The Chronicles of a Scalebound Sage: Wandmaker Vol.2

WM [27] If We're Lucky, They'll Kill Each Other

Bjorn continued to follow the perimeter of the druid's barrier. The perimeter was marked with trees and bushes, and now that he was amongst them, he could make out the faintest hint of magic. From the outside of the barrier, everything inside was just more dark forest. From the inside, looking out, one could see the forest beyond as it was. Once he was a good enough distance from the point he entered, he laid down to finally get a good look at himself.

He was covered in arrows and bleeding wounds. Some of the places where he had pulled out the arrows were healed, but there were just so many that his healing factor couldn't keep up. He looked at his other heads. He could move the necks, but his control wasn't nearly as good. The arrows that pierced each skull were different from all others and were coated in something that prevented regeneration. The arrow itself looked odd. It was covered in black barbs that faced every possible direction.

"This is going to suck," Bjorn said in his head.

"It actually didn't feel too bad, but to keep you from going into shock, your body cut a lot of your pain receptors. I think it is a hydra thing. Not many creatures have more than one brain."

If they hit all three at the same time, would I have died?" Bjorn asked.

"I don't think so, but it would have made us defenseless until they killed us."

Bjorn positioned his middle head in a way that he could reach the arrow lodged in it. His hands weren't meant for fine motor control, and he could pull the arrow out with his mouth. The problem was that he needed to careful not to get any of the substance coating the arrow in his mouth. Bjorn bit down on a stick and mentally counted to three. There was a yank and a squelch as the arrow, bone, blood, and a bit of grey matter were pulled free.

There was some pain, but not as much as Bjorn expected. He was more worried about bleeding out, so he quickly went to the second arrow and pulled that put one too. He was quickly feeling lightheaded and was unable to put together enough thought to activate his magic. Fear started to set in as he recognized the feeling of death creeping in.

His mind went back to the last moments of his previous life. The final moments of Isin, the Son of Bazaath, the King of Chains. The memory was so lucid and tangible that it was as if everything else was pushed aside.

***

All he saw around him was fire. Isin stood above the chaos, looking out over the city from some type of control room. The kingdom before him was a delicate mix of aetheric technology and ancient magics far older. Buildings once crafted from gleaming metal and enchanted stone crumbled under the assault of an unknown foe.

Isin didn't know who dared to cross him now. He left no enemies behind; there was no great foe he had not buried in his rise. Yet there was a deep ache gnawing at his soul with something he had not known since he was a child: fear. His suit blared with incoming calls from his generals and his soldiers. He saw the icons of their faces dim as they fell in combat one after the other.

He stood from his throne and walked to the open floor-to-ceiling window. He could feel the heat from the explosions and sense the aether quake in agony as untold thousands perished; their cries echoed throughout the city. Regret and terror surged through him, a potent cocktail that threatened to break his resolve. He realized too late the true cost of his actions and the depth of his failures. The kingdom, once a beacon of hope and innovation, would be brought to ruin because of him, and he was powerless to stop it.

"No. Not like this," he said to himself as he removed the visor over his face.

The aether recognized him; he was its master, and with his command, it moved. He spoke the words of power, the incantation was forged, and the world shook and stuttered with each syllable. Power like nothing the lower planes had ever felt was congregating high above it all. A spell circle formed in the sky, large enough to encompass a nation. He needed only three more words when he felt it. A sword pierced him from behind, bypassing all of his defenses, both magical and physical. It should have been impossible, but there it was, slicing through flesh. He saw the blade and recognized it; he wouldn't forget it because he made it. Power tore through him as the sword activated, and aetheric lightning fried him from the inside out. His arms dropped, and the aether released its grasp of the world as the spell lost direction.