Chapter Fifty-Point-Seven: Rubble of Learning

  With a weary groan, Selriph watched the blue magical energy dissipate from around Nightwind. The horse rested on the dusty, snow-covered ground. The boy fell, his sight swirling, mirroring the effect of Borkar shrooms he’d once consumed, a substance his former ‘brothers-in-arms’ had added to his food.

  That was one of the avenues of great amusement for his fellows in the Templar Compounds; part of his daily diet of torment and ridicule.

  His surroundings, however, were anything but; instead of the cold, unyielding, suffocating, and mocking walls, he found himself in a circular chamber, adorned with arched indentations decorated in arcane glyphs—inert, but comforting.

  It wasn’t just because the ambient arcane energy provided solace—ironically, the same thing that likely gave life to the frost wraiths in the first place—it was the fact that it felt right.

  This was the first taste of the calling that had drawn Selriph on this arduous, or what would be considered a foolish, heretical journey by his former colleagues. Now, their warning felt like distant rambling in the face of the profound experience before him:

  The feeling of home, of belonging.

  The only things that detracted from the comforting atmosphere were the dilapidated state of his surroundings and the state of the academy beyond. Above him lay the cracked, exposed dome of this entrance chamber to the rest of the campus, a light trickle of snow swirling down from the starlit sky above.

  The taste of life he wanted, tainted by the reality around him

  Look at this place…

  That came with a frosty breeze that brought a welcome freshness to the otherwise damp, musty, and ashy tinge—a result of the various burnt corpses. Some held arrows or blades in their rotting, blackened skeletal forms, their last defiant stance, while the limbs of the others were far removed from their former owners.

  Behind Selriph stood the rotted wooden yet magically conductive doors. Not Elderbark, but something else. In front, two stairways on either side to chambers beyond, the remains of what would have been ornate stone plaques lay at their base.

  At the heart of it all stood a lone figure in robes, a statue that shared the dull grey colour of the dilapidated college. In the figure’s hand was a staff, or the broken remnants of one, split at its centre. At its base, the meticulously crafted stone book lay in pieces. Its runic symbols were unreadable and crumbled, while the other hand had been amputated.

  Perverted, desecrated, as anything blasphemous in the eyes of Eldeitia would be.

  I cannot believe they did this. If the empire didn’t exist, this could have been the place where I could have studied…

  Selriph noticed a pair of skeletons bearing the familiar crimson cloak of soldiers. The gryphon insignia was still visible on the shoulder pad.

  These bastards…

  A wave of anger, irritation, and pent-up retribution — these were the people responsible for the sorry state of this place of magical learning, a symbol of the simple dream he wanted.

  For the first time, he felt something—an anger, perhaps driven by the chorus of corpses that lay around him that would have held a similar sentiment if they yet lived.

  A humble life of magical study, stolen by the whims of Eldeitia and the mindless devotees of its vast apparatus.

  Retributive fury surged within him, a result of the emotions no longer suppressed by rationality, the desolate environment, the unseen audience of the departed, or simply the exhaustion of the day. That fuelled the boy’s desecratory action, the hum of arcane energy flaring to his feet.

  Crack

  The sickening crunch came as bone yielded to the arcane-veiled force of his soles; the action barely made a dent in the infinite spring of anger that he had buried within.

  What a joke.

  Crack

  Respect your comrades? Yet they left your remains here to rot?!

  “Where is your faith in Vireon now?” Selriph’s voice was a low, venomous growl.

  The cracks turned to powdered shuffles as bone became reduced to a brittle, coarse material.

  “Curse your justice … all these people…” as Selriph paused, witnessing the crimson cape below him.

  “All we…What I wanted was something so simple!”

  A crushing silence descended, punctuated solely by the wind’s mournful yowl in the cold night air. The boy was alone, consumed by his tumultuous thoughts and feelings.

  For the first time, he felt a true understanding of the hatred felt by the twin elves, and by anyone who had suffered under Eldeitia’s oppressive rule.

  In this consonance of detestation, the ambient static in the air seemed to thicken, as if in agreement with the storm in the boy’s mind.

  He felt something or someone looking at him coming from the leftmost staircase.

  Selriph’s eyes darted up, nothing. Just stone and rubble.

  Then, as soon as it began, that sensation faded, along with the hum of arcane energy in Selriph’s foot, as if a mere phantom of Selriph’s imagination.

  The coarse, rough beams weighed the boy down as he returned down the stairs—the ones that led from the right. In the dark corridors, Selriph scavenged loose beams and planks of wood; parts of former trusses, desks, and chairs that weren’t charred or shattered in whatever deadly scuffle that raged in the last days of this college and its inhabitants.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  As Selriph entered the moonlit hall, his voice came soft, meek, returning to his rational calm.

  “Thanks for keeping an eye on her, Emmett…”

  These wooden supplies joined the ensemble that he had scavenged in his previous foray into the former classroom block that he had entered. The first trip yielded the stiff, dried remains of a leather curtain and various loose fabric from the dormitories on the third floor.

  Selriph looked over at Nightwind, her form draped over the former skin of the polar bear—yesterday’s meal. Its eyes closed almost in a calm, restful sleep despite the tenuous state of its injury. Likely succumbing to exhaustion, any pain from the injury was muted by the residual effects of the healing potion.

  “Just a little more, girl… then we can all take a rest.” His whispered words were more to himself than to his steed.

  In the gloom, illuminated only by the faint blue glow on his hand, a minimal output to conserve his already exhausted magical reserves, he gathered up the fabrics and drew his parrying dagger. The blade’s steely sharpness was used to trim off a section to tie together into a makeshift bundle of fabric—padding to cushion the horse’s ravaged, but healing ?limb in place.

  Next, he picked up various straight pieces of wood, placing them over the horse, one end near the upper thigh, all the way down to its hoof. The first was appropriate—just the right length. Selriph went through several more, each too short or just too long for the front of the leg.

  The last wood he had gathered, which he recalled stemmed from a broken piece of a chalkboard, was of the appropriate length, absolving the boy of any need to go back into the abandoned hallways or to modify the length what what he already had.

  As he began the task of securing the crude, makeshift splint onto the horse, his mind drifted to an uneasy thought that accompanied his material-seeking excursions. The hallways bore no living soul as far as he could tell, and yet, he felt like something could be here.

  After all, it was logical that if the runaway youth discovered this place, another recluse, or possibly a magically gifted person, might also seek shelter here.

  Or perhaps what he felt was the residual spirits of those who fell, those who never had a proper burial. After all, he had just fought against ice wraiths stirred into life. Although, as far as he was aware, corpses—such as those in the state he found them in, burnt and ‘cleansed’ with what would be holy fire — should not have the ability to reanimate. Unlike those who were outside where the avalanche took place.

  The horse’s quiet groan, more of a gentle signal, mixed with the sound of fabric being twisted against wood; it was a warning more than an open complaint. Selriph had tightened the bindings too much; wood pressed up against the horse’s limb—a result of his budding unease.

  Calm down; there should be nothing alive. I checked as far as I could with my arcane senses…

  At least, that was his attempt to placate his fears; he knew he hadn’t explored the east wing — the area where the residual stir of magical energy in the college seemed to stem from. There was also no doubt, from the process of elimination, that the library lay where the intact tower remained.

  The only reason he hadn’t ventured there, despite the pressing need to procure a more potent form of healing for Nightwind, was the sheer exhaustion that had crept on the disparate trio.

  Tomorrow… let’s hope there isn’t just ash in the library.

  The boy’s thought came concurrently with the final tightening of the fabric around the horse’s healing aid. A light pat from the boy on its pelvis came before the boy shuffled over the remaining pile of wood and loose pieces of thin fabric and dried moss from the remnants of the terrarium, now serving as kindling.

  For the last time in the day, he felt arcane pyromantic energy trickling into his fingertips as a small spark escaped, barely more than what flint striking steel would produce, igniting the moss.

  Emmett rolled over, a low whimper, almost in comfort as he carried the bone-weary boy’s bedroll to him, already unwrapped and ready.

  “Emmett … you really are something. Thanks. For coming along…” the wisp of gratitude escaped the boy’s lips, met with a soft nod from the wolf, in sync with the dancing flames across its features—the subtle lines of affection suddenly readable for the first time to the boy—if it weren’t a wistful product of his fatigued wits.

  And so, as the fire burned, with enough kindling and fuel to sustain it for the time it would take for Selriph to drift off into slumber, the boy lay on the presented bedroll.

  His consciousness faded, the tension in his temples making way for relaxation as his eyes shut.

  The last sensation he felt was the comforting—-duvet-like sensation washing over his torso and person, along with a low growl as sleep took the exhausted mage.

  Within the landscape of his dream, Selriph found his consciousness drifting through a life he had never lived.

  He awoke in the cosy venue of lodging, a restored version of the dormitory he had previously visited. Then he found himself in the lively corridors of the college. Lush, evergreen trees and otherworldly flora—adorned with white flowers, frosty in texture, acclimated, and magically endowed—adorned the walls of the college.

  Then he went to the classroom — filled with life, with the buzz of inquiry, gossip, and excitement at the day’s events.

  The youth shook his head, staring at his hands — his estoc palmed in it, yet with two blades stuck out of its hilt as if he were afflicted with double vision.

  In that moment, his dreaming mind discerned reality from a dream.

  No, this… isn’t real. Not yet.

  Selriph gestured in fluid motions with his hands—a gesture that accompanied the awakening of his conscious mind, now attempting to exercise control over the scene he found himself in.

  He expected the scene to bend to his will, anticipating the familiar room of books that he’d always will into existence. One where he could find solace and play with sorcery.

  The scene faded, with the void of black overcoming his vision.

  What should have followed was the tranquil sanctuary—filled with the tomes of arcane and scrolls of knowledge he yearned for.

  But instead, he found himself back inside the dormitory room.

  What…?

  The sound of his own voice, half ethereal, half otherworldly, echoed around him.

  This surprised the boy—if his consciousness in the lucid dream could even express such an emotion. He had, after all, studied the means to manipulate the dreamscape as best he could.

  The text he gleaned in the central library dictated that some level of chaos and unpredictability in the scene was expected; after all, he was at the mercy of the undercurrent of his subconscious.

  Even so, he had found plenty of means to explore the dreamscape in the past, a dance of blade work in the open ‘fields’ or wisps of sorcery in an empty theatre.

  Furthermore, action performed in the world between rest and consciousness could result in tangible improvements to his practical skills. That was something that he used to good effect whenever the opportunity arose—like when he learnt to develop a hybrid, improvised blade form for his Estoc.

  But this time, it was different; he had barely any control, like he was being pulled along by the motions. He remained aware of the fact that he was in a dream, but he could not exert the broad strokes of control he had honed for years.

  Every time, ten, twenty times, he would go through the same cycle. Pulled along the ‘routine’ he dreamt of in college, heading into a hallway, a class, a conversation with a blurry-faced elf and a dark-skinned counterpart; a drow—acquaintances.

  Each time the youth would remind himself of his ‘true’ situation beyond in the waking world—his scars on his body, the estoc on his person, or rather the absence and distorted form of them. Each time, he would wave his hands or blink in an attempt to exercise lucid control over his sleep-induced experience.

  That merely resulted in the next set in the waking dream’s time-loop, one that placed him in a bed or a place of rest, instead of his intended sanctuary.

  What was disconcerting was that each time he left the dormitory, its state would deteriorate more and more.

  No, in fact, with each uncontrolled repetition, it was beginning to resemble the surroundings of the nightmarish walls of the Templar compound, the beds rotted, and items charred.

  On what was the twenty-third time, empty walls met the boy. Still pristine, polished, lived in, but devoid of all people.

  At the centre of the entrance hall, he took the stairs leftward—towards the tower.

  There, the library met him, filled with scrolls, books, parchment, a sanctuary of knowledge.

  And there, a middle-aged man, in a blue robe, with pointed ears—of elven descent—surrounded by azure blue–humanoid figures.

  He turned to the youth; his mouth moved with unreadable words.

  Selriph blinked, and finally, the void between dreams took him. Consigning his ailing mind to true, dreamless rest.