by Paul Centeno
He didn’t expect this, but he managed to get the crowd’s undivided attention despite how terrified they were of the situation.
“This holy temple, as it was written centuries ago by the greatest of wizards, has been the one and only reason why we’re still alive,” added Dargain. “But the magic that protects us from the evil outside won’t last forever.” Hearing people sigh in fright wasn’t his intention, especially Aarian; however, he had to be brutally honest in order to motivate them. “Which is why we must follow Magi Frostwarm into the crypt below and escape this madness.”
Zarlando withdrew from the crowd and approached him. “Wait just a damn minute,” he said. “His Majesty and Her Grace are still missing. Are we to just leave without them?”
Many people started to complain about the plan. Zarlando, the most honored bodyguard, had a point. Though a few royalists strode over to Dargain, the majority of the refugees remained seated.
“Zarlando,” began Dargain, “it is my solemn duty, as much as it is yours, to project the king and queen. That is why I have decided to go along with Magi Frostwarm’s plan. Hear me, good friend: the crypt is connected to all the temples in this city. It is my hope for us to breach every temple and gather any survivors nearby into the crypt, and that includes a search for His Majes—”
Before he could finish, a blinding light flashed before the crowd’s eyes accompanied by the most violent tremor yet. Countless people shrieked, screamed, and groaned. That instant, the stony arched roof shattered. Bricks of limestone crumbled down, crushing several bystanders. Hundreds of people ran for their lives while streaks of flame from the sky blew into the ruined temple.
Aarian backed away from Master Dargain as he gazed up at the crimson heavens. Deep in the clouds he saw, once again, the shape of a demon’s face. Its hideous eyes were staring directly at him. To him, the figure appeared less like a summoned waft of smoke and more corporeal. He wanted to entertain himself with the notion that this was a dream. Yes, this was just a dream; this was merely an elaborate illusion cast by Magi Frostwarm to make him realize that he can’t afford to live as an ignorant, naive prince his whole life—darkness exists, and one day he must become a great king like his father and rule Vlydyn for the sake of all races. He smiled, accepting Magi Frostwarm’s wisdom, waiting to wake up and return to his peaceful reality.
“I’m ready, Magi Frostwarm,” said Aarian elatedly. “I finally understand what I must do now.” He lifted his hands in the air and went on, “It’s all right. I see the light. I’m truly ready to marry Princess Parla’vasa.”
The light he claimed to see was simply a seemingly endless stream of hellfire that struck the temple’s ground, causing hundreds of refugees to sizzle and thaw into ashes. Prince Aarian started to shout for joy when he saw what had happened to his guests. He stood firm like a tree, waiting for the inferno to reach him and envelop him so he could disintegrate from this brilliant, magical scheme. Yet when the horned demon opened its fiery mouth and roared, Aarian turned pale and lost every shred of confidence that he’d managed to build. He shrieked at the top of his lungs, at least until Dargain reproached him:
“Run, you fool!”
Dargain slapped Aarian across the face so hard that it made him fall flat on the floor. He cursed under his breath, helped Aarian get back on his feet, and ran back to where Eëràndir and Frostwarm were supposed to be waiting. Upon arriving, Dargain and Aarian found the entrance to the crypt unsealed and unoccupied. At that precise moment, Zarlando joined them with two other knights—Ceirdan and Orodreth; their armor had minor dents and bloodstains.
“This is the passage of hope?” asked Zarlando, staring into the darkness with a look of uncertainty in his eyes.
Dargain shook his head. “No,” he said glumly. “This is a passage of death. But treading here is far better than treading through a kingdom of death.” His response made Zarlando and the others get a chill up their spines. “Unsheathe your swords,” he went on, “and be warned: there is an evil legend here. And if that legend is true, then only my brother can save us.”
The quartet followed Dargain down the steps while unsheathing their weapons in unison. The temple shook less as they descended. An inferno spawned above, devouring the capital city. In the meantime, darkness grew below like a diabolical soul who feeds on prey foolish enough to enter. Though, despite the shadows that Aarian and his protectors were plunging themselves into, it was their hope that they’d find Frostwarm before the phantasmal Shade inside the cursed crypt could discover them.
CHAPTER THREE
LEGEND OF THE SHADE
Darkness became a living soul to Aarian who warily stepped down into the catacombs with his entourage. Very few torches lit the primeval crypt. Cobwebs clung to every nook and cranny. Much of the mortar between the cracked bricks was weathered with age. Dust and grains of dirt fell from above as explosions continued shaking the city, which was when the knights realized that the tremors weren’t due to earthquakes but rather the meteors. They didn’t know if this was a good or bad thing—perhaps good since there wouldn’t be seismic activity following them into these tunnels.
Aarian couldn’t help but shiver while he ran through the passage, clutching his sword tight. He felt hopeless, terrified of what may possibly lay ahead of him. His sword would be useless if he were to confront a magical being who reigned over this kingdom of death for centuries. And worst of all, Frostwarm was nowhere to be found here in the nearly pitch-black catacombs.
What was worse, he wondered, allowing himself to burn and instantly die like everyone else above by the hands of the demon, or to succumb to a slow agonizing death in the heart of darkness by the legendary Shade? What had happened to Scar? Where did he fly off to when they were separated? Was his beloved Belisa still alive? What of his parents? And why was all this happening? There were so many thoughts going through his mind as he followed Dargain and the others, desperately hoping to find either Frostwarm or a way out.
Upon reaching a fork, they stopped and tensely looked at one another. Each passageway seemed identical. Yet the group had no idea which one would be safe, if any.
“Let’s turn back,” said Aarian.
“Calm yourself, Prince Aarian,” responded Dargain. “Believe me, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do. Jorian’s in here somewhere, so I need you to focus and help us search for him in this crypt despite our situation.” He could hardly see in the darkness but managed to make out the prince’s frail nod. “Excellent, now grab a torch and give me some steady light.”
Aarian grabbed a weakly lit torch on a slanted, battered sconce and followed his mentor who’d chosen the path on the left. Glancing at the other torches, Aarian assumed that Frostwarm had used magic to give them life. While he walked alongside Dargain, he heard the clinks of his companions’ armor, including his own. The noise gave off an echo—it was unsettling to Aarian who could barely keep his sword up.
In contrast, Master Dargain and his fellow knights had their weapons lifted high and were ready for anything. Dargain wielded two swords—one in each hand—while Zarlando, Orodreth, and Ceirdan carried two-handed claymores. They weren’t fearless; walking in the shadows of an eerie crypt was certainly not their idea of fun, yet they were knights under the oath of the Nine; and by Yunedar, they would defend their beloved prince and kingdom no matter the danger ahead.
The path they treaded upon eventually opened up to a wide, icy-cold chamber. Weather-beaten sarcophagi nestled into the granite walls decorated the primordial hall of age-old kings. Their graceful faces, as with their names, were carved on the slabs. Gem-embedded pillars stood a few feet apart from one another in rows, strengthening the cracked ceiling. And around the middle of the ground lay a chiseled icon of Gar’kon, the only dark elf who’d become a Spirit. The ideogram depicted the sun with a line across its center, dividing it into two—one side darker than the other. The first half symbolized the light of life while the other symbolized the darkness of death.
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br /> “Gar’kon,” whispered Zarlando, staring at the ideogram. “The one and only Mor’vyi’dou who saw more than just killing.”
“A master of both light and darkness,” said Dargain.
“It’s unfortunate that no other dark elf has attempted to put aside their hatred and achieve what he has gained,” said Zarlando.
“You mean had gained?” said Aarian.
“Has, Your Highness,” repeated Zarlando. “Gar’kon is, after all, still alive; he evermore guards the nether’s gateway. And if I am fortunate enough to become the greatest bodyguard in Yunedar, perhaps one day I’ll be blessed by the Nine and join them.”
“You would like to be a gatekeeper, Zarlando?” asked Orodreth.
Prince Aarian frowned. “Why in the name of Thay’tal are you talking about death? We are going to survive, right?”
Before anyone could reply, the slabs of the sarcophagi swerved open. As soon as Aarian heard the scraping sound of them unsealing, he withdrew and tripped on a fallen piece of an alabaster relief that was once a part of a sarcophagus. Upon tripping, he almost burned his face with the torch he held.
When the knights in the tomb started hearing inhumyn grunts and grumbles from within the sarcophagi, they stayed close together. Just then, the dusty slabs fell onto the floor—some cracking and splitting—and ghoulish skeletal hands arose. The beings who stood up, groaning before the knights, were no longer Vlydyn’s legendary kings; they were now the walking dead. The skeleton kings leaped out of their granite receptacles with the dragon bone swords they’d been buried with and charged toward the knights in frenzy.
“For the glory of the Nine!” shouted Dargain, also charging.
He struck down the first skeletal king with ease using his two steel swords; however, four more approached him, forcing him to defend himself. He had no time to riposte as he parried and dodged their attacks. Orodreth and Ceirdan, on the other hand, fought side by side and weren’t overwhelmed. Their claymores fractured the kings’ bones. Yet the undead continued to rise and encroach upon them.
Zarlando stayed beside Prince Aarian—who was horrified at the sight before him—and protected him. As a bodyguard, defending the prince was his top priority. When he defeated the skeletons around him, he joined Dargain and helped him. Dargain had taken down a couple of undead between his parries, but more undead surrounded him, making it impossible for him to counterattack, at least until Zarlando came. With a single strike of his claymore, he shattered a skeleton. He then rolled to the side, evading an attack, and swung his sword forward, splitting another in half.
After a few undead had been decimated, Dargain was able to counterstrike against three skeletons. He parried and riposted with his swords, shattering the ribcages of two kings; then he pirouetted away from the third one, allowing Zarlando to strike him down from behind. Dargain nodded at Zarlando with respect and then turned his attention back to the two skeletons whom he had crippled a moment ago. Within seconds they were struck down into pieces.
Prince Aarian watched as more skeletons flooded into the chamber opposite him. It was clear to him at this point that the legend wasn’t only true, but it was even more frightening than what Magi Frostwarm had described. He managed to stand on his feet and ran for his life, back into the passage where he’d come from. His heart raced as he sprinted through the tunnel. When he reached the fork, however, he heard more grunts and came to a dead stop. Ahead of him were skeletal queens, drearily shambling toward him.
Utterly frightened, Aarian dropped his weapon and lost his ability to scream. His torch’s light blew out as a cold fog swept over him. He could no longer see them. The groans and grunts drew closer to him. He senselessly withdrew, leaning against the granite wall behind him. Then he slithered down with a look of horror. There was no room for hope within his frail mind after seeing his once honorable ancestors transformed into dreadful monsters.
“Please don’t kill me,” pleaded Aarian, stammering.
They shuffled closer toward him, their pockmarked bones twitching. Many of them were toothless, but those who weren’t gnashed their rotten teeth at Aarian. Wielding rusty dirks, they raised them high—their dull yet still sharp edges protruding closer to the prince’s neck with each jittery step they took. Not a second later, a radiant light grew from the central passage, engulfing the now cringing skeletons.
“Ai’o’nes bel-le’nari!” exclaimed Frostwarm, his voice like thunder.
Even though the raggedy queens of death didn’t have eyeballs, the magical light became stronger due to the wizard’s words, causing the undead queens to retreat a few steps as if it had blinded them. The white magic gave Aarian the strength to stand, yet he didn’t have the will to move. That’s when Frostwarm appeared from behind, seized the prince’s arm with his hand, and yanked him back.
“Magi Frostwarm,” said Aarian, never happier to see him.
“Stay behind me,” said Frostwarm sternly.
Aarian complied, wincing in the shadows while he watched Frostwarm raise his ivory scepter, unleashing a nimbus of light at a skeleton whose bones turned into ashes. Afterwards, the wizard unsheathed a gold rod and dug its sharp base into the shoulder blade of another queen who screeched as she lit up, crumbling to the floor.
The other undead creatures grunted viciously as they approached Frostwarm. When they did so, Dargain and his knights reached them from the left tunnel that they’d retracted from and surprise attacked them. Frostwarm fought with his scepter and rod; the shimmering runes etched into his enchanted weapons unleashed sparks of magical light that fractured the skeletons’ bones upon touching them. Only one undead minion managed to thrust its dirk, piercing Orodreth’s dented breastplate.
Blood leaked down his sundered armor as he groaned, continuing to heave his claymore forward. He shattered the remaining skeletal queen who had wounded him; though, not without letting out an outcry of pain. He dropped his sword and tumbled down. Aarian, however, finally snapped out of his frightened trance and caught him.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” said Orodreth, his voice cracking.
Dargain glared at his brother. “Jorian, you were supposed to wait for us. Where have you been? And where are Eëràndir and Princess Parla’vasa?”
“We couldn’t risk waiting any longer, especially since Parla’vasa was unconscious,” said Frostwarm, beginning to walk through the middle passage. “My white magic is nothing to that of a cleric’s, so we searched the crypt and found an entrance to Xen’s temple. Eëràndir is there with Lord Taveric now. Follow me and I’ll guide you.”
Dargain and the others quickly pursued him. Frostwarm sheathed his rod and scepter and then summoned his oak staff, using it to rekindle burnt-out torches that hung along the rundown walls. Whispers of an unknown tongue filled their ears while they progressed deeper into the dimly lit crypt. Aarian walked slower than the others, helping Orodreth move forward. In the meantime, Zarlando stayed beside him to protect his flank, fearing that more skeletons would come out from hidden antechambers.
“Are we almost there?” asked Aarian, frantically looking around.
“The tunnels run deep,” replied Frostwarm. “But yes, Xen’s temple isn’t too far from here.”
They continued going through the tunnel and entered another chamber much larger than the one they’d previously gone into. The slabs of the sarcophagi, however, did not budge. Aarian and his companions stopped, cautiously observing the dim tomb to see if more of Vlydyn’s royal ancestors would rise from their graves. They then saw opposite them, past each sarcophagus, the crypt’s exit. The knights expected a perilous battle against a lineage of undead kings; yet there wasn’t a single enemy upon them.
“What’re we waiting for?” said Aarian, trying to hold Orodreth steadily. “Let’s hurry and leave this accursed crypt.”
For once the knights agreed without feeling like spineless cowards. With the exception of Aarian, who was struggling to keep Orodreth on his feet, they strode toward the secret pas
sage leading to Xen’s temple. Ceirdan, in the lead, never looked more at peace to see the path become brighter. As he approached the radiant path, a rustle of wind stirred around him. He slowed down and felt a tingly feeling. He embraced the enigmatic gale that caressed him, stroked his hair, and then broke his neck.
Aarian shrieked when he heard the snap. His entourage, on the other hand, did not react the same as he. Dargain and Zarlando readied their swords while Frostwarm raised his oak staff, ready to cast a destructive spell. Orodreth desperately wanted to defend himself, yet all he could do was gasp and wheeze in pain as he helplessly watched his fellow comrade fall to the cold, misty ground.
“Stay back,” murmured Frostwarm, his voice echoing despite it being low.
The gale grew in strength, as did the mist beneath the knights, at which point they merged and became one. Then the royal company heard a shrilling, icy cackle from within what was now a cyclone of bones coming together. Darkness filtered through the hovering whirlwind, making it seem ethereal when it was in fact corporeal.
When this occurred, Aarian turned to his protectors. The expressions on their faces made him realize that they were, for the first time, as frightened as he. It was here where he started to think this crypt would be his grave. Staring at what eventually formed into a lich, he concluded that he’d never see the sun again. He’d never see Belisa, Scar, his parents, or even Parla’vasa; in fact, he wouldn’t even feel his warm cozy bed. And he’d certainly never feel the presence of the Nine or the breath of life again because death had found him tonight.
“You must be Súrion,” said Frostwarm, taking a step forward.
The lich gazed upon the wizard, giving him a devious grin. “I am impressed,” it said wistfully. “You must be a librarian.”
