by Ben Stovall
Tyrdun’s breathless voice broke the silence. “Tyldor …” he said, horror twisting his face into a fearful grimace.
The corpse on the throne spoke, “Who dares enter the sanctum of the dead king?” His voice was distorted. It sounded as though three men spoke at once, all at different, discordant tones.
“Andor Thorstan, the rightful king of Aljorn,” their comrade said. The dwarf took a cautious step toward the dais.
“Aljorn is the city of the dead. No living man could rule it now. Leave and you may escape, or you will become its newest residents,” Tyldor’s corpse warned.
“I have fought dragons, wyverns, hordes of skeletons, legions of orcs, and scores of sorcerers,” Tyrdun growled. “What hope could you possibly have to defeat us?”
The corpse moved, rising to its feet, lifting its arm high into the air. The sword instantly shot out many more wisps into the hoard of bodies, a loud, horrible groan sounding upon impact. The heap writhed and slowly took another, much more sinister form. The bodies slowly coalesced into one large amalgamation of rot and bone and metal. Ellaria’s eyes went wide in horror. Parts of the armor that had been in the pile were covering the body sporadically, and the flesh golem slowly rose to its feet, just inches from the high ceiling.
It regarded them with burning red eyes before lurching and roaring. Ellaria fired an arrow, striking the monstrosity’s shoulder. It sunk in, and after a moment, a small bit of flesh fell from its shoulder, holding a grey tint. She exchanged a look with Tyrdun, who nodded knowingly. The two dwarves lunged at the aberration, slamming their hammers into it. Drippings of flesh fell from the golem at the impacts. Ellaria began shooting arrows into the monstrosity as fast as she could, its mass making it hard to miss a shot. The horror slammed its hands down in front of it, forcing Tyrdun and Andor to dodge. They whirled and slammed their weapons into its forearms. The beast roared and struck Andor with its arm, sending him across the room. He crashed into the wall and screamed out in pain. She looked over and bit her lip.
Andor didn’t reappear. She dashed around the overturned table to see him lying unconscious. She drew another of Fanrinn’s tonics and poured it into the dwarf’s mouth. His eyes shot open as he woke. He nodded to Ellaria, climbing to his feet to rejoin the melee. The elf resumed her barrage.
Flesh was dripping from the golem faster than Ellaria had imagined it would. The beast’s assault was quickening with each loss, and the monstrosity caught Tyrdun off guard with its sudden speed. He held his shield in front of him, shouting for help, the monster’s large limbs slamming into it repeatedly. The golem reared and struck the shield—Tyrdun could not hold it any longer. It flew from his hands across the room. The amalgamation of corpses nearly smiled at Tyrdun as it lifted an arm high in the air. It grunted with effort, brought its fist down, and—
The monster screeched. Andor’s war hammer slammed into the monster’s leg. It buckled and fell to one knee. The dwarf swung again, but it grabbed the weapon’s head with one arm. A little of its flesh dripped down the hand that caught the hammer, but it didn’t slow the monster. It was wrenched from Andor’s grasp and flung across the room. With a quick snatch, he picked the dwarven king up and tossed him away.
The beast’s form had become that of an exceptionally large orc instead of a golem from their assault, and Ellaria did not slow on her arrows. One caught the monster’s weaker leg, severing it from its body. The beast fell to the ground, unable to stand. Tyrdun and Andor struck it as one, again and again, until only a puddle of greyish flesh remained.
Ellaria reached down to her quiver and cursed under her breath. Four darksteel arrows remained. She looked over to Tyldor’s corpse, who hoisted the blade from the ground.
“It appears I underestimated you,” it said.
She narrowed her eyes at the fiend. Andor spoke, “Your horrific reign is at an end.”
The corpse scowled. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ellaria was sick of its presence. She let an arrow fly, and it sunk into the dead king’s chest. He stumbled backward, swaying, struggling to hold his ground. Then, the sword flashed brightly. A wisp of energy shot into the wound, and the arrow fell out. Tyldor’s corpse cackled. Ellaria grimaced. It would be a fight after all.
The corpse charged forward at her. She quickly rolled out of the way, and then had to roll again to dodge the ghoul’s corrected swing. The sword slammed into the stones, cracking them. She shot another arrow, but the blunt darksteel didn’t pierce through the armor where it landed. The dead king brought his sword to the fore, and Ellaria nimbly climbed over the table. She readied another arrow. Tyldor cut the table in two with his large sword, thrusting the other side of it away. She let the arrow fly. It pierced through the armor, striking the ghoul. Another wisp of energy healed the wound again.
“Now!” Tyrdun shouted. Both dwarves slammed their hammers into Tyldor. Wisps flowed to the areas of impact as Ellaria dived away from the ghoul. Where Andor’s hammer had struck, the armor had cracked, giving Ellaria her much needed opportunity. She shot an arrow that found its mark, biting into the exposure. Another wisp surged from the blade. The ghoul swung in a wide arc and—the blade! It’s getting dimmer!
“Keep attacking!” she shouted.
“Will do!” Tyrdun yelled back, slamming his mace into one of the shoulder pads the dead king wore. The strike dented the metal greatly, and it fell from its perch, clanging to the ground. Ellaria reached to ready an arrow. She gasped. She was out. Looking over to her left, three puddles of flesh held arrows. She dove, tugged, and managed to recover two. She fired them quickly, and they both sailed into the dead king’s exposed shoulder.
The king’s assault did not slow. His blade cut Tyrdun’s arm through his armor and, though the cut could not have been deep, it bled profusely.
Andor jumped to the right as the dead king lunged forward. Tyldor’s sword cut into the dwarven king’s cheek. If he’d been any slower …
It was all the opening her friend needed. Tyrdun counterattacked with his mace, slamming it into the dead king’s wrist. It had the desired effect, as Tyldor dropped his sword to the ground. They beat him ravenously, without mercy, without feeling. Andor had a grimace about him, willing to do anything to force this horror out of his father. Ellaria pulled a few arrows from the grey puddle left by the fleshy abomination and shot them into the ghoul’s exposed back. The wisps couldn’t heal him fast enough, and eventually ran out completely. The dead king fell to the ground limp.
Ellaria drew a trilite arrowhead and approached the sword on the ground. She knelt beside it and looked at Tyrdun. “Let me see your hammer.”
“What do you have there? Trilite?” Tyrdun asked.
“Yeah.”
Tyrdun handed the weapon to her. She slowly beat the arrowhead into the blade so that it could stand on its own, then slammed the mace down, breaking it into two unequal parts. The blade hissed in response, magical energy hissing out, dissipating. She handed the mace back to Tyrdun.
Tyldor’s body moaned. They all looked at it suspiciously. Tyrdun rolled the former king onto his back and saw Tyldor’s eyes, shrouded by the red magic no longer. His gaze searched around before fixating on Andor.
“My … my son,” he spoke weakly.
“Father …”
“I-I’m so sorry, Andor. It’s … It’s all my fault,” he whispered.
“What do you mean?” Andor asked.
“The sword … it’s my fault it came to Aljorn,” the king wheezed. He would not last long.
“Father, you couldn’t have known,” Andor offered.
“It was a merchant, from the west. He wouldn’t say where. His name … Aldayn. He said … immortality, but the price would be great … the price would be terrible.” The king coughed horribly, his voice little more than a rasp. “I … I failed Aljorn, Andor. I destroyed our city.”
Tears rolled down Andor’s face freely. “You didn’t know, father. This isn’t your fault!”
“It is, son. My vanity
caused this. It will take the dwarves decades to recover. This … this is my legacy.” Tyldor looked Andor in the eyes and saw something Ellaria could only guess at. “At least I brought you into the world, my son. If anyone can fix what I’ve done, it’s you. It’s you …”
Tyldor’s voice trailed off as he drifted into the endless void. Andor wept into his father’s chest. Ellaria gave Tyrdun a look, and they left the room to allow him to mourn alone.
✽ ✽ ✽
Once in the hall, Ellaria glanced at her dwarf companion. His face was twisted into a scowl. “Aldayn,” he said. “He attacks from beyond the grave.” Tyrdun sighed as he shook his head.
“What if something like this happened anywhere else? What if Aelindaas—”
“Lass. Fanrinn’s probably already succeeded and returned to Souhal to report his accomplishment to King Aldariak.”
Ellaria nodded at the notion, hoping it was true. The double doors swung open, and Andor stepped through. The dwarven king knelt in front of Tyrdun.
“Tyrdun, old friend, in return for your long-standing service to the crown, I hereby pledge the dwarves’ aid to Souhal. We will face these invaders as allies and save our homes.” Andor stood. “Thank you, for everything.”
Tyrdun pulled Andor into an embrace that threatened to bring the king’s emotions tumbling out. Ellaria looked away, a tear crawling down her cheek.
Nine
Fanrinn shivered in his small cell. He looked around the dark corners and wondered how long he had been asleep. He could hear faint footsteps echoing throughout the halls and dared to hope that it was the guard coming to fulfill his promise.
He stirred and approached the gate. The guards walked down the corridor to his cell and he could hear the jingling of keys. The lock clicked, and they swung the door open, regarding him with apologetic eyes. “Sorry about all of this, Fanrinn.”
“It’s … I’m fine. Please, what’s wrong with King Silverthorne?” he asked. The guards exchanged wary looks.
“We don’t know.” The man sighed. “But now you can leave and save yourself—go back to Souhal and aid your friends.”
“I can’t leave Aelindaas like this.” Fanrinn shook his head solemnly. “I have to do something if I can.”
The guard nodded. “We will not impair you, but we cannot disobey the king if he commands us to recapture you.”
“Can you release these prisoners?”
“We’ve been letting a few go each night,” the other guard perked up. “We can’t release them all at once; the king would notice. If you succeed we can get them out of here.” The guard carried Fanrinn’s supplies in a bag and offered it to the elf.
“I will find out what’s wrong with the king and set him right. I promise.” Fanrinn accepted his pack and withdrew his bow and arrows. The guard cocked an eyebrow at him as he bound the quiver to his back. “I’m hoping I won’t need it.”
He left the guards where they stood. He climbed the steps out of the dungeons and looked around the throne room, wondering where to start. Fanrinn decided he’d try the trophy room first, wondering if whatever game the king had hunted had been placed there. He stalked the halls low and as quiet as he could manage. Reaching the large double doors that led to the great hall, he pulled one slightly ajar, wincing as it creaked. He looked down the hall to his right, then his left, glad to see nothing else sneaking through the palace.
The moon shone down on the keep from the large windows above the entrance, the silvery light cascading down upon the wreckage strewn about the area. It looked worse than it had when he arrived. His brow furrowed. That … that can’t be good.
He approached the door to the trophy room. He took a deep breath and pushed, entering quickly and quietly. He eyed the many trophies therein. A large dire boar head had been mounted on the wall to his right. Fanrinn knew it to be the king’s own kill, having patched Silverthorne and a few of the elven soldiers up after they had defeated it. Adjacent to it was the skull of a dragon, one he and his friends had presented to the king. It had belonged to a green dragon that had been terrorizing the Lowlands.
On the left were a few tomes, maps, and trinkets. Some were even from Kual’apir and further east than the Lowlands. A symbol of Solustun from Auzix, gifted to King Silverthorne by Ulthan was among them, though Fanrinn noticed its display was comparatively hidden. Many relics of Ulen adorned the room, as the country was home to the largest civilization of elves.
Fanrinn grimaced, eyeing the old orc skull. It had once belonged to the previous warchief of the Dark Raven clan, Nabalar. Silverthorne’s father had slain him in single combat sixty years ago. The orc had been a mage of great merit, as well as more than competent with daggers and shadows, and many of the king’s own mages had examined the skull and admitted it retained some power. The Dark Ravens had launched two raids on the palace since the skull had been there, both taking place in the dark of night. In the first raid, King Silverthorne’s father had been slain, but the young prince managed to stir the guards to action and defend the palace, fighting from the trophy room and retaking the castle before dawn. The second raid wasn’t nearly as successful, as the orcs hadn’t even made it through the great hall.
Then Fanrinn noticed a strange, familiar purple cloth, a black skull inscribed onto it, hanging from the wall like a flag. The skull seemed to be made of shadows, shimmering slightly in the dim room. Fanrinn narrowed his eyes. That’s … It couldn’t be … He reached into his quiver and drew a trilite arrow, aiming it directly at the center of the skull. He drew the string back and—
The door swung open, startling him enough that he dropped the arrow; it rolled silently away from him. King Silverthorne entered, and a strange visage covered his face. It was green, but not like trees or grasses, a strange, muted green that Fanrinn could only describe as “ethereal.” The countenance was old and withered and shrouded over the king’s otherwise young features. The light it cast upon Silverthorne caused his blonde hair to appear a silvery-white. It wasn’t falling properly either, floating slightly, as Fanrinn now realized Silverthorne himself was.
The king cackled madly, his voice muddled and comprised of two usually distinct frequencies. “What did you think you could do here, with your arrows and your bow, Fanrinn?” the strange amalgam asked. “Did you really think you would be able to break my hold over him?”
Fanrinn’s eyes flicked to his trilite arrow that had rolled across the floor a few inches to his right. His jaw was tight, and his body tensed. “Are you from the west, then?”
“Obviously. We met before, actually.” The ghostly visage seemed unamused. It floated slowly into the room and looked on Fanrinn with contempt.
“How can that be?” Fanrinn asked incredulously.
The shrouded visage laughed. “You and your friends killed me.”
Fanrinn’s eyes went wide with shock. “Aldayn …” Fanrinn had known necromancers to have great control over the dead but hadn’t thought they could project their own spirits from beyond the grave.
“Correct, Fanrinn. I knew you had some wit about you.” The visage neared ever closer, stopping only a few feet away, hovering above the ground. He looked at Fanrinn’s unprepared bow, and said, “Hand me your quiver, ikdalsil.”
Fanrinn winced at the insult. “Ithamal Elvain?” He took a slow, nearly imperceptible step toward his arrow, hoping the conversation would be enough to distract the necromancer from his movements.
Aldayn scoffed. “Moderately.”
“Are there elves where you’re from?”
The ethereal likeness smirked. “A few. They hardly speak the old tongue now. I was able to pull that from your king’s mind,” he explained. Fanrinn took another slow step as the king hovered nearby. The green energy cast a dim light upon him, but the arrow didn’t glint from the light, hidden by his shadow. Aldayn emphasized each word as he spoke again. “Now, hand me your quiver,” the shade demanded.
Fanrinn scowled and tossed his quiver at the feet of his pursuer. It
smirked and tilted its head at the arrows that spilled out slightly onto the ground. “Is this blue one the ‘trilite’ King Silverthorne knows of? Perhaps I underestimated you, Fanrinn.” The ghastly figure sized him up again. “You actually did have something that could force me out. Well done.”
Trilite’s incredible properties had long ago made Fanrinn certain to always carry a few arrows topped with it, even rare and expensive as they were. “Never know when you’re going to need to break something magical,” he remembered telling Ellaria. Fanrinn’s eyes flicked again to the trilite arrow on the ground, as he slowly moved his hand around to grip the hilt of the dagger on the back of his waist. The monster didn’t seem to notice.
“There’s darksteel in here too, I see. Would’ve worked, had you the stomach for regicide.” The vile creature looked down on him again. “How would you like to meet your fate, Fanrinn? My magic? Or by Silverthorne’s hand?”
Fanrinn’s hand quaked on the hilt of the dagger. He only had one shot at this, and he had to hope it’d work. Fanrinn smirked. “Neither,” he remarked, quickly drawing the dagger from his belt and throwing it at the ghoul’s shoulder. It jumped and dodged the dagger sailing toward him, giving Fanrinn the chance he needed. He dove backward and grabbed the arrow, firing it at the banner.
