Ascendancy: The Book of Heylel

Chapter IX

Chapter IX



         A gentle chirping of birds, calling out in a melodious singsong roused Elaine from her sleep. A warm breeze blew through the windows of a building that she recognized to be an infirmary. Beds lined the walls, all of them empty except three. Snorri and the other two that had accompanied them to the northern islands lay, still beneath white linen sheets. Rialev sat in a chair, his head down as he snored. How long had she been asleep? There was no telling. The warm kiss of an early morning sun caressed her cheek as golden rays shined through the open windows. A peaceful symphony of the sea crashed against the distant cliffs, the whole thing felt calm and serene as though the darkness they had all been through had never came in the first place.

         Outside, the chatter and goings on of a populated city hummed. Every so often, a loud voice would cry out as it passed by, discussing whatever business of the day there may have been with another. The still, lifeless world of Annwyn was gone. She was back!

         She shoved the covers aside, and the breeze carried them for a time before falling to the floor, gentle like a feather fallen from an eagle. The bandages on her arm were gone, and her radiant light skin greeted her. Waves of absolute rapture surged through her as she took in this miraculous turn of events. She could only guess as to how long she’d been asleep, but it had to have been for days. Her clothes were soft and supple, as though they were cleaned fresh and dried in a midsummer’s breeze. Her eyes stung with tears of joy. She had not fallen to the dark after all… somehow, she’d beat it.

         Her legs were strong once more, carrying her weight as though she were nothing but a sack of feathers, as she rushed to the door of the infirmary. It swung open with little effort, and less contempt, offering no creaking of neglect.

         Warm, salt scented wind caressed her body as she stood there in that doorway, her eyes closed, not tight but just enough to allow the backs of her eyelids to glow deep red from the early morning sunlight. The air smelled so sweet and alive. The clamor of crowded streets was a symphony of relief and merriment. Everything was right again.

         She scanned the crowd of folk that rushed about the cobblestones streets. Some laughed and other older ones spoke stern and harsh to younglings that followed steps behind. Some of them stood around in small circles and groups, offering many hand motions and gestures in effort to explain whatever point it was they tried to make. Those that listened occasionally nodded to one another in some strange moment of contented agreement. Occasionally interjections sprang up from the roar of voices, and others would join in with their own ideas, but she couldn’t quite make out what any of them were speaking. It was the common tongue sure enough, but they spoke words she’d never heard. It didn’t matter. The world was right again, that’s the only thing she cared about.

         As she scanned the sea of faces, her eyes caught strange devices that some men carried about, hurrying down streets and into different buildings with several others following close behind. Men in deep scarlet robes with long white beards trudged along the streets, some carrying very curious clockworks of shined brass and gold, the likes of which, she had never seen. Many of the devices were some sort of tube, with a strange piece of glass at either end. It was similar to a telescope that she’d seen on the Avian dirigible, but this device had engravings and gauges like nothing else she had ever seen. Other devices looked similar to that of a clock, but had no numbers, only intricate pictures; symbols within circles.

         Other men, in dark green robes darted about, younglings close by carrying a great many glass containers with multicolored liquids and powders. The violet clad ones all stood in groups, holding small brass rods between their thumb and forefinger, tracing lines in the air, but this wasn’t like what one would expect. Whatever they traced, remained there, suspended in the air, glowing like the embers of a fire, before it scattered like falling stars to the ground. It was incredible.

         If this was the Nidavellir that Snorri and the Ymirjar had come to call home, it was a wonderful home indeed. She’d never seen such an array of clockwork and extraordinary powers utilized like the everyday fork and spoon. It was as though this strange culture was as everyday as dawn and dusk.

         Others had caught her eye as well. They didn’t carry any type of otherworldly device or trace fire in the air. They were a much more familiar sight to her, for they carried only swords and spears. None of them spoke to anyone as they lumbered through the streets, between old and young men who hardly gave them any notice. One would sidestep out of their path every so often, but those men, clad in steel gave them barely a glance. Their eyes scanned back and forth through the crowd, focusing on one for a moment before continuing on, paying little mind to much of anything. Their faces however, were stone and fierce. These men were hunters. Each of them as rough as quarried sandstone, and hard as an anvil. Scars sliced down their faces as though the sword still slashed. Some were missing eyes, others, limbs, but each of them were as intimidating as an oppressive storm on the seas.

         Some men in the crowd would poke their heads up from time to time. They weren’t adorned in robes or steel, but tattered clothes like that of a peasant. They were as deer in the forest, timid, and fearful of those around them. The men in robes paid them no notice, but those fearsome folk with swords occasionally caught sight of one of them, and soon darted between beards and robes on way to his prize. The timid ones seemed well adept at avoiding them, however, darting away before any of those swords could reach them, only to pop their heads up again some distance away.

         It was an odd, and rather humorous display in its own right, but deep in the back of her mind, something implored her to avoid those swords herself. Elaine was well talented in the ways of combat, thanks to Rialev, but there were a good number of them. She was confident that one or two would give her no trouble, but how many were there? That was something she didn’t want to find out for herself.

         A glimmer of sharp white light pierced the corner of her eye like a bodkin. As she turned, a familiar, polished breastplate enveloped in a long silky white cloak shimmered in the morning sunlight. A man stood before one of the robed ones, long curly locks of blonde hair dangled down to the center of his back, and a brilliant sword hung at his side. It was Papal.

         Elaine darted through the crowd, eyes darting between her flanks in search of those hunters. None were anywhere that she could see which was a relief. None of those old, bearded men or the younger folk paid her any attention as she rushed past, occasionally brushing against one of them. They only offered a perplexed look as their eyes circled about for whoever had crossed their path, never once noticing her. Odd as it was, it didn’t matter, she was just happy she could walk, and see the sun again.

         She came upon the priest, who looked as though he’d come from a fresh bath. His armor, polished to that of a high mirror shine. He was trading words with one of the men in the dark green robes. This man had a beard that nearly touched the ground, and his head was as bald as an egg. Deep wrinkles clove into his face like bark on a tree, rough and weathered. He looked to be as old as the world, but carried himself as though he were still in his youth. He stood straight as a spear shaft, unlike his hunched, bearded brethren, and he spoke soft but forceful. It wasn’t an angry tone, but rather, experienced and wise.

         Elaine nearly crashed into Papal, not realizing how much she had recovered. She ran with ease, and was hardly winded when she skidded to a stop at his side. He didn’t even look at her, and neither did the old man.

         “Morgr attacked us on the way here,” Papal said, forcing his words out like thunder. “One of them got to her. She’s being taken by the Black.”

         The old man mumbled under his breath for a moment as he twisted his whiskers between his thumb and forefinger.

         Elaine looked down at her arm. Were they talking about her? She stroked the back of her elbow with her finger. The ice that was there was long gone, leaving behind only a bad dream of cold and agony. She held it outstretched in front of Papal.
“My arm is healed,” she said.

         Neither so much as glanced her direction.

         It was quite insulting to be slighted like this, but they seemed to be having a rather important discussion. Still, he needed to know that she was going to be alright. She stepped to her right a bit, forming something of a triangle between the three of them, clearly in Papal’s sight, still he wasn’t interested.

         “How long do you think she has?”

         Papal shook his head. “It’s difficult to say. It’s spread fast, so much so that it has already darkened her veins. It’s taking her faster than anyone else I’ve seen.”

         The old man nodded. “Then there’s not much time. Soon she will belong to the king.” His voice trailed a bit as his eyes lowered to the ground. He continued to mumble beneath his breath as though he were calculating some immeasurable equation.
“What do you suggest?”

         The old man’s gaze returned to Papal, shocked somewhat by the interruption to the goings on of his mind. “Common Alchemy won’t help her. She needs something more powerful than a simple elyxer.”

         Papal’s eyes now fell to the ground as he shook his head and clenched his fists. His arms trembled and muscles rippled as though he contained some terrible storm that might explode at any moment.

         “Lapis Philosophorum,” the bearded one said, still twisting his whiskers.

         “I’ve heard of it. You Alchemysts devoted everything to it, and failed. It’s a myth.”

         Wrinkles turned to fissures as the man’s brow lowered to a glare. “I did not fail, priest. I only said as much.”

         “Then where is it?” His voice was thunderous and concussive like lightning.
“I hid it within the world of the dead. I did everything I could to keep it out of my king’s reach. I can’t imagine what ruin he would have brought to the world had he heard we had discovered it.”

         “And the gate to that place? Does it still stand in the old world?”

         The old man nodded, “It does, but I’ve long ago shut that gate and destroyed the keys.”

         Papal looked as though he might cleave the man in two. His face was as red as a tomato, and his neck bulged as he gritted his teeth. “How are we to get there, then?”

         “You’ll have to find my journal, priest. I can’t explain it to you, for you likely won’t understand it. Find an Alchemyst who can help you, I’m sure there are still those who follow my craft.”

         “And what of Elaine? What if we do not find these writings in time to save her? Can a magician perhaps slow the hex?”

         They were talking about her, and that darkness that had marked her arm, but it was gone now. Why would he not just look at her and see for himself?

         “Magicians?” The old man scoffed. “Magicians are the ones who created the hex in the first place, priest!”

         Shouting called from a distance behind them. She turned and armor and swords glistened in the sunlight as those fierce men came rushing toward them. There were ten that she could see, probably more by the way the crowd darted aside.

         The old man’s gnarled hands latched onto Papal’s shoulders, and his eyes were wide as the horizon. “You must go, priest!” His voice hissed like a great
serpent. “Find my writings and you can save her, but go now, they know you don’t belong here!”

         Papal glanced back at the coming horde. “Will you be safe?” His hand curled around the hilt of his sword.

         “Don’t fear for me, they do not bother the dead.”

         The dead? What did he mean by that?

         “Thank you, Charles. I pray we meet again,” Papal said, as he lowered his head and tucked himself away beneath the sea of faces.

         What was happening? Where was he going and why did he not call for her? None of this made sense. That however, didn’t matter now. As dark, terrible eyes focused on her, those men, clad in armor, and baring claws of steel came lumbering toward her. She darted away, weaving between folk who strolled along discussing everyday affairs. None of them bothered to avoid her, and many times, she’d come close to colliding with one of them. She made sharp turns, left then right through clusters of purples, reds, and greens. As she ran, those robes lifted as though a stiff breeze now blew past. Most of the men merely looked about for a moment occasionally glancing to the sky, and then carried on.

         Why in the hell were they all paying her no notice? Was she dead and come back as a spirit? It couldn’t be. Surely, the spirit world wasn’t as alive as this. She wasn’t dead, she felt more alive now than ever. That man had said they do not bother the dead. Was that where she was? Were all these people merely echoes of a bygone age? How could that be?

         She didn’t need to think about it now. There was someone out in that crowd that had seen her. Several in fact, and though she didn’t know for sure, a chilling sensation tingled down her spine when she looked into their eyes. They were there to harm her, and she was not about to allow that.

         Shadows of an alleyway yet to be kissed by the early morning sun appeared as a dark, inviting alcove of solace. She rushed into a cool, embracing shade, tucking away behind the nooks of a tall stone building. Men scanned the crowd, swords drawn, and heads high over the rest of the folk.

         Again, she felt the ice run down her spine like a trickle of frigid water. She’d caught one’s eye. As several converged on her, she backed away, gripping for a sword that wasn’t there. Her back touched cold polished stone. A dead end…

         As they came upon her, they held their swords high. None of them intended to capture her. No, they desired nothing more than her death. There was nowhere to go, and she had nothing to defend herself. She raised her arm in a fruitless attempt to defend against the blade and shut her eyes. This was it. She’d finally come round from that terrible sickness, only to be cleaved in two by a nameless man. The could touch of sharpened steel prodded at her arm; the same spot that that terrible black had been, and warm trickles snaked down to her hand. As the blade ripped through her arm, a hand gripped her shoulder tight, shaking her hard as an earthquake. So cold the blade was – and so painful.

         The hand continued to shake her, knocking her head into the stone, but for some reason, she didn’t feel it. She felt only that sword, slicing its jagged path down past her forearm, and into her elbow. Icy agony erupted in her arm, as flesh tore from her bones, but she just couldn’t open her eyes. She just couldn’t scream.

         “Elaine!” Papal’s voice echoed in her mind.

         His hand kept rattling her about. Rocking her body this way and that.

         “Elaine, please!” His voice was louder now, like he was shouting into her ear.

         Then, the sword was gone. The pain was gone. All of it was gone, except for the cold, for some reason that frigid kiss remained. The clamor of the crowd was silent now, and the world around her was dark as pitch.

         She opened her eyes.

         Papal looked down at her, eyes wide with some unknown terror. His dull, rusted breastplate didn’t shimmer now, it merely swallowed a dancing firelight. His dirty hair fell from his brow in two distinct curls, but black at the ends, and his face was smeared with dirt. What had happened to him? It had only been a few moments, and he looked as though he’d been buried for an age.

         “I thought you might thrash yourself to a broken back,” he said as he raked his stray locks behind his ears with a swipe of his dirty hand. “You were having a nightmare.”

         A nightmare? Just then? No, it was no nightmare. It was real, it had to be real. For the love of heaven it had to be real. The sickness was gone! She ran and walked, and was without that terrible throbbing pain. It couldn’t have been only a dream… that was too cruel.

         Tears burned her eyes as she looked down at her arm, black as coal ash, and cold as winter.

         “Please, Papal… Please find those writings,” she said, cupping her hands over her face.

         He breathed a sharp, ragged gasp of air. Was he surprised? Well, of course he was, he had no idea what she was talking about, it was… just a dream.

         “You’d best get dressed, my lady. We go to the Old World as soon as you’re ready.”