Chapter Fifty-Five: Steel and Skill

  Selriph jolted from the electrifying sting of the restraint—the arcane chains pinning him against the wall. It was eerily reminiscent of the acid-drenched whips that clacked in the walls of the Templar compound.

  A peculiar sensation, including a cold feeling and his muscles becoming weak. As one would feel if afflicted by a strong ailment mixed with any herbal concoction from an alchemist that bade one’s body to a restful, drowsy sleep.

  Except in this situation, slumber was all but lethal.

  Ereknul’s animated figurine reached out, a fragile trail of magical energy flowing from the spectral bonds on Selriph toward him; fed by the arcane life force of the flesh and bone mage,

  Damn, if I don’t do something quick, I am going to pass out…!

  Clenching his jaw, he battled the pain and impending loss of consciousness from fighting the magical restraints, while his left hand reached for the hilt on his left hip.

  With each agonising second, his hand met only the shocking jolt of the chains and the icy, hard wall he was pressed against.

  Come on…! Where is it?

  Finally, just as his head began to throb and his vision spun, his hand found a perch on the familiar hilt—the parrying dagger. He drew it out of its sheath, and the arcane hum and the footsteps of the approaching figure masked any sound of steel on leather.

  Selriph’s gaze fixed on the firm, his voice gaining resolve, and his hand started wielding the steel blade, slowly cutting through the magical strands.

  “Ereknul! You never had any intention of being a benign guide! This proves it!” Selriph’s voice laced with venomous accusation.

  The wooden vessel’s otherworldly voice came, with a disconcerting pleading despite the figure’s hostile intention, “I have given you nothing but the truth; I do not wish for this, surrender, and please reconsider.”

  The young mage struggled against the rising fatigue as his steel blade broke through one, then two restraints. With a strained groan, Selriph’s muscles swelled and contracted. He ripped through the magical restraints binding him to the wall. Sharp pain raked across his skin as he lurched forward, his knees slamming onto the floor.

  After Selriph broke free from the draining restraints, his vision righted itself, and he sensed another surge of arcane energy. This time, it was probably another spell meant to hurl him back against the wall and snatch his parrying dagger.

  Selriph found his footing with difficulty. His eyes met the wooden vessel’s two pearl-like eyes as the next magical attack approached, leaving him only a second to respond.

  Damn, not enough time…!

  An ingrained reaction took over, not flight, not a desperate ducking. A flash of steel appeared, and in that instant, the estoc swung with precision, perfectly bisecting the incoming magical spell.

  The bolt separated, whistling as it went past his ears; a thunderous crash reverberated, and he felt the kinetic wave slam into his back. Yet his stance held firm—practised, honed, perfected on this journey.

  Selriph’s mind caught up with what he had just done—mirrored by the blank, frozen stance of the living mannequin.

  Both living souls in the room had processed what just happened—steel had sliced through pure arcane energy.

  “Unprecedented,” the living mannequin began, before the room fell silent, with only the faint sound of magical energy filling the air.

  Once again, the wooden vessel reached out its hand, presenting it in a gesture of peace.

  “Please… I do not wish to do this. Accept my offer.”

  “If you were sincere, you would let me leave—let me pass.” Selriph’s body language relaxed as he briefly moved out of his fighting posture.

  “I will do so once you allow me to implant my being into you. It will be painless, mere minutes.”

  The youth’s eyes darted around the room, glyphs adorned—suppressing, disabling his magic. Too numerous, too many out of reach.

  Behind him? A bookshelf, a wooden barrier, stood in the way, and the boy, with his slight frame and two blades, had no means to overcome it—not without his arcane powers.

  He was separated from the living mannequin, which was in the middle of the study, by a distance of seven meters, a span that could be quickly traversed if he avoided whatever arcane onslaught it could muster.

  Once more, Selriph primed himself, estoc at the ready behind him, dagger prepared to parry in front, his mind already planning out his moves.

  He was going to settle this without magic, no parlour tricks, no flame, no spark.

  Just steel and skill.

  The boy began to sprint, the faceless facade acknowledging the boy’s final, wordless refusal.

  As his boy began his stride, arcane orbs flared to life in the living mannequin’s arms. By the time Selriph had taken his third step—just past the threshold of the ajar doors — the orbs split into three smaller projectiles.

  Mystical missiles, each following a winding but precise course, flew towards the young swordsman approaching with an Estoc.

  Selriph avoided the initial two, similar to how he’d navigate trivial barriers in the templar training area. Then the estoc intertwined in a choreographed flourish, deflecting the next bolt.

  He could make it out—the very speed and precision of his bladework—the very air that it willed seemed to tear through the fabric holding the spells together.

  Then one more came, this time from his left. The estoc had just reached the end of its arc—only the parrying dagger to meet it. He moved with a quick slash, like he was blocking a sword, or perhaps trying to cut an arrow in flight, and his steel clashed with the magical projectiles. Instead of cutting through like the Estoc, the movement’s force pushed the projectile away, causing it to hit the bookshelf to his left.

  Yet, the final missile had evaded Selriph’s notice, his gaze returning to what was right in front of him, a blade’s width from his face.

  His body took over, raising both blades into an X-guard, barely shielding Selriph in time. As arcane energy struck metal, the physical shock resonated up his arm, and his body was beset by the energy’s static and buzz.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  Yet he continued, now having covered half the distance towards Ereknul.

  The wooden vessel, whose form was now warped and coiled in a state that resembled desperation—if it could express such a thing—thrummed with magic as it accumulated magical energy.

  An orb formed in the cradle of the two wooden arms, the size of a dwarf’s torso.

  Even with Selriph’s blade work, he could not deflect this, and it would unleash before he made contact with Ereknul.

  Just as the spell was going to be cast, Selriph unexpectedly dug in his left heel, spun around the study table and bookshelf cover.

  The anticipated surge and release of magical power didn’t happen.

  Exactly as I thought, he would not risk bringing harm to his precious tomes…!

  Selriph leapt out this time, intent on closing the distance with finality. The orbs that had been gathering energy grew tentacle-like appendages as they lashed out at the oncoming youth.

  The youth slowed his sprint, now towards a measured, menacing gait. His hands tightened around the hilts of his weapon as he prepared for the onslaught.

  Again, the coordinated movements of blades—sword, and dagger—formed a synchronised dance, a flashing veil of steel that deflected the assaults. Cut like they were marine invertebrates.

  Ereknul stepped back. Were he not a construct, his face would have been contorted in wonder and terror at the unnatural martial ability no mage should have.

  The space between the former Templar initiate and the older adult mage was preserved until the living mannequin encountered the conduit in the room’s rear.

  With the youth now mere seconds away from bringing his steel upon the lethargic, wooden frame, Ereknul slammed his wooden fist into the stone floor. Earthen trails erupted in a snake-like pattern, moving towards Selriph.

  The boy’s eyes widened in recognition as he leapt over the first wave of encroaching earth. However, the travelling trials of earth against all possibility, reversed course, meeting Selriph where his feet met the ground once more.

  The mounds erupted and encased Selriph’s right foot, having just landed from his leap. He stumbled and nearly fell. Selriph desperately placed his remaining foot in front of him, attempting to gain a foothold even if the mounds caught up to him.

  For he knew if his arms met the ground and got encased in earth, there would be no chance of escape.

  He would be at Ereknul’s mercy, defeat all but inevitable.

  Sure enough, his other foot met the ground along with the mound meant to meet. However, his estoc was already in motion, flashing down in a precise thrust. The blade met stone just past his ankle, breaking through the stone restraints enough for Selriph to wrestle it out.

  His parrying dagger came next, as Selriph bent down, bringing the blade onto the mound on his back foot. While in this action, Selriph looked up to see another volley—arcane tendrils and magical missiles rained upon him—one final bid to disable the blade-wielding magic initiate.

  The parrying dagger clunked underfoot as Selriph’s vision filled with the sight of his blade effortlessly slicing through, deflecting and parrying the oncoming arcane onslaught. One by one, each projectile met its end at the deft bladework.

  Selriph rose once more to both feet, one step, two steps, and then a third. Each foreboding stride came with a marvel of steel and dance of agility, dodging the desperate bolts of terramancy intended to restrain him.

  By the sixth step, he was close enough. A mere sword-length away from the wooden mannequin. With a measured grunt, Selriph thrust his estoc towards the living mannequin—the arcane crystal that housed Ereknul’s soul.

  The wooden vessel, forced into a desperate defence to protect its very being, raised its hands to block the blow.

  However, that was according to Selriph’s calculation. The estoc’s tip met the wooden arms as it tore through like a steak fork through succulent meat. The hands, now skewered as if over a spit, rose, all but at the whims of Selriph’s leverage.

  With another lunge, Selriph brought his offhand dagger down on one of the wooden forearms. The blade stabbed through the metallic-vein-adorned wood. The arcane energy fizzled and sputtered as the ‘palm’ it was attached to lost its arcane glow.

  One casting hand had been disabled. In the same second, Seriph pulled the estoc out of the arms and brought the blade up, cleaving it downwards.

  The cutting edge of the estoc sliced through like a headsman’s axe through tendon and bone; the wood splintered with a crack, mixed with the faint metallic pinging as the other palm found itself detached from the rest of the wooden arm.

  The wooden vessel, or rather, the animated mannequin, stumbled. Selriph bent down and did the final motion—an arcing kick that met the wooden ‘knees’ of the figure. It buckled as if it were a lifeless doll, tumbling over as the clattering of wood met the hard stone floor.

  The youth towered over the fallen figure. Estoc brandished the chest of Ereknul’s vessel.

  With strained, laboured huffs. Selriph spoke. “You are beaten; let me leave in peace! I don’t want to destroy you,” his voice strained with a genuine plea.

  The living mannequin's veins sputtered, the arcane glow flaring and fading as the consciousness of Ereknul came in a haze.

  “You cannot fathom the torment of this existence…!” the voice, disembodied yet very much in pain.

  The youth’s figure tinged at the word. Torment and suffocation were old friends to him. For four years, he had endured.

  Selriph replied, a slight waver crept in, “I can; my entire life has been torment…”

  “Hah…” the voice jumbled, yet very much devoid of amusement as the wooden vessel righted itself, slumped against the cold stone beneath the conduit.

  The estoc trailed every moment, ready to plunge itself into the core.

  “Then you cannot fault me for attempting what I did.” A faint shake came from the living mannequin’s head.

  “No, I can’t. In fairness, I would have done the same thing.” Selriph replied in quiet admission.

  “And what would you have me do now? My vessel is damaged, and there are no materials to repair it. Should I languish and wait for another soul to stumble upon me? One that would be agreeable to the proposed arrangement?” the voice tinged almost with sarcastic venom.

  Selriph’s voice steeled, almost unfeeling, cold. “That is the only possible course of action.”

  The rebuttal came almost immediately. “You must be jesting. This pain, this despair of being trapped here forever; I’d rather you end my existence now.”

  “I…” Selriph lowered his estoc, taken aback by the desperate, resigned offer.

  At that moment. Arcane energy flared once more, a pulse directly from the core of the wooden vessel, pushing Selriph back, causing him to stumble backwards, his bottom reaching the cold floor.

  He felt it, the arcane energy from the conduit—now channelling directly into the living mannequin, one final gambit—a scream of defiance, the coming storm of energy would all but rend Selriph, Ereknul’s prized vessel, yet all measured calculation had been abandoned.

  And thus, once more, just like the duel with the inquisitor, Selriph mustered the only projectile he had left. He pushed himself up as his eyes landed on the humming core and building blast of arcane energy.

  The parrying dagger flashed forth, its blade cut through like a honed arrow, cutting through the veil of the building, an arcane blast triggering an explosion, then pushed Selriph’s figure further back as a blinding flash of blue light filled his vision, his estoc spun in the air before it clattered uselessly to the side.

  Then came the sound of cracking crystal, wood, metal and stone. Around him, the glyphs in the room fell silent, the arcane glow fading. Along with this, Selriph felt the shackles, the oppressive force upon him, lift while his body registered the pain of hitting the bookshelf.

  The light in the room faded, replaced by the cold, dark gloom. The only thing visible in Selriph’s blurred, dazed vision was the remnants of the afterglow from the metallic veins and the core of the living mannequin.

  Selriph stumbled to his feet, the familiar energy finally returning as he willed an orb of electricity into existence, approaching the lumped-over figure and the damaged remains of the conduit.

  Just close enough to perceive the final message, a spark of consciousness from the old mage, its words directed in a disembodied voice to Selriph’s mind—a faint arcane trail linking the two souls one last time.

  The voice spoke unintelligibly, like a gerbil. Yet somehow amidst all that, the tone was clear—an indescribable mix of warning, resignation and spite.

  “Trapped.... torment… no way out ... me — puppet.”

  Then came the final words.

  “Release…. beg…Oh, the sweet release of death….”

  Then the wooden vessel slumped, its life—if it could even be called that—finally faded away. The arcane glow faded; all that remained was a wooden mannequin.

  Lifeless, finally released from the shackles of the living world, leaving behind his final, cryptic words.