Read Online Sora's Quest by T. L. Shreffler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. L. Shreffler
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taste it dripping from his fangs....
He led his horse through a thicket of trees into a shallow meadow of bright green grass, nestled away from the main road. There was no movement but the gentle swish of wind. A lock of silver hair fell across his fine-boned face. He swept it aside absently, his eyes searching the underbrush. I will need a spell to follow them...to keep them busy for a while.... To delay them while he caught up.
He dismounted from the horse and reached into his saddlebags, withdrawing an old journal. It had been his great-grandfather's, passed down by the men in his family, and once was Etienne's. A book of spells, of blood-magic. He knew each page, each flow of handwriting. Once upon a time, all Wulven families had carried such spellbooks, handed down from parent to child, generation after generation, unique to each bloodline. The most practiced families had the most powerful spells.
That was hundreds of years ago, however. His own family's heritage had been destroyed long ago. This journal was a meager example of what could have been; the spells of only three generations were not very impressive. And it was always a challenge to pick the right recipe. Wulven magic was perhaps the most powerful of the races, and the hardest to learn. There were many different means to reach the same end.
For any spell he needed a sacrifice, an offering to the Sea Goddess. It could be as simple and basic as putting out a bowl of saltwater and fish scales. But usually, curses and enchantments demanded something more. It could take days to find the right animal, or in rare cases, a human. Volcrian grimaced at that. Hardly ever did he need a human.
He and Etienne had learned from their father. Their mother died in childbirth, as was common to the Wulven race. After his father's death from illness, Volcrian moved to the City of Crowns with Etienne. They opened an apothecary, the most obvious business for a pair of young Wulven sorcerers. On the outside, they proved to be an honest herb shop, dealing cold remedies and aphrodisiacs to the common public. And yet, for wealthier patrons, they would do more than just sell tea. Working magic, taking that risk, cost precious money. Nobility had money.
Volcrian shook himself, trying to brush off the chill that had settled over him. He had to admit that after using so much magic, he felt... different . Cold. It was the mantle of a Wulven bloodmage, the badge of snow, his father had called it. A certain indifference to life. A removal. Killing animals for sacrifices no longer bothered him. Once, a human sacrifice had seemed unthinkable, dirty, taboo. But even that had changed.
After practicing his craft so long, he was beginning to understand the true power of a Wulven mage. There was more than enough life inhabiting the world, and it was all a source of magic, ready to mold to his will. Humans were especially disposable. Selfish, festering creatures. They bred like rabbits, dirtying the water, raping the fields. The weakest of the races was now spreading across the earth. Volcrian grimaced at the thought. The Wulvens should be in power now. The magic-wielders. Not the flat-footed humans, useless as pigs.
His mind turned toward the journal and which spell he would use to waylay the assassin. Something fast and simple that wouldn't take too much of a toll. Time was of the essence; he didn't have days to spend in recovery. Just a simple animal spell, enough to track down the killer and slow his pace.
He thumbed through the pages of the book, glancing over titles, recipes, causes-and-effects. A plan slowly began to form in his mind, and as it did, another twisted smile came to his lips. This time he was sure to succeed, and then?....And then Etienne would truly sleep.
Sora awoke with the toe of a boot jabbing her in the back.
"Wake up, girl. We're leaving."
She groaned. Every fiber of her body was in pain. When she sat up, she felt stiff as an old woman and twice as sore. A
He led his horse through a thicket of trees into a shallow meadow of bright green grass, nestled away from the main road. There was no movement but the gentle swish of wind. A lock of silver hair fell across his fine-boned face. He swept it aside absently, his eyes searching the underbrush. I will need a spell to follow them...to keep them busy for a while.... To delay them while he caught up.
He dismounted from the horse and reached into his saddlebags, withdrawing an old journal. It had been his great-grandfather's, passed down by the men in his family, and once was Etienne's. A book of spells, of blood-magic. He knew each page, each flow of handwriting. Once upon a time, all Wulven families had carried such spellbooks, handed down from parent to child, generation after generation, unique to each bloodline. The most practiced families had the most powerful spells.
That was hundreds of years ago, however. His own family's heritage had been destroyed long ago. This journal was a meager example of what could have been; the spells of only three generations were not very impressive. And it was always a challenge to pick the right recipe. Wulven magic was perhaps the most powerful of the races, and the hardest to learn. There were many different means to reach the same end.
For any spell he needed a sacrifice, an offering to the Sea Goddess. It could be as simple and basic as putting out a bowl of saltwater and fish scales. But usually, curses and enchantments demanded something more. It could take days to find the right animal, or in rare cases, a human. Volcrian grimaced at that. Hardly ever did he need a human.
He and Etienne had learned from their father. Their mother died in childbirth, as was common to the Wulven race. After his father's death from illness, Volcrian moved to the City of Crowns with Etienne. They opened an apothecary, the most obvious business for a pair of young Wulven sorcerers. On the outside, they proved to be an honest herb shop, dealing cold remedies and aphrodisiacs to the common public. And yet, for wealthier patrons, they would do more than just sell tea. Working magic, taking that risk, cost precious money. Nobility had money.
Volcrian shook himself, trying to brush off the chill that had settled over him. He had to admit that after using so much magic, he felt... different . Cold. It was the mantle of a Wulven bloodmage, the badge of snow, his father had called it. A certain indifference to life. A removal. Killing animals for sacrifices no longer bothered him. Once, a human sacrifice had seemed unthinkable, dirty, taboo. But even that had changed.
After practicing his craft so long, he was beginning to understand the true power of a Wulven mage. There was more than enough life inhabiting the world, and it was all a source of magic, ready to mold to his will. Humans were especially disposable. Selfish, festering creatures. They bred like rabbits, dirtying the water, raping the fields. The weakest of the races was now spreading across the earth. Volcrian grimaced at the thought. The Wulvens should be in power now. The magic-wielders. Not the flat-footed humans, useless as pigs.
His mind turned toward the journal and which spell he would use to waylay the assassin. Something fast and simple that wouldn't take too much of a toll. Time was of the essence; he didn't have days to spend in recovery. Just a simple animal spell, enough to track down the killer and slow his pace.
He thumbed through the pages of the book, glancing over titles, recipes, causes-and-effects. A plan slowly began to form in his mind, and as it did, another twisted smile came to his lips. This time he was sure to succeed, and then?....And then Etienne would truly sleep.
Sora awoke with the toe of a boot jabbing her in the back.
"Wake up, girl. We're leaving."
She groaned. Every fiber of her body was in pain. When she sat up, she felt stiff as an old woman and twice as sore. A
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