Ascendancy: The Book of Heylel

Chapter XI

Chapter XI



Journal of Charles of Lysse

         There is another world that exists in parallel to our own, where our other selves live other lives. We have all been to this world at one time or another, maybe in a dream or in a nightmare, for when we sleep, our circadian variations reach a low, allowing our flow of Aether to be undisturbed by our actions. When it is free to go where it pleases, we open a new realm of discovery in our minds, traveling to this world in our dreams. As children, we flew with the eagles or slew dragons, or sometimes dreamt of monsters and hulking beasts, but as educated adults we go there to learn. It is a world, untouched by magicians and scientists alike, but there are innovative minds there as well, who forge great and terrible weapons.

         The world of dreams has seen war, same as we. Heaven and hell appear to span the distance of multiple cosmos, and their warriors make war on both fronts. One day, I pray that our war will be at an end. Too long have those wicked men in their wicked red sought to overthrow their makers. Too long have they desired to ascend to the heavens and cast down those gods; those generous, merciful gods.

         I find myself wondering if it is the same in this world of dreamers, in this world of curious beasts, and sprawling kingdoms. I wonder if those scarlet ones make war in their dreams. Wherein, their powers may be limitless.

         I grow restless, searching for a way to end this great conflict. We’ve overstepped our own limits, and sought to be gods. My good king and his lovely queen desire immortality, and should they learn that it is at my disposal, I can’t imagine what damage they may cause to these worlds.

         Lapis Philosophorum, I call it. It is a stone, granting one of a delicate and educated hand, the ability to concoct elyxers that end the decay of time. It has taken me my entire life to unlock the great mysteries that string together life and death, and in so doing, I’ve created a new devil. We Alchemysts have always sought to discover that which could sustain life. We’ve sought to transmute a metal of little value to gold. The cost was great, but I can now say that we’ve discovered this ability. Should my wretched king, and his terrible queen find this, the world will burn. The world of dreams… will burn.

         That other world answered my questions, and granted my wishes. It is out there, but the Astronomages and Mathemagicians are scarcely aware of its existence. All of their foolish calculations and hypotheses are locked in our world and in our own cosmos. They only look upwards to the starry heavens, when in reality, every answer they seek is down. As above, so below.

         For each discovery we make here, we unravel mysteries there in the distant cosmos of our other world. For each life we take here, we take one there. Everything is linked together by those delicate threads of Aether, and I have since forsaken that law. In discovering immortality, I have broken an eternal and sacred link between these two worlds. I can only hope the one I’ve gifted in that world of dreamers is of no ill intent.

         I’ve studied Aetherial flow my entire life, and I have concluded that there lies another gate, entombed beneath our great, wretched kingdom. The creators of our wonderous universe sought to keep this place hidden, but man is never satisfied. Science prevails every day against this universe’s strange countermeasures against us.
There is a gateway to the dream world, where forces fight for control… I have seen this gate, and I have traveled to that world, and I say this with as much care as I can, in hopes that one will take heed of my words:

         Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

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         Elaine clung to her sword like the last leaf of autumn clings to a tree. She darted through those dark twisted halls of Alfheim, not caring if those awful little children came upon her or not. Papal was very well, in dire need. As that terrible shadow had told her, the children were famished, and had apparently found him.

         What if she couldn’t make it in time? Even if she did, what then? It didn’t matter, he needed her help. The black splotch stung her arm as she rushed on through the howling breeze in the deep tunnels. Rialev was close behind, his own sword drawn, and his ragged breaths echoed between the hollow thuds of his footsteps as he ran.

         She was unsure if Snorri and the others had followed, but that didn’t matter much. Aside from the Ymirjar none of them were gifted in combat, and Snorri fell just short of a mediocre warrior, and mediocrity was not at all enough to combat these wretched creatures.

         Corridors and doorways melded together as she passed by. They all looked the same now, offering her no sense of direction or hope that she was even going the right way. Snorri had led them upwards to the armory, she now went down, but how far, she couldn’t say. It felt however, that she’d been running for some time.

         Dull embers burned in her calves and thighs, growing hotter with each footfall with that chilling breeze growing colder. It howled and screamed in her ears as though a thousand crows cawed at her in the darkness, carrying with it, feint laughter of children. Those terrible little children.

         As she turned into another dark hall, she crashed into him the way the sea crashes into a cliff face. Papal fell backward, his torch flipping end over end, as a sack fell to the floor with a hollow thud.

         Those things thought it hilarious. They cackled and cried with that terrible condescending laugh of theirs. Looking on in the darkness beyond the stretch of torchlight. As she regained her feet, Papal shot up, hauling the heavy sack onto his shoulders. The others had caught up, slowing their pace to a trot as they gasped for air.

         “We need to go, My lady. Now!” Papal grabbed her arm and tugged her through the dark.

         The children however, had found them as well. He stood their alone, facing a mossy stone corner with his head down. His shadow flickered and pulsed with the dancing torchlight, and the laughing stopped.

         “My mummy said I’m supposed to take you home with us,” it said with a soft, childish voice.

         The child turned to face them. White, milky eyes glowed beneath a dark, bleeding hole in its forehead. Black tears rolled down gray cheeks, as it mocked a whimper, sniffling and sobbing as its eyes lowered to the floor. He held a small stuffed bear in his hand, stained with dirt, and ripped open at a seam revealing a bulge of white, fluffy stuffing.

         “She’s mad at us,” he said. “I don’t like to make her mad.”

         Everything went black. The torch flickered and sputtered and then died with a puff as the breeze licked at her cheeks and arm with an icy, salivating tongue. The white eyes in the corner shut, leaving behind nothing but cold, hungering darkness. Darkness, and laughter.

         Papal’s hand clamped around her arm like a vice. Her heart pumped a hard, throb where he gripped as he drew closer to her. Spines prodded the back of her neck as warmth escaped her body like a bucket with a hole in the bottom. All the while, they continued to laugh, echoing through a dark hall into her ears and devouring her mind like rats, and then, it struck.

         Papal fell against her hard, knocking her to the stone floor, as the thing screeched high and sharp like shattered glass. She couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see anything. So dark. So cold.

         Icy fingers gripped at her ankle as cold waves of pain flowed into her leg. Elaine kicked and swung her sword about like a blind warrior, but it found nothing. The wet stone floor ripped at her skin as the thing drug her about, over small loose stones that ripped into her flesh like dull knives. Then, another hand on her other ankle. More pain.

         Why? Why did they want her? Panicked footsteps clunked behind her, as the others darted this way and that, swishing weapons in the air and finding nothing but shadow. The back of her head slammed against the sharp stone of stairs, first one, then another. So many stairs.

         Those things hissed their sharp ragged cries to one another as the pulled her deeper and deeper into the dark. Cold agony burned at her legs like frozen flames as their wretched little fingers hooked around her ankles tighter.

         Do not fear, my lady.

         It was a low and terrible voice. It rumbled in her ears as though she stood beside lightning strikes. It held a malice and hatred that burned like hot coals as it spoke; hellish and powerful. The world about her went bright like white flames, burning her vision as cold wet stone illuminated as though it were a million moons stacked one atop another. The children screamed and covered their eyes, their shadows, shrinking into corners as though they too were alive.

         Behind her, waves of hot, fiery white pulsated and flickered. Concussions from thunder without lightning boomed in her chest as it grew bright then soft to bright again. Her eyes ached as she shut them tight, trying to ward that painful brilliance away, but it didn’t work. Cold dwindled to a burning heat as though she stood in the bowels of hell; eternally burning.

         Do not fear the light.

         It burst and rumbled as each shallow breath she drew in grew hotter, filling the back of her throat with embers. She wrapped her arms around herself as fire licked at her skin, filling her with lava.

         Then it was gone, as well as the laughter.

         A torchlight sputtered and flickered, in the dark, heavy silence, but she lay just out of reach. It burned and twinkled like a distant star in the darkness as she opened her eyes. The others lay on the ground like her. Curled about prostrate like helpless children. Rialev stood in the center, his head low as his chest rose and fell sharp and abrupt. Plumes of steam rose from his arms as he clenched his fists, before collapsing to the floor as limp as a rope that had been untied.

         He pushed himself with his feet, against a wall, easing his back against burning hot stones, and hooking his arms around his knees as he buried his head between them.

         The Daemon inside him had awakened. It was bright and terrible. As hot and brilliant as the soul of the flames, and brighter than midday sun. She knew of only one Daemon with such divine sparks. Azaal had called him, Son of the Dawn, and his name was Heylel.

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