The Keystaff Chronicles - Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The third day passed quickly and without instance. It was with both relief and dread that the companions boarded the zeppelin, for although they were grateful to be leaving Peaceful Sea, they knew that neither their accursed destination nor their inevitable battle would be pleasant.

Ofeera spent her days in agitation. Though she tried to spend her time in prayer and meditation, the young healer found herself unable to sit for any length of time. The serpents of worry and fear had coiled around her soul, and each day, her heart grew more heavy as her thoughts became darker and darker. Ordinarily, the talkative and cheery mage would keep her from becoming too distraught with her inane chatter, but even Azarielle was uncharacteristically quiet.

Her only source of comfort came from Breaker. The gray elf would accompany her to the deck every evening. Sometimes, she would speak to him of Abihayil, and though he often listened in silence, the young healer felt that he paid attention to everything she said. Other times, they would simply sit quietly, enjoying each other’s companionship.

As he did when they were aboard the flying ship, Luthien spent most of his time being quite ill in his room. Every morning and every evening, the young knight would force himself to the deck and exercise so that his body remained strong. Sometimes, he and Breaker would spar together. The ever graceful and deadly elf challenged his skill at every turn, and though it frustrated him to no end when these sessions invariably ended with him on his back or one of Breaker’s knives pressed against his throat, the young knight welcomed the challenge.

Oddly enough, the least seen and most silent of all companions was Azarielle. The young woman spent most of her time above decks, pouring over Elucielle Gwenevar’s journal. The great archmage left behind scratch notes of Arcane works that she tried very hard to decipher. She also tried to find the mysterious Red in those pages, but even in Elucielle’s own records, the strange man remained elusive. Was he just an admirer of Elucielle instead of an intimate then? And yet, anyone who knew Elucielle so well and who lived a life so long even the elves should have made an appearance in the agenda, and yet the archamge made no mention of a red-headed human.

One night, when all of her companions were sleeping below decks, Azarielle stayed above deck to read, light the pages with a softly glowing puff ball.

All power originates from Abihayil. He is the source from which we draw our strength. There is no greater joy than being close to him, hearing a hundred thousand voices sing and feeling the beat of a million hearts. And yet, to have that incredible intimacy with him means trusting him fully with ourselves, and nothing is so terrifying to our mortal minds than giving up control. It is like standing upon a precipice and leaping into a chasm – with only blind faith that we shall be lifted up and not break into a thousand pieces below.

Cyderiel came to see me this morning and though he managed to be as intolerable as ever, he was saying goodbye. I wonder what I should say to my nieces and nephews when they ask me where their father has gone to. Perhaps Taiendielle will not even let me step through her door.

I hope that I do no see Cyderiel again, for if we ever meet, then I shall bring to bear against him all the powers that Abihayil has bestowed upon me. Against those who serve the Abyssal Ones, I who hold a Keystaff, can give no quarters.

Azarielle hesitated over the unfamiliar word, “Keystaff”. Being an archmage, it stood to reason that Elucielle Gwenevar would have had several powerful artifacts in her possession though for whatever reason, she made no mention of them in her journal. In fact, the archmage had not written of the Staff of Everstar once up this point, and Azarielle was beginning to think that the staff must have been known by another name. A snap of her fingers summoned forth a leather-bound book where she kept her own notes, and she quickly scribbled a note concerning the Keystaff.

Quiet footsteps alerted her of another’s presence, and the young woman looked up to see Luthien walking unsteadily over to where she was. The knight’s face looking drawn and tired from his air sickness, but with the pale moon shinning upon him, he looked like a creature formed of moon beams and snow. His hair gleamed like molten silver, and the shadows cast by the helium balloon above them brought into relief his perfectly sculpted face.

“If you are going to be ill, please go to the other side,” Azarielle said in way of greeting.

Luthien gave her an appreciative stare, but he sat down next to her anyway. “You have been very quiet. What is troubling you?”

“Nothing really – I’ve been reading.” she replied. “It’s all written in a fairly archaic form of high elven – quite a headache to read. She referred to Korbael Thewin as a sword-waving monkey. I thought you might have wanted to know that.”

As Korbael Thewin was a Knight of Elad and arguably one of the greatest heroes to ever walk the face of Faearth. Like Elucielle Gwenevar, he fought against the Abyssal Ones and ultimately gave up his life to protect the land that would become the Achianda Empire. Azarielle was quite certain that her comment would have sent Luthien off in a huff, but to her surprise, the young knight merely nodded.

“Sir Korbael and Lady Elucielle were friends. It was said that Lady Elucielle was sharp of tongue but kind of heart – and she had interesting… nicknames for all of her friends.” Luthien glanced over at the journal in he mage’s hands, his brows furrowing. He could not begin to read the fanciful, spidery writing etched across the pages. “You have been reading that book nonstop since we boarded this zeppelin. What is it?”

“It’s one of Elucielle Gwenevar’s journals,” the young mage replied, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Luthien found himself staring at the graceful curve of the young woman’s neck. Her pale skin stood out in such shark contrast against the midnight black of her hair and the fiery crimson of her ostentatious coat.

Unaware of his attention, Azarielle glanced back at the journal for a moment before turning to ask, “Have you ever heard of a Keystaff?”

The unexpected question jolted him from his daze, and flushing, Luthien turned to Azarielle, “What?”

“Keystaff,” the young woman repeated.

The knight shook his head, “No. Did you say that this was Lady Elucielle’s journal?”

Azarielle nodded nonchalantly, “She talks about a Keystaff here, and I’ve never heard of such a thing before.”

But Luthien was not listening, “How did you come across such a thing?! You… you didn’t steal it did you?”

Now it was Azarielle who gave the knight an unimpressed look, “It belongs to my teacher, and trust me when I say this, he is not the kind of person you want to steal from unless you want to be flattened like a fly.”

“Lady Ofeera informed me you are an apprentice of one of Gwenevar mages. But I cannot imagine that a journal belonging to the great Lady Elucielle Gwenevar would belong to anyone other than… Are you perhaps Lord Wenriel Gwenevar’s apprentice? Is that how you know Theredoniel Gwenevar?” Luthien asked, naming one of the Mage Council’s youngest councilors and Theredoniel’s eldest cousin.

“Uh, no. Wenriel doesn’t like humans overly much. I don’t think I would have survived if he were my teacher.” Azarielle made a face. “So, do you know who Cyderiel is?”

Luthien, who was still trying to understand how it came to be that Azarielle would have in her possession such a valuable historical artifact, blinked. “Cyderiel?”

The young woman let out a long sigh, “Elucielle mentioned him in her entry. I was kind of hoping that he was some famous villain and you’d know…”

“Cyderiel Azturvar?” Luthien tried to gather his scattered thoughts.

“She didn’t say. Azturvar… that would make him an elven prince?” Azarielle asked.

“If it is Cyderiel Azturvar, and I imagine no other elf would bear that cursed name after him, then he was the Avatar of Acedia.”

Azarielle’s eyes widened, “The one Elucielle died fighting? You know, come to think of it, I’ve never heard of him referred to anything as the Avatar of Acedia before. I knew he was an elf, but an elf prince?”

Luthien nodded, a wry smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “I don’t imagine the high elves advertise it much.”

“Interesting,” the young mage shook her head.

“Any other questions?” the knight asked. “Because I’d like to answer them all so you could answer some of mine. You are very good at distracting me from asking mine, and you haven’t answered any of them yet.”

A startled laugh burst from the young woman’s lips, and she wore the expression of a child with her hand caught in the candy jar, “Oh my, you noticed.”

Luthien smiled, “I am not always oblivious to everything. So, my first question – something is troubling you. I can feel… a disturbance in your power. I am not trained as a mage, but I also have the Arcane Gift.”

“Yes, the big blazing holy fire back on the pirate ship made that quite evident,” the mage paused. “I have had… dreams, for lack of a better word, about the Forsaken Lands. There is a man who refers to himself as ‘Red’ in these dreams who shows me… I don’t know, sometimes he shows me visions from the present, and other times he shows me images from hundreds of years ago. He claims that he knows Elucielle.”

The young knight looked at her, shocked, “What?! How long has it been?”

“Since the fishing boat,” Azarielle shook her head. “I’ve not seen any indications that Elucielle actually knew him fro her own writing. He showed me the last fight between Doriel and Cedrel – and it felt so real.”

“The only one to confront the Blight of Pestilence was the elven knight, Cedriel Kethevar.”

Azarielle shook her head. “The only we know of was Cedriel Kethevar. In the vision that he showed me, Doriel was holding the body of an elf woman named Qurenielle.”

“Lady Qurenielle was Sir Cedriel’s wife,” Luthien frowned. “She disappeared during the War...”

“What is interesting is that none of them acknowledged Red,” the young mage continued. “It was as if he hadn’t been there, and yet, it seemed like he was showing me his memory. That crabby old man didn’t teach me enough about this.”

Luthien, who had been busy trying to figure out what he could do about the dream, snapped to attention, “And who is ‘that crabby old man’?”

“Oh that,” Azarielle’s lips curved into a devious smile as she got to her feet and stretched, cat-like. “I think that’s a question to be answered another time.”

* * * * *

Parched, yellow-brown earth stretched into eternity, interrupted only by the skeletal frames of a few tortured trees that oozed a sickly red-green substance. Dry riverbanks and lakes marred the land like deep scars and pock marks. There was no sound, save the lonely howl of the wind, and no life. This was a quiet place, a dead place.

Quiet and dead, like his heart.

Theredoniel stared at the vast wasteland that had been the beloved homeland of his high elven ancestors. He could scarcely equate this barren place with the verdant oasis he had seen in the paintings that lined the hallways of his House. Gone were the proud trees that seemed to touch the sky and the spiraling crystal towers that gleamed like jewels.

A sigh escaped his lips that came from the very depth of his soul.

“Aztur the Magnificent…to think that this land was laid to waste by one of its own sons,” Lucien ran a slender hand through the pale strands of his hair that swayed in the wind like cobwebs. The sapphire eyes that took in the devastation around him were thoughtful, but when he turned to Theredoniel, his smile was nonchalant. “Doriel Kethevar was the great Lady Elucielle’s favored apprentice.”

“That one no longer has the right to bear an elven name,” Theredoniel responded, automatically.

Lucien arched one of his silvery eyebrows, “My dear Theredoniel, isn’t that a bit harsh? T’was love that drove Lord Doriel to this – after all, his own twin brother did steal his beloved… oh what was her name again, Qurenielle? Why, I would have imagined that you would have sympathized with him. After all, aren’t you here now because of your beloved?”

Theredoniel stiffened, his already pale complexion turning ashen. He wanted to strike down the villainous prince whose venomous words pierced his heart like serpentine fangs. And yet, Lucien, for once, spoke no lie. He had no pedestal of morality upon which he could stand in judgment. Doriel had been driven to his heinous act because the selfish love in his heart had festered into jealousy and rage – and what of himself? Had not innocent blood been spilled because of his own selfish desire for Eowyna’s company?

He turned to his wife who stood silently beside him, her beautiful eyes staring into the distance. The wind had pulled a few strands of her hair free, and they danced wildly in front of her face. Once upon a time, she would have fixed hair immediately.

For that simple act alone, to see her fix her hair, he would what Doriel did and worse. His heart was as black as the other elf’s, and he was ever bit as damned. Wordlessly, he reached up and tucked those loose strands behind her ear. She stood, unresisting, unmoving.

Lucien watched it all with a small smile curving his lips.

“Lord Lucien, we have landed here as you have commanded. Will you explain why? There is nothing to be seen here.”

The prince turned to the speaker, a mage clad in flowing black robes and flanked by six soldiers. These had been a ‘gift’ from their host, Prince Yue – soldiers placed under his command to “assist” him in his quest. Lucien regarded the mage, a dour-faced man who seemed to be perpetually frowning, and sighed. One would think that Yue, a prince in the service of the Luxuria, the Abyssal One of Lust, could have sent more pleasant company.

“Dear Dao, can I call you Dao? As a mage, were you not taught to be fooled by what the eyes can or cannot see?” Lucien made a wide-sweeping gesture at the barren landscape. “Now, if you were to look with your Sight…”

Lucien held out his left hand, and with a flick of his sharp black nail, he drew a thin line of red across his wrist. Beads of blood fell from his arm like pearls scattering from a broken necklace strand, and when they struck the ground, it was with a hiss, like cold water striking a burning hot surface. Sinister, sibilant words slithered out of his pale lips as his fingers danced across the air, leaving darkly glowing runes in their wake.

Though he did not know exactly what it was the dark prince was doing, Theredoniel felt a cold chill run up his spine. Lucien’s seemed to rise from the depths of the Abyss, and it crawled through the air like some twisted, vengeful fiend. All around them, the air grew thick with the sickly sweet stench of decay, making him choke back a gag.
“Merciful Abihayil,” the young elf muttered.

Lucien glanced at him from beneath long, silvery lashes, his blue eyes as devoid as life as this devastated land around them, “Oh, look around you, my dear Theredoniel. Do you see mercy?” That last word came out in a hissing echo, utterly inhuman.

Theredoniel stared at the dark prince, and for just one instant Lucien’s face was so devoid of anything resembling human expression that he seemed entirely alien. The creature that looked at him from behind a beautiful human shell was something ancient and utterly malevolent. And even as the young elf drew back in shock, Lucien blinked was back to his usual pleasantly nonchalant self.

“What…what did you do?” Theredoniel asked, his voice coming out in a dry croak?

“Hmm, I just made sure that our pursuers would have company while we are busy,” was the cryptic reply. “Now, tell me, Dao, is this place still so empty?”

The Rising Sun mage, whose face had lost all color and who was staring past Lucien in abject horror, mumbled a reply in his own language. With dread squeezing his heart, Theredoniel looked over his shoulder. There, standing behind him was an army of monstrous creatures – nightmares incarnated with flesh and blood.

“Well, let’s be on our way. If we can get all this messy business done with, we can be back aboard our air ship for breakfast.” Lucien waved his hand airily at his horrified companions.

* * * * *

Luthien thought that he hated flying. Neither the airship nor the zeppelin had done well with his stomach. And now, as they glided through the sky, buoyed by a contraption welded together by Arcane energies and formed entirely of air, he was convinced that the emotion he felt had past from hatred to absolute, gut-wrenching loathing. The skies were for the birds, for surely, if the Eternal Father had intended men to fly, then he would have given them wings.

The wind tore wildly at his hair and stung his eyes, making them water. And since Azarielle had informed them that she was trying to be conservative with her Arcane Gift, they would sometimes fly so low that he feared their contraption would become entangled by the skeletal fingers of the cursed trees.

Of course, the view probably contributed to his discomfort.

The first hint of devastation appeared in their horizon late in the afternoon of the second day. By the time the sun rose on the third day, the land beneath them had become a sickly barren wasteland. What plant life still existed in this devastated place looked like tortured souls, screaming for release, and pale, sickly pall of red seemed to have fallen over the entire place.

Luthien could scarcely imagine that such a dead, forsaken place was once the mystical homeland of the high elves. He glanced over at Breaker and wondered what was going through the gray elf’s mind. The usually quiet elf had shaken his head and muttered something in his own language when he first laid eyes on the Forsaken Lands, an uncharacteristically bleak expression on his face.

The elf was not looking around him now. Instead, he was staring the mage’s back, “Lady, is she holding up well enough?”

“For now,” Ofeera shook her head as she glanced at her friend. The haze which blocked the sun dimmed the brilliance of her golden tresses. And though she had bound her hair into a braid , the few loose strands danced wildly in the wind. “Though I wonder how she is managing to hold out so well. Abihayil has truly blessed her with great Gift.”

Breaker was quiet for a moment, “We’ve flown through these lands for three days, and we’ve not spotted a single creature. Odd is it now?”

“The Bleeding Rot Plague, Abihayil be blessed, was several centuries ago. The rotting bodies of the unbelievers would have surely fallen apart by now,” Ofeera gasped with a shudder.

“No,” Luthien shouted to be heard above the wind. “The plague was wrought of Dark Art and truly vile in nature. The rotting stops at a certain point, and then, the bodies of the ghouls actually main in a constant state – a parody of life everlasting. It is strange that we’ve not seen any such creatures.”

“Not just ghouls,” Breaker added. “There are other monsters, creatures whose bodies were not rotted by the plague but transformed into another form. These monsters were said to wander this cursed land, but we’ve not seen any sign of ‘life’.”

Ofeera opened her mouth to say something, but suddenly, she was enveloped by a dark and terrible power. She gagged as that frightening and yet familiar power poured over her like molasses, stinking of rotting flesh mixed with the sickeningly sweet scent of decay. Her own power, the blessed breath of Abihayil, rose up to counter against the darkness automatically, washing away the darkness in a flood of cleansing coolness.

“Breaker, Luthien!” the young healer yelled, and then turning to the mage, she added. “Azarielle!”

The knight had responded to the onslaught by raising a glowing shield around himself and the elf, whose arcane breakers hummed ominously. Azarielle, who had been entirely focused on guiding her arcane contraption through the air, was not so prepared. The mage’s snapped wide open in a look of surprise. From out of nowhere, pulsing veins of red and black light lanced through the air and tore at the mage’s flying contraption. These vicious blades of power cut the arcane weave as if they were fragile threads, and the whole contraption began to unravel like ball of yarn being toyed with by a cat.

“Azarielle!” Luthien yelled. “Do something!”

The mage, however, did not have time to respond or do anything to assist her companions. The dark power that had flowed past her companions targeted her, and it was now wrapped around her body like the coils of a constricting cobra, bent on squeezing the life out of her.

Sensing what was happening, Ofeera reached out her hand, determined to help her friend. But the support beneath her feet suddenly gave away in a shower of bright sparks and loud hissing. She let out a startled shriek as she started to plummet, but hands reached out grabbed her, pulling her non-too-gently back.

“B…blessed Abi… Abihayil,” Ofeera stuttered, her heart pounding wildly at the back of her throat.

“Shield!” Luthien hissed at her from his bent po. “We have to shield what there is left of this thing!” The young knight began to pray, his face tilted upwards and his arms extended wide. A soft gold light began emanating from his body, wrapping them all in a shiny golden shell.

Forcing her trembling lips to move and mimicking the knight by extending her own quavering limbs outwards, Ofeera began to pray. The healer closed her eyes to block out the sight of the barren trees beneath them that seemed like so many spears waiting to impale them. She shouted her words to drown out the sound of howling and the intermittent cracks and hisses as more of their flying contraption unraveled at the onslaught of the dark power.

Breaker watched Luthien and Ofeera struggle, their words taken by the wind the moment it left their mouths. He reached out a hand to steady the healer who wobbled unsteadily in her awkward kneeling position. Despite her fear, evident from her stuttered words and sheet-white complexion, she persevered in her prayers which culminated in a gently blue sphere that surrounded them.

However his companions’ valiant effort to hold the flying contraption together was not enough. Breaker knew that the best they could hope for was a softer landing. Whatever it was that held the thing together was being worn away by the unseen forces that made his arcane breakers hum angrily, and Azarielle was struggling with what appeared glowing red and black ropes of energy that coiled around her body. There was nothing that he could do to help…

A sudden idea had him scrambling to draw his arcane blade. Bracing himself against any unpleasant backlash, the gray elf made a slashing motion at what bound the mage in place. He felt his knife cut through something soft and rubbery, and then all of a sudden, something, cold and sinister snaked up the blade, swirled around the hilt and seemed to bit his hand. Blood flew in a crimson arc from a deep gash that opened from the tip of his middle finger all the way up his wrist, making he drop his weapon with a grunt of pain and surprise.

A sudden yell of surprised from Luthien, followed by a scream from Ofeera made him spin by in shock. Luthien was pinned beneath monstrous creature that had the body of a mummified corpse and large, dark, tattered bat wings. The creature was straddling the young knight, its bony hands squeezing the knight’s throat. Luthien was trying to pull its hands off with one hand while holding the creature’s face away from himself. The creature opened its mouth, a motion that looked more like it had just unhinged its jaw, and spewed forth white, wiggling maggots.

Fighting back the bile that rose in the back of his throat at this sickening sight, Breaker picked up his dropped knife and in a powerful, catlike motion, sprang over the petrified Ofeera. Then, all in one motion, he buried his arcane breaker into the monster’s eye socket.

Black blood gushed from the creature eye, and it reached up its had to clutch at its wound. And then, it burst into bright gold flames and promptly toppled out of their flying contraption to plummet into the scorched earth beneath.

The companions had no time to revel in their victory though. For just a few brief moments, the shields had dropped, but that was enough for the insidious dark power to complete its destructive work. Bleeding bright sparks like life’s blood, the mage’s flying contraption gave one violent jerk and exploded with a deafening roar.