Chapter Thirty – Narion Nightsong

Tara’s spine was straight as an arrow. The Last Hero of Allerion, the dark elf had called her. For the first time, she was beginning to resent the phrase. It wasn’t just that it put a lot of pressure on her that hadn’t been present in the classic gameplay she remembered, since she wasn’t just a “hero of Allerion” anymore but somehow the last—whatever that meant.

It was the novelty that really bothered her. She remembered Narion Nightsong as a grim, aloof NPC with a few standard lines. There would be certain dialogue cues during his boss fight, depending on his health level. He was certainly dangerous, but he never overstepped the role of his character as, well, just a necromancer with a sympathetic but disturbed background.

Seeing the change in her quest objective was bad enough. This, Narion Nightsong walking to meet them with opening lines that were completely different from what he was supposed to say, practically cinched the fact that something in this game was not right.

Kell, she thought instantly. That’s what the Shieldmistress would say. Kell isn’t supposed to be alive, and his presence is ruining everything.

But it seemed incredible that the whole game could be broken because of one bug. Kell wasn’t even an important character. His abilities as a fighter were extremely limited, and he had done nothing as far as she knew either to benefit their side or actively work against it. Maybe Elita was right and he had somehow meant to betray them because of some underhanded alliance to the necromancer. Even if this was true, he had been as alarmed as any of them when the necromanced had first arrived.

“Hero of Allerion,” repeated Narion Nightsong. “Welcome to Wanderer’s Bane.”

The dark elf’s bow was slight, a mere inclination of the head. His eyes never left Tara’s face.

Tara moistened her lips. “What do you mean,” she said—“Hero of Allerion?”

The dark elf considered her. His deep voice was slow. “For some time it has been foretold that your day would come,” he said. “Most dismissed the prophecy as a dream, but that was before the emergence of the third moon, and the world’s descent into madness. Do you not feel the difference in life? No one, beast or man, is unaffected. Even here in my sanctuary, I have sensed a new kind of darkness.”

Tara flinched back when the necromancer stretched his gray fingers towards her face.

“Do not be afraid, Hero,” said the elf. “Why should you be afraid of me? Is it not said that you will ‘break the mountains’ teeth’, and you will ‘climb the dark hall to the stars’? Are you not the one who ‘laughs at the threat and sound of war’?”

Tara thought back to the prophecy Horon had shared with her. The words of the rhyme had seemed incredible then. Now that felt preposterous. She had never felt less like someone capable of incredible feats of strength and bravery, than she did standing in front of Narion Nightsong. The dark elf’s gaze seemed to measure and simultaneously mock her.

“Leave her alone, Narion,” said Kell suddenly. The fey was awkwardly angled, his weight unevenly distributed to ease the pain of his damaged foot. His voice was a slight, frightened rasp, but there was still the scrape of firmness in it. “She is no one. A misguided traveler who has lost her way, who saved my life.”

“Ah.” The dark elf’s attention turned to the fey at once. His amusement was cruel. “Are you saying, then, that she lost her way because she saved your life?”

Stolen novel; please report.

The fey was unable to hold that scornful glance. “I am saying she is no different from any of us,” he whispered, “and that you could show her mercy. She has been nothing but kind to me.”

Narion gripped Kell’s neck with his long gray fingers, forcing the fey to meet his gaze. “You are pathetic,” he snarled. “Even your concern for others is self-serving. It is no wonder that most of your kin are dead, and you are the remnant of a useless, feeble race.”

He turned to Tara. “The fey is useless, but perhaps he is not entirely wrong. Now that I see you face to face, I confess I am surprised. You do not look like any warrior of renown I could imagine. What do you call yourself, Hero?”

“Tara MacQueen,” said Tara.

“And a Borzerk, from the looks of you. Barbarian to the core. I would not think that someone so low could pose any threat to the order of the world.”

“I’m not a threat to anyone,” said Tara, her voice incredibly steady.

“Then explain to me the portents that have special meaning for you that no one else understands,” rejoined Narion. “I can see through the eyes of my servants. And as if I myself were in that room, I saw the words ‘Updated Objective: Escape Wanderer’s Bane’ in letters of silver fire. Such a marvel has never been witness in the seventy centuries of life on Allerion. Can you tell me what they mean?”

Tara’s mouth was bone dry. She tried to swallow and couldn’t.

“It is an illusion,” snapped Kell. “Nothing more. It was meant to distract—”

At a motion from the elf sorcerer’s hand, the fey’s mouth snapped shut. His eyes were wide, his hands on his throat as if trying to understand why no sound would come out.

“I tire of your interference,” said the sorcerer. He turned to the necromanced nearby. “Take him to the Pit of Half Lives. I can see that he will be of no further use to us.”

The Pit of Half Lives. That struck a chord in Tara’s memory. The pit was in one of the lower chambers of Wanderer’s Bane, a mostly lightless place where Narion Nightsong imprisoned captives in order to steal their life essence and keep the necromanced strong. As powerful as necromancy was, she remembered that Narion had begun to learn that its strength was only temporary. In order to preserve the necromanced, he had begun using his formidable magic to drain the living of their own energy, transferring it to his unliving servants.

As grim as the prospect was, Tara couldn’t suppress a warm feeling at its familiarity. And there was something else, too, that made her eager. But she knew better than to voice this eagerness to Narion aloud.

“I read your journal,” she said loudly, and saw the dark elf’s glance flicker. “It was pathetic. I felt sorry for you, you know, when you found those people dead. Death is a horrible thing to witness.”

“What do you know of death?” sneered Narion.

“More than you, I think,” replied Tara. “I know that in this world, in Allerion, death is part of life. That anyone should die is a tragedy, and I understand why you would grieve for innocent lives lost. But to react like this—to bind the souls of the dead to these disgusting bodies—don’t you think it’s a little nuts?”

Narion’s thin nostrils flared. “Nuts?” he repeated.

“They’re dead,” insisted Tara firmly. “Sure, they’re moving around. But look at them! They’re your servants, not your equals, bound to their bodies through none of their own choosing. They look like monsters, not like the life you used to want to honor. What is this, Narion? It isn’t pity or kindness that guides you anymore, is it? Because it’s not the dead but the living that you owe this kind of energy to. You failed from the start, the moment you decided to use necromancy to help others.”

The dark elf’s lips twisted with fury. Tara had touched a raw nerve.

“You know nothing about life or death,” the dark elf spat. “How dare you presume to instruct me? What are you? Last Hero of Allerion.” The light in his eyes was cold and insane. “Our conversation is over. I will speak to you again when you have had a chance to realize your own foolishness and deficiency.”

Tara didn’t budge when the necromanced approached and gripped her arms.

“Good,” she said. “I hope when we do talk again, you will have a chance to consider your own mistakes as well. You are making a mistake, Narion Nightsong—another mistake in a long, long line of failure—”

She was about to say more, but suddenly realized that even though her lips were moving, no sound was coming out. Elita and Horon were staring at her with frightened, amazed faces.

“Ah, silence at last,” said Narion, pleased. “I think I will enjoy it for a very long time. Goodbye, Hero of Allerion.”

Tara couldn’t protest or reply. She was completely incapable of sound, just like Kell. But as she and her companions were led out of the necromancer’s throne room, she found herself actually smiling. As crazy as this was and as incredible as it seemed, this was a step in the right direction again.