Ascendancy: The Book of Heylel

Chapter V

Chapter V



The castle was now alive with clamor and panic. It had been the first real threat that they had seen in so many months. Though one man was hardly a threat, it was still cause for alarm. Where had he come from, and why was he so intent to kill her? She knew he was possessed, she’d seen the look in his eyes, but it didn’t make any sense. Possession as far as she knew it, came only from rituals and the wicked practices of the Priory. None of such had been noted in Xalimfal. Granted they had their own rituals, but they weren’t at all intended to invoke spirits.

Even then, from what she had seen, possession wasn’t so much an instant, but more a chronic descent into darkness. She had however, only seen two such cases, and both of which were Expurgators, and both of them were gone.

Judaes had carried the spirit of Mammon, and Valimaar, Ithaca. They were two of the greatest Daemons that existed, both of them were crown princes of hell among a family of seven other brothers. She knew that it was only a matter of time before they awakened within the rest of their excommunicated brethren.

Rialev would be no different. Would he leave her too once that moment came? The others had left to fight the war in their own ways. Rialev could do the same once he learned what was inside him.

She had wanted to tell him – so many times, but she couldn’t. She had not the heart to force him deeper into whatever cold and emotionless world he dwelled. He was however, an Expurgator, and none of them were particularly sociable people, but Rialev was different. He was more inquisitive and untrusting. He was without a doubt the darkest of the bunch, always questioning everything around him with his frigid eyes examining every dark nook and shadowy corner. He was however, very perceptive. It was rare that anything happened without his noticing, even things as insignificant as mice fetching crumbs. He knew the exact location of everyone and everything around him at all times; a watcher.

He was however, a very fierce friend to her. Though he rarely displayed any type of emotion, he was protective as a family dog and every bit as loyal. He never questioned her thoughtless walks through the castle, or the horrible rage that had been growing inside her like a child in her womb. He simply accepted it all.

She knew though. She knew he struggled with everything now that the only family he had was severed from one another. Two of them were entirely lost, and the other six remained behind in Lokken, or at least that’s where they were the last time they’d received any news. He was as alone as she, and she knew he hated it just as much.

Somehow, they managed to get on, despite having little reason. Everything was routine. They strolled about the castle, and made swordplay in the sparring rings. He had taught her everything he knew of the art of death, and she was now an artisan. She wasn’t a soldier, they were graceless, with heavy, unguarded swings. She was a killer. Every strike was calculated and prepared. Each step and parry was anticipated before any such attack, and it all happened in mere instants in time, when a person has no time at all to think. She found it was the only time she could think clearly about anything, and as fast as those moments came, they were gone. The dance of swords was an ever changing one, with rising and falling tempos, allowing for no missteps.

Somehow in that complete and utter chaos, she felt as clear as a mountain spring, and as lethal as viper’s venom.

Amidst all the routine, something happened today. It was an abrupt halt to normalcy that she’d grown so used to. A man had made an attempt on her life. Though he failed, it was difficult to not fear such a brazen act of reckless abandon. Even Valimaar and Judaes exercised caution, with two great powers dwelling within them. This man was nothing like that, not caring for anything around him. He was focused solely on his target as if he were in a trance.

The words he spoke… were dark and hateful. She’d never heard the language, but it was filled with evil.

“Please don’t leave your sword behind again, my lady.” Rialev wasn’t often as livid as this, but she had made a mistake. That mistake could very well have cost her her life had he not been there.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you’ve grown so used to being here in the castle, but Ecclesia isn’t beaten. It will never truly be safe here, for any of us.” He slumped himself into the seat across from hers, sliding a tray of meats and fruits to her.

She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry.”

Her fist smashed the table so hard she could have split it down the center. “Why are you always so callous?”

His eyes looked up for a moment, meeting hers before falling back down to the table. “I’m tired of watching you waste away in this damnable castle, dwelling on things you can’t control.”

He was right, as he often was, but she grew weary of him being so heartless and demanding.

“Someone tried to kill you today, and you were without your sword!” His fist slammed the table as hard as hers. “What would you have me tell Valimaar when you’re dead because you were somewhere in the clouds?”

This was the first time he had ever yelled at her. Waves of burning heat crashed through her body like a wayward carriage. Fingernails dug into her palms as she clenched her fists. He was right however. There was no denying that. She was as always, lost in her head.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, shaking her head as she fought back tears of rage.

He pushed the tray closer. “Then eat.”

She didn’t argue. Though it had little taste to her anymore, she was in fact famished. Perhaps that’s all she needed from the start to clear her thoughts. She forced herself to swallow the dry, salted pork.

“You’re other two friends should have been here,” he said with a mouthful of the meat. “Whatever they’re doing, I hope it’s important.”

“I’m sure it is.”

She had no idea what they were doing back in Yggdrasil. They had both been quite odd the past few days, always on alert as though something would waylay them at any moment. It must have been a coincidence that something had done that to her the day they left.

“You put an awful lot of faith in that priest,” his voice carried a tint of disdain.

She shook her head, “Papal’s remained true to our cause since the beginning. I trust him as much as I trust you.”

“Need I remind you what he did to become one of them,” he asked.

She grew tired of his condescending tone, “Need I remind you that not everyone is your enemy?”

“Not everyone is my ally either.”

She hated arguing with him. He was always so stubborn, much like the rest of his brethren, though some of them at least could be persuaded to view things from a different perspective. He was nothing like that. He was as unflinching as a boulder despite whatever she had to say.

“There are times when your ignorance still amazes me.”

Rialev shrugged, “There are times when it amazes me too.”

She couldn’t eat another bite of the pork if she were starving. It was simply, unsatisfying. She plucked a grape from its cluster and stood to face the great window overlooking the city below. The setting sun blanketed the streets in a worm orange, its rays bursting into the room offering a vibrant light. Below her, thousands of folk traversed the streets in small packs, some with beasts following behind, loaded with bags of grain or bushels of fruit. Down there, they had no idea what had happened today in the castle. The Jarl saw to that personally. News such as this could have very well caused some sort of alarm, and with the number of visitors in the city, alarm could grow to panic and panic to chaos.

She bit down on the sweet fruit, its juices a welcoming refreshment to the dry and salty meats.

“What did he say to you before he died?” He was still chewing.

“Omnes similiter peribitis.”

“Do you have any idea what that means?”

It was somewhat familiar to her, but still, she couldn’t place the language. Perhaps she’d seen something similar in a book, but it escaped her grasp. It wasn’t the language of the Daemons she’d grown so used to. The Black Sacrament and the writings of Saint Peregrine had both been written in an ancient tongue, but this was not the one.

“No.”

The sun’s orange rays faded as a dark storm cloud rolled over the horizon. Sunset was washed away by a dreary gray. In the distance over the rolling hills that stretched beyond the city, lightning flickered and licked at the earth below. Thunder rolled across the sky, and below people scrambled about, eager to avoid being caught in a heavy rain.

Her head ached, and her fingertips were numb as she looked down at Gjaalarbron. The comforting ridges of leather wrappings greeted her palm as she rested her hand on the hilt of her sword. Tingly needles poked at her from her neck down her spine. Something felt wrong.

Perhaps she was still a bit edgy from the late morning attack, though she’d pushed that off almost the moment it ended. The Jarl’s men were handling it now, and she knew he’d not rest until he found out who and what the man was. Still, something gnawed at her.

The clouds darkened almost black now as Rialev stirred in his seat, his eyes looking outward to the rolling storm. He drummed his fingers against the hilt of his sword as he scanned the horizon up and down.

“Odd.”

“What is odd,” she asked.

“The storms always come from the east, this one is coming from the west.”

That was odd. The weather in Xalimfal was as routine as political business in the castle. Come to think of it, she’d never see a westward storm before.

Wind howled outside the wall of glass, ripping at banners that lined the balcony outside of their common room. Droplets of water dotted the window and snaked down, tapping a rhythmic cadence as flashes of lightning erupted with harsh white light. That storm had moved quite fast.

Her fingers ached as she relaxed her grip on the sword. How long had she been squeezing it so tight? She had no idea. Cold, polished wood gnawed a patch of ice onto her other palm as it rest on the butt stock of her pistol.

Wind burst into the room, tugging and clawing at her white linen bodice and pressing it against her skin. Laces strung through the garment cracked and snapped at her as though they were striking serpents as she stepped through the doorway to the balcony. A heavy rain blown about in an torrent of wind crashed against her skin as though the heavens were throwing stones at her.

She wrapped her arms around herself looking up at the dark rolling clouds. It was a southerly wind, but the storm had come from the west… very odd indeed. Drops of rain became shards of ice, crashing onto the streets below, and into the windows of her common room sending shards of glass to the floor.

Elaine didn’t linger for long in it, she rushed back through the doorway to Rialev, waiting there and holding up a heavy cloak. He wrapped her in the thick wool and pulled her away from the windows that exploded with each impact from the great hailstones.
“We should probably get somewhere a bit more safe,” he said, pulling at her arm, leading her about like she were a horse.
She only half noticed the suggestion. Her eyes remained on the storm. On the distant horizon, streaks of black shot into the heavens like arrows, one then two, and a half dozen more, closer and closer to Gjaalarbron. Voices of panic echoed through the halls, as the winds spewed in from shattered windows. Curtains whipped about like flags in a heavy wind as hailstones bounced along the scarlet carpet. Servants abandoned carrying food and drink and shielded their heads with their serving trays as the dashed down the halls.

Papal and Razelle darted toward them, dodging between men and women who ran the opposite direction. Papal waved his hands about in panic, trailed closely by his companion, the dragon. Her eyes occasionally look behind as though they were being pursued.

Rialev pulled harder now. It hurt her arm, but she didn’t have the will to protest. Had he not been leading her, she’d probably still be standing outside in that unworldly storm.

“We have to leave, my lady!” Papal’s voice was harsh and ragged as he called over the roaring winds.

Where were they going?

“Pull yourself together, Elaine!” Rialev’s voice sliced into her, and she felt herself return from the curious daze. About her, chaos erupted in a stormy onslaught. Glass windows burst, and shards of glass bounced along on the floor.

“What is going on,” she asked, her hands raising to shield her face from the frigid winds.

“We don’t have time to explain, Sif. We need to leave now!”

Razelle called back to her, her back facing them, she stood ready to defend against some invisible foe.

Before she could think, the whisked her through twisting corridors, making lefts and rights, and dashing down steps. Her feet stumbled over themselves over and over as Rialev tugged at her arm, countless times, she nearly fell on top of him. He called back to her, but she couldn’t make out the words… the winds were just too loud now.

They continued on downward, and across the castle’s great hall. They were on the ground floor now, nearest the kitchens. It was dark, as though nightfall had come to the castle. Lightning flickered through broken windows, flashing in burning white as they ran past shelves of plates and trays. Smoky air from a quenched oven fire burned her throat as frightened eyes looked up at her. Servants squatted beneath tables with their hands over their heads. Some were crying, others, praying. But they, were running. They didn’t stop to see to anyone. As they ran past, they shouted at them, motioning for them to follow. Some did, others lingered behind, too afraid to move.

As the back door to the kitchens burst open, they were greeted by a thick, black darkness. She knew it couldn’t have been beyond twilight yet, but it seemed like midnight. The wind had stopped now, and the hail. It was calm; calm and dark.

Papal turned to the small group of people brave enough to follow. “Stay close to us and do not look back.”

She glanced back to those he was speaking, and a familiar face glanced about. Snorri led the pack of servants and diplomats. His clothes were tattered and frayed like a flag that had never been lowered. Blood trickled from small cuts on his face and hands as he struggled to catch his breath.

She wrestled free of Rialev’s crushing grip, and found the hilt of her rapier. Warm, welcoming waves coursed through her as her fingers wrapped around the bound leather handle. They took one step, then another, and finally she found herself again.

“Where are we going,” her voice was steady and calm.

“The northern islands,” Razelle replied.

The northern Islands were a long way off from here.

“We need to get outside of town first,” Papal whispered. “We need to get away from here.”

Elaine nodded and drew her sword. Rialev followed suit, also pulling his pistol. She shed the heavy, water-soaked wool cloak he’d blanketed her in and waves of ice surged through her arms and legs for a moment. It had gone awfully cold here, as if winter had returned. Still, a heavy cloak would slow her down, especially if there was need for a fight, and she could not allow anything to impede her sword arm.

They crept between darkened buildings and through shadowed allies. Around them, and all through the city, cries of agony and terror erupted. They were sparse, but as they progressed, they became more frequent. Some were a long way off, others however were quite close. What was happening? She didn’t know, but whatever it was, at least she had a sword to defend herself. Those behind her scavenged for whatever they could swing. Some held make shift clubs which were little more than tree branches, another woman held a long, rusty ladle. Only Snorri carried a blade, and luckily for him, he knew how to use it.

Razelle led the group, poking her head out from corners and scanning back and forth before motioning for them to follow. She carried no weapons, but Elaine knew she hardly needed them. Razelle was a dragon, and a dragon had little need for swords. Footsteps ran down a wide road that intersected their path. A dark shadow darted past snarling and grunting like a beast. Its arms were flailing as it closed on someone hiding in shadow. Screams tore through silence for a moment, and then were gone. Her grip tightened. The dragon motioned for them to hold as she focused through the darkness, and then stepped out, her arms stretched to her sides, as if calling for an attack.
Whatever had run past, charged her now. She stood resolute and unflinching, her gray-purple eyes fixed on whatever it was running at her. As it came upon her, she was gone. Its arms dangled and swung about as it turned this way and that, spitting and growling.

Razelle pounced on the thing like a cat killing a mouse. Her arm wrapped around its torso like a taut rope, as her free hand closed around its neck. She dug her fingers in, and flesh ripped as she pulled away chunks of skin and muscle. It grunted and gurgled for a moment as she eased its lifeless body to the ground. She stood over it for a moment, hand dripping with blood as she let the creature’s throat fall to the ground. It rolled toward them, tongue still attached to it, oozing crimson all the while.

Papal knelt down to inspect the dead thing, turning its head to face them. It wasn’t a beast at all. It was a man; a norsemen to be precise, with the same, dull fired look in its dead eyes. Splotches of smoky black flesh marked its arms and hands. Its skin there was dry and cracked like mud left from a sun parched pond.

“What in the hell is happening,” Rialev asked, looking down at the dead man.

“Annwyn is rising.”

Annwyn? What was that? Through all of her reading, Elaine had never heard of such a thing. Still, if Papal and Razelle knew, that was good enough. She could learn later. Right now, they needed to get away from here.

The dragon darted across the wide road and tucked behind a shadowy building, motioning for them to follow. They fell in one after another as the dashed across the cobblestone, none looking back at the bloodstained ground where there lay one of their own.

They were almost outside of town now, perhaps a few hundred paces to go, but out there it was wide open, and they would be easy to spot, even for one with failing vision, what would they do then? She had no idea how many of these corrupted folk there were in the city, but judging from the screams and the quiet, she estimated that there were far too many to fight. Still, she followed, weaving between dilapidated shacks of the poorer folk who dwelled on the outskirts of town, taking care to avoid stepping on whatever garbage littered the streets outside their homes. Every so often, another one of those people would dart about, up and down the streets, claiming some life that hid in an ill thought nook. Some they killed, others they avoided. The going was slow, but after an hour or two, they’d made it out of the city. Before them, rolling hills of lush grass rippled about up and down like wrinkled clothing. The north flattened a few leagues from here to vast plains, but first they needed to get there. Razelle looked back at Papal who stood close behind. Her dark eyes met his, and her fingers embraced his hands.

“Run hard, don’t wait for me.”

He nodded. His eyes were moist with care and fear for her, but he didn’t argue.

She rushed past the group, turning her head back to them. “Go!”
Then she was gone. Back into that dreadful labyrinth of a city that had been taken by something dark and wicked. Cries and shouts erupted behind them, as they dashed up a hill encumbered by tall grass. Occasionally, a scream of death pierced the quiet false-night.

As they climbed the crest of the hill, some struggled with breaths, others clawed hard at the ground, pulling themselves along to keep pace. She stood there at the top, looking out to a dark horizon. Before them as far as she could see, the world was dark; starless. Annwyn was rising, and whatever Annwyn was, it had swallowed the peace that had come to Xalimfal.