Page 39 of The Withering Wood

Cerise launched the absorber toward the bone prison, sending up a prayer to Zyrdriel for the first time in her life.

Please, Zyrdriel, let this work. If you ever had any love for my sister, let this free him.

With the other hand, she flung the spear at the necromancer with all her might, hoping to at least stall him long enough for her plan to succeed.

The spear pierced through Vraethik’s shoulder, the necromancer stumbling from the sudden force. At the same time, the absorber and necromantic magic collided, screeching through bone bars with the sound of grinding glass. The absorber sucked in the heat surrounding it, including the necrotic purple-green threads that maintained the cage. Bones shifted, trying to purge the absorber from itself while keeping Oberon within. Zyrdriel’s artifact vibrated, humming and clanking against the bones as it snatched the magic away from it, the pale blue of the trapped cold within soon swirling with sickly purple-green.

Vraethik sneered, wrapping a hand around the spear’s shaft and yanking it from his shoulder. He turned toward Cerise, his face contorted with hate. Threxilon shoved its tusks through the shifting bone bars, huffing and snuffing as it tried to shove away the absorber, tusks shearing Oberon’s pants, cutting his legs.

When the last strand of Vraethik’s power pulled into the absorber, the cage collapsed, bones scattering over Oberon’s body. Yet the heap still shook, the absorber vibrating with too much stored power. Cerise barreled into the lichboar and pushed back the necromancer, scrambling over to the bones, thrusting them off the prince’s body until she found the relic, cracking as the magic fought to escape.

Cerise chucked the absorber as far as she could, the relic exploding mid-air. Celestial-blessed glass tinkled down to the frosty ground while the trapped magic and cold burst overhead. Zyrdriel’s icy-blue power swallowed the threads of necromancy winding through the air, then evaporated into nothing.

She whipped around toward the necromancer, Vraethik pressing a hand over his wound, green pulsing from his hand. The stench of decay perfumed the air as Vraethik necrotized his skin then grew dead flesh, sealing off the injury. Cerise pressed her lips together, wanting to vomit as she looked over the necromancer’s scarred form, guessing that all those nasty marks were old, decayed skin. The monster was half dead already.

“Cerise…” Oberon whispered, eyes flickering open.

“You need to get out of here. Now.” Cerise snatched his forearm and yanked him to his feet, not giving him a moment to reorient to consciousness.

He stumbled, holding his head, a confused furrow in his brow at the sight of carved runes in his flesh, blood dripping from his elbow and hissing on the snow. The gems in Vraethik’s staff glowed from within, summoning some new horrid magic she needed to stop before it trapped them once again.

“Now!” she screamed again, pushing the prince.

She whirled on Vraethik, removing Beloved from her back and swinging it overhead. Threxilon caught the shaft between its gnarled tusks and twisted, trying to wrench it from her grasp. Gritting her teeth, she fought against the writhing lichboar, muscles screaming as she counteracted the powerful beast.

“I knew the idiot would follow me, desperate as he is to mean something. Though he became more of a nuisance than I expected,” Vraethik said, and Cerise wished she had a free hand to pummel him for the insult. Blackish-purple ooze threaded from his staff into the air. “No matter. The process has already begun.”

The magic coiled past Cerise, and she flicked her attention behind her, still pushing against Threxilon’s hold on Beloved. The ooze whisked Oberon’s blood from the snow and carried the droplets over the necrotic pool to Azkanix’s dangling, diseased heart. It twisted like a towel, dripping the blood over the black organ. Vibrant pink, the same shade as Oberon’s eyes, trickled over the pulsing mass. The heart quivered, then sucked the blood into itself and pulsed once, twice, growing larger with each thunderous beat.

“Only a little more of Mirvadel’s blessing should do the trick, I think.” Vraethik’s manic grin contorted his pockmarked face, soulless eyes landing on Cerise. “Once you’re out of the way, nothing will stop this.”

“Don’t think getting rid of me will be so easy, necromancer. I’ve killed more powerful sorcerers than you.”

“Doubtful. I’m a prophet, you see, so unless you’ve killed a Celestial, you’ve never met one more powerful than myself.”

Shit. A prophet. A mortal with a piece of a Celestial’s soul housed within them. Perhaps this was why the curse could spread through Azkanix’s bones. His power still remained in this plane. And perhaps, Vraethik wasn’t the only one.

With a loud, rumbling yell, summoning all her strength, she twirled Beloved, forcing the lichboar to either relent or break its neck. With a hellish squeal, Threxilon unwound its tusks and leapt back, shaking the twinge from its neck before rounding its hellfire gaze on her and charging forward once more.

Footsteps pounded beside her and Vraethik’s eyes widened the moment before Oberon tackled the lichboar, colliding into its side, stabbing it with a broken piece of the absorber. Threxilon shrieked as the thin yet tough glass penetrated its flesh, the prince and beast rolling in the snow.

“Oberon!” Cerise shouted again, heart thundering with panic, sure the lichboar’s tusks would shred through him in their tumble.

But when the prince and Threxilon rose, Oberon’s hands held the tusks in a tight grip, unrelenting despite the lichboar’s thrashing.

“Don’t worry about me, just kill the damned necromancer!” he shouted through gritted teeth, using all his might to keep control of Threxilon.

The fool. He’d squandered his one chance to escape.

“Excellent,” Vraethik said. “The more he bleeds the faster this will go.”

“All the more reason to kill you quicker,” Cerise retorted, lunging toward Vraethik, Beloved’s dagger point angled at his chest.

He swept the weapon aside with his staff as he backstepped, but Cerise pressed on, unrelenting in her barrage of thrusts, sweeps, and parries. His old, rotting wooden staff cracked beneath the weight of Cerise and Beloved, held together with nothing more than necrotic magic. He may have the advantage of energy, compared to Cerise’s fatigue, but she was taller, stronger, and unyielding. She would not let Azkanix rise again. Would not let more horrors enter this world.

Cerise swung Beloved in quick succession, hacking either side of Vraethik’s staff, wood splinters flying into the air, Vraethik cowering and gritting his yellow teeth as he tried to block her blows and prevent his fingers from getting sliced off. The staff snapped in two, the top half studded with gems and effigies thudding to the frozen earth.

“No!” Vraethik screamed, hand darting for the staff a split second too late, Cerise slamming down one of Beloved’s axes on it.