Chapter 38
As I carefully maneuvered behind the throne, avoiding contact with it just in case, something happened that sent a shiver down my spine:
"Oh, we have a guest," said a voice, speaking in a language I didn't recognize… but somehow understood. What the hell? Had they pierced through my Occlumency shields? Those basic ones that every member of my family had, plus the personal wards I'd put up myself last year? "Don't be so nervous, human. I can sense your fear, but my current owner — this pitiful bastard of the true king — is in a trance."
I cleared my throat. "Ahem. To whom do I owe the honor?"
"Oh, a German, are you? And it seems you serve someone," the voice continued, instantly assessing my background and causing me to grimace. "I am Orna. I have the honor of being the sword and artifact of kings. Why have you come, human? Judging by your lack of panic, I assume you snuck in here."
"You noticed anyway." I couldn't believe it — I was talking to a sword.
"Ah, your spell wore off in the throne room. No one can hide from the royal gaze here. Though, what kind of king is this bastard? Just a joke of one."
Great. The situation went from bad to worse.
"I've come for you. The one I serve sent me, honored Orna," I said, seeing no reason to hide the truth. If things got out of hand, I'd have to use Fiendfyre and flee while the chaos provided cover.
"Many have sought to possess me. Not everyone has succeeded. Tell me, sorcerer, who is your mistress, and why should I give myself to her?" the sword asked, its intrusion into my mind subtle but noticeable. I hoped it was limited to translating.
"We don't have the kind of relationship where servitude or ownership is involved," I clarified quickly. "The one who seeks you is the princess of the land of Aeetes and queen of Colchis, the founder of medicine and one of the greatest witches in the world — Medea of Colchis."
"Oh, a great witch? Somewhere near Hellas, is it? I suspected as much when I sensed you, sorcerer, though I thought it might be Morgana. She often used German mercenaries in her schemes." The sword pondered for a moment, but before I could reply, my communication amulet suddenly activated. And not just a regular call — it instantly connected.
Huh, I didn't even know it could do that. They'd kept that part hidden from me, I see.
"Stop wasting time, magic sword. You should be thrilled that I desire to obtain you," came a voice I knew well, authoritative and unwavering... not even my mother could command such power in her tone. "Especially when you're forced to serve a false king of the Fomorians. I won't lock you away in some treasure room like the Witch of Britain would. I want to study the magic you know."
"Oh? Maybe I've lowered my standards, witch?" the sword retorted, undeterred, keeping the same jovial tone.
"Enough with the foolishness. I know full well that the selection criteria placed in an artifact can't be altered by the artifact itself. That's a fundamental rule in creating sentient objects," Medea snapped, finishing with a disdainful huff.
"Alright, alright. I'm convinced that you are who you claim to be. And I'm inclined to agree — but with one condition. Beneath this throne room is the last known descendant of the true Fomorian kings. Not the bastard half-blood currently sitting here, but a legitimate heir. If your servant kills my current owner and his main accomplices right now, and frees the rightful king, I'll teach you everything I know."
"Agreed," Medea replied without hesitation. "Boy, handle it."
"I can, Your Highness, but I believe the only way to do it is with Fiendfyre, and that could harm the esteemed Orna," I quickly rattled off before she could disconnect.
"Orna?"
"And just who did they send for me? What a shame, what a shame. Fine, but only because the word of a great witch carries weight and respect. Consider yourself fortunate, princess. Hey, German, grab me. The bastard won't wake until the ritual is over, and neither will the other traitors."
Skirting around the throne, I glanced at the so-called bastard king — he didn't look particularly special, apart from his impressive armor and size. Carefully, I extended my hand toward one of the two swords at his waist. Orna was easy to spot — the scabbard was far more ornate than the other.
Not to mention the magic pouring from it.
"And now for the rightful king!" the sword demanded, vibrating slightly in my hand.
"Where do I go?" I asked quickly.
"Right behind the throne! Yes, this way... And hold on a second..." I felt the blade drawing on my magic — about as much as I'd use for an Avada Kedavra, in fact. "There!"
The floor in front of me slid aside, revealing a staircase that led down, with large steps. The height of the stairs would be challenging, but manageable, so I hurried down them as fast as I could.
Before me stood a near mirror image of the throne room above, though darker and more foreboding. Instead of a throne and its dais, however, there was a large cage. Inside, bound in chains, was what I assumed was a Fomorian youth. He was asleep. Good.
"Strike the cage with me," Orna, the sword, spoke as I raised my wand, preparing to open the cage with a spell, likely Avada Kedavra. "That will take too long. The Killing Curse won't break the enchantment quickly enough, German."
"Uh-huh," I muttered, agreeing as I swung the blade directly at the lock.
The result wasn't perfect, but Orna did most of the work, easily cleaving through the thick steel lock. I followed up with Alohomora to open the cage door.
Even after all that, the prisoner didn't wake.
"The bastard put him under a spell. Once he's dead, it'll break," the sword commented, vibrating lightly in my hand. "Destroy the chains with me and — "
"Don't tell me I have to carry him with me..." I grumbled, already thinking about what spell I'd need to drag him along.
"No. Once the bastard and his main supporters are dead, the others will naturally submit to the rightful king. It's in their blood," Orna reassured me, sounding oddly nervous.
Hmm. Could it be that the sword actually cares about this Fomorian? Interesting. Too bad I can't use that to my advantage now — Orna's already agreed to everything. But I'll keep it in mind for the future. I'll make a note of it later.
Fortunately, the enchanted blade sliced through the chains effortlessly, and I quickly headed back to the staircase. After scrambling up the oversized steps, I surveyed the throne room, which hadn't changed.
"Kill them!" Orna demanded, bloodthirsty and pleased.
"No problem. You rest here for a moment," I said, carefully placing the sword on the floor as I closed my eyes, focusing.
To summon Fiendfyre, I needed to channel a desire for everything to burn in the flames of the Underworld — living flames that thirsted for life and magic, not just wood or steel. These flames didn't behave like normal fire or other magical elements. They wanted souls.
I summoned images of these creatures attacking human settlements, slaughtering people I'd known in this life and the last, devouring their corpses... bit by bit, I stoked my genuine desire for the flames to consume these creatures, right here and now. A wave of heat surged through me, sending shivers down my spine.
A torrent of fire erupted from my wand, rushing forth with a mental howl toward the Fomorians locked in the ritual. Grabbing Orna, I bolted back along my familiar route. I didn't have time to worry about what would happen to the rightful heir now — the exit behind me sealed itself as I passed through.
Fiendfyre has a nasty tendency to turn on its summoner once its target is destroyed or unreachable. At that point, the caster must either redirect it, expending more energy, or extinguish it, which takes even more effort.
But for hit-and-run tactics like this, it's perfect.
From what I know, wizards used Fiendfyre frequently for sabotage during World War II — on both sides, in fact.
As I slipped through the same passageway as before, I ran into two Fomorian swordsmen. A couple of quick Bombarda spells to the face didn't kill them, but it was enough to knock them unconscious.
The rest of my escape became more difficult. The Fiendfyre had sent the entire ruin into a frenzy. However, most of the Fomorians rushed toward the throne room and weren't actively searching for me. As a result, my encounters with them were as unexpected for them as they were for me.
Thankfully, my reflexes were faster. They weren't expecting a human, let alone a small one, and they didn't look down often. This advantage helped me stay ahead of the chaos... until I ran straight into three mages who immediately attacked me with glowing violet projectiles.
"Well, everything was going so well!"