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The Present
The steps curled and twisted into the darkness…the pitch-black…the unknown. He stopped dead in his tracks as a sound caught his slender, pointed ears, a keen sense of hearing in all of his people. It came from behind him.
Footsteps behind…slow, dragging, shuffling. Something was on the steps. He looked back, and saw a form round the corner, chain armor jingled as steel scraped against stone.
He was no longer alone. Guardians? Rubbish…the dead could not harm him. Yet the only things back that way were the tombs.
The form grew closer. Braenyn drew his sword.
At last they showed themselves. Inhabitants of the two tombs Braenyn left behind. As soon as he dared to tread into the final resting place of the King they were called into action.
Beneath rusted battle helmets burned flaming red eyes. The undead personal warriors of the King rushed to his aid once more…even in death. Their skeletal bodies sheathed in clattering armor that was centuries old, an aura glowing around them like shimmering flames---an unnatural light---these were no ordinary undead they were imbued. With battle axe and mace the pair advanced on the awestruck Braenyn.
His legs trembled, his arms seized, his stomach dropped but he kept his resolve. Braenyn screamed a war cry, held his sword aloft with both hands and charged.
All three clashed as sword met axe and mace in a shower of sparks like a dozen flints scratching with fervor. Braenyn soon discovered the unimaginable strength that the dead truly did possess. His blows were deflected sharply and he was thrust down the stairs in a rage.
Braenyn toppled down the stairs and into the final room of the crypt. He landed flat on his back and spit out a curse. The room spun before his eyes as pain bit into his back and legs.
After clearing his head he looked around at a non-descript room. The walls were stone on top of stone, fashioned in a tight pattern of mud and grass. There was no writing, no windows, no urns or vases. Right beside him sat the sarcophagus of King Namiss. A plain and unadorned final resting place if there ever was. A simple casket made of stone.
Steps caught his attention and he remembered his problem. He hopped to his feet and watched the undead warriors step off the stairs in silence. Only the sound of their steps resounded from the creatures.
Braenyn gathered his strength, and called upon his gifts, his magic but something wasn’t right. His power thrived and flourished on life, and nature. He was in a place of neither. He could not gather power here, there was only death here, nothing of nature could exist in such a forsaken landscape. The elf laughed and tried any way. He summoned anything, anything that might heed his powers in this chamber.
His eyes glowed dimly and he wove his hand at the warriors but they kept their pace. A breeze stirred in the room and dust whipped at the walking corpses but no damage resulted.
He tried again and harnessed a slight charge. A bolt of lighting surged at his foes but it bounced off their aura and lashed back at him. He hit the ground again and remembered the old taboo not to ever use magic against the dead. His heart pounded in his chest. His legs went numb. He thought that only applied to the sleeping dead not those that walked and threatened to cut his heart out.
Braenyn looked up to see them closing in. Memories began flooding his mind. He saw family, friends, his lover. All of his adventures winked by, all of his quests, his victories. He wondered if this last quest had been a mistake….had his love been right all along? He closed his eyes and prepared for the final strike when a howl filled the crypt.
He opened his eyes again to see a whirlwind soar into the room. In a fury Tarrow rolled down the stairs and took the legs out from under the undead.
The creatures fell to the ground as Tarrow got to his feet. He looked briefly at Braenyn, smiled and winked before shifting into a Trow. His body stretched and grew to almost seven feet tall. His pale blue skin became green and moss-ridden. His arms became big as tree trunks and clawed.
With a roar Tarrow picked up the two warriors and hurled them against the walls. Their bodies rattled and shattered. Bones ripped from sockets and crumbled to dust. Tarrow thundered over to the two shambling piles and mashed them with his big feet.
In moments the warriors were no more. Tarrow shifted back to himself and helped Braenyn to his feet.
“What…how, my love?” Braenyn stuttered, still trying to get the feeling back into his body.
“Skeleton warriors are no match for a Trow.”
“These were not mere skeletons…these were…”
“I know.” Tarrow kissed him on the lips. “They were magically imbued to go up against any magic wielder and any one of common strength. The more anger and magic you used against them the stronger they became. I attacked out of love and defense of you and I am able to be any race, something they could not account for. Thus, they are defeated.”
“I love you,” Braenyn cooed.
“I know.”
“But how did you come to be here?”
“Don’t be angry. I was concerned. I’d heard the rumors that no one ever returned from this quest. I could not let you go alone. I shadowed you all the way but I never interfered until now. I knew that you could not win this battle. I am sorry about Windstar.”
“Thank you, thank you for everything.”
“It is nothing. Now get what you came for.”
Braenyn looked down up the plain tomb and pushed at its lid but it would not move. Then he remembered the spell that came with the map. He unrolled it and began reciting the strange words of the spell, they came naturally to him as if he had known them all of his life. His eyes glowed as he moved his hand over the tomb. The cover eased open and fell to the ground. The entire room glowed as if with the light of the sun. It was true! The legend was true.
Inside, the fabled scepter rested upon a decomposed body—a shapeless form no longer recognizable—a body that was almost nothing more than a pile of dust. The elf could wait no longer. He reached into the tomb and took hold of the scepter. Its weight was heavy and it made his entire arm tingle.
Braenyn held it up as a smile curled across his lips.
A psychic wave filled the room and struck Braenyn and Tarrow like a flood. The pair flew off their feet and struck the wall behind them. The scepter rolled out of Braenyn’s hand and as the pain cleared he watched it float through the air and land in the hands of a new intruder.
On the stairs across the room stood a robed man. He lifted the hood from his face and laughed heartily. The sound of his laughter slowly turned maniacal.
Braenyn got to his feet as shock washed through him. “I know you,” he shouted and took hold of his sword. “You’re that drunk from the town of Dar.”
“Good memory half-breed,” the old man snarled.
“What are you speaking of?”
“I need to thank you for securing the scepter for me. I’ve been waiting decades for someone like you to come along. Only a half-human half-elf can cast the spell that frees the scepter. I knew that the map and spell would need to be in the hands of a capable half breed for all the pieces to come together. I waited forever in that bar for you to stumble in, Braenyn. My scrying sessions never lie.”
“I am no half-breed. I am full-blooded elf,” Braenyn spat, rage filling him.
“Really? I’d ask your mother about that. She told you your father died in the Elven wars, killed by a Black Heart. This is not so. He did not die in any war and he was by all accounts… a human.”
“I…I…” Braenyn’s words died in his throat. How could this stranger know what his mother had told him? How could he know anything of him…who was this…”
“I am Mareth and I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.” He shook the scepter at the stunned Braenyn and Tarrow. “King Namiss’s Scepter, he united the races with it, human and elf alike until one of them assassinated him. This was the source of all his charisma and good will. Now its power is mine.”
Tarrow’s ey
es went feral and his teeth gnashed. He leapt into the air at the wizard but Mareth simply lifted his free hand and Tarrow smashed headfirst into an invisible wall. He bounced off it and rolled across the floor.
“Back savage,” Mareth hissed. “Your kind must learn your place.”
Braenyn raised his sword but did not charge, his steps froze, his resolve weakened. He knew the words rang true. He stared up at Mareth and dropped is sword.
“That’s right…you know the truth, Braenyn. Deep down inside you know. Well, gentlemen I’m afraid I really must be going.” In an instant Mareth vanished from the room leaving Braenyn filled with shame.
Tarrow cleared his head and ran to his lover’s side. He put his arms around him. “Do not listen to his lies, my love.”
“No,” Braenyn peeled Tarrow’s arms away from him. “He speaks the truth. All my life I sensed something was different about me. Something in my blood.”
“It matters not, not to me.”
“It matters to me. My entire history is a lie. I must know it all.” Braenyn sheathed his sword and started up the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
“To find my mother. She needs to answer for this outrage.”
“Braenyn wait…we will go…”
“No, I go alone. Do not look upon me…. I am shamed.”
“Braenyn…”
The elf was already at the top of the stairs and rounding into the twisting halls of the dead. He searched for the way out of the catacombs until sunlight beamed down upon his face. He hated the light. There was no other time in his life did he want the darkness to swallow him than right now.
Braenyn carried himself through the lands…heavy woes upon his shoulders… a lifetime of lies… He demanded answers… he demanded truth. His biggest quest was still at hand.
Author Biography
John Grover is a fiction author residing in Massachusetts. He completed a creative writing course at Boston’s Fisher College and is a member of the New England Horror Writers Association.
Some of his more recent credits include stories in Best New Werewolf Tales Vol 1 by Books of the Dead Press, The Epitaphs Anthology by The New England Horror Writers, The Northern Haunts Anthology by Shroud Publishing, and The Zombology Series by Library of the Living Dead Press.
He is the author the new fantasy series Song of the Ancestors as well as various collections, chapbooks, anthologies in the horror genre. Please visit his website www.shadowtales.com or his facebook page ((https://www.facebook.com/johngroverdarkfictionauthor) for more information.
Bibliography
The Books of Braenyn
The Scepter of Namiss
The Fallen Church of Ashburn
Family Bonds-Coming Soon
Tarrow’s Tale-Coming Soon
Duel on Mt Vapor-Coming Soon
Friend or Foe in a Broken Land-Coming Soon
The Urn of Orgo-Coming Soon
A Dish Served Cold –Coming Soon
Possessing the Grimstone
Knightshade: Perdition Bleeds-Coming Soon
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