ages, the disparity in their abilities was written plainly on her face. Her jaw dropped, and the staff slipped from her grasp, clattering softly to the floor. Her hands, once taut with focus, now hung limp at her sides, all poise lost to the sight she had just witnessed.

  Selriph felt it, or rather, his mind recognised the pattern; this same sight met him those weeks ago in the ratways.

  Thus, the words that escaped Kela’s mouth did not surprise him; they intrigued him. It was the second mention of a name he had heard only in passing.

  “What is this…? Are you the second coming of Valdor the Great…?”

  Unfortunately for Selriph, his query would hang in his mind with the untimely arrival of Kaelan, belongings–an arcane orb and objective in tow.

  The trio trekked south-eastwards. A day’s journey to an unmarked cave among the mountain slopes–one that supposedly led to a vault. In front of them, the snow-capped peaks framed an ascending gorge, its rocky path winding up the incline where it eventually disappeared into the snowline. That path accommodated man, woman, steed, and canidae.

  “Why would there be a vault holding magical inventions in the middle of Eldeitia? In the mountains, no less?” Selriph’s question came as mist formed on his words, the result of the dropping temperatures of their climb.

  Kaelan replied, his focus ahead, conjuring stone supports, his shield glowing with terramantic energy. “Eldeitia used to be home to a mage’s guild sect as well, didn’t you learn that amongst your holy sermons?”

  Though Selriph uttered “no,” it was underlaid with an almost forceful affirmation.

  Kela’s voice came from behind, her gaze firmly on the dire wolf who was navigating the rocky slopes with measured grace. “I knew the Eldeitian mages were tight-lipped, but it must have blossomed tenfold since the Ironcrag Wars.”

  The Ironcrag wars…? They must mean the Eldeitian-Venthar war.

  The current of Selriph’s thought brought forth his next question: “You refer to Eldeitian mages as tight-lipped; it almost sounds like you met them before.”

  “Father did. He came here over two decades ago,” Kaelan’s voice was tinged with pain.

  “I remember he had a lot to say about his time here,” Kela added, her voice a warm echo of her brother’s memories. “Mostly about the brutal weather and his encounter with the frost drake.”

  Selriph’s gaze traced the skyline, brows furrowed in confusion, the frosty peaks veiled by thick cloud, reflecting the obscurity that he sought to pierce with his question.

  “He came here? In the middle of mountainous nowhere?” His voice was dry with inquiry.

  Selriph felt the light tap of a finger on his shoulder. He turned to see a finger pointed towards a cloud-covered slope.

  “The Greyspire Mage’s College is on the far side of that,” she said, gesturing to the broad, sweeping mountain that stretched before them.

  A mage’s college? Here…?

  “I assume there is a good reason we aren’t going up there and instead we are headed to some unmarked cave…?” Selriph asked with forced politeness.

  “That place had been picked clean during your purge. We found this by pure chance,” Kaelan pointed to the orb that hung on his back.

  “However, father’s notes suggest there is a weapon, a colleague of his who studied the subterranean wildlife.” Kela’s voice came with a hint of skepticism.

  The soft hum of magic preceded the next words from the male elf.

  “Kela, it’s real; we saw the vault. Now, we just have to get past that oversized bug…” Kaelan tightened his grip on his shield. Using earth magic, he pushed it forward, forming a crude, gritty ramp.

  Kela walked to Selriph’s side, matching his pace. With a friendly pat on his shoulder, she said, “Then it is a good thing our new acquaintance here is such a quick study.”

  Kaelan turned back, his expression a scowl, a mix of jealousy and scepticism. “I don’t buy your story. He likely already knows the muffle step and veil shadow spells. He has that tome after all.” Kaelan gestured to Selriph’s pouch before he ascended the gravelly slope.

  Then he continued, as if speaking towards the ridge that loomed ahead. “He likely learnt magic for years, probably said that to impress a pretty elven woman,” a scoff escaped his lips.

  A rising, bantering protest came from Kela, “Or he is just that good. He dealt mighty blows to your precious Golem.”

  “It nearly got him, if it weren’t for that—” the low growl of Emmett cut off the rest of his sentence.

  Contrary to the timing of the growl, the wolf’s vocalised interjection was not in protest at the unfinished quip from the male elf.

  But from the rocky outcrop to their right, where the snowline met gravel.

  There, the trio could make out a bestial figure clad in white, with long arms waving heavily. Its form was a hulking, dishevelled, matted mass of ice-white fur.

  The trio entered a crawl. Selriph gestured for Nightwind to hold position in their rear, and Emmett mirrored the stance of his humanoid companions as they made their way to a rocky outcrop–just enough to conceal them from sight.

  As the figure paced across the ridge, its steps almost a calculated patrol, they could distinguish its facial features; its head a brutish facade, a jutting snout. Its posture is a near stoop, betraying its raw, predatory strength.

  “Shite, just our luck that a Frost Troll made this ridge his home since the last time we came…” Kaelan cursed, his breath a whisper.

  “Cool your blood; maybe we can sneak around it,” Kela whispered.

  “Impossible. The gorge is too narrow. We are in broad daylight. Shadow Veil won’t work…”

  As the contemplative repartee faded into the background of Selriph’s mind, thoughts raced with ways to overcome the obstacle before them.

  Methods that focused an efficient expenditure of lethal force, one that ideally would not result in any of his companions walking away limbless.

  If we cause a rockslide? No…. But with the shield… if we hold it down between the two of us… a surgical strike…

  “... … Selriph…? Selriph…?!” The almost-voiced whisper broke through Selriph’s calculative trance.

  Selriph snapped back to Kela’s face, plastered with curiosity. “I have seen that look; let’s hear it.”

  Then a voice came from his right, Kaelan’s in unexpected, albeit sarcastic agreement. “It seems the second coming of Valdor has some sort of plan. Enlighten us, oh wise one.”

  Selriph sighed, clearly annoyed. “I haven’t given it proper thought; perhaps we should—”

  The crumble of gravel broke his thought as he flashed behind him, to the unwelcome sight.

  The dire wolf’s posture trailed into a vigilant, protective stance, yet a low groan rumbled in his chest. That sound seemed to carry a warning and utter frustration—if a wolf felt such emotions—beckoning Selriph to witness the horse’s foolish wandering, as it began its futile attempt to herd the wayward steed back into cover.

  It was too late.

  A deep growl emanated from beyond the rocky outcropping they had taken cover in, the troll’s attention riled by something—the horse which had wandered downslope.

  By the Five!

  Selriph’s head dropped, a picture of frustrated dismay. “Listen quickly, before Nightwind becomes its next meal…”

  Patch note: The Holy Empire's name has been changed to better reflect my original intent.