Ascendancy: The Book of Heylel

Chapter X

Chapter X




         Papal looked about, straining his eyes in a dim torchlight as he scoured through pantries, larders, and even the ovens. Moans called to him from his stomach. None of them had eaten for nearly a day, and if they hoped to stand a chance getting anywhere through that gate, they needed food. Strange that there wasn’t much to be had in the old palace, which like everything else in this world, was likely bustling with life mere days ago.


         Alfheim was as devoid of life as the rest of the city; the rest of the world. Within the dark bowels of that ancient castle, the lifelessness was so thick it was as though he could swim through it. Where had everyone gone? That, he didn’t know. The norns did not mention something like this, but the three sisters of Yggdrasil were often difficult to interpret. He’d spent much time there, with Razelle, learning as much as he could. Verdandi however, was the darkest of the three sisters, speaking of events not yet come to pass, but the future was a difficult realm to dwell. Too often, events branched those futures, bringing rise to new possibilities and new outcomes.


         Annwyn however, was certain. It had been set in stone a thousand years ago, that one day, it would rise. It was here now, swallowing the world about him in its dark embrace. He hadn’t expected life to vanish, but there were some who still drew breath, and whatever terrible things lied ahead, he would do what he could to protect them, but protecting one from starvation was difficult. Hunger was an enemy he could not afford, for you couldn’t swing a sword at it, or raise a shield to defend it, and it killed just as easily as sharpened steel.


         He cared little for the others, but if they would stand with him, he was happy to help them too. Elaine was his only concern. She after all, was the only one that found any sort of trust in him. That was understandable enough, he after all, had done things; unspeakable things in the name of life. There were those that would never understand him, and though their disdain cut through him like icy blades, that didn’t matter. Elaine saw in him, something else, and he was not about to let her die of starvation.


         It was odd that she knew about the old world, as far as he knew, that history was never even written. The norns had told him of that place. They told him where he might find the doorway to that forgotten land, and it was here, somewhere in the dark and twisting depths of Nidavellir, where Odyn first came to Arlia, and where the first men were born.


         How could she have known of it?


         Barrels resisted his attempts to open their lids. The air was quite moist down here, and the wood had swollen, shutting their tops as tight as a sail in the wind. Surely, there was something in them. It seemed foolish to store empty barrels in the larder, but he couldn’t tell for certain.


         He gritted his teeth as he dug his nails underneath the splintered ridges of the lid. It dug into his fingertips like a dull knife, as he pried one finger, then two underneath it. It popped off, flying past him and crashing to the floor with a hollow thud, and spun there for a time the way a coin does when one drops it on a table.


         Shadows danced about in the corners of his eyes. Too often, those shadows resembled people. Insects skittered across his skin when he saw them in the edges of his vision, but when he looked down, nothing. It was unsettling to say the least, but whatever they were, shadow or something else, they left him be. He had however noticed them before, long ago when he was still just a boy. Every night, as he lay in bed, he would see them as he stared at his ceiling, fighting off sleep. The priests of Ecclesia told him they were called Shadow People; tricks of the imagination. After seeing them so many times, he’d simply gotten used to it, and ignored them. After all, if they had a name, surely others saw them too as they lay in the darkness of their beds.


         These ones however, were different. They vanished when he looked at them, same as those he’d seen thousands of times before, but something stroked the back of his spine each time he saw them. Something called to him, low and soft like a whisper spoken from a distance. Oppression weighed down on his shoulders like a cloak of lead when they flickered in his vision. A shadow wouldn’t do that… for they were nothing but tricks of light. These however, were more than that, they were almost alive. Still, they let him be, as though their haunt was simply nothing more than a lingering need to be where they were, and he was simply their guest for a time.


         He held the torch above his head, staring down into that black hole of a barrel. Potatoes filled its entirety, fresh and plump as though they’d been harvested yesterday. They wouldn’t be much of a meal, but it was better than starving.
His cloak slid off his shoulders and to the floor when he unclasped the buckle that had long since lost its luster of polished brass. He plucked them from the dark void one at a time, letting them fall into the dirty linen, taking care to only take the healthiest ones. He couldn’t take them all, for that would be too much weight to carry, but he was more than happy to take enough for everyone.


         Elaine would certainly feel better after she’d had something to eat, though when he woke her, she had clearly lost that dreadful sickness that burned in her blood. That mark however, was still as black as ever. The norns warned of a coming affliction, not like the plague of Ecclesia, but a sickness of the soul. It was a mark of one who walked the boundaries of life and death, each of them would be chosen. Why did it have to be her?


         Perhaps that path that spanned beyond the worlds of life and death had shown her that decrepit gate to the old world. After all, those that walked those roads had often claimed they saw visions, sometimes glorious, others, terrifying and full of sorrow. It made little sense however, for he’d never seen anything of the like. He removed his gloves, and the air chilled the back of his sword hand with wintery fingertips. That small black splotch burned on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. That strange scar, was the only reason that Razelle had taken him to see the norns in the first place.


         Still, had he not been chosen by the affliction, he would never have known of the dark world of Annwyn ripping through the fabrics that kept the worlds separate from one another. He’d learned much in that visit.


         Long ago, some wicked king from some wicked kingdom had taken advantage of the old war between heaven and hell. He’d stolen knowledge that was never meant to be his, and in so doing, had incurred the wrath of Angels and Daemons alike. He’d stolen the essence that kept life and death bound to one another. He had fled to Annwyn, a world of his creation, with that forsaken knowledge, taking that essence with him. The souls of the dead no longer traveled to heaven and hell, but to a different afterlife.


         “One of the living for one of the dead,” he muttered as he forced his hand back through the glove.


         So long as folks continued to die, that king and his kingdom would not. He had become a god.


         One of the living for one of the dead.


         A hungering cold embraced him with icy fingers as the whispers broke the silence. Was it that shadows? The room was as empty as it had been when he first entered, save for those things in the corners of his vision. That cold caress wormed its way down his spine, as spiders that weren’t there crawled down his skin. In the edge of his vision, those shadows came closer.


         “Who are you?”


         Silence was the only answer they offered. The moved about in his peripherals, scarcely aware of his presence. None of them lunged at him, or offered any threat at all, but they were closer now, and he could almost make out faces and clothing. These were certainly more than shadow people he’d seen when he was a boy. Scents of old death wafted into his nose. Not the kind of death like that of a fresh corpse, but that of a tomb, where the dead had been dead for years. It was a dusty, oppressive smell, like that of mold and neglect, and it was clear to him, these shadows were remnants. They were memories of those long since passed; echoes of the folk of the old world.


         Elaine had seen them. She’d learned of that place somewhere on that dark road that stretched along the border of life and death. If she could see the long lost dead, was she close to that herself?


         It was cold… so cold. Shards of ice stabbed his hand; that place where that black skin burned its icy chill, sending shivers down his spine.


         Run.


         The whispers came again, icy but not threatening.


         Run, you fool!


         A frigid, howling breeze curled about him like the lapping of a turbulent stream. Hauling the precious little food he had found to his shoulder, he fought away a cold and malevolent prodding that enveloped him. Gripping the flickering, dying torch, he coursed through a winding labyrinth of halls. Behind him, a breeze gave chase, stretching out cold fingers that grasped for him, but he was just out of reach.
Just as it hunted Elaine, death now came for him.

**********

         Elaine curled her hand tight around the hilt of her sword. Her fingers ached from the grip, but she just couldn’t let it go. Always in the back of her mind, something implored her to keep it close by, though she couldn’t place if it was a worrying or something else. It didn’t matter much to her, for she was thankful she had the strength to carry the thing at all. Sometime between the moment the world went black to the moment Papal roused her from that strange dream, she’d regained her strength and lost the sickness that ripped away at her like a predator at prey. That mark was still there, cold and filled with a seething malice, but she was walking again.


         They scoured the dark expanse of the armory, Rialev at her side, and the others clattering and banging about on a loft that held the anvils and forge. If they were to brave the paths to the old world, those other two needed more than just a club and a ladle, they needed steel.


         It seemed ill advised to waste time searching, but it gave her a chance to stretch her legs which had ached from her long slumber. A light shirt of chain links would have proven useful as well, if they could find the damned things. Though Rialev had always said that armor only slowed the wearer, these two norsemen were not warriors, and would need all the protection they could get.


         Snorri had told them the armory was always filled with weapons and armor. Most was old and would have offered little in the way of protection, but if it came to a choice between ladle and rusted sword, she chose the rusted sword. Still, there had to be something better in there.


         The Ymirjar, however, were not Blacksmiths or particularly skilled at most trades other than trade and cooking, so it was only fitting that the stores of the armory were old and dilapidated just like the building that surrounded them. The Ymirjar had told them that his old sword was discovered here in this very room.
It was a fierce weapon. It shimmered like faceted glass in moonlight across the length of the brilliant silver Orichalcum in which it was forged. It was more of that metal than she’d ever seen. The seals that she, Razelle, and Papal carried were of the same material, but they weren’t particularly large or thick. Though, it seemed fitting, as Razelle had told her that the metal was only mined in Heaven and Hell.
Use the devil’s own tools against him.


         It was something the Expurgators always said when justifying a means to an end. The blade was no different. It clove trough those hordes of draugr as though they were made of parchment. Snorri, though lacking a significant advantage in strength and size compared to the norsemen they had fought beside, wielded that blade as though he were Odyn himself. Wherever that sword had ended up, it was a shame that he no longer carried it. Though, Haggra, and Razelle both warned that it was not a weapon for mortals, whatever that meant, and as such he parted with it.


         The two others followed him about, still silent, but they had ventured a few words as they made their way here. That was a comforting sign but at the same time, saddening as they were beginning to accept this terrible dark place that had taken their home. Both of them were servants in Gjaalarbron. The bearded, wide eyed one called himself Nafian, and the whimpering woman was Miah. They were odd names for norsemen but she didn’t press the matter. It was surprising enough to hear them speak.


         Snorri held a blacksmith’s hammer over his head, in some strange victory pose, smiling ear to ear. It was certainly better than nothing. He held it out to the man, and his wide eyes scanned it up and down. He nodded and dropped that foolish piece of wood, wrapping his fingers around the tight bound leather handle. He wasn’t a large norsemen, but a swing from that hammer would be a crushing blow by anyone. Nafian tested its weight for a bit, swinging it about in slow, wide arcs with both hands in a sort of dance as Snorri and the woman continued their search.


         As the torchlight flickered, a glint of silver shimmered in the corners of her eyes, but as she focused on it, it faded much like that of a bright star in the night sky. Still, she had seen it, and it was far too inviting to not investigate. Rialev followed close behind, not offering any protest as he normally would. He’d changed since she woke. His general hardness and foreboding self, had all but evaporated away to an almost tolerable half-heartedness.


         The steel curtain of chain shimmered in the torchlight, piled on itself in the corner behind empty, dry rotted shelves. It was a strange place to abandon such fine mail, but she didn’t care, at least it was there in the first place. The trip here had begun to become a disappointing one to say the least, as Snorri made claims that weapons filled this room only to find an abandoned hammer. Perhaps now, he was redeemed.


         Elaine stretched her arm as she crouched low, reaching beneath the lowest shelf into that cobwebbed corner. Cold steel chilled her hand as she gripped a handful of chain. It clicked together as she slid it out from its spot on the dark stone floor, and held it up to the light.


         Her arm ached from the strain she’d just put it through, throbbing light, rhythmic beats of a dull pain up to her shoulder. Still, at least she’d found something. The torchlight flickered from a curious breeze that blew through the room, barely noticeable, but enough that it caressed bare skin. Little pinpricks of cold needles poked and prodded at her flesh as she inspected the shimmering chain shirt, trying hard to ignore the shivers that darted down her body.


         Shadows danced about in the far corners of the room where the light strained itself to illuminate, stretched thin and dim as it faded into that hungering darkness. Every so often, a shadow would dart across the far stretches of her vision, quick and silent like a stalking beast in the night. The gentle wind that blew through the room carried feint, hissing howls, like that of a whisper, but the words were just beyond her understanding.


         “My lady,” Rialev said. “You’re freezing.”


         Gooseflesh stretched across the expanse of her pale skin. She hadn’t noticed before, but that explained the pinpricks.


         “The breeze,” she stuttered, “It is frigid.”


         Rialev’s brow creased that odd inquisitive look he offered her so many times when he disagreed with what she said.


         “There is no breeze, my lady. Are you alright?” He stepped closer, examining her eyes, as shadows continued darting about the room in the far corners of her vision.


         No, my lady… you are not alone.


         It was a voice as malevolent and sharp as a hungering winter’s air. It hissed at her like a thousand insects skittering along the walls.


         She circled about, her eyes darting to one corner, then the other as she tried to focus on those damnable shadows that raced across her sight, then she found it. A swell of darkness loomed in the corner, taking the form of a tall man, sheathed entirely in black. As wisps of dark shadows curled and twisted together, a gray flesh materialized in the dark, intangible mass of shade. First his face, a dull, deathly gray as though he’d plunged his face in charcoal ash. Then his eyes. They were voids of black, as though he drew a hood over his brow, shadowing what would have been eyeballs, but there was no hood, and there were no eyeballs.


         Rialev didn’t see it. He stood there, still as a stone cairn, hunched slightly as he’d been when he inspected her. The firelight didn’t dance anymore, but rather shifted about like smoke, or grain in a gentle wind. Snorri and the others were statues as well. Nafian stood there, with his arm outstretched with hammer in midswing, eyes as wide as the mouth of a cave.


         Despite what that whisper had said… she was alone.


         Her sword rang its high pitched, gritty screech as she slid it from its scabbard, but the sound didn’t carry the way it should. It was dull and empty like a voice muffled by a feather pillow.


         Black, cracked lips smiled at her with a smug, condescending fierceness, as those dark voids peered into her soul. Shadows whirled behind him, blowing about like a banner, forming a sort of cloak that dangled from his black shoulders.


         As she lowered the tip of the blade parallel to the floor in that predatory stance that Rialev once taught her, the thing backed away. Still smiling, as thin lines of shadow blew away from its gray face like hair in the wind. It lowered its head, shading an already shadowy face, but those teeth; she could still see the teeth. It screeched at her through an array of sharp daggers that stretched from ear to ear opening its gaunt, stretched jaws and revealing a pointed tongue as long as an arm. Elaine jolted back an inch, silently cursing herself for showing fear, and the thing hovered toward her. Its dark hand stretched outward from long, dangling sleeves as wisps of dark smoke rose from its skin like puffs of breath in a cold air.


         She spun around, bringing her sword in an upward angry arc, sure to sever its hand from its arm, but it whisked through it as though she were trying to slice smoke. A low, rumbling laugh concussed in her ears like cannon fire as its dark fingers curled around her arm, squeezing at her blackened skin like a constrictor. Its hand was frigid as the northern seas, stabbing her with chilly blades, and spiriting away what breath she had.


         “The dead will not have me,” she cried, as she wrenched her arm free.


         “No one said we were dead,” it replied. Its voice echoed about like harsh whispers in a cave. “We are very much alive, my lady.


         Metal clanged against stone with a hollow, forgetful ring as the sword fell from her hand. A throbbing numbness surged through her arm, tingling and coarse.


         “What do you want with me?”


         It backed away, looking down at her arm, then back in her eyes. “I want nothing with you. My master, however, is quite interested in you. You can continue to run for a time, but darkness will eventually find you. You are tainted by shadow, and that stain will never wash out.”


         The numbness was gone, and burning flames raged through her body like a hellstorm as she clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. “You may keep tormenting me, but I’ve already killed one of you. I won’t be forced into submission by an apparition like you, or your other servants.”


         It smiled at her. “You did not harm the children, my lady. You merely angered them, and they are far more dangerous than I,” it hissed as it turned from her, retreating back to its dark corner. “Protect yourself, my lady. We would like you as alive as you can be when you truly arrive.”


         “Protect myself from what?” She hunched, snatching her sword, her eyes never shifting from the shadows.


         It laughed an echoing, malevolent cackle as it turned to face her.


         “Go now… find your Priest. I can’t control the children, and it seems they are famished. I’d hate for him to perish so far from his home.”


         Its voice trailed away from hissing, to a dull wind, to silence. The torch sputtered and blinked a dim light as the shadows melted away back to dark corners.
Rialev’s eyes were wide as the sun as he turned to face her, confused and almost frightened.


         “My lady –“


         She snatched the torch from him as she stared into the dark halls of Alfheim. “Come,” she growled. “I’ve grown weary of the darkness, and it has found Papal.”


         She darted through the dark, arched door, spinning to her right as she dashed down a spiraling stone stair. Shadows melded away in the dim torchlight that pulsated and flickered a dull orange light. She had quite enough of these hellish visions. If she were to be taken by the darkness, it would be dead. Never would she allow it the luxury of submission. No. She would fight it to her last breath, possessed or not.


         She was fire in the dark, and she would burn herself out before offering herself to shadow.