Twilight of the Elves

by Zack Loran Clark

  Brock gaped as the energies met. The barrier was a spell he knew well—Jayna’s signature Wizard’s Shield. But this time, it came from an unexpected source.

  Jett’s prosthetic leg shone with azure sigils. The dwarf looked down at it in awe as the ethereal bubble shattered into glittering rain all around them.

  “What was that?” Brock asked.

  “Jayna—she must have enchanted the mythril. Folded the spell right in.” Jett grinned. “She really is brilliant.”

  Selby had evidently put a lot into that blast. He appeared momentarily dazed, staggering backward as his fingers popped back into place. But he wouldn’t be down for long.

  Brock desperately searched his mind for a solution, some angle that Selby hadn’t planned for. Nothing. There was nothing!

  Brock shouldn’t have even been here. Frond had left him behind for a reason. He wasn’t a wizard or a healer. He didn’t have any mystical legendary blades. He wasn’t a hero.

  Brock was a sneak. He was a smuggler and a thief. And all he had left in his useless satchel was a useless pile of . . . a pile of . . .

  He gripped Liza by the shoulders. “Follow me. We have to be quick. Hey, Selby!” he bellowed.

  When the minister looked up, Brock dashed forward and threw his satchel as hard as he could. It slammed into Selby’s stomach.

  “Run him through!” Brock cried to Liza. “Through the bag!”

  Liza did, screaming as she plunged the sword into Selby’s stomach. Her momentum carried him back, forcing him against a wall.

  The sword flared with golden-green light, making Selby look otherworldly. He laughed as the new wounds they’d inflicted once more knit themselves back together. But soon his laughter stopped. “What?” he said. “What is this?”

  Toadstools erupted from the satchel, small and numerous, growing larger as they spread across his abdomen.

  Liza hesitated. “Brock, what—?”

  “Lanaya said it in Duskhaven: ‘Funguses are the great decomposers.’ So I . . . took some spores.”

  Selby shrieked, clawing at Liza’s hands now, trying desperately to break her grip on the sword.

  “Just don’t let up!” Brock cried.

  Liza dug her heels in and gritted her teeth, keeping Selby pinned even as he writhed and bucked. His manic movements only made it worse for him; as his wound grew, the Crepuscule filled it with new and hungry life, spurred on by the druidic magic of Liza’s shining sword.

  The toadstools grew large all around Selby’s torso, with smaller tendrils of fungus popping up all along his arms, up his neck. His tongue bubbled and blistered with growths. By the time his eyes and ears were overgrown, his middle section had rotted away entirely, and what was left of the elf slid in pulpy pieces to the floor.

  The fog began to thin almost immediately. Brock saw Threya’s corpse slump to the floor like a discarded doll beside the unconscious body of the queen she had been forced, in death, to betray. Fel panted with exhaustion, Micah groaned in pain, and Brock’s heart thrummed in his chest as he scanned the room for his best friend.

  Zed stood eerily still, holding one hand out as the wraith of his lost father frayed apart before him. It looked like he wanted to reach out, to risk touching the phantom, but in the instant before Zed could move, it was gone.

  “What—what just happened?” Liza said, shaking the rot from her sword, which had grown dim.

  Brock fell to his knees. The fear and horror and grief all left him in a rush, but no happiness seeped in to replace it. All he felt now was tired. Tired in his limbs, in his bones, and in his heart.

  “It doesn’t feel like it,” he said. “But we won.”

  In the days that followed Selby’s defeat, Zed watched as winter turned to spring. Not true spring, which was still weeks away, but a bright and strange likeness of it, courtesy of the druids.

  With the necromancer vanquished, the dracolich had burned away, exploding into purple fog that drifted apart in the wind. The rest of the dead who walked Llethanyl fell where they stood, turning the city itself into a sort of crypt.

  Queen Me’Shala and the apprentices had limped from the palace, exhausted and nearly broken, where they found a small army of druids waiting in the square. Frond, Hexam, Lotte, and the surviving rangers had all been herded into a small circle, with a dozen arrows now pointed their way. The adults looked . . . confused.

  As did Me’Shala. Zed had never seen the elven queen so visibly shocked, not even when all three of her own ministers had attacked her.

  And so, despite their fatigue, hours of explanation followed, carefully conducted through magicked tokens. All through their talks, Queen Me’Shala watched the druids with naked wonder. And when the story of Duskhaven’s survival had finally been told, the queen surprised everyone by bursting into tears.

  “La fael,” Me’Shala said—the elven words for “thank you.” “La fael, Duskhaven. La fael, Frond. La fael, apprentices il humans il dro’shea. Druids have returned to the elves!” The queen fell to one knee, her gratitude echoing through the square in three different tongues. She bent low, folding herself into the unmistakable pose for humility.

  It seemed elves did bow after all.

  After the corpses had been cleared, carried by the rangers into the crypts, the team rested in Llethanyl a few days more. Micah slowly tended to their injuries, careful not to show off too much while Liza was within view. For all their fine control of anima, the druids apparently lacked the ability to heal, a distinction that puzzled the adventurers.

  While they recovered, Queen Me’Shala took a needle to one of the city’s banners and sewed several small shapes into the design.

  Callum and the rangers combed the city. Eventually a hidden cache of ancient-looking manuals on necromancy were discovered in Selby’s old rooms, along with a knife carved from solid bone that flickered with ghastly purple gleams. Where Selby had found them remained a mystery. The druids destroyed the knife, and the books were confiscated by Frond, in case there was something useful to be gleaned from them. None of the elves protested.

  Zed explored the city during this time, taking in the spiraling towers as they glittered in the sunlight. One afternoon, Callum brought Zed to his childhood home, a strangely lovely house at the edge of the city that was shaped like an onion bulb. The High Ranger ushered his nephew inside, hovering anxiously at the doorway while Zed looked around.

  Zed ran his fingers over the unfamiliar furniture. The chairs and dressers were all constructed with looping veins of white wood, lodes that spiraled outward into twirling branches. Light poured in from enormous decorative windows in the ceiling.

  It was a home carved from a dream—gorgeous and spacious and absolutely weird. Zed tried to imagine living here—growing up here—but it all felt too strange.

  Strange, and wonderful.

  Then Callum showed him to what had been his father’s room. They sat inside, together, talking until the sun fell.

  The day before their journey back to Freestone, Zed parked himself against a tree and finished his note to Brock. He wrote it all down, every detail.

  He described his vision with Makiva, and their conversation in the otherworldly forest. He wrote of his strange dreams with the watching fox, and the burning chain around his throat.

  And Zed told the truth about his green fire. The magic that could mean his execution.

  He wasn’t sure if he actually had the courage to speak the words aloud to his best friend, but he knew he could hand Brock a note. Then, once Brock had read it, they would decide what to do next. Together.

  Once he’d finished, Zed folded the vellum into a neat square and tucked it away into the sorcerous codex. He stood, stretching, enjoying the unnatural warmth provided by the druids.

  He decided it would be a good opportunity to try one of the exercises from the codex. At first Zed had been wary of the book, considering it was a gift from Selby, but the elves had assured him its instructions were legitimate.

 
Zed braced his feet, taking deep, controlled breaths, just as the first exercise described. He closed his eyes, reaching inward, until he felt his mana—the deep, quiet pool. Normally he only skimmed the surface of the pool, taking small sips of magic to better conserve it. But this exercise was about exploration. About learning the depths of his reserves.

  With a second breath, Zed plunged himself in magic.

  His entire body began to tingle—a pleasant, exhilarating rush. Zed’s muscles surged with vitality, and he felt buoyed with confidence. The magic tugged at his hands, a strange yearning sensation. It wanted to be used. Wanted to burn.

  The instructions for the exercise had said to just test the mana then pull slowly back out again, but they hadn’t specifically mentioned not casting spells. He would just make a small flame.

  Zed raised his right hand into the air. The magic seemed to boil eagerly inside him. It was an itch that demanded scratching.

  A curl of green fire unfolded, small and gentle. It weaved between his fingers like a kite in the wind, sailing with lovely precision. Zed grinned, astonished by his own control over the fire. He’d never managed to—

  “It burns, Zed.”

  A sibilant voice hissed loudly in Zed’s ears, startling him. He shook his head, alarmed.

  “What was—?”

  “It burns. It burns. It burns. It burns.”

  It whispered again. Then again and again.

  Zed covered his ear with his left hand. He tried to quash his mana and put out the flame, but the magic was running freely now. He couldn’t get a grip on it. Zed felt the mana still tingling throughout his body, growing warm, then hot.

  The fire split away from his hand and now began circling around him, growing and changing. It transformed into a blazing chain. Several smaller fires burst into being, hanging in the air like lanterns. Zed remembered these. Makiva had called them will-o-wisps.

  “It burns, Zed. It burns. ItburnsZeditburnsITBURNSITBURNS-ZEDITBURNS!!”

  Zed opened his mouth to scream, but no noise came out. His head was ringing and the world was spinning. He couldn’t breathe. The chain . . . the chain around his throat . . . was burning.

  “ZED!”

  Then, suddenly, the fires all went out. Zed’s body went limp, his head and arms lolling forward.

  A long moment of quiet passed. A warm breeze stirred the grass around him. Zed rose, blinking into the sun. He glanced around, but the glade was empty. Silent.

  He quickly gathered up his scepter and his book, stuffing them both into his bag. Then he turned and marched through the grass, back to the group.

  The journey home was long and strenuous. Dangers attacked several times, emboldened by the melting snow, but a large contingent of druids had accompanied the party, and they helped defend against the monsters. There were no casualties, but one of the rangers was bitten by something called a gibbering gab, and she had to be muffled with a wad of cloth when its venom compelled her to recount her most embarrassing secrets.

  As the story of Brock’s ingenious solution spread among the elves—Smuggling spores from the Crepuscule to combat the undead! Using Liza and her sword to empower their growth!—Zed’s friend enjoyed a sort of begrudging admiration from both the rangers and druids.

  On the one hand, it was a deceitful act: absconding with a pouch full of Duskhaven’s most sacred substance. But ultimately it had worked when nothing else did, and the elves couldn’t deny the boy’s resourcefulness. Frond, at least, seemed to regard Brock with new esteem.

  Though Zed caught Lotte watching the boy suspiciously.

  Liza also enjoyed a certain celebrity among the dro’shea. For mastering their champion’s sword—a feat which hadn’t been accomplished in two centuries—the druids had taken to calling her the green knight. Zed had never seen her so pleased.

  “So what’s the title for a female knight?” Brock wondered aloud one evening during camp. “Should we call you Ser Liza now?”

  “There was one like a thousand years ago who went by Dame,” Micah piped up from the tree where he was reclining. “Rhymes with—”

  “You don’t want to finish that sentence,” Jett said, hefting his hammer from hand to hand. Jayna glared at Micah, seated beside the dwarf.

  “Micah, remember what we talked about?” Liza called instructively. “About killing with kindness?”

  Micah smiled sweetly at his sister. “Kindness is a pretty twisted name for a longsword.”

  “Speaking of,” Fel broke in brightly. She was learning to handle the siblings as well as any of them. “Liza should name her new weapon. All the truly legendary blades have names. There’s the famous ‘bird which dances joyfully in the storm.’ Oh, and who could forget ‘the last lonely child of the mountain hermit’?”

  Jayna shook her head. “My, the elven language is . . . descriptive.”

  “I already have a name for it,” Liza said, holding the sword up against the fire. It glowed prettily in the firelight, almost as if lit by a brightness all its own. “The Solution.”

  The apprentices sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Fel cleared her throat. “That still sounds a little twisted.”

  Fel, for her part, was treated as no less than the savior of the elves. She was a bridge to the future, the uniter of Llethanyl and Duskhaven, and the restorer of the ancient druids. Her actions in helping Liza to solve the riddle and her final plea for cooperation had been what eventually convinced the druids that Llethanyl might be worth saving.

  The queen was effusive in her praise for the girl, often asking Fel to accompany her so that they might speak of the days to come.

  On the third day of the journey, Callum joined Zed at the back of the line. He watched the boy for a long beat, but Zed’s eyes stayed forward, a casual smile playing across his face. They walked in silence for a time, neither of them speaking.

  Finally, the High Ranger broke the quiet. “Zed,” Callum started nervously. “I’ve been thinking about the future. And about you. Thinking perhaps I might—”

  Zed laughed. The harsh sound of it brought Callum up short.

  “Listen,” Zed said. “I can appreciate what you’re doing here. It’s sweet, really. You feel guilty for abandoning me, but the truth is that I’m fine. I didn’t need you then, and I don’t now. So if you’re entertaining ideas of sticking around and playing the father figure, let me save you the trouble. Your city is saved. Everything worked out. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Now Zed finally turned. He watched as the ranger’s expression tightened in grief.

  After a moment, Callum nodded. “Very well,” he said thickly.

  The ranger’s cloak faded from view as he pushed back up the line. Zed’s fingers rose, slowly stroking the chain around his neck. A flicker of movement caught his eye and he turned to find Mousebane regarding him from within the trees. The cat’s eyes were huge and yellow.

  Mousebane hissed at him, the fur along her back standing on end.

  Zed’s face split into a snarl. He hissed back.

  When the Stone Sons caught sight of their party marching up the Broken Roads, the knights’ eyes landed first on a banner waving wildly in the breeze.

  Horns blared, announcing the team’s arrival. By the time the gates had been opened and they finally stepped into the city, a crowd had congregated, whispering curiously.

  Queen Me’Shala entered first, with Fel by her side. The young ranger gripped an enormous banner, topped with the emblem of Llethanyl: the great tree wreathed by birds.

  But the emblem now featured a new design, an extension that had been added by the queen herself. At the tree’s base, a ring of toadstools encircled the roots. It was the ancient symbol of the dro’shea, to honor the elves of Duskhaven.

  The queen made straight for the city’s market, a vision of poise even after her long travels. Zed and the others followed behind, the druids bringing up the rear. Their white masks tilted as they wondered at this strange human city. No knights moved to stop them.
Instead, they kept the crowds at bay as their company passed.

  When Me’Shala reached the square, the elves erupted from their shanties, pressing around the queen and reaching their hands toward her. Me’Shala extended her left hand, brushing her fingertips with those of her people. Her right arm she kept laid across Fel’s shoulders, gently gripping the girl.

  The adventurers and druids trailed them, fielding curious looks from both humans and elves.

  The market’s fountain had been cleared and was now encircled by a phalanx of knights. When Me’Shala and the others arrived, they found King Freestone himself waiting for them beneath the statues of the Champions. His stony expression was markedly less adoring than those of the elves who filled the square.

  As Me’Shala finally reached him, the monarchs both inclined their heads.

  “Your Majesty,” the king said gruffly. “Though your people tried to hide it from my Stone Sons, it’s come to our attention that you’ve been missing for a number of days. You and the guildmistress of the Adventurers Guild.” The king’s hard gaze fell to Frond, who looked on silently.

  “Not missing, my dear King Freestone,” the queen said. “Merely away. We were quite aware of where we were. And I’m pleased to return bearing the most remarkable news. Llethanyl has been restored. The Lich is no more, and my people may return to our home.”

  The king’s mouth fell open.

  Whispers broke like waves among the elves as the queen’s pronouncement spread through the crowd. They seemed to hardly believe their own monarch. Zed watched as a young wood elf covered his mouth with his hands, tears welling in his eyes.

  “How . . . ?” the king asked.

  “It’s a grand story, involving many miraculous turns.” The queen shifted, waving her hand to the group of masked elves behind her. “Today marks the beginning of a new era for Llethanyl. It’s a moment of transformation, for nothing less will be required of us if we’re to avoid repeating the mistakes of our past. But first, my old friend, I would ask you to kindly get these knights away from my people.”