Ascendancy: The Book of Heylel

Chapter IV

Chapter IV



         Elaine wished she were anywhere other than here. Though Xalimfal had been her home for months, she found no comfort in its embrace. She was alone; always alone. She had others with her, but she was still alone. Valimaar was gone, perhaps even dead. No. She couldn’t think like that, she wouldn’t think like that. He was alive, somewhere in that forsaken city of Ecclesia. He’d gone through that terrible gate into Hell, and came out in the Cardinal City. Wherever he ended up after that, she could only guess, but the only thing that mattered was he wasn’t there, and she hated it.

         She looked down from the high parapets that overlooked the city of Gjaalarbron, wishing that she could be anywhere else. She felt like such a prisoner here. Though nobody stopped her from going where she pleased, and doing what she wished, they always followed her. Rialev had been close by since the day Valimaar left her. He’d become a very close friend, if that’s what one would call it. She still didn’t know much about him other than he was one of the most trusted of the Expurgators, a slave to the truth, and a fierce combatant in battle. She’d seen him fight a dozen times, if not more, and if blood were a paint, he would be the greatest artist she’d ever seen. He was outside now, she knew it. He was always outside. Waiting. What he waited for, she did not know, but he obeyed Valimaar’s command to the letter.

         Protect her with all your strength.

         Those were his last words to his brother of the Expurgators before he stepped through to that infernal world, and Rialev had kept his word. He had taught her to defend herself, and to fight as if she too had done it her entire life. She learned fast during that flight to this land, and it was not long before those lessons were tested. She had taken so many lives now that she could scarce begin to count them.

         If you don’t kill them, they will kill you.

         She had followed that lesson, but still, the amount of blood on her hands would never wash away. She was a killer now, as ferocious with a blade and pistol as the denizens of this frigid land, whom she’d fought so hard to protect. They respected her, some even adored her, but it didn’t matter. She despised being held so high simply for the act of taking another person’s life.

         All of that was over now, for peace had at long last, fallen upon Xalimfal. The wars with the Dwergar were at an end, they’d been beaten back to their frozen abyss, and the Draugr had long since turned back to dust. Prosperity had come to Xalimfal like never before. The hungry were fed, and the sick were in good care. They had won a great battle, but Ecclesia still loomed in the west, and no one could be sure when they would arrive in force. Perhaps it would be today, tomorrow, even years, but they would come, and she would be waiting for them. It was curious, months ago, she would never have enjoyed the thought of killing, even if it was the Ecclesiarchy. Now, she grew anxious waiting for them to fall by her pistol, sword, or even her bare hands. If she had to tear the heart from every one of those terrible men fighting for them to see Valimaar again, she would do it without a second thought. If only they would come.

         She hated waiting. That’s all she had done. She waited for anything; news from Judaes, who had long since stopped sending falcons, or perhaps news from the Cardinal City. It was safe to assume Jazira and Abbadin still worked at the Ecclesiarchy from within, but they too had stopped sending news. Perhaps it had grown too dangerous to do so. There was no knowing such a thing if all she did was stroll the passages of the castle and dance swordplay with Papal and Rialev.

         Elaine hadn’t seen Papal all morning. He had gone deep into the passages of Yggdrasil with the dragon, Razelle, babbling on about some strange world she had never heard of. She offered to go with them, if anything, just to leave the castle for a time, but they refused. They were always so worried about her coming in harm’s way, as if battle with the walking dead and dragonmen were not harm at all. It was pointless to think about it. Thinking always made things worse. She needed to clear her head, and a walk through the halls always seemed to work, even with Rialev on her heels all the time.

         She turned round to the ironclad doors behind her, hooking her red hair behind her ear as the cool breeze whipped at her. The doors opened before she could even take her first step. His shadowy eyes, and solemn face greeted her, as it always did. She grew to ignore his grave look Rialev always wore. It’s how all the Expurgators were; forlorn and dreadful.

         “Fancy a walk, my lady?” His voice was cold as ever and emotionless as the wind.

         “I do.”

         He fell in behind her, like always, hand on the hilt of his rapier as if they would be attacked at any moment. She knew he was only doing what was asked of him, but if only he could be a little less uncaring.

         “Where will we be going today?”

         She didn’t know, she went wherever her feet led her. She stopped trying to plan routes through the castle, and simply walked, but somehow she always ended up in the same place. By now, there were no more halls she hadn’t traversed, no servants whom were unknown to her, and not even one spider web that was unfamiliar. She’d been here too long.

         “To the armory it is.” He said, letting out a heavy sigh.

         He too grew restless here in these walls. But what else would they do? The Dirigible that brought them here had long since been destroyed, and it would be a swift death to brave the northwestern seas in a ship during the stormy season. They were stuck here.

         Elaine strolled along, oblivious to the goings on of everyday business in the castle. Servants chattered on about nothing, and the bureaucrats chimed on about the goings on of the clans and politics. All of it was mundane as dust. The armory was the only place that she seemed to not despise. She loved the weapons and armor, and the smell of the forges. There was something enchanting about the drumming of hammers against anvils, and the art of shaping metal – the longing to use one of those weapons to pierce the heart of the Ecclesians.

         Dust hung in the air like stars in the night sky, illuminated by golden rays of a late morning sun. It pierced through the dreary halls like gilded spears, shining silhouettes of the window panes upon a scarlet carpet. Elaine was surprised that Rialev and she hadn’t worn a rut into that carpet, for they had walked up and down it hundreds of times.

         The castle was quite alive with commotion this morning, for the celebration of the summer solstice would be tonight. The people of Xalimfal had made great rituals of the seasons’ equinoxes and solstices for as long as any of them could remember. Each of them represented a milestone of the balance between man and nature, and the death of one life and rebirth of another. It was all rather grim in literal terms, but she wouldn’t dare question the traditions of those who had come to protect her and her allies. Xalimfal had pledged to fight against Ecclesia, which made them her greatest ally of all, for their warriors were a terrifying lot on the battlefield, each of them as hardened as oil quenched steel.

         A young Ymirjar stumbled into her, buried deep in whatever business was written on his stack of parchment. His well kept, velvet clothes and shined leather shoes suggested that he was a diplomat sent from the Northern Islands of Nidavellir, where the once slaves of Xalimfal now called their home. The young man dusted his waistcoat with his free hand, cursing under his breath, without so much as offering her an apology. On the other hand, perhaps she had walked into him.

         Rialev stepped forward at her side, his hand ever on the hilt of his sword, “You will apologize to the Lady, sir!”

         The Ymirjar glared at him as though he should know better than to speak to one of his office with such a tone, until he noticed the sword. His lips struggled to form words for a few moments, as he stuttered a quick apology, turning his eyes to her. Parchments fell from his arms, and scattered about, some fluttering this way and that as they descended to the floor, his eyes were wide.

         “My lady,” he exclaimed, “Forgive me, I took you for a servant!”

         It was a rude thing to say, but in such rough looking clothes, she wasn’t the least bit surprised. She hardly looked like her old self. The vestments of the priesthood had long since been cast aside for a more favorable, and mobile garb. The art of swordplay scarce allowed any interference with grace and speed, and robes were simply impractical to her.

         “It is fine, sir. I wasn’t aware of where I was walking,” she replied, taking every effort to sound as cordial as she could.

         “It’s been a long time, my lady. I’m glad to see you’re well. I hope the folk of Gjaalarbron are taking care of you.”

         She couldn’t remember his face. To her, most of the stout folk of the northern islands looked much the same. They had black, wiry hair, and a less intimidating physique in comparison to those of Xalimfal.

         “It’s good to see you too,” She said, offering a nod and a gentle smile. She made it only a half-step before he stopped her again.

         “You don’t remember me?”

         Of course not… there were thousands of them, what was one more to have crossed her path over the months?

         “We fought together in the northern plains. You pulled a spear from my leg if I remember correctly.”

         The northern plains… what an awful battle. She had seen so many lose their lives in that crimson snow. The face of a girl still haunted her memories. Edda was her name. A deadly shot with a bow she was, with her beast companion, Fenrir. She had cried for days after that. An Ymirjar and she had nearly died defending the last few breaths of life she had. That man dove in front of her, saving her from a spear. Snorri was his name.

         “Snorri?”

         The young Ymirjar grinned. “I’m glad you remember. My lady, I must say, it was an absolute honor fighting by your side,” he clapped his fist to his chest in salute.

         “I pray we never have to do so again,” she responded, cold and emotionless like her Expurgator companion.

         He looked down at the mess of parchment he’d made and sighed. “I apologize again for my recklessness, but if you would excuse me, I do have very important business to attend.”

         She nodded to him, averting her eyes away from the sad memories of that terrible day. As she made her way further down the hall, she heard his voice call back to her.

         “We’ll never forget all you’ve done for us, my lady! Gods watch over you and yours.”

         To hell with the gods. They didn’t watch over her then, and they didn’t now. Steel was her god; her protector, and it required no prayer, and no offerings.

         Commotion erupted from behind her. It was likely more servants or diplomats shouting in early celebration, greeting, or perhaps arguing. It didn’t matter enough to her to waste a glance back, until the melody of steel rang in the air.

         Rialev stood, feet apart and planted to the floor with a hand on his pistol as an ironclad norseman rushed through a throng of servants and diplomats, sending parchments and serving trays careening about in a storm of silver and white. He bared a hungering sword gripped tight in a hand wrapped in something dark. Likely a glove, but she couldn’t tell.

         She reached for her own blade, but it wasn’t there. She had forgot to wear it. Damn her forgetfulness. Rialev had already noticed her disadvantage, and was quick to toss her his own sword, never breaking eye contact with the lumbering man. He gripped the butt of his pistol and took aim.

         “No!”

         He glared back at her, and shook his head. With a quick twitch of his wrist, the pistol flipped in the air, and he caught it by the barrel, butt out as a club.

         Several guards were calling from behind in panicked and angered shouts. As the man rushed forward, people darted aside, flattening themselves to the walls or covering their heads prostrate against the stone.

         She tightened her grip on the hilt of the rapier and eased into a fluid defense stance, sword outward, body sideways, with her free hand tucked behind her back. The man likely stood little chance at getting past her and her companion. By his eyes however, he didn’t intend to get past her, he wanted to harm her.

         Rialev clubbed the man hard in his temple, but he shrugged it away as if being struck by a sack of feathers, not that it mattered, she was just as quick. As his sword swung down, she had already spun around him, with the sword arcing through the backs of his knees. His flesh sent a gritty vibration through the steel, like grinding it against a whetstone as she pulled free of his legs. He dropped, hands slamming into the scarlet rug, and thrashing about in an effort to turn himself around to face her.

         Why did he wish to kill her? It didn’t matter.

         If you don’t kill them, they will kill you.

         As he glared up at her, her sword came in a downward strike, aimed for the center of his skull. His eyes glared into hers with a dull intensity, like that of a fire viewed through the mist. There was something odd about it. The blade stopped before it came upon him. It hung there, less than an inch from his face, but he was unflinching. Poised like stone, he stared into her eyes, unaware of any pain in his immobilized legs. He was a puppet.

         “Omnes similiter peribitis,” he hissed as both hands gripped the blade tight. Blood wormed from between his fingers as he stabbed the tip into his neck. A stream of thick crimson flowed from the puncture as she pulled the sword out of a nameless dead man. He collapsed to the floor, painting the carpet with a deeper shade of red. His arms were outstretched and twitching, cracked, black fingers still trying to grip a sword which had fallen from his grasp.

         What an odd skin malady. She’d never seen the likes of it before, though having just been attacked for seemingly no reason, that was the least of her concern. Still, it didn’t look natural. Her fingers pried away from the grip on the rapier. Rialev had her arm by the wrist, trying without effort to wrestle his sword out of her hand. Her grip eased, and the comforting and familiar feel was gone. She stood there, empty handed, before a pool of blood and a dead man. It was a sight to which she had grown all too familiar. But he was dead by his own hand… well, at least dead by a hand other than hers. For she saw his eyes, whoever he was, wasn’t there any longer. That was another sight to which she had more experience than she cared to recall.

         He’d been possessed.