Christopher Kellen - Elegy

He reached a point in the darkness where he could no longer tell whether he was still standing in the same chamber. The wall behind him had vanished into the black, and on all sides of him there was nothing. He felt as though he were an island of existence, as if all of creation had simply been washed away around him, leaving him standing perfectly alone in the remaining oblivion.

Something brushed his right shoulder.

He spun around sharply, bringing the crystalline blade around in a flashing downward arc. He felt the blade meet flesh, then bone, and something moaned and stumbled away from him. In the flash of azure light as the manna fire caught the corrupted and dusty flesh aflame, he saw them.

They seemed to be almost innumerable, the number of animated dead that surrounded him. He only caught glimpses of their horrid faces in the light of the fire – they’d been quiet, oh, so quiet – the empty eyes, the desiccated faces, the yawning gulfs where once had been facial features. His breath came in a short gasp.

Then they came.

They came at him in a wave, a gasping, breathless wave of angry dead, roused from their eternal sleep in the most horrific way possible. He lay about him with his blade, hacking through the ranks of the corpses that came at him from all sides, lighting them afire as the pure manna that flowed within him and his sword sought desperately to purify the incredible corruption around them. They clawed at his eyes with shrunken fingers, pawed at his cloak and sought to drag him down beneath a sea of rotted flesh.

His breathing heightened even more as he ducked, weaved and tore himself from the grasp of the horrid things. In their grasping claws they took bits of cloth, leather and flesh as he cut them down, one by one. In some cases the manna fire leapt from one standing corpse to another, or a group of several would be devoured by the purifying cobalt flames.

Then, they were gone.

He stood alone once more, his only fleeting companions the wisps of manna fire that quickly vanished once more into the darkness as the dust and bones clattered to the ground and disappeared forever, returned to the flow of life from the earth. There was a swelling of manna here now – when a man died and the flesh slowly rotted, the life force would be returned to the earth slowly, in time, so as not to cause a buildup of manna too great which could cause a new font to spring up spontaneously… or worse, create a snarl that would create some sort of hideous new creature.

Panting, he fell to one knee. He could feel blood trickling from several minor wounds, but he could not identify a mortal wound anywhere on his body, or even a dangerous one. The swarm of corpses had nearly driven him to the ground, and he would have had no recourse left in the dark… if they’d gotten his sword away from him too, all could have been lost.

The sound of slow applause drew his attention. It was a dry sound, with none of the moisture of the applause of men. He shuddered at the sound, a twisted mockery of the appreciative sound made by the living.

“I am truly humbled by that display,” said a thin, rough voice from the darkness.

A figure stepped forward, ringed in a dull red light that illuminated a visage not unlike the other corpses which he had just fought. In the pinpoints of light within the empty skull though, D’Arden could see not only the angry red light of corruption, but a firey light that told a story all too clear.

The corrupted manna had created life – life out of death.

“Your existence is a lie,” D’Arden snarled, regaining his feet. “You are nothing but a construct of evil, of darkness.”

“The manna is both good and evil, light and dark, Arbiter,” the corpse rasped. “It created you, and it created me. Even that which you worship as pure will cause men to scream and die unless properly treated.” A horrific image stretched across its face that might have once been a grin. “Unless they are created… like you.”

“I will return you to oblivion,” D’Arden said calmly, leveling his blade at the creature. “You have no right to walk this land.”

“Admittedly, you have verily decimated my army of the undead, Arbiter,” it said, with what might have been a hint of humor in its centuries-old voice. “But no matter. There are still corpses here that remain yet cold, bodies of those which might still be put to good use, once you are destroyed. Perhaps… even yours.”

With a snarl of rage, D’Arden leapt forward, swinging his blade out in a deadly arc. The corpse jerked like a puppet whose master had pulled too hard on its strings and moved aside too quickly for his strike to make a connection.

It laughed, a sound that resembled tearing parchment. “Strike a nerve, did I, Arbiter? You do not wish to join my army of the everlasting?”

Without answering, he brought the blade around in an upward arc, slashing viciously. As he did, he released one hand off of the hilt of the crystal blade and thrust it outward sharply, delivering a blast of azure force that very nearly connected with the corpse and would have consumed it there and then, but missed narrowly and splashed harmlessly against the stone floor a few feet away, instantly vanishing.

“Your skills are lacking,” the corpse taunted. “How many beasts have you slain, Arbiter, and yet you cannot defeat me?”

“I shall defeat you!” D’Arden said, driving his crystal blade forward in a powerful thrust.

The creature almost seemed to vanish before his very eyes before reappearing a few arm’s lengths away. “Too slow, Arbiter. Come, destroy me! Send my corruption back to the earth! Purify this place, if you can!”

D’Arden made another cutting attack, but once again, his strike fell short. The creature shook its head – a motion that threatened to dislodge the skull from its perilous perch atop the decayed shoulders – and sighed heavily.

“Very well,” it gasped. “If you cannot defeat me, then I will defeat you!”

Red light began to build up around the corpse as it drew the corrupted manna inward. D’Arden fell a step backward – it had been many months since he’d faced down a construct so powerful, and he found himself almost in awe of the horrible sight before his eyes.

“Now die!” the corpse breathed.

The corrupted manna shot forth from the skeletal fingers in long, sinewy ropes. One looped itself around his sword arm, the other attaching itself to his left ankle. Immediately he pulled taut against them, trying to pull the corpse off balance and within reach of a fatal strike, but his efforts proved in vain.

“Do not take me for such a weakling,” the beast said, sending out two more tendrils that wrapped around his other arm and neck. They tightened, and suddenly D’Arden found it difficult to breathe. “You’ve lost, Arbiter. I’m going to snap your puny, fragile neck and use your corpse to eat the citizens of that city alive!”

D’Arden pulled hard against the magical bonds, and then rolled himself over his shoulder directly at the corpse, bringing up his sword in a sharp arc as there was suddenly slack available. The thing shrieked and pulled backwards, cackling dryly as it pulled the bonds tightly around him once again.

“Good try, but not enough!” it laughed.

He closed his eyes as the bonds tightened around them. He was beginning to feel dizzy from lack of air, and the agony of the pressure on his windpipe was making him desperately want to cough. He could feel the strength being sapped out of him as he struggled in vain against them.

There was no way to breathe and draw the manna inward. His sword hand was immobilized.

Expelling what little remained of his breath, he focused all of the manna remaining within him on his right hand – his all-important sword hand. If only he could get that free, he might escape this grisly demise. Power collected around his wrist, and he focused the entirety of his will on that single spot.