Blood Eagle - 51. The Maleficar
The Maleficar
No sunlight had fallen on Arn’s face to wake him up when armed guards entered his cell. They unfastened his chains from the walls, threw a hood over his head, and dragged him out to a waiting carriage. Dazed, Arn tried to figure out what was afoot. This seemed far too early for them to be hauling him to the arena. He could not know it, but the conjunction of the stars and the moon was slowly rising to meet each other; hundreds of miles away, Atreus gathered his brethren to do battle for the fate of Archen.
Arn wondered if his moment to act had come, but a guard on either side of him kept him in place, and he could hardly move. The carriage continued for a long while, traversing a good distance of Aquila. When the door opened and they pulled him out, still blinded by the hood. He felt an iron grip on his shoulders leading him away. The sounds of a surrounding neighbourhood, dogs barking and the like, disappeared. Eventually, his foot smashed against stone, hurting his toes; he realised he was on a staircase, and he cursed at his escort for not giving any warning.
As the hood finally came off, Arn squinted and unwittingly raised one hand to shield his eyes against the dawning light coming through an open window, though his chains made it awkward. He found himself in a large chamber with adjoining spaces. He noticed an area serving as bedroom, and another section had worktables for alchemy with tools lying around.
Strangely, everything was decorated in white. A woman stood in front of him, clad in the same colour. Behind him was a large, hulking man – his guard for the last stretch of the journey, presumably.
“What is that?” exclaimed Vasilia, staring at a sword and a feather in her servant’s hand. “Why did they give you his belongings? What possible use could I have for those?”
He gave only a shrug.
She drummed her fingers against her chin. “I suppose they wouldn’t know what use I have for him either. Still, I hate the feeling of useless, old items just piling up. A sword, so barbaric! As for that ragged old thing, the enchantment is so crude, I feel insulted by its mere presence.”
Her servant glanced around questioningly.
She sighed. “Oh, just toss it in the corner. I suppose they can serve as mementos for when all this is an anecdote.”
All her words had been spoken in Archean, leaving Arn unable to understand any of it. He just watched the big fellow walk over and place his sword and feather on a drawer.
Vasilia stepped forward and turned his face back towards her with a grip around his face. “As for you, allow me to welcome you to the Tower of the Arcane,” she said in the local language.
Arn had seen it on the journey from the arena to the ludus, in the distance; Domitian had explained it to him once. The seat of the Archean mages in the city. Considering the might that one of their spellbreakers had shown, Arn felt all his instincts awaken in him, warning him of danger. But he let none of it show.
“If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”
She smiled at him, and he wondered if he could pick her up and throw her out the window in the far end of the chamber before the lout would intervene.
Seeing his intense stare, she laughed. “I do like them silent. No interruptions, and they’re much better listeners. Should I cut out your tongue, do you think?” Vasilia leaned to the side to look at her servant behind Arn. “A jest, darling, calm yourself.” She turned her attention back on the Tyrian. “As for you, I’ll have that back.” She touched the metal band around his arm, muttering a word, and it opened up, letting her remove it. “Did you ever figure out what it did? I’ve been keeping a good eye on you, darling. Every time you took a scrap of power back, I felt it, watching your progress.” She glanced at her servant. “Put him on the table.”
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Arn barely had a moment to process this knowledge before the giant pushed him towards a table, eventually grabbing him to throw him onto it, flat on his back. He squirmed and tried to resist, but his captor simply held him in place with a heavy hand pressing down on his chest.
“I couldn’t believe my stroke of luck when I came across you,” Vasilia muttered, stroking his hair, which had grown longer in captivity. “All the sacrifices I made to build the circle, I never thought I’d have enough power to complete it. But here you are. Oh, you did just as I had hoped. Clawed every bit of magic back that you lost, making yourself the perfect vessel. I’ll remember you fondly.”
It dawned on Arn why he had been brought to this place; the fate that awaited him. He was to be sacrificed for his power, just as he had sacrificed others to feed his own. The gods showed their final jest, but perhaps it could still be played on this white-clad mage rather than him. She would need to remove the golden chains from him before she could leech his magic; that would be his moment to strike.
She took out a vial and uncorked it. “Time for your medicine. Hold him, darling,” she added to her servant, who used both hands to keep their prey in place.
Thoughts raced through Arn’s head. A mixture to knock him out, presumably, so they could safely remove his shackles for whatever ritual she had in mind. While he had learned to respect Archean arts, it could not be a magical elixir; his chains would suppress the effect. It had to be an ordinary sleeping draught; potent, no doubt, but mundane. An effect that could be resisted.
Vasilia grabbed his chin to hold him still. Arn struggled against the hands that held him, knowing it was in vain; yet it distracted them while his own hands fumbled around his belt. Finally, she managed to pour the concoction down his throat, and he was forced to swallow.
“There we are, darling. No more pain or tribulations for you. Just peaceful sleep.”
She stroked his hair again, and he struggled to keep his eyes opened. A few moments passed, and they closed by their own accord.
“Watch him for a moment,” Vasilia commanded in Archean. She got rid of the empty vial and rummaged through her possessions, digging out a bronze knife. Her thumb touched the edge slightly, and she smiled. “Is he docile?” The servant nodded. “Good. Get rid of those awful chains and place him in the circle.”
The brute did as told, fishing out a key to remove the manacles and collar around Arn. This done, he easily picked up the lithe Tyrian and carried him to the adjacent room. On the ground, numerous glyphs had been inscribed onto the floor; the servant put Arn down inside their circle and returned to the main chamber.
“Go watch the spare. In case I need more than what this little fellow can provide,” Vasilia commanded him. He bowed his head and hurried out the door. Turning her head towards her ritual room with a smile, the white master of the tower readied her knife as she walked towards it.
She looked down at the Tyrian, surrounded by her work. Even dormant, the symbols seemed to radiate power. Extending her open hand, Vasilia muttered words of a forgotten tongue, making the glyphs glow one by one.
Laughing, she exhaled. “The connection is open. Now I just need every drop of power released into it, and our plan is complete. The mistress will reward me surely. Ten long years labouring in this tower, preparing this day.” She knelt next to Arn and brushed hair away from his face. “Thank you,” she whispered in Archean, raising her dagger.
Arn opened his eyes; seeing her so close, he smashed his forehead against hers and followed up by grabbing her by the collar and throwing her against the wall. He pulled out his sewing needle from his leg, having used the pain to keep him awake; a tiny weapon, but sinking it into her throat should do it.
Before he could attack, she seized him with her magic and tossed him out of the room, back into the main area. He landed against the side of the table, grimacing with pain. She emerged from the ritual chamber with a contemptuous smile. “I am a wizard of Archen,” she sneered, speaking Aquilan now. “You think you stand a chance against me? A mutilated savage?”
Arn returned her smile. Using the tongue that Helena’s healing had restored to him, he spoke, “You’d be surprised.” As her eyes widened in shock, he raised his hand and summoned a major rune, glowing in the air between them, and he uttered a single word in Tyrian. The symbol of repulsion activated, and pure force blasted Vasilia back into the ritual chamber, slamming her against the wall once more.
Seeing his sword carelessly discarded into a corner, Arn summoned another symbol, the rune of attraction, and the weapon flew through the air into his hand. Removing the scabbard and tossing it aside, the spellblade turned to face the wizard of Archen.
