The Keystaff Chronicles Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It was a soft, quiet evening. The shadows of night had crept upon the village of Endhorl like a thief and stolen away light and laughter. The village, which had bustled so boisterously during the day, was now still. Doors were closed, and lamps were dimmed. The laughter of children at play and the haggling between merchants and buyers had all disappeared. Only the quiet whisper of a cool summer breeze through the leaves and the soft song of the cicadas broke the silence of the night.

From his vantage point atop the temple hill, Patron Bartel gazed fondly upon the village he had helped to build. He could see the entire village from the doorway of the modest temple he had called home, and the faintly flickering lights from the village seemed more beautiful to him than the shimmering stars in the heaven. There, standing between two ancient oaks, was the Inn of Sweet Waters. The inn had been built when he first came to Endhorl, and in fact, he had helped the innkeeper, the burly Koryn, with the roof. And there, about three houses down, was the bakery. The baker and his wife had been trying for years to have a daughter, but Abihayil the Eternal Father had seen fit to give them sons instead. They finally stopped after they had their fifth son, and from what the schoolmistress told him, the five rambunctious boys took turns wreaking havoc in class. Then, there was the seamstress…

Patron Bartel let out a soft sigh. He would miss this village that he had called home all these years. He would miss speaking to them on Sabbath day. He would miss watching the children run about while his assistant, the long suffering Oritz, tried in vain to seat them. He would miss the visits he paid to the families and their generous hospitality. Most of all, he would miss watching them draw closer to Abihayil and relish in the endless grace of the Eternal Father.

But it was time.

He had sensed them while enjoying dinner at the inn. Beneath the mouth-watering aroma of Koryn’s famous spiced pork, he had caught a whiff of the sickly sweet scent of decay. The food that tasted so wonderful only a moment ago had turned to ash upon his tongue. Even at that distance, their taint had reached him.

And now, they were here.

The patron pushed open the heavy double doors and stepped into the worship hall. There were two sitting areas with eight rows of pews in each area. The village carpenter had made them all with the help of his young son. The aisle that led to the altar had been swept clean, and the windows that lined the walls were scrubbed so clean that it was as if the glass panes didn’t exist. That was all courtesy of the schoolmistress and the baker’s sons, no doubt. The schoolmistress meted out punishment in the form of cleaning, and since the bakers’ boys were constantly getting themselves into scraps, they were the ones that did most of the cleaning around the village. They were good boys really, and Patron Bartel had great hopes of them growing up to be fine men who loved and respected the Eternal Father.

How strange life was, how exciting and how unpredictable, the patron thought to himself as he walked down the aisle towards the altar. In his hot-blooded youth, he would have never imagined serving Abihayil in the manner that he was doing now. He would have never imagined that he’d preside over weddings, or bless newborns, or… well, he would have never imagined that he’d become a patron. But it had all been a blessing. The peaceful life that he had led these past few decades had been a true blessing from Abihayil.

With his hands resting against the rough hewn surface of the altar, the patron raised his head to look at the wreath of thorns hanging on the center wall. The wreath was the symbol of his faith; the symbol of his belief in the Uncrowned Prince. His wife had made that wreath and presented it to him on her deathbed, and he had carried it with him in memory of her. But now, it would serve a purpose other than a token of her love. Now it would serve to protect the village they both loved.

Patron Bartel murmured a few words and held out his hands. The thorn wreath floated down from the wall, as lightly and gently as if it were a feather. He was filled with a sense of peace and tranquility as he held the wreath. His wife’s prayers, the prayers of a faithful servant of the Eternal Power, had gone into the weaving of this wreath.

“Merciful Abihayil, protect this village. Protect the villagers from the darkness that is coming. Hold them close to your bosom and keep them safe. And if despair spreads its dark wings across this light, then let there be a light of hope for them, always,” the patron whispered with his head bowed reverently, “Let their faith in you and your son be strong, always.”

With another word of command, Patron Bartel sent the wreath from him. If all went well, he would retrieve it later. And if… Well, he had faith that Abihayil would protect Endhorl.

Straightening his white robes that had become slightly stained from the lovely dinner he had had, Patron Bartel went to stand behind the altar. He spoke a word and every single candle in the worship hall sprang to life. Another word brought him his mage’s staff. Wrought of steel and tapering into a sharp point at one end of its seven-foot shaft, his was the staff of a battle mage. The other end of the staff was topped with a blessed ruby the size of a man’s fist.

The last time he had held that staff, he had been a man in his prime, who was “quite terribly over-muscled and in dire jeopardy of looking like an ape”. Unbidden, the image of a tall, golden-haired elf entered his mind, along with the arrogantly cultured, melodious voice that had spoken those words. A rueful smile lifted the corners of the patron’s lips. It had been several years since he had seen his elf lord friend. That one was as rootless as the wind, wandering here and there as his fancies took him. The last time that one had deigned to pay him a visit, he had mentioned something about a new apprentice…

A sudden loud creak brought his wandering mind back to the matter at hand. The double doors opened slowly and two cloaked figured walked into the worship hall. The unmistakable taint of darkness, the stench of death and decay that marked all servants of the Abyssal Ones, rolled off these unexpected guests in waves.

The taller of his two visitors stepped forward into the light. With fair-skinned, long-fingered hands, he drew back the hood of his black cloak, and his hair, dazzling golden like a waterfall of sunlight, spilled out. His face was smooth and unlined, as was common for the long-lived elven race, but he did not have that almost unnatural stillness about him that the older elves possessed.

Patron Bartel squinted at the elf. He had once visited the fabled high elf kingdom of Azturoth, and had become acquainted with several members of that most reclusive race. This young elf looked very familiar to him, but he could not quite recollect a name that went with the face.

“Good evening, Archmage Bartel Todure,” the elf bowed respectfully and spoke in a cultured voice with only a hint of the high elven accent.

“Good evening, sir elf,” the patron smiled slightly as he waved at his stained white robes, “Archmage is not a title befitting one such as I. I am just the patron of a small temple, as you can see.”

The young elf looked up, and Bartel was surprised by the bleak, despairing expression in the dark green eyes so unlike the ageless serenity he had grown accustomed to seeing from elves, “Fifty years is not so long a time by the reckoning of elves and mages, honored one. I have not forgotten your visit to my House with my honored uncle.”

“Ah!” Patron Bartel gave the altar a good slap, “I remember now, you are Azariel’s nephew, Theredoniel! You have certainly grown since the last time we have met. Fifty years is not a long time by the reckoning of the elves, but it is certainly not a short time either. How is your uncle?”

“I have not had the pleasure of my uncle’s company for over two years,” Theredoniel replied drily, “Nor have I come here to discuss him now. Honored one, you know why I have come. Please give me the Keystaff.”

Patron Bartel regarded the young elf before him. He did indeed remember his old friend’s nephew. The elven youth had greeted him with barely suppressed, wide-eyed adulation and bombarded him with a thousand questions about the world beyond the verdant boundaries of Azturoth. How different that vibrant youth was from the bleak young man who stood before him now. What could have possessed this young elf to serve the Abyssal Ones?
A sudden, jerky motion from Theredoniel’s companion captured the young elf’s attention. He rushed over to his companion’s side just as his companion was about to fall over.

“Eowyna!” Theredoniel cried out as he caught his companion. The hood fell back, and a mass of shiny brown hair tumbled out. Theredoniel’s companion was a young human woman. The young woman had a face that would inspire sculptors, with large, doe-like brown eyes framed by long, dark lashes, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and generous lips. But to Patron Bartel, there was something about her that seemed wrong. Her skin was ashen, and her lips were bloodless, and he had no doubt that she was grievously ill. But it was more than that. The patron could not quite put his finger on what it was that so troubled here.

“Are you feeling alright, beloved? Tired?” Theredoniel asked as he helped the young woman get back to her feet. She did not respond, and she moved with such stiffness that it was as if she had wooden limbs.

Patron Bartel stepped out from behind the altar and went towards her, “Theredoniel, your companion is unwell. Let me look at her.”

“No!” Theredoniel put himself between Eowyna and the patron, “Don’t touch her! She is fine!”

The patron’s brows drew together in a disapproving frown, “Young man, you companion is clearly not fine! Now sit her down so I can take a look at her.”

“Do not come any closer!” the elf cried desperately. He threw his arms out to bodily stop the patron from taking another step, but in doing so, he had to let go of the young woman. The unusually silent Eowyna fell backwards like a puppet with its strings cut, without so much as a whimper. She landed on the ground hard, and laid still, her eyes wide open but unseeing as if she was dead.

And then, the patron knew, “Merciful Abihayil! You have defiled this young woman’s body and made her into one of the walking dead!”

Theredoniel shook his head vehemently, “No! She’s not dead. She is just… she is just unwell.” The pain and desperation was so evident in his eyes that Patron Bartel let out a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.

“Her eyes are empty, Theredoniel. She must have been a true follower of the Uncrowned Prince, for her soul has already returned to the Eternal Father.”

Theredoniel let out a sound that was like the cry of a wounded animal. He pointed a finger at the patron and screamed a word of power. An arc of bright blue lightning sprang from his outstretched finger and struck an invisible barrier with a thunderous clasp.

“Get away from her,” the young elf screamed, “Get away from her. Get away from her!” He held out both his hands, his lips moving frantically as he spoke words. The air grew thick with the smell of ozone, and lightning crackled from every one of his fingertips. The blue light from the lightning arcs reflected eerily in his eyes, making him like a man possessed. And he was a man possessed, the patron thought as he regarded the young elf. Theredoniel’s handsome visage had twisted into something almost beast like, and with defiant scream, the elf hurled a giant sphere of lightning at Pastor Bartel.

A deafening roar tore through the temple, and the worship hall shook from the vicious blast. The pews were either blown apart or burst into flames, and pieces of the stone walls crumbled from this vicious attack. White smoke filled the temple, making Theredoniel’s eyes water and his throat itch. He coughed as he drew the slim elven blade hanging from his hip. He had not seen the patron being struck by the attack.

“The Gwenevar line has always produced powerful mages,” a voice spoke from behind him, startling him, “But you were not trained by Azariel. I have never seen that one attack in anger as you have just done, young man.”

Theredoniel spun around with the words of another deadly attack upon his lips. However, before he could even utter a sound, an invisible force struck him in the stomach, knocking him to the ground, and stealing his breath. With a wave of his hand and a single word, Patron Bartel dispersed the white smoke that had filled the worship hall, and doused the flames that had started to spread from pew to pew.

“Your companion has passed, Theredoniel. Her soul has ascended. The Abyssal Ones have the power to bring death to the flesh, but they do not have the power to perform the miracle of resurrection! Open your eyes, young man!”

“She isn’t dead,” the young elf squeezed the words out from between tightly clenched teeth. In his frustration, he had reverted back to the flowing language of the high elves, and that only served to make Patron Bartel sigh more deeply.

“Come out, you who have wrought this evil and made dead flesh move,” the patron said suddenly, slamming his staff against the ground, “I have sensed your presence the moment you set foot in this temple.”

There came a soft chuckle, and tendrils of shadows pulled free of the wall to form the shape of a man. The newcomer had hair as white as frost and eyes like the color of the sky on a perfectly cloudless day. He was dressed in brightly colored clothes that contrasted starkly with the dark cloak that Theredoniel had wrapped himself with, and had a smile as bright as the morning sun. But to Patron Bartel, this pale-haired stranger was truly a creature of darkness, more vile and revolting than even the walking dead. This man, if he could still be called man, was a true servant of the Abyssal Ones.

The newcomer bowed gracefully, “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Arhcmage Bartel. I do apologize for our unannounced visit and pray that it has not inconvenienced you too much.”

“I didn’t think your kind prayed,” the patron responded with wry humor, but he held his staff just a little more firmly. He was wary of this pale-haired intruder, more so than he was of Azariel’s nephew. Theredoniel’s power pulsed through the room with the steady rhythm of a beating heart, so charged that it made the small hairs at the nape of his neck stand on edge. It was impressively powerful, but it was something he would be able to deal with. But the pale-haired intruder was another matter. He reeked of death and decay, as was to be expected of one who had devoted himself to the service of the Abyssal Ones. But Patron Bartel could not sense his power at all. The way he had made his entrance left not room for doubt that he was a mage, but as he stood before the patron, he gave off no feeling of power at all.

“Ah, but I do,” the intruder laughed, “Just to a different master.”

He snapped his finger and Eowyna’s body climbed back to its feet, “Come now, dear Theredoniel, cheer up. See, lovely Eowyna is fine.”

“Lucien…” the young elf used his sword as support to get back on his feet, “What are you doing here?”

“Why, to make sure everything is well with you of course, my dear elf lord,” the pale-haired intruder replied with a grand sweep of his arm, “You’ll have to excuse my rudeness, Patron Bartel. I do not think I have introduced myself. My name is Lucien Delynd, formerly of the Achianda Empire. Well, perhaps I should introduce myself as Lucien. I imagine my father must have disowned me by now!”

The patron stiffened at this revelation. Though he had not really set foot outside of Endhorl, he had heard of Lucien Delynd. If this pale-haired young man was indeed who he claimed to be, then he was the former crown prince of the Achianda Empire whose inexplicable and brutal exodus from his homeland left a trail of bodies, some of which belonged to his own siblings and several high-ranking ministers of his father’s court.

“I have always heard that His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Alduth, is a devout follower of the Uncrowned Prince. It saddens me that you chose such a different path,” Patron Bartel replied.

“Ah, but this was the path your Abihayil chose for me,” Lucien replied, “Is it not true that he predestines those he wishes to save? I am merely a pawn playing my role in his grand plan. And in that plan, fair Eowyna was fated to die quite horribly. Did you know that when I found her, her fingers, her toes and even her adorable nose had rotted off? It was quite difficult to restore her to her current state, oh holy one.”

Theredoniel stiffened at his words and an expression of pain crossed the young elf’s face. Seeing this, Lucien let out a dramatic sigh, “I’ve spoken thoughtlessly again and made my dear Theredoniel sad. Let me make it up to you, my friend.”

Lucien held his wrist up to his mouth and bit down hard enough to draw blood. Then, with an almost careless gesture, he flicked his wounded hand. Blood splattered onto the ground with a hiss, a dark stain on the clean wooden temple floor. It started to bubble ominously and began spreading like an infestation, eating away the floor boards as it went.

“I cannot hope to match the power of an archmage,” Lucien explained in an almost apologetic voice as he motioned at the pool of darkness at his feet, “And I know you would loath to part with the Keystaff. So, I am going to bring in some friends to help me. You’ll have to forgive their appearance though, Patron Bartel, because they are a rather unsightly bunch.”

The room grew darker and darker as shadowy forms rose from the depths of the ever-expanding black pool. The nauseating stench of rotting meat permeated the worship hall, forcing the patron to cover his nose with the wide sleeves of his robe so that he would not wretch. That all too familiar odor filled him with dread. Of all the loathsome acts performed by the servants of the Abyssal Ones, none filled him with as much anger and disgust as defilement of the dead. Lucien, he was certain, had just summoned the walking dead.

Patron Bartel held out his staff and spoke the command for light. The red jewel hummed once and began to glow with a fierce white light that lit the hall as brightly as it was day. But the sight that awaited the patron was not one he wished to see. Standing in the hall, in various states of decay, were over three dozens of animated bodies. Some were little more than skeletons with wisps of flesh and cloth hanging from the bones. Others had wriggling maggots feasting on their decaying flesh.

But what was most disturbing to the patron was the fact that he recognized several of the bodies that had not decomposed as badly. The animated corpse closest to where he stood was swathed in a white robe similar to the one he wore and belonged to the old patron of the neighboring village of Brima one day’s ride east of Endhorl. Brima’s patron had passed peacefully in his sleep less than a month ago, and Patron Bartel had attended the funeral. The other bodies he recognized also belonged to the deceased villagers in Brima, which meant that Lucien had desecrated that village’s cemetery. What of the village itself?

“What of Brima?” the patron demanded, “What of it villagers?”

“Hmm? Brima? Ah, that must be the village we passed through on the way over. The innkeeper there made the loveliest chicken stew I’ve had in a long time! And his beautiful daughter was very… well… very hospitable,” Lucien’s eyes had a fond, faraway look in them.
However, his use of past tense was not lost to Patron Bartel, “You killed them all.”

“Oh my, no, no!” the pale-haired young man’s eyes widened in horror, “Why would I do such a thing that gains me nothing in return?”

Patron Bartel let out quiet sigh of relief, but Lucien went on almost thoughtfully, “Although people I touch sometimes do fall ill. It has to do with the Art I practice, unfortunately.” He held up his left hand to show the patron his nails, which were dull and completely black, “Maybe you should send some of your Abihayil’s healers by anyway, just in case?”

The patron felt a cold chill creep up his spine. Those dull black nails meant that Lucien could spread corruption and decay with a single touch if he so desired!

“In the name of Abihayil the Eternal Father, I free your flesh from this bondage,” Patron Bartel roared with rage, pointing his staff at the animated bodies, “Let that which is was made from the earth return to the earth!”

The red jewel became as a miniature sun, filling the room with a blessed golden light that chased away the shadows that had encroached upon the modest temple since Lucien’s unholy summoning. When the light touched the animated bodies, they turned to dust, falling to the ground without a sound. Theredoniel threw himself on top of Eowyna with a defiant cry so that the light would not touch her and turn her to dust also.

Lucien regarded the patron with a slightly pained smile on his face. The light was scorching away his flesh, and black smoke rose from where the light burned him. Almost as fast as the light was burning him, the flesh would heal itself anew. At first, it seemed like the two were deadlocked. But gradually, the speed at which the flesh re-knitting itself began to slow while the light continued to shine with steadfast strength.

“Patron Bartel! There’s an army of dead moving towards the village!”

The side door leading into the worship hall burst open and a middle-aged man, panic written clearly on his face, charged in. His breaths came in gasps and his face was red and sweat-streaked from exertion. There was mud all over what might have once been white robes, evidence that he had taken a bad fall at some point.

“The village is protected, Oritz. Come stand behind me,” the patron replied as he pointed his staff at Lucien, his eyes flashing with outrage, “Your unrepentant cruelty is without bounds, Prince Lucien! I will not allow you to hurt anyone else!”

Patron Bartel opened his mouth to speak the words of destruction, but the sickening crunch of bone breaking resounded through the hall instead. The faithful patron’s eyes rolled up on his head and he fell. Oritz stood behind him, the marble candleholder in his hands smeared with blood. The patron’s assistant’s eyes were wide with shock, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish as he stared down at the limp form at his feet with disbelief.

“Phew! The power of an archmage is truly a force to be reckoned with,” Lucien exclaimed, wincing as he flexed one of his burned hands, “If our dear friend hadn’t come the esteemed patron would have surely turned me to a crisp!”

Theredoniel eyed his companion wearily, “Is he working for you?”

Before Lucien could answer, Oritz let out a horrified cry and collapsed next to the fallen patron, “No… no! I didn’t… I didn’t…No!”

“Just for those few moments when we needed him,” Lucien chuckled and gestured at the piles of earth on the ground, “He must have touched one of our Eowyna’s lovely brethren on his way from the village.”

“Eowyna is not like them!” Theredoniel glared at him, rising to his feet and pulling Eowyna up with him.

“Of course not,” Lucien’s slender eyebrows arched, “I misspoke my dear, Theredoniel. You must forgive that I don’t have all my wits about me. After all, your uncle’s old friend has thoroughly exhausted me!”

“You monster!” Oritz was suddenly on his feet, his eyes wild and filled with rage, “You made me kill the patron!” He charged towards the pale-haired young man, his arms outstretched as if he intended to throttle him.

“Don’t worry. If you apologize to the archmage, I am certain he’ll forgive you,” Lucien casually made a flicking motion with his hand.

Oritz felt a sudden tearing pain along his sides. He looked down and saw the white bones of his own ribcage rip through his flesh like the claws of a terrible beast, glistening with blood. The sight filled with such unspeakable that he opened his mouth to scream. But blood had filled his lungs, and all he managed was a whimpering gurgle. The last thing he saw before death claimed him was Lucien’s pleasantly smiling face.

“Now, dear Theredoniel, won’t you do the honors?” Lucien walked over to one of the overturned pews and gave it a gentle tap.

The young elf rose to his feet and staggered over to where the pale-haired youth was standing. Even though this was not the first time he had witnessed Lucien’s sadistic methods, he felt ill to the core of his being. Lucien was a man without morals or scruples. He killed casually, almost as an after thought, even. It was a soul-destroying mistake to ally himself with such a creature, but he had no choice. This monster with the beautiful face was Eowyna’s only hope.

Raising his finely crafted sword, Theredoniel brought it down against the wooden pew with a powerful two-handed swing. Wood splintered under the blow, revealing something shiny and metallic lying within. A part of the young elf’s mind screamed at him to stop, or to turn his blade against the heinous man before him.

Lucien was sitting on another overturned pew, a serene smile playing curving his lips. There was a knowing look in his eyes as he and Theredoniel regarded one another. He was the one who controlled Eowyna’s fate, and if he so desired, he could make the ground swallow her up. The young elf would never risk that.

“We should hurry, I am certain that we will have company soon. I would loath to shed anymore blood on such holy ground. It would be…well, sacrilegious,” Lucien laughed suddenly, “I’d always wanted to say that word. The priest that my imperial father had assigned us constantly used said it. Every time my younger brother did something, he’s say ‘Sacrilegious!’! Honestly, I think that man just liked the ring of the word.”

Theredoniel ignored Lucien. Gritting his teeth, he brought his sword down against the pew, again and again until it was nothing more than a pile of firewood. The Keystaff lay amidst the pile forlornly, looking very much like an ordinary battle staff. Theredoniel bent down and picked it up.

The shaft of the staff was inscribed with protective runes that would incinerate someone like Lucien immediately if he dared to touch it. But Theredoniel, a child descended from the legendary archmage, Elucielle Gwenevar, was spared this fate. The great archmage who had given her life to protect her homeland had never even considered the possibility that one of her descendants would wield her battle staff for any reason other than the service of Abihayil or her beloved homeland.

As the young elf held his ancestor’s staff, he felt a twinge of pain deep in his heart. In the instant that he had picked up the staff, he had thrown away everything that he had ever been raised to hold dear. He had damned himself. Theredoniel turned to look at his beloved who stood motionlessly where he had left her. This was for her. This was all for her.