The lone figure rode its horse beyond its limits, pushing it harder than normally possible, sprinting swiftly across the open plains towards the towering gates of Cillitran in the hours before midnight. As it reached the outer gates, guards wasted no time allowing the rider to enter, a mix of surprise and wonder on their faces as the rider raced past without a word. The city was quiet and empty. The Andelline home loomed in the distance, dark and just as desolate as the shops lining the streets.
As the rider reached the palace grounds, it withdrew its hands from deep within the horse’s neck, withdrawing its magic, hopping off of the animal as it slumped dead to the ground. Its life was taken hours ago, along with the rest of Sienna’s escorts, but its body was put to use by the spirit’s magic. Its mission was nearing completion now. The tasks it had set to do were all concluded. Save for one.
Find the sword. Kill the rest of them.
As it entered into the castle, it could sense something powerful right away. Its smell was as evident as footprints in the snow.
The sword! It’s mine!
“Captain?” an old man’s voice asked from down a hall. “Is everything alright?”
“Come,” it whispered to the man, watching the other walk slowly across the hall to him. I’m tired of your wretched smell. I hate to see you living still. Come and let me touch you. I’m so tired of this game. The war has started. The end is near. It doesn’t matter anymore if you know of me. I will find the sword and kill you all.
“Captain?” the old man’s voice was filled with uncertainty now.
“Closer.”
The spirit watched the old man’s eyes shift from being happy to see him, to being curious, to now being scared. The spirit laughed out loud, cruel and wicked, startling the other so that he turned away and ran.
Too slow.
Within a second, Lon’s body was tearing apart the old man as if it were a maddened animal.
First you, then the rest!
Leaving the lifeless mess where it lay, the spirit walked the hall in search for the one thing it needed; the one thing it hungered. It had been sent to retrieve the sword so long ago. First it had attempted to do so by entering the Prince and using him to wake the Issilix Delsoue. But it found that the magic in the Prince’s blood denied it entrance. So it killed him. It removed all the heirs, and so the power within the sword could not be used against it. It could claim the Issilix Delsoue for itself. It would take it back to the lair and there it would rejoin and devour the magic held in secret. Then it would be invincible.
“The time is now,” it hissed.
Further down the hall, a door opened and closed. Someone was alerted by the old man’s death, his squeals sent rushing through the otherwise quiet corridor. A tall man in a red cloak walked towards the spirit. It called the man over to it. It could barely contain its eagerness, waiting patiently as the man came closer with questions.
Closer. Closer so that I can feel your warm blood as I tear out your throat.
“Captain Ruell?” There was a hint of recognition behind his confused eyes. But all that changed once the other smiled back.
In an instant it was over. Red robes lay in tatters across a dying body bleeding from a dozen wounds. The spirit screamed in glee.
With blood-stained hands, Lon’s body stalked through the hall.
“What was that?” asked Wilt, his eyes sparkling with concern.
The Head of the Red Knights had heard it, too. Screams. Too many to be overlooked. Someplace in the castle, something terrible was happening. “Stay here, old man. I’ll take a look.”
“No way,” Oan’s head shook. “That’s it. It’s searching for the sword, Datris. You know it as well as I.”
Kloe Datris thought as much himself. “I will gather the other Knights, Oan”
Wilt Oan jumped from his chair across the table from Datris, leaving his plate of half-eaten food and his desire for rest aside. “I am coming with you.”
Kloe Datris stared into the determined eyes of the old man. He would not waste time trying to convince him of staying where it was safe. Wilt had been a part of this mess from the beginning, and Kloe knew he could not contain the old man even if he left him in the main kitchen. Oan deserved to go, he thought. He deserved to see it to the end.
“Take my sword, Oan.” Kloe Datris reached beneath his long red coat and withdrew a long sword, handing it to Wilt. Then he reached across his other side and slid one free for himself. “Be quiet. Be alert, old man.”
“Let’s finish this, old friend.”
Kloe Datris nodded. He led Oan out of the main kitchen’s dining room. They would gather the other Red Knights and carefully make their way through the castle’s secret tunnels down to a hidden cellar beneath the storage basement. There they would find the spirit searching for the sword. There they would destroy it.
As they left the kitchen and entered the hallway, they were met by two Red Knights rushing towards them, their eyes full of fear, their faces pale.
“We have to show you something,” they cried together. Without waiting for any response, the two Red Knights turned and raced back through the hall.
Wilt Oan could feel the excitement flush through him. It was a mix of fear and worry, of wonder and adrenaline, as he rushed behind the three Red Knights through the hall. Turning several times, through a handful of hallways, he trailed with only his speculations to fill his questions.
They turned another direction then, racing quickly down the hall, a large group of people gathered ahead. Moving through the group, they came to a gruesome scene. Several bodies lay in tatters, unrecognizable.
“Dead!” A man yelled in panic. “They’re all dead!”
“What happened?” voices in the hall spilled together as one. “Who could kill all these people?”
But before Kloe Datris could even begin to think of an answer, an old woman rushed into the group screaming that the rest of the kitchen help had been murdered. Kloe turned to Oan, seeing in his eyes the fear that the rest of them shared. Kloe Datris gave orders for removal of the bodies, giving his Red Knights caution about what it was that was killing people, then snuck back out with Wilt Oan. They had to be there when it found the sword. They had to kill it. Or they would all be dead.
The spirit stalked through the torch-lit corridor beneath the castle feeling the magic somewhere ahead. It could smell the magic. It could almost taste it in the air. It was close. The Flame of Blood was within grasp.
Squirming against Lon’s dead skin, it almost left the host for good and continued on as its normal form.
It would be good for be free of this disguise. This putrid rot. Their bodies disgust me.
But the thoughts came and went just as fast, and the spirit remained in Lon’s form. Its thoughts were a swirling mess, with none of them taking any root outside of the sword. Issilix Delsoue. Issilix Delsoue. Find it. The words buzzed continuously. They pulsated like pumping blood through a heart; they had a purpose of life. It was the sole reason it had been torn from the Mrenx Ku to begin with. The reason of its existence.
Find the sword!
Descending down a spiral staircase to a cellar filled with small storage chambers, the spirit began moving at a rapid pace. It was here. Its presence was unmistakable. Torches hung in brackets against the walls, burning brightly, lighting the otherwise blackened room. Lon’s body raced the length of the cellar. Its eyes wide, its smile wolfish. Yet it reached the far wall and found nothing.
Screaming in rage, it turned around and carefully backtracked. Boxes and barrels lined the walls to either side of it, but no sword. It began hissing, tearing apart the storage bins, recklessly searching everywhere. As the minutes wore by, its anger increased until it was steadily screaming. Everything in the cellar was torn apart, shredded, destroyed. Still it found nothing.
“My how you have changed, my love.” A frail and scratchy voice stated.
Lon’s body turned sharp, its eyes wide with boiling rage, its teeth ready to rip apart everyo
ne. It crawled out of the mess surrounding it to stand in the open. It saw no one. But a presence was undeniable. “Who’s there?”
“Am I truly forgettable, Dren? Or has all that power blinded you severely?”
“Show yourself!”
Suddenly a form materialized standing close to it. It was a girl, pale skin, black eyes and even darker hair, hidden beneath a ragged, soiled cloak. Breedoria’s dainty hands held a sword in a teasing fashion.
“Surprised? You didn’t really think that you could just leave me there, locked away forever. Or did you?”
“Who are you?” asked the spirit intriguingly.
Her smile was wondrously cold. “I’ve grown strong since you left me. Much stronger now than even you.”
Lon’s smile was nothing friendly. “Is that so?”
“It is. I know what you fools created. Giving up yourselves to form one. I know why you did it. But I am not the fool that Estrial, Lord of all fools, is. I know even more than you.”
She stared into the curious eyes facing her, not at all threatened by the creature that wished nothing more than to bleed her empty. “I know that you think this sword, this precious junk metal, will ensure your longevity. But you are wrong, my love.”
Breedoria waved the sword around, watching the other’s eyes follow it closely, as though it was a starving wolf watching its meal being prepared. It would strike at her, she knew. She wished. But not yet. Not until it knew that she was in control, that she was stronger, and that it was going to die.
“You are still the fool, Dren. You see, with all of your game-playing for more power, losing yourself almost completely, you have forgotten that the Dark Elves hold all power. It is ours. All of it. Life. Death. The power to create both.”
“Show me,” it whispered desperately.
“Changing yourself only allowed you to be vulnerable to us, my love.” Breedoria continued as if she heard none of its responses.
“Show me!”
Breedoria kept the same distance, walking now in a circle around him. Her eyes never leaving the dark pools glaring back at her. “You still want it though, don’t you, my love? You still think this junk blade can save you? This precious sword you sought, and I found. You are still blind. Still weak after all this time.”
“I will destroy you,” it snarled like a beast.
“Me?” Breedoria laughed. “You have it all backwards.”
“You stink with magic, girl. Use it. I want to taste you.”
“I have something for you to taste, my love. You see, I do not fear you. Or what you have become, Dren.”
“You should.” Lon’s body stepped forward.
Breedoria stopped walking and smiled. “I loved you once, Dren. But that was a long time ago. And I did not come all this way to share dead feelings.”
“Come to me,” it whispered again.
“Oh, I’ve come to you, Dren. To kill you and take what is rightfully mine.” Her smile disappeared, replaced by a look so evil that it made the spirit pause in wonder, wanting her magic even more. “I will have it now, Dren. My love.”
“Dren is dead. I exist now.”
Breedoria shook her head. “Only I exist.”
Lon’s body was a blur. It lunged for her lithe form with such quickness that Breedoria barely escaped, calling her own magic and disappearing. The spirit controlling Lon went frantic then, swiping angrily through the air everywhere. She reappeared a few yards away, her hands glowing with a black hue, almost smoke-like. As Lon turned its stance then sprinted for her, Breedoria’s hands sent a cloud of darkness into the air, smothering Lon, holding him helpless. Breedoria walked slowly over to it.
“My love, you should have joined me instead. Would it have really been that bad? You and I? You did not need the other two Dark Elves, or this mess you are now. It’s a shame, my love.”
As she reached Lon, Breedoria stopped within a few inches from Lon’s face, its arms moving slightly as it sought to break the invisible chains, its head thrashing from side to side inhaling the black magic as if it were air, absorbing the magic and weakening her hold of it.
Her own face was a shifting maze of heartache and bitterness as she whispered sadly. “I want to see you, Dren. Dig yourself away from the darkness and come to the light. See me as you should, my love.”
“Yes, come closer.”
She placed one hand over the crystal tied around her neck. “I can draw him from you, dark spirit. I can have him still, if I wish.”
With one swift stroke, she pulled the crystal free of the leather string and thrust it forth towards the spirit.
Mad like a chained animal, the spirit thrashed wildly, uncontrollably, unsuccessfully trying to claim the crystal from her hand. “Give it to me!”
“This crystal will draw your power,” she said flatly. “Then you die.”
But the spirit had all but eaten away the magic she had placed upon it. As Breedoria called forth the power from the crystal, Lon’s body tore through the remaining magic holding it and swiped for her. As she turned away, reeling the crystal back towards her cloak, she felt the sword rip from her grasp. As she looked back, Lon was holding the sword with both hands, screaming as a white light began to flare.
Kloe Datris and Wilt Oan reached the base of the spiral staircase just as a white light began to shine from the cellar below. They had already slowed their approach, swords drawn, eyes alert, and now nearly crawled towards the steps as they heard a wicked howl and another scream. The white light intensified for a few moments, keeping them at the top steps.
Kloe Datris slowly crept down the staircase, pressing his body flat against the wall. Wilt followed, walking gingerly, breathing deeply out of his mouth, trying hard to contain his nervousness. But with the staircase winding as it did, they were able to make it down a few feet before the structure bent around and were able to use it to hide them.
Kloe Datris stopped then. He looked back up to the old man’s face, who shared the same look of disbelief. It was Lon Ruell. But they knew better now. With cold chills sweeping across their skin, they stood frozen by fear and watched in silence, unable to look away.
“What is this?” screamed the spirit as the magic erupted from the blade in white bolts. They shot out in every direction, entwining and locking together to make a cage around Lon’s body.
Breedoria’s face showed no surprise, but enjoyment. She laughed, cruel and wicked, mocking the other’s attempt to use the magic, jabbing at it with her words of malice. The white light from the magic glowed across her face, penetrating into the deep hood’s darkness, causing her to squint, but not look away.
“More than you bargained for, my love?”
“What did you do?”
“You should be more concerned with what I am about to do.”
When the sword dropped from Lon’s hands, the magic spent, the cage built and hissing with its own energy, the spirit roared in defiance, shrieking terribly. It cast both hands on the bars in an attempt to break them, but was thrown back immediately. The magic would not let it get close. It tried again, this time slamming Lon’s body into the side wall with all of its strength. But the reaction was the same, and it was sent flailing to the ground.
Breedoria laughed as she circled the cage.
“You left me once, only to become my prisoner,” she mused. Her pale skin shined white in the glow, her small frame stalking slowly.
The spirit screamed continuously, desperately trying to find a weakness, trying hard to devour the magic cast about it. “Undo this, witch! Release me!”
Its screams climaxed on a new level. Then like smoke rising from a fire, the spirit lifted out of Lon’s dead corpse and the lifeless husk fell to the floor.
Far behind it, hiding in the shadows of the staircase, Kloe Datris and Wilt Oan stared in disbelief, watching the caged spirit frantically try to escape. Its hissing could be heard loud and clear to them, even over the laughter from the Dark Elf next to it.
Sweat trickled d
own Wilt’s forehead into his beard. What good are our swords against this? I wish the sorcerer were still here.
“Enough!” Breedoria yelled, breaking all other lines of thought, drawing all attention to her as she stood in front of the caged shadow. Her hand held the crystal level with the spirit’s head. Her eyes were beady, deadly. “I want what I came for.”
Then the crystal began to glow.
“No!” The spirit, wispy as mist, sped over every inch of its cell, testing the magic for a chance to escape. But there was none. It went mad, hissing and growling, screaming in deep wails as if it were tortured.
The light of the crystal shined bright for a second, then it slowly began to withdraw back. Breedoria’s face was empty of emotions. “I want you, Dren. I want to see you before you go.”
“What is this?!” The spirit felt itself being pulled a second before it realized what the crystal was doing. “No!”
“Come to me, Dren. Find the light.”
The spirit was helpless against the crystal’s power. If it could escape it could enter the Dark Elf and the power would all be its. It would have been easy. But the cage would not allow for that to happen. And now, moving away to the far side of the cell, it could feel the strength of the crystal wrapping around it, weaving a thread that could not be absorbed, nor rejected.
“Come!” Breedoria screamed.
“No!”
Like a steady stream of smoke, the spirit was stretched from its prison, vanishing inside the crystal. Its wraith hands extended, grasping the vibrant white bars, screeching at the touch, holding on for its life. Steadily the crystal pulled it. Its screams became deafening.
Then Breedoria saw it: a slight shift in its voice, a slight struggle within.
“Come, Dren. Look upon me one last time, my love.”
Steadily the spirit’s shrieking voice deepened, changing into something she found familiar. “Bree!”
With a groan, the spirit thrust itself off of the cell bars, slipping quickly through the air into the crystal, stopping as it met the bars next to Breedoria, clinging to them once again. With painful sounds emitting from it, its face began to change, to take an actual shape, a definite face.
“Bree.”
Breedoria’s heart fluttered. It was Dren. It was the fool who had left her. “Say goodbye to me!” Her angered face softened, her dark eyes now lost in a want that was neither for power nor control, but for something else.
“Bree!”
It called out again, but this time she could hear the struggle. The spirit was still fighting to stay dominant. With the crystal still in control, still pulling the spirit inside it, she knew time was short.
“It’s been too long, Dren.”
Seeing him now brought back all the pain that she carried when he had left. She watched Dren struggle with the spirit, watched his face shift from the vision she had loved to something else repeatedly for several seconds. All the while she felt more of herself being lifted. The anger she had for him, the complete bitterness she carried for so long, the pain that allowed her to drift away from herself into the monster she was now, was gently sliding away.
If she had not been so lost in finding her love, she would have realized that the crystal was absorbing her magic as well.
“Dren! Fight it! Come to me! Come to where you belong!” Beneath the deep hood, shining in the dazzling white light, tears began to form and fall unnoticed across her sunken cheeks.
With most of its form sucked into the crystal now, the spirit gave its last efforts for freedom, taking control over Dren, screaming to the girl that banished it. But as she cried his name, giving him the strength to push out the demon it welcomed so long ago, Dren appeared one last time.
“I love you, Bree.”
“Dren!” she cried. “Why did you leave me?”
“It was the magic, Bree. I had no choice. Forgive me.”
Dren’s spirit let go of the prison, reaching out to embrace the Dark Elf while it could. Breedoria screamed at the touch. It was not what she had wanted. She could understand now the workings of everything, as the crystal steadily seeped away at the magic that had blinded her for so long. She could feel it withdraw from her like a blanket that had covered her and kept her warm for so long. But as it released from her, leaving her with emotions that were hers alone, she could see what she had done. She could feel the love she had for Dren; she could feel the torment she had caused others with her desire for power. She remembered then how it felt to be herself. With all of the magic drained from her, all her hatred gone, she watched in agony as the last of Dren’s spirit vanished into the crystal she held.
“No,” she cried.
Everything felt wrong. Her stomach churned. Her skin chilled. She could not stop shivering; the cold had no end to its depth. Her mind spun in a frantic race then; she felt alone in a strange world. She had no magic to cling to. The weight of her actions bore down on her frail body too heavily. The memories came rushing back. Her eyes closed, her breathing slowed. Her fingers and eyes began to twitch as her body searched desperately for the magic she had clung to, finding only emptiness. She was slipping into shock.
“I don’t believe this,” whispered Wilt Oan.
“Oan!” Kloe Datris pointed.
Wilt turned back quickly, hearing the elf’s sobs patter against the stone floor. Then her body fell. She hit the ground and lay unmoving. Wilt and Kloe raced down the staircase. As they reached the bottom, standing on the cellar’s stone-block floor, they watched as the glowing magic bars began to enter the crystal as well. Within a second, the cage too was gone.
“Is she…?” Wilt couldn’t finish his thought as he raced towards her.
Kloe Datris reached Breedoria first, kneeling down beside her limp form. Her face was smooth and youthful. He placed a hand over her chest, feeling a soft beat, her body barely breathing. He turned up quickly to smile at Wilt.
“She’s alive!”
“Let’s get her in a bed,” Wilt replied softly.
Gingerly lifting her, Kloe Datris cradled her in his arms. He and Wilt stared at the young elf, wondering what her last thoughts were. They had watched the transformation unfold, but neither could imagine the process. Wilt Oan noticed the crystal in her gaunt palm. He didn’t want to touch it though. Magic was not something he sought. Especially after watching firsthand what it could do.
“It is finished then. The demon is gone.” Kloe Datris began walking towards the staircase. Wilt followed at his side. He had no response.
The ground above the deep catacombs shook in tremors that uprooted trees and caused deep sinkholes as the pulsating magic of the Mrenx Ku felt the death of its branch, the piece torn off to be sent ahead of itself. It hissed vehemently, throbbing so wild that it threatened to tear itself free from its own roots against the cavern walls. It felt itself weaken; a part of it had died.
Connected to the circular cavern like a web, it began sending its rays of magic through the soil up above the ground, consuming everything it came in contact with. Everything that had a life now belonged to it. And it called others towards it, others that would do its will in place of the Takers.
Slowly a set of eyes entered the cavern. It wasted no time pouring its will into the beast, altering its appearance and mind captivity. In seconds it was over and the new creature fled away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE