The Keystaff Chronicles Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The seaport city of Westshore was situated along the south western coast of the Tranquilean Ocean just beyond the boarders of the Achianda Empire. Here, one would be able to find an even wider and wilder variety of merchants and ships than even Oturia the Magnificent. For unlike Oturia, which banned vessels from certain states, all were welcome to Westshore. As Oturia was often likened to a beautiful white pearl, so Westshore was like the great melting pot of cultures, races and faiths.

And so, in this place where the strange was norm, neither Azarielle with her bright red coat or Ofeera with her healer’s robes turned a head. Luthien was another matter. The young knight’s snow-kissed hair and his white coat that bespoke of his affiliation with the Knights of Elad garnered his fair share of attention. Because the Order of Elad deemed that most of Westshore’s denizens were heathen because they were neither followers of Uncrowned Prince nor worshippers of Abihayil, seldom would a Knight of Elad willingly set foot in this city.

If Luthien noticed the curious and sometimes not altogether unfriendly stares directed towards him, as he and his unlikely companions made their way through the crowded market place, he showed no sign of it, “We need to hire an air ship. I will find a captain willing to take us. Will the two of you please obtain some provisions for our journey?”

“Certainly, but wouldn’t it be useful if you told us where you were journeying to?” Azarielle asked, “We’d need completely different provisions if we were heading to the frozen north as opposed to the Shift Sands.”

“We are headed east, to the City of the Peaceful Sea,” the knight replied, his eyebrows drawing together.
“Oh, a port city of the Empire of the Rising Sun,” Azarielle said, using the proper name of the Dark Empire as she spotted a few silk merchants who most definitely hailed from that place, “The willows are lovely there this time of the year. But I imagine you won’t be too popular there, with, you know, the two empires being at war and everything. But why are we going there?”

“Because that’s where the traitor and the renegade elf are headed.”

The young mage’s eyes widened, “I didn’t think you had such great tracking magic. Or, is it because you have a hound’s nose? That’s quite interesting. Are you sniffing the air for their scent right now? Theredoniel likes to wear this sort of leafy perfume. I told him it’s quite feminine but you know how vain elves can be.”

As Azarielle prattled on, Ofeera noticed that the corners of Luthien’s lips tighten and she quickly interjected before the situation worsened, “Azarielle, I will tell you what is happening. We should really let him go.”

“Alright,” Azarielle nodded, and then leaning closer to her friend, she spoke in a very audible whisper, “You are much better at explaining things then he is. I have to tell you, I think that fellow has a speech problem. His face gets all scrunched up looking when he talks, and his words are so clipped like it’s a hardship to say a sentence more. Do the older knights beat the younger ones over the head as part of their training?”

Mortified, Ofeera elbowed the young mage and then she turned to Luthien, “Where shall we meet?”

“Next to the Inn of Second Home by the docks,” Luthien scowled at Azarielle but chose not to pursue a pointless argument, “It’s the only respectable establishment in this…place.”

Ofeera quickly acquiesced, and grabbing Azarielle by the arm, she dragged her protesting friend away before the young woman could say another unfortunate word.

The two friends made their way through a thick throng of market goers. Ofeera soon found herself overwhelmed by all that surrounded her. This market place was a sea of people, of vibrant colors spanning the entire spectrum, and of patterns and designed she had never even dreamed of. Voices spoke in every conceivable tongue, blending together to form a continuous thunder. And the smell! The enticing, mouthwatering aroma of fresh baked breads and the alluring scents of exotic perfumes to flood her nostrils battled the less savory odor of unwashed bodies and the downright putrid stench of rotting meats.

As she reeled from a sensory overload, she felt a hand reach out and steady from the back. At the same time, something cool was pressed against her lips. Instinctively, she drank. Blessedly cold water flowed down her throat, refreshing her senses and restoring her balance.

“I am not the knightly type. If you swoon, I might not catch you.”

Ofeera looked and found herself looking into Azarielle’s piercing amber eyes. Those piercing, dark gold eyes chased away the remnants of vertigo, and she was able to steady herself. When she had first met the young woman, she had found herself rather out by those unnerving, strange colored eyes that were rare even in the Dark Empire. But as she and the mage grew to be friends, she had started to find those eyes with their unwavering gaze reassuring.

“I am sorry, Azarielle, I am just not used to so many people and… and things all cluttered together like this.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright,” Azarielle was scanning the crowds, “It’s not really the crowd that’s doing this to you; it’s the presence of an abyssal one’s servant, quite a nasty one at that too.”

Ofeera looked at her friend in shock, “What?!”

“The servant is not here, right now,” Azarielle waved her hand at the market place, “But he was here at one point. We should be on the lookout for something sinister though, because I am quite certain he left something unpleasant behind. So, tell me what is happening. Other than the fact that it had once belonged to an archmage, what’s special about the Staff of the Everstar? Oh don’t look so worried, I’ve distorted our words. If anyone cared to listen in on our conversation, they’d hear us gossiping about how your latest admirer is trying to woo you.”

“Azarielle!” Ofeera’s cheeks colored, “That is… that is…”

“Quite brilliant, I know,” the young mage seemed entirely too pleased with herself, “Just roses and singing. I had to make it altogether uncreative so they’d get bored sooner.”

Ofeera let out a long-suffering sigh before laughing, “You are impossible.”

“Am I?” Azarielle seemed to think about the matter for a moment before changing the subject, “Now, can you tell me why the knight is so certain that Theredoniel and the servant are headed for the Peaceful Sea?”

Ofeera winced slightly at the use of the term ‘servant’ in reference to Lucien, something that Azarielle noted with interest, “It’s because of the Staff of Everstar. You probably already know that it belonged to the great archmage, Elucielle Gwenevar. Legend has it that she carried this staff into her final battle against the Servant of Acedia to protect her homeland, and imbued it with great power. Because she anticipated that evil forces might conspire to steal her staff, she sealed away its power for safety. The scroll containing the key to release the power of her staff was locked away in her home.”

“Everstar Spire,” Azarielle finished, remembering one of Azariel’s sporadic history lessons, “In Aztur, the first high elf kingdom, which is now part of the lovely Forsaken Lands. So we are hoping to find some unscrupulous and mostly suicidal air ship captain in Peaceful Sea to fly us over the land of nightmares and creepy crawlies.”

When Ofeera nodded her head, Azarielle gave a dramatic sigh, “Well it sounds like we are going to have fun. Let’s go buy our provisions.”

* * * * *

It did not take the two companions very long to acquire all the necessary items for the trip. They purchased dried foods, cooking utensils, flasks to hold water, blankets, and an assortment of herbs (at Azarielle’s insistence). By nightfall, they had secured rooms for themselves and for Luthien at the Inn of Second Home, and awaited the knight’s return. After depositing her pack in a corner, Azarielle went downstairs to the inn to “gather information”. Ofeera was quite certain that her friend’s main purpose was to satisfy the demands of her insatiable belly, and not having much of an appetite herself, she decided to stay in their room and rest.

Ofeera felt troubled. Earlier on, when Azarielle kept her company and dazzled her mind with stories of giant spiders, she had had no time to ruminate. But now, with her friend gone and no one keeping her company but the shadows dancing on the walls, Ofeera’s thoughts wandered down a darker path. She thought of her sister Eowyna and her brother-in-law Theredoniel. She had not had word of her sister since the latter had gone with a contingent of healers into a village devastated by the rotting plague almost three moons past. And when she had visited their home one moon ago, the butler had informed her that Theredoniel had left to see his wife.

Now, the Staff of the Everstar was stolen, and the archmage who had been tasked with guarding it slain. And Theredoniel was culpable. To Ofeera it was not almost inconceivable that the gentle elf lord who loved her sister dearly and faithfully followed the Uncrowned Prince would be responsible for the death of a fellow brother in the faith. Something must have happened to drive him to this, and if her uneasy heart was to be trusted, then something had happened to her sister.

Had Eowyna fallen prey to the servants of the Abyssal Ones? Had her sister been taken while she was at the village? And was it Lucien who had taken her?

At the thought of her former betrothed, the young healer felt a throb in her chest, as if a fist had clenched around her heart. Lucien, her beloved Lucien, the handsome, gifted, dashing prince who had all the blessings from Abihayil and yet still gave himself over to the Abyssal Ones. If she lived a thousand years, she would not understand what drove him to it. He had had everything! An arcane gift that would one day rival an archmage, the adulation of all those who knew him, and the promise of the throne to one of the greatest empires in all of Faearth, all these things and more had been his!

Feeling suddenly short of breath, Ofeera went to the window and pushed them open. The cool night breeze kissed her face and ran gentle fingers through her golden hair. She had to calm herself before Azarielle returned. Despite her friend’s barbed words, Ofeera had found her to be extremely perceptive. If Azarielle sensed that there was something amiss with her, she’d doggedly demand an explanation. And right now, Ofeera wasn’t sure she wanted to speak on the subject of Lucien, not even to her dearest friend. She took a deep breath and smelled the salty sea. In the distance, the waves lapped against the shore, a gentle but steady rhythm that soothed her, lulling her…

She might have fallen asleep if not for the quiet knocking on the door.

* * * * *

Azarielle finished off the last morsel of the inn’s most excellent spiced chicken and leaned back in her seat in a contented sigh. She had had to forgo a proper lunch because of urgency of the task, something no self-respecting former resident of the Dark Empire would be eager to do. Food was an important part of that empire’s culture, and it was one habit that Azarielle had seen fit not to break. After all, if Abihayil had not intended for his people to savor all the marvelous food Faearth had to offer, he would not have given his creation taste buds.

“…stirrings of creatures that have sprung from nightmares,” a weathered traveler at another table was saying, “It’s happening around some of the smaller states that have not been swallowed by the Empire of the Rising Sun.”

“Nonsense, these are just stories spun by those uptight Elad knights to make other people less willing to trade,” a portly man, a well-to-do merchant from his attire, snorted derisively, “Why I’ve just come from Rising Sun myself. And I tell you, the silk is just as smooth, the wine just as sweet and the wenches just as willing as ever!”

The table roared with laughter and the conversation turned towards the females conquests made by the merchant and his companions. Azarielle turned her attention elsewhere.

“Rising Sun is expanding its territory again; soon they would have swallowed the entire continent of Kelianza…”

“…the price of a roll of silk has gone up again, those greedy pigs!”

“Are the healers in Achianda as good as they say? My nephew has fallen ill with the strangest illness…”

Azarielle listened to everything around her, though to any onlooker, the young mage would seem to be blissfully fading into the dreamland because after devouring an impressive-sized meal. Travelers and merchants brought better news than anyone else, and if one listened to their words carefully and thought of what they said, one would glean valuable information. In fact, just from what she was hearing all around her, Azarielle gathered that a storm was brewing in the Dark Empire. That did not bode well for her and her companions.

After a quarter more candlestick’s time spent listening, the young mage decided that it was time to retire. Ofeera seemed unusually drained, and Azarielle did not want to disturb her friend’s rest. Taking up the bowl of soup and the warm bread she had ordered for the healer, she prepared to retire back to her room.

That was when she spotted it.

The thing glowed with a sickly green light, and was formed of blood, bones, and rotting flesh. It flowed up the stairs of the inn unnoticed by anyone else because to everyone else, it bore the form of a man. But to Azarielle whose gold eyes saw through such deceptions, the human form was just a translucent shape hovering over the creature’s true form like a cloak. Those bright gold eyes narrowed now, ever-so-slightly, and Azarielle’s steps quickened. For she could see that the monstrous thing was headed for the room she shared with Ofeera.

* * * * *

Thinking that it was Azarielle returned from dinner, Ofeera went to open the door. But it was not her dark-haired, golden-eyed friend who stood in the doorway. No, the one who stood in the doorway had hair that gleamed like moonlight on snow, and eyes of the darkest sapphires. For a moment, Ofeera thought it was Luthien returned from his trip. But, the effortlessly charming smile and the slightly raised eyebrows was not an expression the serious young knight wore.

“Good evening, my dear Lady Ofeera. How poor my memory has become, for you are even more glorious than I remember.” The voice that spoke was soft and velvety, and caressed her like silk.

“Prince Lucien…” Ofeera’s voice came out a faint whisper, like a prayer.

Lucien glided forward with fluid grace, stepping around Ofeera and into the room. The young healer was so stunned by this unexpected encounter that she stepped aside to let him pass without thinking. It was not until Lucien spoke again that she even realized he was inside the room.

“I hadn’t taken you for the adventurous type, my dear Ofeera,” he looked around the simple, sparsely furnished room, “As good as it is to see you again, I must say that this setting is not befitting someone of your loveliness.”

Ofeera could feel her limbs shake with fine tremors, “My sister and my brother-in-law, what you have you done with them? And what of the Staff of the Everstar?”

“Ah, dear Theredoniel and the ever lovely Eowyna,” Lucien smiled fondly as if remembering old friends, “I do think our dear young elf lord would do anything to keep your sister by his side. It is like a great play, a romantic tragedy, being acted out by the two of them.”

Those softly spoken words, so ominous, made the young healer’s goose bumps rise, “What have you done to them?”

“Done?” he smiled, the corners of his lips curling upwards and showing just the slightest hint of teeth, “My dear, I have done nothing. What reason would I have to harm my beautiful bride’s sister and brother-in-law?”

Ofeera’s stomach tightened at those words; how she had dreamed to become his bride, “I… I don’t believe you.” Her words were faint, a whisper even to her own ears.

“And what don’t you believe?” he asked, and she was startled by how close he had moved to her, “That I have done nothing to your sister and her husband, or that you are my beautiful bride?”

With him so close, she could do nothing but stare into his mesmerizing eyes; so blue, like the ocean, and just as deep and unfathomable. Ofeera felt herself sucked into the depths of those eyes until she saw nothing else but that endless blue.

“My beautiful Ofeera, how I have missed you.”

She felt his breath, warm and tickling upon her earlobe. Her knees gave out, and she fell forward. She saw his arms reach out to catch her.

Instead, a strong hand grabbed her from behind and hauled her back to her feet, “Really Ofeera, this is not the time to be feeling faint.”

Azarielle’s familiar voice broke whatever hold the intruder had on Ofeera, and the young healer was able to regain her own feet. When she looked up, she saw that Lucien was trapped in a globe, but unlike the flamboyantly pink ones that the young mage had used to entrap the unfortunate knights, this one was a bright, amber color, and had spidery veins of silver-blue lightning crawling across the surface.

She became suddenly aware of a gut-wrenchingly putrid stench, that of rotting meat, and found herself unable to keep herself from gagging. Retrieving a handkerchief from her belt, the young healer quickly covered her nose. Where had this smell come from?

“Well, well, who is your charming companion, Ofeera?” Lucien asked, his eyebrows arching in an expression that was painfully familiar to the healer. Before she could answer, Azarielle spoke up herself.

“I am not in a habit of introducing myself to rotting corpses. So, fare thee not so well.”
Azarielle spoke a few, short and abrupt words and pointed a thin, plain looking wand at Lucien. The sphere instantly began to shrink, and when its glowing walls touched Lucien, his flesh turned to a terrible, odorous mist with a loud hiss, like the sound of water splashing across hot steel.

“Azarielle stop!” a horrified Ofeera turned to her friend.

“It’s not whoever you think it is,” Azarielle explained, never taking her eyes off the creature, “This is a construct; a puppet created with the Arts. And this one is made of dead people, quite a nasty bit of work. Look.”

And Ofeera did look. It was no longer her prince, Lucien, who stood before. Instead, it was a grotesque being of rotting flesh, yellowing bones and congealed blood. And the creature did not even have a solid, sustainable form. Instead, it looked like a diseased lump that oozed with a foul smelling black liquid. As it moved, it left a trail of blood and small pieces of bones behind it. As Azarielle had said, it was quite a nasty bit of work.

Suddenly, the construct started to implode. What passed for its head caved in as if it had been struck a mortal blow even as the walls o the sphere continued to press in upon it. Azarielle’s eyes narrowed when she noticed the black fluid seeping through the cracks between the planks of wood in the floor.

“Put a purifying ward up and don’t talk or look at anything unless it can walk through the ward!” Azarielle said. Then, to Ofeera’s surprise, the mage’s body became transparent, and she simply sank through the floorboards as if she was a creature of air.

* * * * *

Ofeera was not the only one startled. Staying one floor beneath them and blissfully unaware of what was going on above were a merchant and a barmaid who had agreed to keep him company for the night. The barmaid, who had just begun to undress, was very startled when a drop of viscous, dark liquid landed the merchant’s shiny head (upon which only a few strands of hair still grew). But she was even more started when a ghostly form floated down from the ceiling above and landed only inches away from her.

The ghost became material and took the form of a dark-haired young woman clad in a bright red coat. Turning to the barmaid, the young woman said, “Oh my, am I interrupting? Do pardon the intrusion, but there is a rather nasty construct running about, and I do need to chase it down.”

Then, she pointed a wand at the merchant’s bald head and spoke a word. There was a blinding flash of light, and the dark liquid vanished in a cloud of noxious smoke along with the last strands of the merchant’s hair. And then, as suddenly as she had appeared, the young woman ran for the nearest window. She threw herself out amidst the horrified screams of the merchant and the barmaid.

* * * * *

Azarielle landed and rolled forward to absorb the impact of her fall. The construct, now nothing more than an amorphous mass of dark liquid and bone fragments shot towards her like an arrow. The young woman sprang back while at the same time waving her wand in front of her and drawing a square in the air. She spoke words of command in quick succession, and a shiny wall of golden light, crawling with the same blue lightning sprang up before her.

She was just in time, for the construct struck the wall with a loud hissing sound, its body burning as it came into contact with the mage’s shield. Without giving the creature another chance to escape, Azarielle extended her other hand forward and called upon the elemental fire. Bright red-orange flames roared from the palm of her hand in a jet, engulfing the abominable thing. It thrashed about wildly but could not escape, for the young mage had also twirled her wand and wrapped the construct and the fire in another glowing sphere. And so, it burned.

Yet the malevolent presence, the taint of the Abyssal Ones, did not dissipate even as the construct’s body disappeared. And just before the thing was completely incinerated, a pair of glowing blue appeared from within the fire, looking at Azarielle with interest. A disembodied voice, melodious but eerily echoing spoke to her.

“A battle mage from the Empire of the Rising Sun who wears the crown of thorns! How fascinating!”

For once, Azarielle said nothing in response. Even though the servant who had created the construct was far away, she could feel his power. It was a terrible and twisted thing, a perversion of the greatest of the healing arts once meant to save lives, but now used to manipulate dead flesh.

The servant’s power crawled up her arms and legs, a feeling not unlike being grapsed by cold, dead hands. And the sickeningly sweet scent of death and decay filled her nostrils and made the bile rise from the back of her throat. Of all the Dark Arts, there was nothing she reviled more than this, the corruption of a healer’s power. Unbidden and insuppressible memories welled up, of the horror of watching her own flesh ripping apart like an overripe fruit and the accompanying pain, more excruciating than anything else she had felt.

Those memories alone sent such revulsion and anger through her heart that she lashed out with her power without even thinking. Her power was almost completely opposite of the servant’s, a brightly burning, living thing. With it, she began to strip away the servant’s power like the many layers of onion skin. Layer by layer she peeled it away until only her own power burned through her skin.

“Oh, I do look forward to meeting you, my golden-eyed mage,” that disembodied voice left out a low, amused laugh and faded away into the darkness, leaving Azarielle standing alone in what turned out be an alleyway. Blessedly, the only witnesses to that short battle were a few rodents, and she could see their furry forms cowering in the dark crevices, shaking in fear. She idly wondered what she looked like to them. Was she a big, hulking creature with fearful, glowing gold eyes? For surely, her eyes were glowing now.

Taking a deep breath (and then almost immediately regretting it because the stench of rotting garbage was not particularly pleasant), Azarielle closed her eyes and offered a prayer to Abihayil, asking the Eternal Father to forgive her for the anger and hatred she had felt in her heart because of what the servant’s power made her remember. Then, dusting her red coat off, she headed back up the inn, using the more conventional method of walking.

* * * * *

Luthien made his way down the dock, his lips drawn tightly together into a thin line. Though he had secured passage for him and his two companions, he was not pleased with the arrangement. Despite his willingness to pay a handsome fee, he had struggled immensely with obtaining a passage. Upon hearing that his destination was Peaceful Sea, they had promptly ended all negotiations! It was beyond comprehension!

Or perhaps it was not. He suddenly remembered the mage, Azarielle, remarking succinctly that he would stand out in Westshore attired in his knightly raiment (those were not the words she used, of course). Though Achianda was not currently at war with Rising Sun, the two powerful empires were not on friendly terms either. And lately, Luthien had heard murmurs of unease amongst his father’s generals and ministers that Rising Sun seemed to be on the move once again. Perhaps the captains did not want to risk punishment in that cruel empire for carrying in one of its enemies.

After many tries, he did find a captain greedy enough to take him on. The sky ship he had hired was the inaptly named Silver Hawk. The captain and his crew had slathered the outside of their ship in silver paint, and the first mate had proudly pointed to the hawk, a childish scribble of what appeared to Luthien as a squawking chicken. To convert this once sea-faring shift into to a sky ship, the captain had hired “the finest mage in all of Westshore to endow this grand old lady with the power to soar like a hawk”. And though Luthien was not a mage, he had seen enough runes and sigils that he recognized their general structure. The garish swirls of black and blue paint splattered over the hull did nothing in particular to instill confidence in him.

Thinking about the Silver Hawk soured Luthien’s mood further. It had been a trying day; there was Lucien, the lost staff, Lady Ofeera’s stubborn determination to accompany him on his mission, the mage, Azarielle’s irritating comments, and now the ship! Luthien could feel his anger coiled and seething in the darkest depth of being, waiting for just one more spark to strike. Of course, he knew that he had to work extra hard on reigning in his temper, and he prayed that Abihayil might grant him the patience he needed to pass the day.

Luthien steered clear of the less reputable inns as he made his way towards Second Inn, where, hopefully, his companions awaited him. Night had blanketed the city, but Westshore was never truly dark or silent at the height of the trading season. The lights from the many inns and shops still open for business chased away the darkness, and the bawdy music, shrill laughter and the occasional fight drowned out the crashing of the waves against the shore in this part of the dock area.

The stench of unwashed bodies and sour beer stung his nostrils, and the noise grated on his nerves. He tried his best to steer clear of the grasping hands of the scarlet women, and move out of the way of stumbling drunks. But when one of the drunks fell right into him, Luthien felt what was left his control snap. He opened his mouth to shout at drunk when, he saw a flash of steel.

A lifetime of training saved his life. His hands moved before his mind could react, striking down on the hand that held the dagger to knock it away. He felt something tear through his clothes, glancing off the thin mesh shirt that he wore inside. The “drunk” fell back into a defensive crouch, his knees and a thin, curved dagger in his hand. Dressed in nondescript gray tunic and tan leggings, with a hood pulled low over his face, his features were indiscernible, if indeed it was even a he. But his body was as taut as a panther’s, ready to spring in the blink of an eye.

“Who are you?” Luthien demanded, drawing his sword. The blade, one stride in length, reflected the pale, cold light of the white moon.

“Fight!” a shrill voice cried out from somewhere, “Fight!”

A flood of drunken sailors, merchants and barmaids poured out of the inns, stumbling over themselves to get a better view of the fight.

“My silvers are on the knight!” someone yelled.

“Ten silvers on the lil’ guy w’th’ the hood!”

But at the sight of the crowd, it seemed as if his attacker lost the will to fight. His curved blade spun once and disappeared into the sleeve of his tunic. Then, without a second look, he leaped onto the shoulder of the nearest drunken onlooker. The man cried out in surprise and tried to push him off, only to find that he had moved on to someone else. As nimbly as if he were walking on flat ground, Luthien’s attacker hopped from shoulder to shoulder, evoking shocked and gleeful cries alike with his graceful antics.

Luthien pursued him, pushing aside the onlookers and ignoring their disappointed boos. His attacker was impossibly fast and incredibly graceful, flowing through the street like a shadow. The determined knight kept up with him for two blocks before his attacker leaped much higher off the ground than a man should be able to, caught hold the top of a wall and pulled himself up. Then, he glided across the thin surface, made another incredible jump onto the roof of a nearby inn. Luthien tried to keep up with him on the ground, running back around the house. But when he got there, his mysterious attacker had already escaped.

* * * * *

The Inn of Second Home was blessedly tranquil when Luthien arrived. His knight’s regalia drew a few curious looks when he walked through the door, but for the most part, the other patrons paid him little heed. He glanced around for his new companions and spotted the two of them sitting by an open window.

As he walked towards them, debating whether he should inform them about his attacker, Luthien noticed the strange expression on Ofeera’s face. The healer was staring blankly and unblinkingly at a spot on the ground with her eyebrows knit tightly together and the corners of her usually smiling mouth turned downwards. Every few moments, she would wring her hands together, a gesture that she herself seemed unaware of. Something must have happened to them as well.

“Ladies,” he gave them a slight bow, “Let us retire to our rooms and speak briefly of our travel plans.”

Ofeera looked at him with a startled expression on her face, as if she had just now noticed that he was here, “Sir Luthien?”

“Let’s use your room if you don’t mind, sir knight,” Azarielle regarded him serenely, “Our room is still being aired out.”

Luthien was immediately curious as to why the young women’s room needed airing out, but from the wide-eyed look Ofeera gave him, he surmised that it probably had to do with why she seemed so disturbed.

The two young women led him to a small, sparsely furnished by clean room that was next door to their room. He invited Ofeera to take one of the two chairs in the room and motioned for the mage to take the other, only to find her murmuring words in the Arcane language with her hands pressed against the door. A golden ripple of light spread out from each of the mage’s hand and touched every corner of the room. When that golden ripple passed through him, Luthien felt as though he had stepped out from the shadows and into a sun. It was a strangely pleasant feeling.

“Did you make it so that no one could hear our words?” he asked.

“Oh, no, no,” the young mage shook her head, “If someone were to listen at the door and hear nothing at all, they’d be more suspicious, don’t you think? Instead, I’ve made it so that anyone who listens at the door would hear the kind of noises they’d expect to hear with three people locked up in a room.”

The implications from that last statement were not lost on Luthien, and he stared at her with a look of extreme displeasure. The mage stared back at him with a pleasant smile plastered onto her face that he found incredibly vexing. She was either unaware of what she had said or simply indifferent to his discomfort. Her logic was sound even though her methods were questionable, and he decided that it would be a waste of his time and energy to argue the point with her.

“Did anything happen?” Luthien asked, changing the subject a little.

Ofeera started noticeably, but it was Azarielle who answered, “Ofeera was attacked by a construct, a puppet created by the Arcane Arts. This one was made of dead flesh, blood and bones. It’s gone now, but the mage responsible for it is horrifically powerful, not the kind of fellow you’d want to run into in an alleyway, or anywhere else for that matter.”

“The construct bore a resemblance to… to Lucien,” Ofeera added in a barely audible voice, “I… I…”

“…was almost eaten by the horrid thing,” Azarielle finished, “It’s a good thing you were able to purify the rooms, Ofeera.”

The healer gave her friend a weak smile but said nothing. Luthien felt himself tense at the mention his brother’s name. Since his brother had stolen the staff, it was no surprise that Lucien would have left them a “gift” in this seaport city that he knew they would pass through. If this creation of his brother’s was so easily dispatched, it was probably left here as a taunting greeting.

To distract himself from further thoughts on his brother, Luthien asked, “You said rooms. Did the creature enter this room as well?”

“It was the room right under ours. The construct sort of leaked through the floorboards onto this amorous couple,” Azarielle waved her hand, “But that’s been taken care of. More importantly, is anyone else concerned by the fact that there’s someone on the roof above us?”

“What?” Luthien’s sword slid from its sheath in one smooth move, and Ofeera leaped to her feet.

The young mage merely shrugged and pointed to a spot in the ceiling, “A part of my shield just vanished.”

This rather vague explanation meant nothing to Luthien. But remembering his mysterious attacker, the young prince pointed to the ceiling and arched an eyebrow at the Azarielle. Taking that as a sign that she should create an opening in the ceiling, Azarielle opened her mouth to speak.

But she didn’t get a chance to. The thin wood pieces that made up the shutters covering the windows splintered open and something small and round flew into the room. There was a quiet pop, no louder than the sound a balloon bursting, and all of a sudden, the room was filled with gray smoke.

“Watch out!” Luthien shouted out to his companions. He would have said more, there was a blur. Instinctively, the young knight brought his sword up to bear. He moved just in time, for an arc of silver sliced through the smoke and the gas and struck the blade of his sword with a clear ring. Drawing his sword back, he guessed at where he thought his opponent would be, and struck a lightning fast blow. A shadowy form seemed to shift through the air, moving out of the way of his attack.

“It’s a slayer!” Azarielle warned, “The weapon is probably poisoned, do not get cut!”

Luthien had just a moment to reflect how foolish it was for the mage to draw attention to herself when he felt a change in the airflow behind him. He twirled around and made a sweeping slash with his sword to keep the attacker at bay, but as with his first strike, his blade sliced through thin air and did not connect with anything solid.

“In the name of the Uncrowned Prince, let the air be cleansed!” Ofeera’s voice rang out.

The smoke began to dissipate immediately, and Luthien caught sight of a slim figure crouched to his right. He charged forward, taking advantage of the length of his weapon and swinging his sword horizontally so quickly that the he created a small draft in his wake. The attacker dropped to the floor as if he were a lizard to duck from the blow, and then lunged forward from a position that seemed impossible to balance in.

Luthien could tell now that the attacker carried a pair of slender, curved, long knives. He, if indeed this slender, lithe body belonged to a man, wielded them as if they were extensions of their own body. Moving with the grace of a dancer, the attacker struck at Luthien, aiming for his neck, face, arms, and hands.

To Ofeera’s untrained eyes, he was a blur of black and silver, of sinewy grace and deadly strikes. Jumping, striking, blocking, lunging forward, leaping back; the attacker executed each of his motions so perfectly that each motion seemed to flow into the next seamlessly. Indeed, the whole battle was like a beautifully choreographed but deadly dance. Though he did not have his opponent’s dizzying speed or boneless grace, Luthien was able to keep pace with his attacker using reach and power to his advantage. He countered each of his attacker’s strikes with calculated but ferocious precision.

But what startled the young healer the most was the expression on that normally stoic face. Luthien’s eyes were danced with excitement, and the corners of his lips were curved upwards in a fierce smile so reminiscent of his brother’s that Ofeera felt her heart skip a beat. Although they were twins, they were so different in the way that they carried themselves that Ofeera never had any problems differentiating between the two. But now, in the heat of battle, with that fiercely joyful expression on his face, he seemed truly like his brother’s mirror.

Azarielle followed the battle as well, but unlike Ofeera, she was focused solely on the combatants’ moves. They both moved so swiftly, and were fighting in such close quarters for her to risk an attack on their unexpected visitor for fear of hitting Luthien at the same time. Their attacker was certainly a slayer, a member of the Brotherhood of the Red Hand, an organization devoted to killing all things unnatural. Mages were, for some inexplicable reason, considered unnatural although healers were not. And as far as she knew, the Red Hand had no grudges against the Order of Elad so it made no sense for a slayer to be attacking Luthien.

In fact, it made so little sense that Azarielle decided she was going to ask, “Hey, mister slayer. Aren’t you attacking the wrong person? Luthien here is a knight, in case you haven’t noticed the big white coat and his sword. Notice how he is not attacking you with arcane power?”

If the attacker heard her, he showed no sign of it. He blocked a powerful strike from Luthien with both of his knives, then slide one of them along the edge of the knight’s sword, aiming for the hand while trapping the blade momentarily with the guard of his second knife. Luthien lashed out with his foot, aiming for the slayer’s midsection, but his swift foe easily danced out of reach.

For Azarielle though, it was the moment she had waited for. She gestured to the chair Ofeera had been sitting on and whispered a few words. As if carried by invisible hands, the chair rose off the ground and hurtled through the air at the slayer. He glided out of the way as the chair crashed into the wall, losing a leg in the process. But, the young mage was not finished with the chair. With a wave of her hand, she sent the chair in hot pursuit of Luthien’s attacker, blocking him from getting close to the knight again.

Apparently frustrated by this strange distraction, the slayer suddenly changed the direction of movement, heading straight for Azarielle. The young mage waved her hand and a shield sprung up between them, but that hardly even slowed the slayer. One of his curved blades, now flowing with an angry red light and humming like a hundred bees, cut through the shield and the entire thing winked out of existence.

“Azarielle!” Ofeera screamed in alarm, throwing her arms and desperately speaking to words to create a shield.

Luthien charged forward with his sword drawn, trying to reach the slayer before he reached the mage.

But he was too late. The slayer was upon her in a flash, one curved blade slashing through her throat while the other burying itself into her heart. Bright red blood drops splattered onto the ground if a ruby necklace had broken and scattered all of the gems. Ofeera let out a horrified scream as her shield snapped into place, an instant too late.
“No...no, no!” the young healer watched in horror as her friend’s body slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Luthien’s lips tightened as he brought his sword down in a powerful blow, intending to bring down the mage’s killer. But to his surprise, the slayer suddenly crumpled to the ground, his entire body wracked by spasms as if he had been poisoned. At the same time, his sword struck a shinning wall that appeared out of nowhere, sending sparks flying in all directions and numbing his sword arm.

“You have got some strength in that skinny looking arm!” Azarielle’s familiar voice rang out as the mage materialized in front of him, “Praises be to Abihayil. I think you would have split me in half, which I imagine, is not a pleasant way to go.” Luthien stared at the mage, shocked. Only a moment ago, he had seen the slayer slash open her throat.

“Azarielle, you are alright?” Ofeera rushed to her friend’s side, her hands shaking as she examined the mage for injuries.

“I am fine,” the mage assured her friend with a few rather awkward pats on the shoulder, “It was just an illusion. He’s a slayer, so unless I make it very real looking, he’d be able to tell the difference. Good thing he was after the knight and not me so I had the time to prepare. I tell you, these slayers are bad news. Luthien, will you be a gentleman and get rid of those awful arcane breakers of his?” she asked, pointing to the curved blades that had fallen out of the slayer’s hands.

Frowning, the knight kicked away the curved blades, “You see to know quite a lot about him.”

“About him, nothing at all,” she replied, “But I’ve encountered slayers from the Brotherhood of the Red Hand before. It was an altogether unpleasant experience, even worse then when your fellow knights chased me out of the capital! The Red Hands consider mages unnatural, along with a million other ‘monsters’. And they have this unfortunate idea that if all unnatural things were nicely dead then Faearth would be a better place. You know, I agree to some extent… but being a mage and all, I can’t fully take up their cause.”

Luthien grunted noncommittally. With one hand, he roughly pulled his attacker’s chin up while with the other hand he pulled away the hood that had hidden the man’s features.

Jet black hair spilled out of the hood, revealing a pair of leaf-shaped ears that tapered off to delicate points. His attacker was not a man at all, but an elf! The elf’s skin was a strange shade of gray that seemed slightly tinged with blue, and his almond shaped eyes were two-colored, with an outer ring of blue and an inner ring of gray.

“A gray elf,” Luthien spoke the words as if they were something distasteful. Of all the elven races on Faearth, the gray elves were the most numerous but the least well-liked. In centuries past, they had been enslaved by their high-elven cousins. And although slavery was now abolished in the high elven states, many gray elves still acted as servants to their former masters. Those who left the high elven kingdoms frequently fell to the lowest rungs of human societies, becoming thieves, mercenaries, and assassins.

“Why did you attack me?” the knight demaded.

The gray elf did no respond with words. Instead, he bared his teeth in a feral smile, showing his sharp white canines.

“I think we should all just have a civilized talk,” Azarielle piped in, “It is a case of mistaken identity I am sure. Luthien here is a knight, not a mage, as you should be able to tell by now considering how he was waving his sword at you. Oh don’t stare at me so Luthien, I didn’t say your sword waving wasn’t impressive.”

The knight glowered at the mage, but before he could say anything, the gray elf spoke up, “You are Luthien Delynd?”

“I am,” the knight replied, turning his attention back to the gray elf.

“Then the mage is right, and I have erred. The one I seek is Lucien the Defiler.”

“Oh well then, it is just an unfortunate mistake so let us go about our own business,” Azarielle said, “Now if you can just clobber him over the head and make sure he’s unconscious until we are gone, everything will be alright.”

Ignoring the mage, Luthien turned to the gray elf, “You seek to kill him, gray elf?”

“You would stop me, brother of the Defiler?” the gray elf arched an eyebrow, “I was under the impression that you didn’t have any fraternal love for him.”

Luthien felt the blood rising to his face and fought down the rage that boiled within him each time Lucien was mentioned, “I hunt him just as you do. He is a wanted criminal of the Achianda Empire. He will stand trial and face righteous judgment for the murders he committed!”

Unable to hide the panicked urgency in her voice, Ofeera interrupted, “Who sent you after him?”

“Many wish for his death,” the elf responded, “The Defiler’s hands are stained with blood.”

“Well, I think we have gotten as much information from him as possible,” Azarielle interjected with a hopeful look at her two companions, “What say you to the clobbering now?”

The gray elf turned to Azarielle and said, “I did not recognize you in this attire, but you are Ree Yonanne, the First Lady of the State of Long Peace.”

“The First Lady of Long Peace? No mister slayer, I am very much not married to a prince governor of Rising Sun,” Azarielle shook her head in disapproval, “You seem tp have this horrible knack for mistaken identities.”

“Perhaps,” the elf shrugged, “But no matter. She is not my target. If you hunt the Defiler, then I would come with you. He is a powerful foe, and one not easily defeated.”

Luthien opened his mouth to say no, but at the last minute, the word died on his tongue. Though he did not have particularly warm feelings towards this gray elf, the slayer would definitely be an asset to the group. The elf was definitely skilled; in fact, Luthien didn’t know what the outcome of the battle would have been if Azarielle hadn’t stepped in. The thought of the young mage made him turn to regard her a moment. She had won against the gray elf with trickery, but then, such was the way of mages. What was rather surprising about Azarielle’s tactics was that she had actually lured the elf to come straight for her. Most mages tended to prefer to stay in the back and lob their Arcane missiles from a safe distance, even battle mages. But this was the second time in a day that Azarielle had faced a warrior in close quarters and seemed unfazed. He found his interest piqued.

But now was not the time to indulge in such curiosities, instead, he directed his words at the slayer, “What proof have we that you are truly after him and not working for him?”

“Ask the healer to look upon my right arm.”

Ofeera hesitated only a moment before walking over to where the elf lay. Though the slayer’s bodies no longer convulsed, it seemed that he was still unable to command his muscles. Still she had seen him move, and she was weary of him.

“Don’t worry Ofeera, he is not holding his arcane breakers. And from this distance, his head makes for a difficult target to miss,” Azarielle reassured her. The gray elf glanced at the mage and flashed another one of his feral smiles, and she smiled back at him cheerily. But despite the lightness of her tone, the poise of her body and her intentness of expression showed that she was not uttering hollow threats.

Feeling reassured that Azarielle was watching over her, Ofeera gingerly took hold of the gray elf’s sleeves and rolled it up. The elf’s arm was slim but sinewy, suggesting a strength that belied his slim form. His skin was smooth and silky to the touch from where Ofeera brushed against it with her own hands, and the color was that same unusual blue tinged gray.

But halfway up his forearm, the silken skin gave way to a hideous scar that looked as if someone had cut open the elf’s arm and peeled back the flesh in several different places along his arm! One part higher up along the elf’s arm was missing a piece of flesh, as if something had bitten it off. Ofeera recoiled in shock at the sight, unable to keep a gasp from spilling out between her lips.

“That is his handiwork,” the gray elf regarded his own wound without much expression, “He killed both of my brothers in that battle. I will hunt him to the ends of Faearth if I must.”