The Chronicles of a Scalebound Sage: Wandmaker Vol.2

Interlude WM [103.5] A Soul Worth Taking Part 1

The wind howled through the Diredain Forest, carrying with it the scent of blood and fire. Snow, once pristine, was stained crimson, trampled by the dead and dying. Beyond the twisted, ice-laden trees, the war raged. Gladsheim, the sacred city of the wendigo that had fallen to druid occupation, loomed in the distance, its once-glistening spires now cracked and scorched by siege. The walls, still standing, bore the scars of war where druidic bombardments had struck. Ancient wards flickered in defiance of the constant barrage.

Snow and blood mixed in a grotesque slurry beneath Ingrid's boots as she stood at the edge of the secured ridge. Below, the battlefield raged as storm of magic and steel, as a harbinger destruction and desperate survival. The wendigo and druids clashed in a war that shattered mountains and set the sky alight with fury. The only thing preventing either side from being utterly annihilated was their sheer, relentless power. Spell met counterspell in a brutal, unending struggle, the battlefield a tempest of arcane devastation.

In the aurora of the mana storm scarred skies, familiars tore into each other, monstrous forms colliding with shrieks and roars. Soldiers, wizards, and mages alike perished in droves, their bodies swallowed by the snow and mud. The air smelled of ozone and burning flesh.

Ingrid stood tall, even as blood dripped from a gash across her face, streaking over her lips. Her once-pristine armor was battered and scorched, the sigils carved into it cracked and blackened. One of her antlers had been shattered at the base, jagged like a broken blade, but she carried herself as if it had never been there at all. The wind howled through the trees, but it could not drown out her presence.

She was made to sit by an increasingly upset Yrsa, a veteran healer, who worked swiftly over her injuries. The woman's hands, steady and practiced, pulsed with soft blue light, mending deep wounds that would have killed a normal wendigo but were a mere inconvenience to a mage body like hers.

"You shouldn't fight again today," Yrsa muttered as she wrapped a fresh bandage around Ingrid's arm. "Your body needs rest. If you push too hard—"

"I'm going," Ingrid interrupted, her voice ironclad.

Yrsa stiffened but wisely held her tongue. The healer had been on enough battlefields to recognize the futility of arguing with the Sword of Salstar. Ingrid respected Yrsa, she had worked tirelessly, especially now that their healing potions had long since run dry, but she had no right, no authority to tell Ingrid what a warrior should do. What she should do. The woman seemed to realize her folly when she met Ingrid's gaze, dark as storm clouds and twice as unyielding.

A portal swirled into existence nearby, the fabric of reality bending into a gaping void of black shadows. The air in the camp turned electric, soldiers snapping to attention, weapons drawn as they surrounded the breach. Their anti-teleportation wards should have prevented such an intrusion, which meant whoever had forced their way through was either powerful or expected.

Ingrid raised a hand. "Stand down."

A man stepped through wearing the flowing robes over the armor of a Noble Hand ready for war. Loki, her right hand and closest confidant had finally arrived. The darkness mage's presence was like a shadow stretching over the camp. Darkness magic was the most common magical affinity of the wendigo people but there were a sparse few that matched his raw power. He had been missing from the battlefield, and Ingrid had not pressed him on it, until now.

"Where in the Infernal Planes have you been, Loki?" she demanded.

He bowed his head. "Milady, I was working on reinforcements."

As if on cue, heavy footsteps came through the portal. Fárbauti, leader of the infamous Giant's Fire mercenary group, stepped through the portal into the camp. He was the Patriarch of the lesser house of Dalus and Loki's father. He was a towering man, scarred and grizzled from decades of war, his presence radiated danger. Flames coiled lazily around his fingers and battle axe, barely restrained. Last Ingrid heard he was in the south on another campaign against the Striga Harpies. His presence here meant that campaign was likely over.