Salafar and Tristan agreed that it would be best if the group made for the castle now whilst it was still unmanned. The ramparts were still empty, the front gate wide open.
“I’m telling you,” said Nothelm. “That is a trap.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Tristan, skeptical.
“From the looks of it, there’s been a lot of change here--they built an entirely new wall,” chimed Salafar. “There’s a moat, too. That wasn’t there before.”
“And you think,” began Nothelm. “That they would leave the front gate wide open when they know we’re marching?”
“How would they know?” asked Salafar.
“Basidin’s Servant saw us…at the Cliffs of Valtor,” said Tristan.
“He would have to have made great haste to make it back to the castle before us,” said Salafar.
“They’ve got magic,” said Nothelm.
Salafar turned on Tristan and Nothelm, a vexed look across his shadowed face. “Do you want to try this or not? What is it that holds you back--conspiracy? Fear?” Salafar turned to face his legion of knights. “I fear no man--and that is all they are. Men--cowering within the walls of castle plagued by an ancient evil. An ancient evil that--might I remind all of you--was defeated in the Old Days, and can be defeated again!” Salafar grabbed Tristan’s hand, raising it high.
“This here,” said Salafar, pausing for emphasis, “is the son of a Blackthorn, the prophesied Ruler of Windem and Wielder of the Sword!”
The knights cheered, no longer mindful of their noise. There was no one here to hear them, it appeared.
“If anyone is holding onto their fear,” began Salafar again, reminding Tristan as to how Salafar came to be in charge of these former Knights of Windem, “I implore you to release it. Where there is shadow--there must be light. And make no mistake,” Salafar’s face bore menace now, an undeniable bravery was there in his eyes, “we are the light!”
The knights withdrew their swords, emerging from the treeline and hoisting their blades above their heads, a loud chorus of shouts urged on by adrenaline and fear together.
Tristan peered around, seeing the determination in the faces of the men. These were men who had lost everything--lost their station as a Knight of Windem. They had lost family members to the Rot, to famine, to thirst, to wickedness, and evil. The Shadow had come upon Windem in the form of Basidin and turned their own King on them. And now it was time to take back what was rightfully theirs.
“This is the day,” began Tristan. “Where man follows man into battle with whatever may lie on the other side of those walls. Where no quarrel amongst the men in my midst might separate them from each other, for we must band as one now--one army, united.” Tristan looked around, seeing the resonant faces of the knights. “We are going to take back Rarington. We’re taking back Windem. Let us go together with fearlessness and courage, fighting for one another as we once did all those years ago--as many of you did for my father.”
Tristan saw a couple faces with tears rolling down their cheeks--the same cheeks of men who had forsaken their helmets to follow Tristan’s example. The same men who had served under his father, Gareth, and were now willing to follow another Blackthorn. He wasn’t battle tested but he bore the works of the prophecy. The prophecy that many doubted in, and believed it was just word play from old sorcery and legend. Tristan grabbed his sword, Drakiler, and took the first step out into the open, turning to face his loyal men. Salafar gave him a nod, recognizing the moment to pass the baton had come.
“I’m right behind you, Blackthorn,” said Salafar.
“And I, too,” said Nothelm, grasping Tristan’s shoulder with his hand.
Tristan nodded, meeting their eyes--a look of mutual understanding dawning on the three men.
Their plan to scale the eastern wall and climb atop the ramparts was no longer their aim. That didn’t ever find hooks or grapnels, and with the castle appearing vacant Tristan now led them across the clearing to where the gate allowed them free passage over the moat. Tristan tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, exchanging a wary glance with Salafar. This wasn’t right. They had prepared for a siege, for scaling battlements under a hail of arrows and stone—but now, the castle welcomed them like an open grave.
Tristan peered down underfoot as they crossed over the moat. He heard hushed murmurings from behind him as the rest of the knights took note as well--there were dozens of dead bodies floating face down along the surface of the water. Most of them had arrows or axes lodged in their backs. They wore no armor, and were dressed in the modest clothes of low borns and peasants.
“Something’s not right,” said Tristan.
Salafar nodded, unsure as to whether they should halt or keep going.
“Best we get inside and find out who did that,” said Nothelm. “Right, Tristan?”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Tristan.
Then came the stench. The foul odor of some fleshly, decaying creature drifted through the air, accompanied by a low, powerful hum that vibrated the cobbled stone underneath them as they entered past the first gate and emerged into the lower bailey.
“You hear that?” asked Tristan.
Salafar and Nothelm nodded, exchanging troubled looks.
“There,” said Tristan, pointing. The courtyard beyond the original wall that had been built centuries ago was littered with more bodies. A black mist swirled gently in the middle of the courtyard like a small tornado.
“A massacre happened here,” said Tristan, furrowing his brow.
The Knights of Windem spread themselves around the perimeter of the courtyard, conscious to avoid the swirling black mist.
“Beware,” said Salafar, holding his sword in front of him with two hands. He was crouched slightly as he advanced. “I feel as though we are being watched. Stay ready.”
Corpses were strewn like discarded dolls, their limbs splayed unnaturally, their throats gaping wide as if something had torn the life from them in an instant. The men moved like specters through the ruined halls, past toppled torches and shattered weapons left untouched by looters. The hum grew stronger, vibrating through their bones. Tristan and Salafar led the way, their crimson cloaks dragging through the blood-slicked stones.
“Something vile was here,” said Salafar.
“And still is,” said Tristan. He looked to Nothelm, grabbing him by the arm. “Can you stay here with these men?”
“Where are you going?” asked Nothelm.
Tristan looked to Salafar, who gave a curt nod. “We’re going to follow that vibrant noise. We think it may lead us to whoever did…” Tristan trailed of, looking at the splayed corpses around him. “This.”
“Over here!” shouted a knight. He was knelt down beside a body in the Great Hall.
Tristan and Salafar rushed over to him, kneeling down. Their mouths opened wide in shock, realizing who it was that lay dead before them.
“It’s King Tarren,” said Salafar. “My King,” he muttered, his voice distant and his mind far off.
“Come on,” said Tristan, trying not to let the King’s face remind him of the gnawing fear which bit at him constantly. His mind whirled, remembering that fateful day when was four years old and his father hadn’t returned from Northrock. King Tarren had comforted him that day--back when he was an honorable and noble king. And now he was dead--slaughtered--by whatever dark force manned the castle now.
“I don’t like the air here,” said Salafar. “It just feels wrong.”
“Let’s keep moving,” said Tristan. “I don’t like it either, but we must find Elric or Basidin.”
“Well, which is it?” Salafar challenged, a sharpness in his gaze. “This reeks of Basidin’s foulness. But I know you seek vengeance, Tristan.”
“We look for whoever did this,” said Tristan, pointing to the corpses. “We may find Basidin, we may find Elric…we might find both. Come on--this way.”
Salafar and Tristan left Nothem with the host of knights in the courtyard, a few of them searching the Great Hall to see if there were any hidden enemies in the walls or behind hidden doors.
“This way,” said Tristan. The black mist could be seen faintly like a ghost, emanating up from the dungeon doorway. The hum grew slightly louder as they moved closer to the dungeon.
Tristan and Salafar moved swiftly down the dungeon steps, their footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dampness coating the ancient stone. The torches lining the descent flickered violently, their flames sputtering as though resisting an unseen force. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became, thick with the scent of mildew, rusted iron, and something else--something foul, something wrong.
They stepped forward, proceeding down the long hall of dungeon cells. The smell of rotting corpses meshed with the scent of that foul evil, which had drawn them here by its tendrils of black mist. Most of the inhabitants of the cells were dead, laying back against the back wall of their dreadful empty cells.
Tristan noted one cell with the skeletal remains of a man who was slouched against the side wall, his skull grinning back at him as he searched the cell for any signs of what may have been here last. A spider crawled over his ribcage, then ran up his spine and emerged from one of his empty eye sockets. A mocking crown sat atop his head, having been yanked from the head of the dead King Tarren and brought down here.
Tristan’s heart dropped, for fear that it was Prince Darin. No, thought Tristan, the skeleton is that of a man. Darin is still a boy.
“Tristan,” whispered Salafar loudly. It would have been quieter if he’d talked in a normal pitch. “Over here. They’re alive.”
Tristan paced down the hall past five cells on either side. He peered into the cell that Salafar was looking at. There were two young children in there and one dead body. The dead was a woman, judging by the clothes. The two children lay on their sides, moaning softly but too void of energy and food to speak or move.
“Prince Darin and Princess Aliyah,” said Tristan in disbelief. He began yanking on the cell door but it wouldn’t budge. It was locked.
“We’re going to get you guys out of here,” promised Tristan. “Just hold on.”
“You going to look for a key? The guards are long gone. This place has fallen into shadow, Tristan. Whatever it is that we’re hearing, I think it may be better left untouched. Let’s head back--”
“--I’m not going anywhere,” said Tristan, a touch of malice in his voice. “Elric’s here. I can feel it.”
“What? How can you--”
“--how can you not?” said Tristan. His was gnarled with contempt, his right hand gripping Drakiler until his knuckles turned white. “The King was slain. The people of this keep were murdered. That has Elric written all over it.”
“Or a much darker evil,” said Salafar.
“I don’t know,” said Tristan. “We know Basidin is here. Elric’s here too, and we haven’t seen his body splattered on the stone yet. We keep looking.”
Salafar bit his lip, cursing his breath. The oppression of the mist and its distant hum was like a weight of dread, bearing down on him and clouding his thoughts.
Tristan and Salafar came to the end of the hall, noticing that the last cell on the left was empty and the door was ajar. A single bale of hay was inside.
“That’s odd,” said Tristan.
“Help,” came a raspy voice. Tristan and Salafar jumped, bearing their swords and nearing slicing each other with the tip of their blades.
“Who’s there?” asked Tristan.
“Halson,” came the reply. “Steward of…” he trailed off, coughing violently. Blood spurted from his mouth and rolled down his stomach. “Something terrible has happened.”
“What?” asked Tristan, jerking on the cell door but having no luck. “What has happened? Who did this?”
“Elric,” said Halson, his voice trembling and weak. He was coughing again.
“Where did he go?” growled Tristan.
“Are you not afraid?” asked Halson.
Tristan shook his head, nearly drooling with savage anger. “My anger outweighs my fear,” said Tristan. “I will fear no man. Elric is a coward.”
“I would hardly call Elric a man,” said Halson. “He’s a monster, and he’s with that evil thing. I shall not speak his name here for fear of summoning him.” Halson crawled to the edge of his cell, using the bars to hoist himself up onto his knees. His eyes grew wide, the whites of his eyes showing.
“He’s right below us,” whispered Halson. He winced, grimacing with pain. He moved his hand, revealing a deep cut to his rib.
“Below us?” asked Salafar. “There isn’t much below us besides dirt and earth. This is low as it gets.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“No,” said Halson. “I’ve seen it. Elric…” Halson shut his eyes tight, wincing. “He goes down below, through there.” He was pointing at the bale of hale which sat alone in the cell across from him.
Tristan walked over to the cell, puzzledly moving the bale of hay. His eyes widened, brushing aside a black cloak that was covered in hay and dirt and concealing an old wooden trapdoor.
“I never knew that existed,” said Salafar.
Tristan exchanged a nervous glance, feeling the thrumming of Basidin’s power reverberating through the knob on the trapdoor.
“You coming?” asked Tristan. Sweat rolled down his cheeks, spread in small beads over his face.
Salafar hesitated, then swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m coming.”
Tristan had never seen Salafar plagued by fear before. But now it was plain to see on his face.
The tunnel swallowed them whole.
Tristan led the way, his grip firm on his sword, the torch in his other hand casting flickering light against the damp, suffocating walls. He had found the torch as soon as they’d come in--the last torch left that hadn’t guttered out. Salafar followed close behind, his blade drawn, his breath slow and measured. The air pressed in around them like a thick, invisible fog, clinging to their skin and seeping into their lungs with each shallow inhale.
The deeper they went, the louder the hum became.
It was no longer just a distant vibration, but a force. A living, pulsating thing that filled the tunnel, seeping into the stone, rattling in their skulls. Tristan felt it in his bones, in his teeth, in his very blood. With each step, it grew stronger, not just in sound but in weight, thickening the air until movement itself became a struggle. His jaw ached and his teeth protested. A splitting headache nearly brought Tristan to his knees, using Salafar to keep himself upright.
“You alright?” asked Salafar.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” said Tristan. “It’s just…this place…”
Salafar and Tristan walked through the tunnels for nearly half a mile, staggering at some points as they went.
“Do you feel that?” Salafar muttered, his voice barely audible over the thrumming noise. “It’s like… walking through water.”
Tristan nodded, jaw clenched. Every step forward was an effort, as though unseen hands gripped his limbs, dragging him back. The tunnel walls were slick with moisture, glistening in the failing light. Strange symbols had been carved into the stone--markings that seemed to writhe when the torchlight flickered across them. The ceiling pressed lower now, forcing them to duck as they continued forward.
The hum was deafening now, a crushing, reverberating sound that made Tristan’s vision blur at the edges. His head pounded. His breath came ragged. The force of it twisted in his chest, like something was pushing into him, trying to burrow deeper.
Salafar stopped abruptly. His eyes were wide, fixed on something ahead.
Tristan followed his gaze.
The tunnel opened up into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost to the shadows. At the far end, something pulsed. It was something massive, wrapped in unnatural darkness, shifting and undulating as though breathing. The hum emanated from it, waves of force rolling outward, pressing into them with suffocating intensity.
Tristan’s vision swam. His knees nearly buckled.
“BAASSSIIIIDDDDIIIIIINNNNNNN,” came a whispering voice that drifted along the wisps of black mist. The black, slimy creature ascended upward and into the unseen shadow of the chamber’s high ceiling and the humming stopped. The floor stopped pulsating and Tristan’s headache relented. It became eerily quiet.
Salafar and Tristan stood with their backs to each other in the center of the chamber’s clearing, their swords bared before them. Myroniad was still hung across Tristan’s back--Drakiler now in his hands.
A shadowy figure emerged from the corner of the room where Basidin’s form had been. His boots clicked softly on the hard-packed dirt floor, a mushy noise squelching every few steps as his boots brushed against the green and black slime that coated some areas. A mouse scurried across the clearing, pausing in the middle of the floor to lick its fingers viciously before squealing loudly and scampering off into the far corner of the room where it disappeared and blended into the shadows.
The shadowy figure wore a long coat, its edges frayed and slick with the same black slime that coated the ground. Beneath the hood that obscured most of his face, faint, glimmering eyes caught the dim torchlight--his eyes a mixture of malice and amusement.
Tristan tightened his grip on Drakiler, feeling the blade pulse faintly in his hands, as if it, too, could sense the unnatural presence before them.
The figure took another step forward, the wet squelch of his boots breaking the suffocating silence. The air still carried the echoes of that dreadful whisper, “Basidin,” as if the walls had absorbed the name and now murmured it back in unintelligible whispers.
Tristan shifted slightly, his muscles tensed, his knuckles white on his sword hilt. “Who are you?” His voice came low, measured.
The figure stopped.
For a long moment, he said nothing, merely standing there in the half-light, the black mist still curling around his feet like grasping fingers. Then, his lips parted in a slow, deliberate smile, his teeth unnaturally white against the shadowed contours of his face.
“I am the hand of Basidin,” he murmured, his voice silky, unnatural. “The whisper that lingers in the dark. You came looking for Elric…for Basidin…” The torchlight flickered violently. The shadows deepened, stretching unnaturally toward the figure as though the darkness itself obeyed him. “Well,” the man paused, removing his hood. “You found me.” Elric smiled, withdrawing his sword with a cold, dreadful rattle as it sent a reverberating pulse of power through the air. The very air particles of the tunnel seemed to bend for a moment, then return to normal. The walls shook and small rocks and pebbles crumbled to the ground.
“Elric. Drakonstone,” said Tristan. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
Salafar took a step back, frowning deeply. He was unnerved by the tension between these two, sensing that he was out of place, and entering into a battle of two powers that he best not tamper with. He bit back his fear, gulping as he shuffled his feet awkwardly and adjusting his grip on his sword.
Elric took a few slow steps around the perimeter of the clearing, letting his longsword drag along the floor. The blade kicked up sparks of white light and black ethereal mist, its tip kissing the floor and making a terrible sound.
Tristan stood his ground, turning his body as Elric walked and keeping his sword before him like Dalko had trained him all of those months ago. He held the sword in both hands, the hilt beside his cheek and the tip of the blade pointing toward Elric.
“You know,” began Elric, “this sword belonged to your father once--a gift from the sorceress who started all of…well, this,” Elric gestured around the room, a chuckle escaping his throat like someone chiseling a rusted blade. “It was his decision to go to Northrock, you do know that, don’t you?”
Tristan’s face twisted with contempt, using all of his control not to lunge at Elric with his sword. His very presence had triggered a rage within him that he had held at bay for a long time. Elric's insolent tone should be punished, thought Tristan.
“You could’ve saved him,” said Tristan. “You left him to die.”
“He fell through the ice,” exclaimed Elric. He stopped his pace, hanging his sword over his shoulder. “I could have yanked him out, of course Tristan. But he never would have made it,” Elric said in a patronizing tone. It reminded Tristan of someone who spoke of an old pet who had passed on and was missed dearly.
“In fact,” began Elric, resuming his pacing now, “your father is more to blame for Windem’s fall than anyone else.”
“You’re wrong,” said Tristan.
“And you’ve taken after your father in that regard, Tristan. You sided with the Denderrikans. You helped them kill the Kingsguard…and capture your dear friend, Bodry.”
“Don’t you--”
“I wonder how he’s doing,” said Elric casually. “I wonder if they had enough food to keep him fed. Having prisoners just isn’t feasible anymore, Tristan. Just more mouths to feed. I’m sure you saw how our prisoners are doing on your way down here, didn’t you?. Tragic, isn’t it?”
“Let’s get this over with,” said Tristan, gesturing for Salafar to join him as they advanced on Elric. Salafar stepped forward, pointing his sword toward Elric.
“Going back to this sword though,” said Elric as he moved into a defensive stance with Saphira’s Sword. “Your father freed Basidin from his bondage by killing the Orc-eel with this sword, did you know that?” Elric chuckled, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “And of course, being a loyal lieutenant to your father and all, I had to bring the sword home. It was really meant to be a kind gesture to your mother, whom--I’m not sure if you saw--has been keeping my bed warm at night now, so don’t worry about that. I’ve been taking good care of her.”
Salafar took a brave step forward, swinging his sword in a powerful upstroke to try and dislodge Elric’s sword from his grasp. Salafar’s blade shattered into a hundred pieces and a blinding white light blasted from the end of Elric’s sword, blinding Tristan and stunning Salafar so powerfully that he slumped to the ground, dead. Tristan took a step back, his breath becoming shallow.
Elric laughed wickedly at Salafar’s lifeless body, which lay pitifully still against the cold floor.
“I tried to find a safe place for this thing,” said Elric, gesturing to his sword, “so I put it down here and fastened the latch on the trapdoor. I even made sure no one entered that last cell and kept it hidden as best I could.” Elric shrugged, as though there was nothing in his power that could have prevented his current state. “But Basidin cannot be contained--at least not for long.” Elric smiled, then lunged at Tristan like a snake.
Tristan raised his sword, preparing for Drakiler to shatter into pieces just like Salafar’s blade. But it the sword held as Tristan parried Elric’s blow, and then another, and a third. Tristan sidestepped like a dancer, his blade signing a terrible song as it protested under the power of Elric’s sword. White light lit up the chamber like lightning as black mist rose up like fog, enshrouding Tristan and Elric as they dueled.
They paused, jockeying for a position and eyeing each other wearily. Elric was no longer smiling. A crude look had come over him upon seeing that Tristan’s sword had not disintegrated yet.
“You overestimate Basidin’s power,” said Tristan. “The same power that freed Basidin can also defeat him. That power resides within me, like an unbreakable shield that will not splinter nor tire.” The words spilled from Tristan like a cascading waterfall. His body was weightless, his brain clear and focused. He didn’t know where the words came from--didn’t even know if what he uttered was true. It had come to him like the shifting settings of a dream. His mind had done the work for him.
“That sword,” said Tristan, confidence brimming in him like an overflowing cup, “belongs to me.”
Elric shouted at the top of his lungs, hearing what he hated most. “The line of Blackthorn ends with me. Basidin promised!” Elric lunged, thrusting his sword in a series of slashing cuts. He kicked out at Tristan’s leg, trying to trip him. Tristan faltered a moment, but regained his feet. The white light of Elric’s sword seemed to swirl around him--empower him. Tristan smiled, feeling as though the prophecies about him had been right all along.
“You hold my sword,” said Tristan in a low voice. “Hand it to me, and flee.”
“Your confidence blinds you,” growled Elric. “You will stand over my dead body before I flee a boy who hasn’t seen a day of battle in his life.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Tristan. “You shouldn’t have angered my bloodline and left my father to die. My father and the Blackthorns before him cry out in anger, demanding that their wrath be satisfied.” Tristan looked at Elric’s sword, its white light illuminating his face. “That sword belonged to my father, which now belongs to me. Its power has no hold over me. You’ve seen it.”
“Even if you kill me, you’ll never defeat Basidin. He is an ancient power this land hasn’t seen since the Old Days. You’ll be just like me, wielding this terrible sword and fulfilling Basidin’s every wish until he is reunited with his bride.”
“His bride?” said Tristan.
“The sorceress, Saphira. She draws near to our gates with a host of Denderrikans--the very army you resided with…broke bread with. You’re a turncloak,” spat Elric. “A traitor.” Elric landed a heavy blow with his sword but Tristan deflected it, straining under the power. He was tired now, but Elric had hardly broken a sweat.
“I killed the king,” said Elric. “But he died long ago, Tristan. You don’t see the bigger picture, do you? Saphira and Basidin will soon reign--beginning with Windem. Their shadow will spread like wildfire, and I will be their sword and conqueror.”
Tristan advanced, trying to catch Elric by surprise. Their blades kissed, ringing loudly and filling the chamber with its warsong. Tristan thought he saw an opportunity. Elric had lost his footing, leaving his left side exposed. Tristan’s footwork enabled him to swing around to Elric’s exposed side, thrusting the tip of his sword through Elric’s side and puncturing him deeply. Red, warm blood flooded over Drakiler. Tristan froze, thinking he had maimed Elric enough to stop his next move. He was wrong.
Elric swung his sword like a bat. The flat of his blade struck the side of Tristan’s head, which sent him reeling. He staggered a couple of steps, then fell flat on his stomach. His head spun, all of his senses nullified. Elric stood over Tristan, preparing to bring his sword down in a killing stroke.
Blood gushed from Elric’s stomach like a waterfall as a blade protruded from his stomach. Whoever wielded the sword stood behind Elric, concealed from view. Elric’s face opened wide in shock, blood pooling at his mouth. His eyes glazed over, his body falling limply over the top of Tristan. Elric’s sword toppled to the ground, sending a shockwave through the tunnels as it landed. Dirt, soot, and rocks fell, leaving a thin dusting over top of Tristan and Elric, whose body was now lifeless. Tristan shimmied out from under Elric, scrambling to get away before he was next.
He gathered himself, backing away into the shadows with his hands drawn into fists, preparing to take on whatever evil had materialized in the shadows of this evil-ridden tunnel. His jaw lowered in shock when he saw who stood before him. Tristan lowered his fists, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes.
“Ma,” he said. “It’s you.”
Tristan ran to Mildred, hugging her tightly and allowing sudden bursts of sobs to shake his body.
“Oh, Tristan,” she said. “I can’t believe you came. You’ve grown up so much since the last time I saw you.”
Tristan could only laugh with joy at the sight of his mother. She was a stark contrast to the darkness which had consumed these tunnels.
Before they could speak any further, a loud boom echoed overhead and the tunnels shook with a tremendous noise.
“What was that?” said Tristan, fearing that Basidin may have escaped and entered the castle.
“Elric’s men,” said Mildred. “Elric laid a trip for your men. They must’ve just emerged from their place inside the walls.”
“Well who leads them?” asked Tristan, staring now at Elric’s body.
“A warlord named Akar. Come on,” said Mildred. “It’s best we don’t linger down here. I don’t know what Basidin will do next.”
“One more thing,” said Tristan, sheathing Drakiler reaching down to grab Elric’s sword. “This was father’s sword.”
“Elric, careful--”
Tristan’s grip on the hilt sent a bolt of electricity through him, causing him to drop the sword immediately and drop to the ground trembling.
“The sword is too powerful,” said Mildred. “Basidin had to give Elric permission to wield it. Leave it, Tristan.”
Tristan slowly came to his feet, rubbing his temple and grimacing. He thought of the prophecy and of Dalko, who had named Tristan the “Wielder of Saphira’s Sword”. He heaved a sigh, leaving the sword and following Mildred to the stairs. They went up through the trapdoor and ran down the long corridor of the dungeon. The sounds of swords clashing and men shouting could be heard through the door to the dungeon.
“Ready?” asked Tristan, standing on the top step with his hand on the door handle.
Mildred nodded, grasping the sword she had used to kill Elric.
Tristan emerged from the dungeon, sprinting down the hall and emerging into the Great Hall with his mother. Battle ensued all around them like one great cloud of chaos.
“Now where is Akar?” said Tristan.
--
The tunnel lay eerily silent, the air thick with the remnants of dust and death. The faint echoes of retreating footsteps faded into the depths above as Tristan and Mildred ascended back into the keep, leaving behind the lifeless body of Elric, sprawled in a dark pool of his own blood.
Beside him, Saphira’s Sword lay still, its once-blazing edge dulled, the faint glow pulsing like the last flickers of a dying ember. The silence stretched, the weight of it pressing against the walls like an unspoken omen. Then, something moved.
A sickening, wet slithering sound echoed through the chamber as a foul, oily black substance seeped down the stone walls, creeping like a living shadow. The liquid dripped, thick and putrid, pooling around Elric’s body. It pulsed with a slow, malevolent rhythm, tendrils stretching outward, feeling, searching. A brightly-colored dead snake fell from its form, and then a rat, as some of its form detached and splattered onto the ground.
A deep, guttural groan resonated through the chamber, the very walls shuddering as the dark essence slid toward the sword, curling around its hilt like grasping fingers. The moment it touched the blade, a violent shockwave pulsed outward, rattling the bones of the tunnel and sending loose pebbles skittering across the dirt.
Elric’s hand twitched. The black liquid coiled over his corpse, seeping into the wounds that had spilled his life, threading through his veins like veins of ink in water. His fingers curled, his muscles spasming as his broken body convulsed. His chest rose sharply, though there was no air left to fill his lungs. The sword quivered, then slowly lifted off the ground.
Elric’s head snapped upward. His once-lifeless eyes were now hollow pits of seething blackness, the foul liquid sloshing and writhing within them. His lips parted, a whisper not his own slithering into the damp air.
“Basidin… rises.”