The Last Spell Knight: Book two: Legacy (The Spell Knight Trilogy 2) by T.J.J. Klamvik

Author:T.J.J. Klamvik [Klamvik, T.J.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2024-04-25T00:00:00+00:00

Cautiously, Archibald and Henryck stepped past the warped oak door, their armored boots echoing softly against the cold, flagstone floor. Years of neglect made the ground beneath Archibald’s feet seem to shift and give with every step, almost as if the rot had seeped into the foundation of the building. Only silence accompanied the sound of their armors rustling with movement, except for a musty draft whispering through the gaping cracks in the walls, carrying with it a feeling of cold dampness.

“Do you smell that?” Henryck asked, his voice wavering slightly as he spoke. “Something rotten…”

“Smells like corpse to me,” Archibald agreed. “We’re in the right place.”

Henryck visibly tensed up, as he held his hammer close, surveying the dark corridor—only faint rays of sun penetrating the thick stone façade, illuminating little of the interior. “Mayhaps we should light a torch…”

Archibald shook his head. “We need to know where the sunlight is. If we are ambushed by the creature, we can lure it toward the rays. If we wield a torch, we won’t know what light comes from what source.”

The pair continued, venturing further into the manor, as the nauseating stench of decay increased with the progress. By the time they reached the great hall, showcasing echoes of a time when it had been used for feasts and ample celebrations, the smell was strong enough to make Archibald tear up; it was an experience so intense it singed his nose hairs and caused him to gag.

“By God,” Henryck muttered, hiding his nose under his gauntleted hand. “It’s worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. I’ve cleared out ghoul’s nests that smelled better.”

Archibald nodded, staring up at the high vaulted ceiling, adorned with tales and memories now forgotten. Tattered remnants of banners lined the walls, showcasing faded colors belonging to different houses and families—some of which had been lost in the wake of King Arwas’ death. “This merchant, the one that lived here,” he started, “he was not of the silk?”

“I wouldn’t know. I never met him. I suppose if he had to resort to trade and mercantile matters to make his fortune, he was unlikely to be highborn,” Henryck said, waving his hand in front of his face as if he might dissipate the overpowering stench. “Why does it matter?”

Archibald’s eyes traced the mounted animal heads that stared down at the desolate dining area from above. All of them were in fine condition, and most importantly, completely untouched. “Where was this Pryce Galav buried?” he asked, picking up a fork from the pile of tarnished silverware, stacked on top of the wooden table in the center of the room.

Henryck turned to face Archibald, his expression one of frustration. “What does it matter, Spell Knight? Pryce Galav is dead and gone. Let’s focus on the strigoi.”

Archibald furrowed his brow and clenched his jaw. “Fine. The smell is coming from this direction,” he said, reaffirming his grip on his shield as he began leading with his spear. “Be on your guard; we are in the belly of the beast now.

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