Christopher Kellen - Elegy

His harsh words and tone obviously frightened the boy, who took a few steps backwards from him. D’Arden didn’t have time to care about the young soldier’s fragile feelings. “The only reason that you and I are still alive right now is that the sun still shines on these streets. If night had already fallen, you and I would have been devoured by that horde of walking corpses.”

“Can’t we fight them? Put them out of their misery?” Mikel asked, his voice trembling slightly.

“If I had another Arbiter here with me, I might chance it,” D’Arden said in a defeated tone. “Alone, there is no chance that I could destroy them all. I have not slept in two days, and I have already greatly overextended myself in the graveyard that your captain sent me to in order to gain access to the city’s manna fonts. It is not possible for me to destroy them all myself, and your steel would be of little use but to slow them down a few steps.”

He reached over his shoulder and slid the crystalline blade back home into its scabbard where it gave a satisfied click. He turned away from the house, trying to block out the sounds of the moaning dead that emanated now so loudly from within. “Calessa Heights is lost,” D’Arden repeated. “I do not believe the demon is residing here. There is no one who would worship him here, no one left alive to venerate him and give him more power. This is not the place that we will encounter the demon, nor is it a place to make a pointless stand. Once I destroy the demon and purify the fonts, the corpses will collapse and then the houses can be cleaned out.”

“Will anyone want to live here after something like this?” Mikel said.

“I certainly would not,” D’arden answered. “Come. We should report our findings to your Captain and have him impose an immediate full quarantine on this area. Now that we have disturbed the dead, if all entrances to this quarter are not closed off completely by nightfall, there will be many more dead in the morning.

“We should next check the font in the low quarter, where your family lives,” he continued more softly. “If the corruption is not as strong there, it is a possibility that I may be able to purify that font and give myself a base of power to work from. If I can make myself stronger, it will make the demon weaker.”

“You should rest before you do,” Mikel said. “Two days is a long time to be awake.”

“I have a room at the inn near the trader’s gate,” D’Arden said. “Perhaps you are right. It may be best to first take a repose and collect myself before attempting to purify a badly corrupted font on my own.”

“Let’s go see the captain,” the boy said.

They hastily retreated from the high quarter.

“What do you mean it’s lost?” Captain Mor demanded upon their return to the barracks.

D’Arden had been planning to break the news to the captain, but the boy had spoken up as soon as they entered. The Arbiter shook his head and spread his hands in defeat. “There is nothing that can be done. There is no one left alive in the Heights, Captain Mor. Not a soul that still lives… naturally,” he amended, remembering the man strapped to the chair in the house.

For a moment it appeared that Captain Mor would retort, to say something harsh and hostile and accuse D’Arden of giving up too easily, but then he simply collapsed into his chair, looking broken and wounded. “I cannot believe that it has gotten so far,” he whispered. “How could this have happened?”

There were many things that D’Arden could have said, but few of them would have been properly diplomatic. Instead, he said carefully, “Mistakes have been made. A greater mistake may yet be made. You must immediately quarantine the Heights before any of the creatures in there are let loose in the city, and this must be accomplished before sundown today. Though they may have been lying dormant, they have now been awakened and will not wait long before seeking to feed.”

Though he might have expected Mor to argue, the captain did no such thing. Instead, he merely nodded assent. “Very well. I’ll have my men barricade off all of the gates to the Heights immediately. No one will go in or out from here on until this entire situation is resolved.”

“Good then,” D’Arden said with a small sigh. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I will now take my leave so that I may rest. It has been a long few days and I seek the comfort of your inn.”

“Was the boy a bother?” Mor said, jerking his thumb at Mikel.

“Not at all,” D’Arden said graciously. “In fact, I would very much like it if you could spare him to accompany me on the next part of my investigation, once I awaken from my rest.”

“Of course, master Arbiter,” Mor said graciously. “Anything that you require shall, of course, be yours.”

So you would provide me, then, with an army of Arbiters to purify this gods-forsaken place? D’Arden thought inwardly, but said nothing.

“Thank you, Captain,” he chose instead to say, and gave a slight bow. With only that, he turned and left the room, leaving Mikel and the captain behind him.

Once again on the streets of Calessa’s trade quarter, he made his way up the short dead-end street and back to the main square where his inn lay. He approached the door and went inside, giving a curt wave to the publican, who gave him only a sharp nod of acknowledgement as he passed by.

Ascending the stairs both exhausted and energized with purpose, he crossed the long hallway to the room with the number on the door that matched the number etched into his key: thirty-seven. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door, revealing a small but serviceable room with a bed, table, two chairs, and a fireplace that lay cold but could quickly be revitalized with a few logs from the pile that sat beside it and a spark.

This is going to be far more difficult than I thought, he said to himself as he placed two pieces of wood on the fire and lit them with a wave of his hand. They came to life almost instantly, a merry blaze springing up and beginning to warm the icy chill that had pervaded the room, despite the bright sunlight outside.

He stripped off his gloves and rubbed his hands together before the flames to warm them. The insidious cold had even crept its way between the thick fabrics of his sword gloves, which had kept his hands warm through a driving snowstorm once, long ago, a much farther way north from here. Hunting evil in the snowbound tundra of the far northlands had been his first, and his least favorite, assignment as a fully named Arbiter. The cold here was indicative of more than just a long winter, and it would rob this place of the last sparks of life if left unchecked.

He did not intend to let anything like that happen.

Once the room had warmed to his liking, he sat on the sparse bed and crossed his legs before him. He did not need to sleep, only to wait for a few hours in a trance to refresh himself completely, and even less than that if he had a manna font nearby to draw from. The one that he had visited in the chapel a few blocks away was too far corrupted to draw upon, though, so he would have to rely on the earth itself to deliver his power to him.

D’Arden drew forth from its place on his belt the tiny, perfectly round, pointed and tapered blade that thrummed with a soft blue light, looking very much like a heartbeat. The heartblade pulsed in his hand with its energy, and he sighed. With only a moment’s hesitation, he opened the front of his shirt and positioned the tiny blade just below the chest muscle on his left side. There was a tiny amount of pain as the perfectly sharpened instrument pierced his flesh and the muscle, and then just brushed the outside of his heart. He held his breath tightly, because any slight movement in the wrong direction could slice open his heart and send him to an early – and quite embarrassing – grave.