Blood Immortal
Chapter Three

Legend of the Shade

Darkness became a living soul to Aarian who warily stepped down into the catacombs with his entourage. Very few torches lit the primeval crypt. Cobwebs clung to every nook and cranny. Much of the mortar between the cracked bricks was weathered with age. Dust and grains of dirt fell from above as explosions continued shaking the city, which was when the knights realized that the tremors weren’t due to earthquakes but rather the meteors. They didn’t know if this was a good or bad thing—perhaps good since there wouldn’t be seismic activity following them into these tunnels.

Aarian couldn’t help but shiver while he ran through the passage, clutching his sword tight. He felt hopeless, terrified of what may possibly lay ahead of him. His sword would be useless if he were to confront a magical being who reigned over this kingdom of death for centuries. And worst of all, Frostwarm was nowhere to be found here in the nearly pitch-black catacombs.

What was worse, he wondered, allowing himself to burn and instantly die like everyone else above by the hands of the demon, or to succumb to a slow agonizing death in the heart of darkness by the legendary Shade? What had happened to Scar? Where did he fly off to when they were separated? Was his beloved Belisa still alive? What of his parents? And why was all this happening? There were so many thoughts going through his mind as he followed Dargain and the others, desperately hoping to replace either Frostwarm or a way out.

Upon reaching a fork, they stopped and tensely looked at one another. Each passageway seemed identical. Yet the group had no idea which one would be safe, if any.

“Let’s turn back,” said Aarian.

“Calm yourself, Prince Aarian,” responded Dargain. “Believe me, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do. Jorian’s in here somewhere, so I need you to focus and help us search for him in this crypt despite our situation.” He could hardly see in the darkness but managed to make out the prince’s frail nod. “Excellent, now grab a torch and give me some steady light.”

Aarian grabbed a weakly lit torch on a slanted, battered sconce and followed his mentor who’d chosen the path on the left. Glancing at the other torches, Aarian assumed that Frostwarm had used magic to give them life. While he walked alongside Dargain, he heard the clinks of his companions’ armor, including his own. The noise gave off an echo—it was unsettling to Aarian who could barely keep his sword up.

In contrast, Master Dargain and his fellow knights had their weapons lifted high and were ready for anything. Dargain wielded two swords—one in each hand—while Zarlando, Orodreth, and Ceirdan carried two-handed claymores. They weren’t fearless; walking in the shadows of an eerie crypt was certainly not their idea of fun, yet they were knights under the oath of the Nine; and by Yunedar, they would defend their beloved prince and kingdom no matter the danger ahead.

The path they treaded upon eventually opened up to a wide, icy-cold chamber. Weather-beaten sarcophagi nestled into the granite walls decorated the primordial hall of age-old kings. Their graceful faces, as with their names, were carved on the slabs. Gem-embedded pillars stood a few feet apart from one another in rows, strengthening the cracked ceiling. And around the middle of the ground lay a chiseled icon of Gar’kon, the only dark elf who’d become a Spirit. The ideogram depicted the sun with a line across its center, dividing it into two—one side darker than the other. The first half symbolized the light of life while the other symbolized the darkness of death.

“Gar’kon,” whispered Zarlando, staring at the ideogram. “The one and only Mor’vyi’dou who saw more than just killing.”

“A master of both light and darkness,” said Dargain.

“It’s unfortunate that no other dark elf has attempted to put aside their hatred and achieve what he has gained,” said Zarlando.

“You mean had gained?” said Aarian.

“Has, Your Highness,” repeated Zarlando. “Gar’kon is, after all, still alive; he evermore guards the nether’s gateway. And if I am fortunate enough to become the greatest bodyguard in Yunedar, perhaps one day I’ll be blessed by the Nine and join them.”

“You would like to be a gatekeeper, Zarlando?” asked Orodreth.

Prince Aarian suddenly cried out, “Why in the name of Thay’tal are you talking about death? We are going to survive, right?”

Before anyone could reply, the slabs of the sarcophagi swerved open. As soon as Aarian heard the scraping sound of them unsealing, he withdrew and tripped on a fallen piece of an alabaster relief that was once a part of a sarcophagus. Upon tripping, he almost burned his face with the torch he held.

When the knights in the tomb started hearing inhumyn grunts and grumbles from within the sarcophagi, they stayed close together. Just then, the dusty slabs fell onto the floor—some cracking and splitting—and ghoulish skeletal hands arose. The beings who stood up, groaning before the knights, were no longer Vlydyn’s legendary kings; they were now the walking dead. The skeleton kings leaped out of their granite receptacles with the dragon bone swords they’d been buried with and charged toward the knights in frenzy.

“For the glory of the Nine!” shouted Dargain, also charging.

He struck down the first skeletal king with ease using his two steel swords; however, four more approached him, forcing him to defend himself. He had no time to riposte as he parried and dodged their attacks. Orodreth and Ceirdan, on the other hand, fought side by side and weren’t overwhelmed. Their claymores fractured the kings’ bones. Yet the undead continued to rise and encroach upon them.

Zarlando stayed beside Prince Aarian—who was horrified at the sight before him—and protected him. As a bodyguard, defending the prince was his top priority. When he defeated the skeletons around him, he joined Dargain and helped him. Dargain had taken down a couple of undead between his parries, but more undead surrounded him, making it impossible for him to counterattack, at least until Zarlando came. With a single strike of his claymore, he shattered a skeleton. He then rolled to the side, evading an attack, and swung his sword forward, splitting another in half.

After a few undead had been decimated, Dargain was able to counterstrike against three skeletons. He parried and riposted with his swords, shattering the ribcages of two kings; then he pirouetted away from the third one, allowing Zarlando to strike him down from behind. Dargain nodded at Zarlando with respect and then turned his attention back to the two skeletons whom he had crippled a moment ago. Within seconds they were struck down into pieces.

Prince Aarian watched as more skeletons flooded into the chamber opposite him. It was clear to him at this point that the legend wasn’t only true, but it was even more frightening than what Magi Frostwarm had described. He managed to stand on his feet and ran for his life, back into the passage where he’d come from. His heart raced as he sprinted through the tunnel. When he reached the fork, however, he heard more grunts and came to a dead stop. Ahead of him were skeletal queens, drearily shambling toward him.

Utterly frightened, Aarian dropped his weapon and lost his ability to scream. His torch’s light blew out as a cold fog swept over him. He could no longer see them. The groans and grunts drew closer to him. He senselessly withdrew, leaning against the granite wall behind him. Then he slithered down with a look of horror. There was no room for hope within his frail mind after seeing his once honorable ancestors transformed into dreadful monsters.

“Please don’t kill me,” pleaded Aarian, stammering.

They shuffled closer toward him, their pockmarked bones twitching. Many of them were toothless, but those who weren’t gnashed their rotten teeth at Aarian. Wielding rusty dirks, they raised them high—their dull yet still sharp edges protruding closer to the prince’s neck with each jittery step they took. Not a second later, a radiant light grew from the central passage, engulfing the now cringing skeletons.

“Ai’o’nes bel-le’nari!” exclaimed Frostwarm, his voice like thunder.

Even though the raggedy queens of death didn’t have eyeballs, the magical light became stronger due to the wizard’s words, causing the undead queens to retreat a few steps as if it had blinded them. The white magic gave Aarian the strength to stand, yet he didn’t have the will to move. That’s when Frostwarm appeared from behind, seized the prince’s arm with his hand, and yanked him back.

“Magi Frostwarm,” said Aarian, never happier to see him.

“Stay behind me,” said Frostwarm sternly.

Aarian complied, wincing in the shadows while he watched Frostwarm raise his ivory scepter, unleashing a nimbus of light at a skeleton whose bones turned into ashes. Afterwards, the wizard unsheathed a gold rod and dug its sharp base into the shoulder blade of another queen who screeched as she lit up, crumbling to the floor.

The other undead creatures grunted viciously as they approached Frostwarm. When they did so, Dargain and his knights reached them from the left tunnel that they’d retracted from and surprise attacked them. Frostwarm fought with his scepter and rod; the shimmering runes etched into his enchanted weapons unleashed sparks of magical light that fractured the skeletons’ bones upon touching them. Only one undead minion managed to thrust its dirk, piercing Orodreth’s dented breastplate.

Blood leaked down his sundered armor as he groaned, continuing to heave his claymore forward. He shattered the remaining skeletal queen who had wounded him; though, not without letting out an outcry of pain. He dropped his sword and tumbled down. Aarian, however, finally snapped out of his frightened trance and caught him.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” said Orodreth, his voice cracking.

Dargain glared at his brother. “Jorian, you were supposed to wait for us. Where have you been? And where are Eëràndir and Princess Parla’vasa?”

“We couldn’t risk waiting any longer, especially since Parla’vasa was unconscious,” said Frostwarm, beginning to walk through the middle passage. “My white magic is nothing to that of a cleric’s, so we searched the crypt and found an entrance to Xen’s temple. Eëràndir is there with Lord Taveric now. Follow me and I’ll guide you.”

Dargain and the others quickly pursued him. Frostwarm sheathed his rod and scepter and then summoned his oak staff, using it to rekindle burnt-out torches that hung along the rundown walls. Whispers of an unknown tongue filled their ears while they progressed deeper into the dimly lit crypt. Aarian walked slower than the others, helping Orodreth move forward. In the meantime, Zarlando stayed beside him to protect his flank, fearing that more skeletons would come out from hidden antechambers.

“Are we almost there?” asked Aarian, frantically looking around.

“The tunnels run deep,” replied Frostwarm. “But yes, Xen’s temple isn’t too far from here.”

They continued going through the tunnel and entered another chamber much larger than the one they’d previously gone into. The slabs of the sarcophagi, however, did not budge. Aarian and his companions stopped, cautiously observing the dim tomb to see if more of Vlydyn’s royal ancestors would rise from their graves. They then saw opposite them, past each sarcophagus, the crypt’s exit. The knights expected a perilous battle against a lineage of undead kings; yet there wasn’t a single enemy upon them.

“What’re we waiting for?” said Aarian, trying to hold Orodreth steadily. “Let’s hurry and leave this accursed crypt.”

For once the knights agreed without feeling like spineless cowards. With the exception of Aarian, who was struggling to keep Orodreth on his feet, they strode toward the secret passage leading to Xen’s temple. Ceirdan, in the lead, never looked more at peace to see the path become brighter. As he approached the radiant path, a rustle of wind stirred around him. He slowed down and felt a tingly feeling. He embraced the enigmatic gale that caressed him, stroked his hair, and then broke his neck.

Aarian shrieked when he heard the snap. His entourage, on the other hand, did not react the same as he. Dargain and Zarlando readied their swords while Frostwarm raised his oak staff, ready to cast a destructive spell. Orodreth desperately wanted to defend himself, yet all he could do was gasp and wheeze in pain as he helplessly watched his fellow comrade fall to the cold, misty ground.

“Stay back,” murmured Frostwarm, his voice echoing despite it being low.

The gale grew in strength, as did the mist beneath the knights, at which point they merged and became one. Then the royal company heard a shrilling, icy cackle from within what was now a cyclone of bones coming together. Darkness filtered through the hovering whirlwind, making it seem ethereal when it was in fact corporeal.

When this occurred, Aarian turned to his protectors. The expressions on their faces made him realize that they were, for the first time, as frightened as he. It was here where he started to think this crypt would be his grave. Staring at what eventually formed into a lich, he concluded that he’d never see the sun again. He’d never see Belisa, Scar, his parents, or even Parla’vasa; in fact, he wouldn’t even feel his warm cozy bed. And he’d certainly never feel the presence of the Nine or the breath of life again because death had found him tonight.

“You must be Súrion,” said Frostwarm, taking a step forward.

The lich gazed upon the wizard, giving him a devious grin. “I am impressed,” it said wistfully. “You must be a librarian.”

“I’m afraid you are incorrect,” said Frostwarm, conjuring a fireball with his staff.

Súrion hissed and waved his hands, instantly splitting the staff in two—splinters falling on the floor—and blasting Frostwarm against a column by means of telekinesis. The wizard let out a painful groan as he smashed through the ionic pillar. Stones toppled over his grimy body, causing him to stiffen like a corpse that had been mummified centuries ago.

“You were foolish to unseal this tomb, old man,” said the lich monstrously. “Though you may have thought yourself to be clever by using the light against my minions, such magic won’t work against the likes of me. Yes, I am Súrion—Spirit of the Ten.”

“Blasphemy!” yelped Orodreth, blood spurting from his lips.

Without even glimpsing at the wounded knight, Súrion raised his skeletal hands together, causing the freezing mist below to surge where Orodreth stood. Aarian was so terrified that he released Orodreth and hid behind a pillar. Perhaps it would have been wise for the others to do the same, Aarian conceded, because in the blink of an eye Orodreth became an unstable block of ice.

“Orodreth!” cried out Zarlando.

Before he could reach his companion, the slab of ice fell and shattered into pieces. Master Dargain and Zarlando were horrified by what had happened to their comrade, but they composed themselves and kept their weapons raised. Aarian stayed hidden—he was on the verge of fainting out of fear.

“I am an immortal Spirit,” said Súrion arrogantly. “There is nothing you can ever do to harm me. You’ve witnessed something that is beyond your comprehension, and now you must pay the price.”

Súrion cackled, beginning to cast a deadly spell. Just then, a blinding light pulsed from within the rubble of the collapsed pillar and turned into a magical barrier that enveloped Aarian, Dargain, and Zarlando with reflective auras. Icicles formed upon the icy hands of Súrion who then hurled them at the knights. As would be instinctive to most people, they cringed when the icicles launched toward them; the daggers of ice, however, shattered upon impact. Súrion saw the outcome and grimaced, conjuring a deadly sphere of frost. He then hurled it at the column’s rubble, only for it to be reflected back at the mystified lich.

“Fe’tar’dum kel-da ala’roma!” exclaimed Frostwarm, rising from the smashed stones while conjuring a fireball the size of a comet.

Súrion hissed again and began, “Vek’tara sor’d—”

The massive fireball reached Súrion before he could finish his fatal curse, scorching him into oblivion. In an instant his bones fractured, splintered, and disintegrated as the sphere of fire engulfed him. At that precise moment, the Vlydyonians were caught up by a blast of wind that sent them against the wall. Experiencing a spasm with a surge of tremendous pain in his spine, Frostwarm gave out a rasping cough. Yet he did not fall to the ground like the others. He stood firm, unsheathing his ivory scepter and gold rod. The tomb darkened evermore. Frostwarm heard yet another hideous cackle. He knew that the fearsome battle was far from over—he had yet to replace the source of the legendary Shade’s immortality.

As soon as Magi Frostwarm reached the center of the chamber, he began to hear the eerie grunts of skeletons. He turned, using his scepter to give him some light. Ahead of him—over by the tunnel he’d come from—stood several ancestral skeletons with swords. Aarian still lay on the floor, but Dargain and Zarlando swiftly got back to their feet and started battling against the risen dead.

Frostwarm, meanwhile, turned his attention back to the other side of the tomb. He heard a slight hiss and remained still. His face never looked more somber as he attempted to focus on his surroundings. Then, from the corner of his eye, the Shade appeared in a wispy form and hurled a shadowy orb of ice at him. Frostwarm tried to evade it since he wasn’t surprised by the Shade, but the sphere still struck him; fortunately for him, the reflective aura he’d cast was still effective and absorbed the spell. Though, since the charm had weakened, after absorbing what would have been his demise, the aura dissipated.

The wizard swiftly retaliated by conjuring multiple beams of light, emitting them in every possible direction, which momentarily lit up the chamber like fireworks. None of the spells he’d cast found their way to the Shade who then laughed.

“You can’t hide forever!” Frostwarm angrily announced to the air.

After making his remark, he noticed that the ashes of Súrion had begun to transform back into bones. A great rage took over Frostwarm as he crisscrossed his scepter and rod, invoking a radiant light. Doing so, he spotted a sarcophagus by a pilaster wall and launched a fireball at it. Not only did it collapse, but Súrion’s frozen phylactery—his still beating heart—thawed into a soulless liquid; then his ethereal form tore apart, and he and his undead minions vanished into oblivion so fast that they screamed in agony without even understanding why.

“There is only the Nine,” said Magi Frostwarm, reassembling his oak staff.

Aarian rejoiced while Dargain approached his older brother. Even though Frostwarm had defeated the lich, he looked pale.

“Are you all right?” asked Dargain.

“I’ll be fine,” replied Frostwarm, straightening his back. “But we mustn’t tarry here. The lich and his minions may have been defeated, but they were trifling compared to the true threat at hand.”

“This is all wrong,” said Zarlando miserably, looking at the icy remnants of Orodreth and the corpse of Ceirdan. “None of this is natural.”

“Natural or not, we must make haste and leave this place at once,” said Frostwarm.

Zarlando gave a frail nod and joined his companions. Once together, they made their way to the stairs and entered Xen’s temple. They found themselves in a prayer room with prostrating statues of Xen before she’d transcended beyond the mortal realm. Most of the statuettes depicted her reaching out to the sky with beads in her fists while others showed her prostrating. And in the main chamber, where Aarian and his entourage advanced, stood the largest sculpture of Xen. It touched the ceiling and showed her standing with her palms clasped together and an aura around her, symbolizing that the power of prayer heals oneself like magic.

“At last,” said Aarian, sighing.

He turned to the altar and noticed Eëràndir and Princess Parla’vasa who, upon seeing him, strode over as though her life depended on being beside him. Aarian noticed that she’d removed her veil and stared at her pink eyes in wonder. He then smiled at the elven princess, ready to be embraced by her when, instead, he was struck hard across his melancholy face. He fell to the floor in dismay.

“By all the evil in this world, what’s the meaning of this?” demanded Dargain, lifting his swords.

“You…you coward!” cried out Parla’vasa, ignoring Dargain. “How could you just leave me to die out there? Is that what you humyns do when something awful happens? You just turn your back on those whom you claim to love and protect?”

“Who said anything about love?” said Aarian, rising to his feet. “You’re not my wife yet, so don’t expect me to be a husband to you.”

Parla’vasa glared at him with tears in her eyes, slightly trembling, and stretched out her henna-dyed hand to strike Aarian again. Though, before she could do so, Zarlando caught her by the wrist.

“How dare you touch Princess Parla’vasa!” roared Eëràndir, swiftly arming his bow with an arrow and aiming it at Zarlando’s neck. The temple shook as another meteor collided on the ground outside. Eëràndir, however, didn’t lose his aim. “Release her at once or I shall be forced to end your pathetic existence.”

Zarlando obeyed but, to his defense, said, “I have sworn an oath to protect His Highness, even against his would-be wife.”

“As have I with Princess Parla’vasa,” said Eëràndir crossly.

The doors suddenly burst open, and in came a bulky axe-wielding dwarf accompanied by a tall hooded cleric with an amber robe over his silvery armor. He lifted back his hood while he approached, revealing a thick well-groomed beard, a grayish ponytail, and an ivory-glowing tattoo on his forehead of two palms meeting.

“Oh dear,” murmured Frostwarm to himself, realizing that the seven-foot-tall man who’d entered the temple, witnessing this petty argument, wasn’t an ordinary humyn; he was the arcane leader of the clergy—none other than Paladin Taveric.

“What is happening here?” he asked with a dire expression.

“Our apologies, Lord Taveric,” said Frostwarm, gently placing his hand over Eëràndir’s bow and lowering it. “There was a minor misunderstanding. Everything is all right now.”

“By the Nine,” began Taveric, “Xen’s temple is all that remains standing. I have searched everywhere for survivors with Olwe, but we are the only ones left alive. We can no longer afford to have disagreements. We must stand united now more than ever.”

“What about my parents?” moped Aarian, his face grim.

Taveric shook his head with a look of dread. “Pray that they have gained souls, for their bodies are lost,” he said.

“We’ve gotta git outta he’re,” said Olwe the dwarf.

“Bu-but—” began Aarian, tears welling up in his eyes.

Just then, a meteor came crashing into the paneled ceiling, causing half of the structure to collapse. The crumbling stonework pounded against the majestic statue of Xen, breaking it apart. With the exception of Aarian, the company scrambled away. The prince stared at the collapsing sculpture for a couple of seconds before moving his legs. A piece of Xen’s head cast a shadow over him. He noticed this and froze, gawking at it.

“Prince Aarian!” yelled Zarlando, pushing him away from the growing shadow with all his strength.

The statue’s halved head fell on Aarian’s protector, crushing him. Dargain saw what had happened from the corner of his eye, his face contorted by the sudden death of Zarlando. He then ran toward the prince, grabbing him. Aarian sobbed hysterically. Even though Dargain wanted to whack him just as Parla’vasa had done, he, in memory of Zarlando’s wish to always protect the prince no matter what, let go of his resentment and pushed him forward, motivating Aarian to run without help.

Finally leaving Xen’s temple, Aarian confirmed with his own eyes the destruction of his kingdom. Paladin Taveric hadn’t lied, he realized, and slowed down. His naivety had gotten the best of him as he gazed upon the deadly blazes and smolder that approached him. Somehow, he felt brave enough to move and joined the others who were running. The prince gazed up at the crimson heavens but didn’t see the demon.

“Where did it go?” he urgently whispered to himself.

He observed the sky one last time, hoping he’d spot Scar somewhere. There was no sign of him. The hazy environment became thick with smoke, causing Aarian to cough. He couldn’t help but lurch while wheezing and happened to see a dead knight with a sword and shield. Upon taking the equipment, he continued to run, passing through the city’s crumbled walls. Ahead of him and his protectors lay the once green forest of Grisfall—now desecrated with twisted trees and fog that had begun to shroud it.

“Flames of Zartos,” said Paladin Taveric grimly.

“Wha’t ar’ we goin’ ta do?” asked Olwe, looking at the paladin.

“You know what must be done,” he replied, raising his long-handled maul and leaning it over a thick-plated pauldron that made his shoulder look giant. “Beyond the forest of Grisfall lies the homeland of the exiled Mor’vyi’dou—they must be purged.”

“Tch, you and what army?” asked Eëràndir.

“Don’t mock me, Eëràndir,” replied Taveric. “You know beyond a shadow of a doubt that your fellow high elves are dead because of them.”

“Why would they do this to us?” asked Parla’vasa frantically.

“Hatred,” answered Dargain. “Their hatred never dissipates; in fact, I’m sure their rage only increased when talks of peace between our races reached their ears.”

“I have no doubt that this is the work of Saldovin Keldoran,” said Frostwarm.

“Indeed,” said Taveric.

“Is tha’t so?” said Olwe, scratching his rugged beard. “Th’en I say we fin’d the bugger ’n put an en’d ta ’im!”

With the exception of the prince, the others agreed to this. Aarian turned around, gazing at his fallen kingdom one last time before entering Grisfall’s threshold. In the blink of an eye, it seemed to him, his life had been turned upside down. He wondered to himself, did he deserve this? He’d betrayed his beloved Belisa and never made a firm stand for what he wanted in his life. Yes, this nightmare he’d been experiencing, he concluded, was condemnation allowed by the divine Nine. Because he lacked the will to defend those whom he held most dear, they were taken from him, and he had a terrible feeling that he would never be able to gain a soul no matter how many times he’d try to redeem himself.