Twilight of the Elves

by Zack Loran Clark

  “Did it work that time?” Brock asked, and when he turned, he saw Liza’s stricken face. “Hold on. Are you crying?”

  “Yes,” she said, unashamed of the tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks. “It’s awful what the Lich has done. Monstrous. Don’t you see it? He’s not just a killer or a conqueror. He’s . . . warped the natural order. He took something sacred and he’s dragged it through the mud.”

  Brock nodded mutely. He knew what she meant. He understood the pity she felt for the sword sister and everyone else the Lich had touched. Most of all, he understood her fury—the rage that was evident in the tightness of her jaw, the squint of her eyes.

  “Well,” he told her, “I’d say it’s time someone dragged him through the mud. Wouldn’t you?” He pulled a reasonably clean handkerchief from his satchel pocket and handed it to her.

  Liza smiled. Instead of wiping her tears away, she wiped the blade of her sword. “Count me in,” she said.

  “Great.” Brock gestured toward the curtain. “Uh, ladies first?”

  “Cowards second.” She winked. “Come on!”

  The palace interior was a marvel. It appeared to have been entirely carved out of the inside of the tree, but the wood of the walls was smooth to the touch and glowed with a soft interior light. Rugs and tapestries and little side tables with silver sculptures furnished the hallways, making it all seem so normal—Brock could almost forget he was walking within a living structure.

  But a thin layer of dust covered everything, a visible reminder that this grandest of homes had been abandoned by the living. It was a haunted place, and it shuddered occasionally, as if frightened, or determined to uproot itself and flee.

  Or maybe Brock was projecting his own feelings.

  They wound their way past empty rooms and darkened windows, and soon enough their hallway ended in a grand foyer.

  To Brock’s continued astonishment, it was filled with familiar faces.

  Zed and Fel huffed raggedly at the doorway, their clothes somehow both wet and singed. Jett was bandaging a cut on Jayna’s arm while Micah looked on, a bit bruised and battered himself. But they were alive, all of them.

  “I’m telling you I can just heal her,” Micah groused.

  Liza recognized her cue. “Save your anima, Micah,” she said, and all five of them leaped to their feet upon hearing her voice.

  “You’re okay!” Jayna said, crossing the foyer to embrace her friend.

  “Brock, where were you?” Zed asked, stepping forward more hesitantly.

  “I know I have a habit of disappearing,” he said. “But that time it was not my fault.”

  “Where’s everybody else? Frond? Lotte?” Liza asked.

  Zed bit his lip. “We got separated. It all happened so fast. There was a dragon—a dracolich . . .”

  Micah rolled not just his eyes but his entire head. “Here we go again. Zed and Fel versus the drakle itch.”

  Fel made a frustrated harrumph, and Zed gestured madly at Micah. “It was kind of a big deal!”

  Brock patted him on the shoulder, inadvertently producing a puff of ash. “And I want to hear all about it.”

  “Later,” Jett said. “The dragon is restrained for now, but—” The palace trembled. “Well, but that.”

  “We should wait for Frond,” Brock said. The entire group looked at him with undisguised surprise. “What?” he said. “It’s not a compliment or anything. It’s a sound strategy.”

  “I don’t know how long we can wait,” Liza said. “Stopping the Lich is the only way to win, and I don’t want to lose the element of surprise.”

  “Dear girl, you sound just like an elf. I think I should like to keep you.” A ripple of tension went through the group at the sound of the voice. When Queen Me’Shala stepped from the shadows, not even Fel showed the respect of touching her fingers to her lips.

  “Where’d you come from?” Micah asked.

  The queen smiled. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, and Brock thought it made her only more beautiful. “This is my palace. You don’t think I come and go through the most obvious door?”

  Micah shrugged broadly, eager to convey he’d given the matter very little thought. Whatever charm the queen held for Brock, Micah was apparently immune.

  “You’re alone, Majesty?” Fel asked. “Your sword sister—”

  The queen shook her head, a momentary sadness registering and then just as suddenly gone. “They gave everything to get me here. Now we must honor their sacrifice with action. But where is Frond?” she asked. “Callum?”

  “Last time I saw them,” Zed answered, “they were with you.”

  Brock was surprised at the iciness in his friend’s voice. “Uh, what he means is—”

  “She knows what I mean,” Zed said sharply.

  The queen was unmoved by any of it. “It’s chaos out there. And knowing those two, they’ve stopped to help every stray kitten along the way.” She clucked her tongue. “I know they will be fine. But we cannot wait. Galvino is here. In my home. And we’ve brought you all this way, Zed.” She lifted her hands toward him as if bestowing a blessing. “My secret weapon.”

  Brock tried to pass a meaningful look to Micah, but the healer was preoccupied with digging a particularly elusive booger from his nose.

  Me’Shala gasped at the state of the throne room, her eyes wide with horror as they swept across the cavernous space. Brock tried to imagine it as it once had been: a huge vaulted ceiling with arches of living wood, and walls draped with ivy that had been braided into lush, elaborate geometries. Branches grew inward into the room, reaching out from ceiling and floor; they might have once held fanciful ornaments and mystical baubles or even living birds.

  The wood was dead now, the ivy rotted, and the branches broken and gnarled. If indeed they had held ornaments, those were likely shattered upon the floor, but no floor was visible. The entire room, huge as it was, was shrouded in a swirling lavender miasma that came up to Brock’s knees and obscured his view of his own feet.

  At the center of the haze was a throne of wet, rotting wood. And upon that throne was the Lich.

  He stood, rising to his full and intimidating height. His skin was pale gray, pulled taut and paper-thin across his face; his eyes were a luminous purple above sunken cheeks. His clothing, however, was fine, with gleaming embroidery to match the circlet of silver he wore over his stringy white hair.

  “Me’Shhhala,” he hissed, lurching forward. Though he was well across the room, Brock flinched at the sudden movement. The Lich paused momentarily, then took another stumbling step. He moved in an ungainly manner, in awkward fits and starts, his body all twisted. He held his arms out at strange angles, his hands hanging limp.

  Brock took an involuntary step back. The queen, however, stood her ground. “You shall not address me, traitor. Not until you remove that ridiculous hat.”

  The Lich rasped. Brock couldn’t tell if he was laughing or panting. His thin lips, already pulled tight, split open, flesh tearing against yellow teeth. His blood was thick and dark.

  “What have you done to yourself, Galvino?” There was more scorn than pity in the queen’s voice. “This is the power you sought? Mort’s energies have ruined you. You are undone.” She held out a hand. “Stand down now. Stop this horror.”

  “Shhhhala,” he said, lurching ever closer. Brock was getting truly nervous now.

  “I see my orders do not carry the weight they once did here.” The queen lowered her hand. “So I’ll ask nicely. Zed, would you please end this?”

  Zed hesitated only a moment, then he stepped before the queen and held forth his scepter. Its jewel flashed green.

  A torrent of flame burst forth, so sudden and intense that Brock, even expecting it as he was, felt his heart leap in awe. They all stepped back, including the queen, and Brock shielded his face against the heat and the eerie green light.

  The Lich, however, was unaffected. He stood, immune and unconcerned, some magic diverting the f
lames around his broken body. Even his finery remained untouched by the fire.

  Zed’s flame cut out.

  “What—?” said the queen.

  “Oh, no,” Zed said unconvincingly. “I was sure that would work.” He winked at Brock as Micah got into position for their true plan. They just needed the Lich to come another step closer. . . .

  “Shhhala,” the Lich moaned, his torn lips flapping. “Help. Help me.”

  “Help you?” the queen echoed, stunned. Brock tore his eyes from Micah to consider Galvino. There was a look of real pain etched across his features.

  At that moment Micah darted forward, right fist aglow, and he punched the Lich squarely in the mouth. Honeyed light flared from the impact, and the loose and rotting flesh of Galvino’s jaw exploded away into ash. The creature reeled back, but Micah gripped it by its glittering robe and struck it again, and again, and with a fourth blow nothing remained of the Lich’s head but a cloud of gray ash.

  Micah dropped the remains of their enemy into the mist at his feet. He took a heaving breath, then he pumped his still-glowing fist into the air. “How about that? Let’s hear it for the secret secret weapon.”

  Something brushed against Brock’s calf, slithering past him.

  In the far corner of the room, the mist swelled. Brock saw faces in the fog, ghostly forms taking shape from nothingness.

  “It didn’t work,” Brock said. “We beat the Lich. Why didn’t it work?” He looked wildly from face to face, and saw his own shock and fear mirrored by each of his companions.

  And he saw Selby step through the door at their backs.

  “Ah, good, we’re all here,” he said. “Me’Shala, your ministers have a bone to pick with you. In fact, I think I see the bone. It’s sticking out of that hole in poor Threya.” He waved a hand upward, where a hiss drew Brock’s attention to the shadows. Threya was there, crouched in the dead branches high above. The left half of her torso was one giant bruise, purple flesh marred with branching veins of black rot. Her eyes were aglow with violet malice.

  Selby laughed at his own joke.

  “You’re working with the Lich?” Liza demanded.

  “No, child,” Selby said. “So close! But no, no, I am the Lich.”

  Brock couldn’t believe it. He stood in stunned silence, trying to make sense of Selby’s words.

  Finally the queen spoke. “That’s not possible,” Me’Shala said. Her voice trembled with barely contained emotion.

  “It’s not only possible,” Selby said. “It was inevitable. Once, our people strolled the long roads of eternity. We were immortals. The sagas said we had to earn back our right to live forever, but you always lacked the vision and the courage to do what was necessary. How then could any true elf stand by and do nothing?”

  “He’s lying,” Jayna said. “He must be. If he were responsible for this, the power would have consumed him. Turned him into . . .” She waved a hand despairingly at the area where Galvino’s corpse had finally fallen to its rest.

  Selby nodded sadly. “It’s true that with power comes . . . sacrifice, and Mort’s assistance isn’t free, I’m afraid. The more one pulls from that plane, the more one’s body suffers. But I found a way around all that—I only had to use a little bit of necromancy, enough to animate one corpse, and that corpse could act as the focus through which Mort’s energies flowed into our plane and raised an army. I suppose it’s dear Threya’s turn now, but Galvino served the purpose so well, don’t you think? He was always the best of us—the most visionary—so I gave him the honor. I controlled the man who controlled the legions.” He shrugged. “All great leaders delegate. Of course, he had to die first, but it’s not as if he’d have betrayed you willingly.”

  “Galvino’s been dead this whole time,” Jett growled. “We were all afraid of the puppet, while we made room at our table for the puppeteer.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” Selby said. “Though truthfully Freestone’s hospitality left something to be desired. I suppose we’ve all suffered a bit.”

  “Your suffering hasn’t yet begun,” the queen said. “And it will not soon end, believe me.”

  “Posture all you want, Me’Shala. It’s the only regal thing about you, after all. Well, that and your access to the royal treasury. Couldn’t find any way around that . . .”

  Me’Shala stiffened.

  “See your mistake now, do you? Coming all the way back here?” Selby steepled his fingers. “I was content to let you flee to Freestone. That city will fall too, after all. But their wards are better than I expected. I needed another way in. So go on, Me’Shala.” He grinned. “Open the door for me.”

  “Elderon’s Shade.” Jayna gasped. “The demiplane!” She turned to her friends. “The elves created a way to walk an army right through our wards. The demiplane we traveled through to get here!”

  “Its focus is safe within the treasury,” Me’Shala explained. “Someplace only one of my blood can reach. Selby needs me alive.”

  Brock frowned, a memory flaring unbidden at the mention of a treasury. The Lady Gray had expressed her desire for some item from those elven coffers. Had she known Me’Shala had hoarded not riches, but weapons?

  “I need you alive, yes,” Selby said. “But how many of these children are you willing to watch die before you giv—?”

  Suddenly, Selby was struck through the heart with an arrow. His words ended in a bloody cough, and he looked down at his chest in shock.

  Brock turned to see that Fel had loosed the arrow. She was already nocking a second in her bow.

  Selby gripped the shaft and pulled, tearing the arrow from his chest, heedless of the gore. “Well, anyway, I suppose it’s time to take matters into my own hands.”

  Violet mist roiled where his blood met the air, and Brock knew that the foul energies of Mort were somehow sustaining him.

  “I never liked you,” Selby said, regarding Me’Shala coldly. “The elves will be better off when you’re gone.” His eyes flared purple, and the queen was hurled across the room, where Threya fell upon her.

  “As for the rest of you,” Selby said. Brock shuddered as the minister turned his eyes on them. “I’ve been paying attention. And I’ve prepared something special for each of you. The half elf has so much angst about his father, doesn’t he?”

  Oh, no, Brock thought. He couldn’t . . .

  Brock turned to look across the room, where the ghostly shapes had roiled within the fog. One of those ghosts had taken ragged form now, and it was drifting slowly toward them.

  Toward Zed.

  Brock felt a wave of hopelessness threaten to overwhelm him. It might have been the wraith’s unholy aura, already clawing its way into him at this distance. But he heard Zed’s choked sob, and he knew that there was nothing supernatural about what Zed was feeling.

  The wraith was hazy, flowing like a tattered banner on a breeze. All the same, Brock could tell it looked a little like Callum. The same jaw, the same flared ears.

  But it had Zed’s hopelessly messy hair, riddled with cowlicks.

  “Do I have a son?” the wraith asked in a thin voice, casting about blindly even as it drifted ever closer to Zed. “I have no son.”

  Brock stepped between Zed and the wraith, turning to grip his friend by the arms. “Zed, listen to me. You have to run. Run!” Zed showed no sign of hearing him, so Brock forcibly turned him around and shoved him. “Don’t let that thing touch you!”

  Selby chuckled. “Look at you all. The dwarf with his hammer and the wizard with her shield,” he said. “You all really should learn some new tricks.”

  To one side, Jett was surrounded by grasping hands from within the fog. They gripped his hammer with ghostly fingers, trapping the dwarf in a tug-of-war he couldn’t win.

  Jayna had hurried to the queen’s side and thrown her shield up, deflecting the attacks of the other minister, who clawed at the translucent barrier with ragged, bloody fingers. The queen lay unmoving, and Jayna was coughing uncontrollably. Her
shield wasn’t keeping out the fog, and something in the fog was affecting her. . . .

  Micah ran forward, hurling himself at Selby. But the minister caught Micah’s punch in one palm.

  “Ah, yes,” Selby said. “And the obnoxious healer. I’ll admit, I was surprised to see the energies of Mort are so vulnerable to that light of yours.” Micah’s knees buckled, and Selby held fast. “But I’m not fully dead yet. And it just so happens that I’ve got a new trick I’ve been meaning to try.” Brock watched in horror as Selby’s ruined chest began to knit itself back together, while purple-black bruises blossomed all along Micah’s arm. Micah gasped, writhing in pain, unable to pull away.

  Brock rushed forward and slashed at Selby’s forearm with his daggers, leaving wicked cuts in his flesh. The minister dropped Micah, but laughed as the new injuries knit themselves closed.

  Brock gripped Micah by the arms and pulled him back out of reach, but the boy was heavy. Liza appeared at his side, along with Jett, now hammerless, and they all huddled together. Brock saw that Zed was staying just ahead of the wraith, which pursued him as he elf-stepped blindly across the room; he had to be running out of energy. Fel fought alone against Threya, Jayna and the queen unconscious at her feet.

  “The world is dead,” Selby said. “It died two hundred years ago. We’ve tried to deny it, as the elves have long refused to accept death.” He grinned. “But death is not the end. Death can be tamed.”

  Selby began chanting in a low voice, words Brock didn’t recognize, but just hearing them filled him with dread. Selby made a furious series of gestures with his fingers, which popped as he forced them into unnatural arrangements. The hair on Brock’s arms stood on end as the temperature around them dropped.

  A web of purple energy burst forth from Selby’s hands. The mass shivered across the chamber, not like light or fire, but like frost upon glass. It was as if the air before them were freezing, cracking, dying.

  With a splintering lurch, the tangle engulfed them.

  Brock shielded his face. It should have been the end, but a sheen of brilliant blue arced suddenly into being, intercepting the attack.