Wraithstorm, p.1
Wraithstorm, page 1
“Wraithstorm”
Book Three of The Wraithblade Saga series
S.M. Boyce
Copyright © 2023 S.M. Boyce
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without expressed permission from the author.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-955252-51-5
Cover Art by YAM
Cover Design by Shawn T. King, STK Kreations
Art Direction by Bryce O’Connor
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through or how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure if it’s really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of it, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
— Haruki Murakami
For Mom.
the hero from my storybooks,
my champion in the arena,
the silver lining in any storm cloud,
and a beautiful spark of the Divine.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Epilogue
Thank you!
Chapter 1
DEATH
In the soft amber glow of yet another sunrise, Death waited.
Deep in the Decay, He stood again amidst the bloodstained soil an old foe had salted to ruin so many centuries ago—the Wraith King. The Man with No Name.
A worthy rival, but one that had eventually succumbed to Him.
Same as all the others.
Even as the parched soil drank in the last of the lingering bloodstains, and though the corpses had already been burned to ash, the souls of the lingering dead lumbered toward Him.
Beaten and broken, the twisted things trudged closer, beckoned by the shadows in the rippling threads of his soot-black cloaks—the many, the varied, the wild. His cloaks fluttered about Him, rife with the ultimate power bestowed upon him by the Fates to stoke the fires of their creations.
On broken legs and shattered bones, the Fates’ chosen spirits drew closer. Each dissolved into the eternal blackness He exuded, and they passed to His domain.
And each fallen soldier let out a breath of relief as they passed between worlds.
Visible as the dead were in the dawn and in the dusk, He wondered if the young man standing on the stone walls, staring out at him, could truly see. Most of the time, the living watched in somber silence, never knowing just how many dead walked past.
But sometimes, they saw glimpses.
Blood-drenched land fizzled with His magic for however long it took the fallen to find Him. Those chosen by the Fates’ brought with them a sliver of the in-between, if only for a time.
And they walked ever so slowly, for the one thing dead men have is time.
As the first ray of dawn hit the jet-black peaks of those dazzling, distant mountains, He studied the gates that carried His name. The morning’s slow and steady creep inched toward Him, bringing with it the warmth and light of a day that would never reach Him.
But it was not the mountain that intrigued Him, nor the dawn.
In that citadel, not far away at all, was the man who had kept Him so very busy.
The man who bore His magic. The man He had observed, now, for quite some time. The man whose name He had already spoken twice before, and yet who had clawed his way back to the Land of the Living each time.
Connor Magnuson.
Another worthy foe, perhaps, but still a man—and one He would meet soon enough.
Just like all the others.
Chapter 2
CONNOR
In the depths of Slaybourne, Connor crossed his arms over his broad chest. Intently, quietly, he watched the Soulsprite pop and fizzle in the darkness.
How strange it was to watch a god’s heart beat.
From the moment he’d entered the once-silent vault, a soothing hum had echoed through the cavern like a distant song. It swam through the shadows, a light in the void beneath the citadel, and gave this dark place life.
In the depths of the black-rock cavern, centered beneath the massive Saldian map with cities burned from its fibers, the Soulsprite’s pedestal stood atop its platform, holding the greatest treasure on the continent. The glittering orb shone brilliantly gold, like it held a star at its center, and symbols made of light rotated incessantly across its edges. It hovered, brighter here in Slaybourne’s darkness than when he’d first seen it in the Antiquity’s chest.
How odd.
The goddess’s sacrifice had fortified his home, and he owed the Antiquity a great debt for what she had done. Based on everything she had told him—and everything Dahlia had said—he suspected it was a debt he would have to repay soon.
Emerald flares of light twisted and spun off the orb’s golden center, flickering this way and that like some enchanted fire that fed on the unseen, contained within a casing that could crack at any moment.
And in its depths, he heard whispers.
So quiet that they weren’t even words—just voices, really—the whispers bubbled from the depths of the orb. A bone-deep chill raced down his arms, and a pang of dread stirred in his chest like a storm hitting the sea. The whispers continued, thick with the promise of secrets no mortal man should ever know.
If only he would come closer, perhaps he would understand.
He grimaced and tore his eyes away, his jaw tensing as the Soulsprite’s magic nearly snared him. Whatever it truly was, whatever Death had done to create it, it still belonged to the Creator, and Connor had to be careful how he wielded it.
So very, very careful.
You heard them, the Wraith King observed. The voices.
It wasn’t a question.
A rush of inky darkness rolled across the ground at Connor’s feet, and the air shifted with the weight of eyes on his back. The light around him dimmed ever so slightly as the ghoul emerged from the depths of the in-between, but he noticed it all the same.
The Soulsprite’s golden light flowed across the dead king’s skeletal face like a reflection off water, rippling and unsteady, as he circled the pedestal. He watched it, and blips of light even stretched into the hollow sockets that had once been his eyes.
“What are they?” Connor asked. “Those whispers.”
That is Death, the Wraith King explained. And the Fates, I suppose.
“Death,” Connor muttered to himself.
To hear the voice of Death itself seemed insane. Surreal.
Impossible.
When he’d first taken the mantle of the Wraithblade, he never would’ve dreamed the world could be this big. That gods were real, and their magic trumped man’s.
That everything—even spellgust itself—had belonged to Death from the beginning.
They were designed by Death, the Antiquity had told him when she had given him this awe-inspiring power from her own chest. Formed in the forges of both worlds, and He infused them with my soul when He created me, long ago.
“Think He’s coming for it?” Connor asked with a nod t o the Soulsprite. “Think he wants it back?”
At first, the Wraith King didn’t answer. The old ghost hovered opposite him, staring into the gold and green lights of a magic that surpassed them both, and yet one which had given them power beyond reckoning.
I do not know, the ghoul eventually confessed.
“Comforting,” Connor muttered.
Bah. The wraith dismissed Connor’s quip with a flick of one bony wrist. But look at us, acting like old fools staring at starlight when there is so much to do.
“And he’s back.” With a sigh, Connor rubbed his jaw and shrugged. “It was nice to see you humble, if only for a second.”
The dead king grumbled something unintelligible and shook his skeletal head. You test my patience.
“Don’t I always?”
With a gruff cough, the Wraith King pivoted away from the Soulsprite and paced the length of the map hung on the far wall. Focus, Magnuson, on the task at hand.
Connor jogged down the steps that led to the pedestal and grabbed a handful of gold to refill the small bag he’d emptied in Tove’s shop.
That woman was expensive.
“The task at hand, huh?” The gold clinked as he filled the coin purse to the brim. “Which one? There are so many. The Lightseers in the dungeons. The remaining Starlings on the way. The Deathdread we still haven’t found. The dragons in Lunestone, locked away and feral.”
So many bargains half-fulfilled, and so many favors still owed to others. In the nine days since he’d killed Teagan Starling, it was a miracle he’d gotten any sleep at all.
The surviving Lightseer elite are our greatest threat, the Wraith King said as he gestured past Connor, toward the door that led out to Slaybourne’s walls. You must do something with them soon. Even with those Bluntmar collars your necromancer made, they will recover soon. They are accustomed to torture. To prison. To Bluntmar blocking their powers. They are prepared for this, and you are not. Hell, some of them may even have hidden weapons on them, like the Starling woman did.
“Quinn,” he corrected with a terse glare toward the ghoul. “Use her name.”
The Wraith King huffed indignantly but didn’t reply.
“And it’s something I’ve already considered,” Connor continued, taking the ghost’s silence as agreement. “That’s why the undead are watching them. Four undead to every Lightseer. They won’t try anything.”
You underestimate a zealot’s will to overcome.
Perhaps.
You must kill them, the ghoul demanded. They see your mercy as weakness.
“They, or you?” Connor’s nose creased with disdain as he stared the dead king down. “Every time I think you’ve made progress, you say something absurd that proves me wrong.”
This is no time for foolish nobility, the wraith chided. I have held prisoners in this keep, whereas you have never contained soldiers like these. Unlike you, I know what I am doing.
“Do you, now?” he asked dubiously. “Like you knew it was best to turn Nocturne feral? Or kill Quinn the moment we captured her?”
At first, the dead king didn’t answer. He hovered midair, and those bleach-white bones clacked together as his hands curled into furious fists. An icy chill swam through the air, and once more, the brilliant light in the Soulsprite briefly dimmed.
These are dangerous warriors, the Wraith King explained in a grim voice. Soldiers who do not share your ideals. Puppets for the Starlings who believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are the evil they were born to hunt, and which they will sacrifice all to destroy. These men and women you so kindly permitted to live think you aim to torture them. They believe you will leech information from them, and that you are merely letting them simmer. Stew. Wait. They do not see what you have done as mercy. They see it as a mistake, and they will decimate everything you’ve built here if you make even one error in judgment.
Connor stood taller and met the old ghost’s gaze. His shoulders ached with the weight of each word, and he considered the dead man’s warning.
They cannot be allowed to live, the Wraith King said firmly. They will be the death of you—and of me.
“And if you’re wrong?” Connor raised one eyebrow in challenge. “Some of them—the leaders, from what I’ve gathered—witnessed the real Teagan Starling out there. They heard what he was going to do to Quinn. To Zander. To me.”
The man’s threats had been vivid—and, frankly, hard to forget.
First, I’ll gut this bastard, Teagan had said as he’d pointed Sovereign at Connor with a lazy shrug. I’ll break your legs and arms, Quinn, so that you can’t do a damned thing but watch him die. I’ll make it painful, far more than I had intended. Maybe I’ll skin him alive, or maybe I’ll take a finger at a time. What I do depends on how angry you make me.
Connor’s jaw tensed as he relived his duel with Teagan, and a muscle twitched in his eye. He took a deep and settling breath to bury the memory yet again.
With so much at stake, here and now, he had to focus.
“Those soldiers have influence.” He gestured over his shoulder, in the vague direction of the distant dungeon. “The ones who witnessed Teagan’s mask come off can convince the others to—”
To join you? The Wraith King laughed, so sharp and sudden it sounded almost like a bark. You are the darkness they hunt, Magnuson. Hopeful kings die young. Don’t be a fool.
“I’m the darkness Quinn was hunting,” he countered. “Murdoc, too. Nocturne, even.”
Yet again, the ghoul went silent. He simply watched Connor with those hollow sockets in his skull, and the tense air crackled between them.
Truth be told, the dead man was right about one thing—it felt insane to keep a dungeon chock-full of elite warriors that wanted him dead. He knew the dangers of letting them live, but he wasn’t about to kill that many people in cold blood. Even if he could live with himself after that—even if he could rationalize all that death away and find a way to sleep at night once he was done—the Finns would find out. They would look at him with horror. With fear. With the same terror as he’d seen on Kiera’s face when he’d killed those slavers.
He could never live with himself if they thought he was a monster.
His new power as the Wraithblade tested his resolve at every turn. Too many others had succumbed to the allure of ultimate power. To a life of excess and greed.
He wouldn’t be one of them.
Nocturne and Quinn had made a pact to kill him if he lost his way, and after Teagan had fallen on the battlefield, Connor had come dangerously close to the edge. Out there, among the carnage in his fully justified hatred of those who had dared attack his home, he’d almost lost himself in the bloodbath.
The insatiable bloodlust. The uncapped rage. The blistering hatred. It wasn’t who he would let himself become.
With a furious growl, the Wraith King spread his decayed arms wide in frustration. Magnuson, listen to me—
“The answer is no,” Connor said flatly. “At least for now. If they try anything or threaten the people here, then sure. Have your fun. But for now, they’re off limits.” His eyes narrowed at the ghoul, and he pointed one finger at the wraith’s hollowed heart to drive his message home. “I mean it.”
Magnuson, the wraith said with a frustrated sigh. You are a damned fool.
“So you keep telling me.”
At least interrogate them. Take a few of the generals and force them to talk. You have three Hackamores. Use them!
“Two,” Connor corrected. “One is Quinn’s.”
The ghoul let out a string of curses and threw his hands in the air, as if washing himself clean of their conversation.
“Blood and murder.” Connor shook his head in annoyance. “It’s all you ever do, and ‘foolish idiot’ that I am, I thought you were changing your legacy. I thought you said you were going to use this second chance of yours to redefine who you are. To be something better.”
At that, the Wraith King went eerily still. With his back to Connor, the ghoul sighed, and he crossed his bony arms over his chest.
You have a point, the ghoul mumbled.
“I know.” Connor turned his back to the ghost to hide a victorious grin. “You’re welcome.”
Through the corner of his eye, the wraith peered over one shoulder, and he could almost feel the piercing glare even as the dead king’s vacant skull studied him without a shred of emotion. After a moment, however, the ghost’s attention shifted to something on the floor, and Connor followed the dead king’s gaze to find the man’s former crown, resting on the floor by a pile of gold.
