Lay of the Rimelands Story - Final: The Jewel and the Dagger

“Your highness has awakened the Cursefount,” said the Mage quietly. “Why?”

Prince Lysanthir smiled and shut his eyes, as if relishing a song only he could hear. Behind him, Voorziel’s tentacle stopped its flailing through the frigid air and glided towards him, alighting on his shoulders and wrapping itself around his body like a serpent.

Behind Morilwen, the archeresses had once again nocked their spellshaft arrows, this time aiming at the tentacle where it protruded from the ice. Morilwen’s arrow, however, was aimed directly at the Unkari prince’s throat.

“Answer him,” she muttered in a voice choked with anguish.

Lysanthir opened his eyes and turned to Morilwen. “Awakened it?” he said in a mock-hurt tone. “It’s been awake for years, the pitiful thing. Locked in ice for centuries, all alone, no one to eat or drink…” he paused for a few seconds, then, with a wink, added “...with.”

One of the archeresses gave a signal, and they let fly their arrows towards the base of the tentacle. However, not one of them found their target, each arrow instead burying itself in the large crack in the blue ice. The gasped in confusion and dismay as Lysanthir gave them a pitying smile.

“Unlucky!” he said, without even turning to see where the arrows had landed. “Dear me, Such a lapse in standards these days! Unless...oh, were you aiming for the crack? Awfully kind of you, but it’s not that easy, I can tell you. I’ve been working so hard to break this wretched ice for quite a long time now.”

Lysanthir embraced the cilia-covered appendage wrapped around him as one would a beloved pet. “It was years ago when I found it. Back then, the ice was sound and I could barely hear its voice, but I knew I was the only one who could. I visited it whenever I could sneak away from the tree, and it told me of the past...”

A faraway look entered the elven prince’s eyes. “...About how it was dragged into our world eons ago by elven warlocks to be their weapon, then locked away when it finished its job. About its millennia spent in solitude and hunger and confusion and madness.

“I spent years secretly researching the runes on the pillars. In the end, I discovered that they could be disabled by disfiguring them in the correct sequence while chanting certain incantations, wielding a weapon imbued with the highest levels of magics. Thank you again for the dagger, by the way, Aunt Morilwen.”

Morilwen said nothing, but kept her arrow trained on Lysanthir’s neck.

“Over time,” he continued, “I defaced enough of the runes to finally damage Voorziel’s prison of ice. For the first time, I could hear it clearly!” He closed his eyes rapturously with the memory.

“I gave Voorziel all of my life warmth, and it filled me with its power. When the curses began to flow, I had to put on a bit of a show for everyone back home. You were all so easy to fool, you know!”

Hallgrim’s knuckles whitened inside his silver gauntlets as he gripped the hilt of his blade. “Enough,” he growled through gritted teeth. “First we kill it, then you will have plenty of time to prattle. But you will be held accountable, prince or no.”

Lysanthir turned to Hallgrim as if noticing him for the first time. “Auntie, your trained bear speaks!” he sneered from behind his cheerful smile. “It really ought to think before it does so, however.”

“It cannot be killed,” said the Mage, “that’s why it was contained.” He turned to the Oracle, who shook her head subtly.

“Quite right, Lord Mage,” said Lysanthir, who did not notice this exchange. “Nothing from this world can harm my dear friend. And for that matter…”

He held out his deity dagger, then plunged it directly into his gut with all his might. The wicked blade pierced his robes but was turned aside by his stomach without leaving so much as a mark. Morilwen was unable to stifle her involuntary gasp.

“Fear not, Aunt Morilwen! The dagger is perfectly sound, as am I. Terribly sorry to have worried you, but I did all of this for our people! The Unkari were glorious once, and shall be again, with Voorziel behind us! Only this time, we will not simply be first among nations...”

Voorziel’s tentacle withdrew from Lysanthir’s body. The prince took a step towards Morilwen, a warm grin across his pallid face.

“...we will be the only nation!”

He stretched his hand out to Morilwen, who did not move. Her arrow remained aimed at the prince’s throat. She no longer wept, but her voice carried a note of desperation.

“Tell me,” she said quietly, “that you are not in your right mind. Tell me that that thing has possessed you, that you are its prisoner, that it tricked you, anything. Please. Say one word and we will take you from this place. I promise. Please.”

Lysanthir’s smile disappeared suddenly. His outstretched hand dropped to his side. His expression became a mask of pain. “H...he…” he whispered haltingly.

There was no sound in the chamber for a few seconds, and even the corpses beating their arms against the ice orb were still. Fingers of ice gripped Morilwen’s heart.

“H...hel...hells...take you all,” he whispered with a wink, and the grin returned. “Ha ha! Forgive me. I could not resist such an opportunity for a jest!”

The bow and arrow dropped from Morilwen’s hands as her arms fell to her sides, grief and despair robbing her of the strength to keep them up.

“No, not all those receiving the Cursefount’s gift become mindless,” he continued. “Those of great strength of will may accept its power and become like it, while leaving their hearts and minds intact.”

“Oh, do not be sad, dear Aunt Morilwen!” continued Lysanthir, “You are not the only one I fooled! You really ought to get a new Oracle, you know. I think this one is broken!”

But the Oracle did not respond to this criticism. Her eyes were shut, and her lips were moving in silent, fervent prayer. In her hands, she held a large blue gemstone, which bore in its center the same rune of containment as the ones around the chamber that had been scratched out.

When Lysanthir saw this, his smile vanished and his face somehow grew even paler.

“You have underestimated the Oracle, my prince,” said the Mage mournfully. “Lord Hallgrim, we have need of your sword.”

Hallgrim started at the sudden mention of his name, but his reflexes reacted of their own accord and his blade drew a silver streak in the air, deflecting Voorziel’s claw as it shot towards the Oracle. Lysanthir’s body jerked in shock, as if startled by a sudden noise behind him.

“You...how could you know…” he muttered, stepping backwards in evident dismay as Voorziel’s leg thrashed again and again against Hallgrim’s sword. The temperature in the grotto began to drop and an uncanny wind began to pick up in response to the Oracle’s silent chant.

Once again the archeresses opened fire, attempting to draw the attention of the flailing claw. Morilwen drew her dagger and ran in front of the Mage, who Voorziel had also begun to attack.

“Forgive me, Captain,” said the Mage to Morilwen as her blade parried the tentacle’s frantic assault, “we could not act until the time was right. I had hoped that the prince could be saved. Alas!”

He took out his own jewel of containment. “You must at all costs prevent the ritual from being interrupted! Archeresses, to me! You must now give of yourselves that your tree may live!”

Unhesitatingly, the archeresses dropped their bows and ran to the Mage’s side. They formed a circle around him and the Oracle, facing outward with arms linked.

“Lord Hallgrim!” shouted the Mage over the howling winds, “You cannot harm the Cursefount! You must find someone who can, ere your strength desert you.” He held up the jewel in preparation for the ritual. “Perhaps,” he added “someone close to you…”

“What?” cried Hallgrim over the din, but the Mage had already begun casting the spell of containment. The air surrounding the circle of elves began to glow with arcane light.

Lysanthir, meanwhile, had fallen writhing to the floor with his hands over his ears, trying in vain to block out a sound only he could hear. Suddenly, his body arched in excruciation, as if he had been struck by lightning, and he let out a great scream of anguish.

At the same time, the great orb began to rumble, and another chunk of the magical ice flew off of it, revealing the top half of a giant white skull with a hideous red eye mounted in its center. The eye swiveled wildly for a moment before focusing on the prone Lysanthir.

It raised its white barb high into the air, then before anyone could react, it brought it down on Lysanthir’s midsection, piercing it completely. Then cilia of the limb near Lysanthir’s body began to grow. Almost instantaneously, the black hair enveloped the prince’s body, then shrank again.

When it retracted, there was nothing left of his corpse other than his dagger, which clattered to the ice. The eye then turned to Morilwen and Hallgrim, and the limb resumed its assault.

Suddenly Hallgrim understood the meaning behind the Mage’s words. “I have it!” he shouted, “Captain, we have but one chance! I will hold the creature off and you must open that chest! If it’s the last thing you do, you must open it!”

Although Morilwen’s mind was numb with the horror of what she had witnessed, her body responded instantly to Hallgrim’s cry. Dodging a swipe of the claw, she ran and slid down the ice to where she had dropped her bow. In a single elegant movement, she picked it up, nocked an arrow and fired it at the large lock on the chest. The spellshaft struck the lock, which burst as if struck by a giant’s hammer.

“It is done!” cried Morilwen over the roaring winds. At that moment, the claw whipped around and struck her left shoulder. She gasped in pain as the claw yanked itself out of her, and fell to the ground motionless.

Hallgrim bellowed a curse and ran to her side, hacking with all his might at the monster’s vile appendage. His silver blade flashed through the air, turning the claw away from Morilwen’s body over and over again. But the rage that drove him was beginning to lose to pain and fatigue, and he could feel his arms become more and more leaden with every blow.

Then Voorziel’s tentacle whipped back and struck Hallgrim on the side of the head, knocking off his helmet and sending him flying several yards in the air before hitting the ground with a crash.

Hallgrim struggled against the tidal wave of oblivion that was descending on him, but his limbs would not respond to his commands.

The last thing he heard was the chanting of a spell as it reached a fierce crescendo over the whipping winds.

The last thing he saw before he sank into unconsciousness was the hilt of his sword in front of his face. As his vision faded, he thought he saw a gloved hand appear, which took up the hilt of the sword, then vanished with it from his sight.

Then all his senses left him, and he remembered nothing more.

*****

“Hallgrim,” came a familiar voice out of the darkness, “can you hear me?”

Hallgrim’s eyes began to open slowly, then with a start he pushed himself up off the ground into a seated position as he remembered their plight. Immediately he regretted it, wincing from the pain to the blow to his head.

Yet the grotto was as quiet as the crypt, and the supernatural gale had ended. Hallgrim turned to see Morilwen crouched next to him. He did not know how long he was unconscious, but it was long enough for her to bandage her shoulder. Putting a hand to his head, he realized she had bandaged his head as well.

Morilwen stood up and offered her hand to Hallgrim. He took it and stood up shakily, then looked more closely at his surroundings.

The blue ice of the chamber shone with a powerful glow, and the Frysta runes had all been restored. Near the entrance to the cave stood an array of ice pillars that were not there before. Each one bore a large and shining Frysta rune that faced the center of the chamber. There was one pillar for the Mage, the Oracle, and each of the archeresses.

Hallgrim turned to the center of the chamber. There stood the orb, moored by its pillar, even larger than it was then they had arrived. All the risen who were ringing it originally had disappeared. No cracks were visible, and the new ice was so thick that from where he stood he could barely make out the outline of the demon that lived within it.

Something about the outline in the ice seemed different, however. He walked slowly towards the orb, and the closer he came, the more he perceived. There was an outline of a figure above the accursed creature’s eye. The figure had an elven frame, and was trailed by a magnificent furred cloak that was frozen in mid-billow behind him. In his hands was the hilt of what Hallgrim recognized as his own sword, whose hook-like point was buried in the center of the monster’s giant eye.

With this final gesture, Othorion had bought them enough time to succeed. He was now frozen in time, a statue commemorating his own heroic final act.

“Is he...alive in there?” Hallgrim whispered to himself.

“I do not know,” replied Morilwen despite being yards away from Hallgrim near the entrance of the grotto, “It is a matter for a Mage to discern. We will be returning to this place. This chamber must be studied properly, then sealed.”

Hallgrim turned back to see Morilwen gathering the possessions of the elves, which had fallen to the ground when they relinquished their bodies and souls to the spell of containment.

“My thanks for tending to my injuries,” he said. “Do you require assistance?”

“I am fine,” said Morilwen. “I must return their earthly remnants to the tree. Are you ready to…” Morilwen stopped herself in mid-sentence. She remembered that Hallgrim could not expect to return to his home unpunished after his betrayal, even if it had saved the Hoarfrost lands.

“Do not worry,” said Hallgrim, sensing her meaning. “I have a place to go.”

He found his helmet among the blue crystals and picked it up. “I will return to my people and submit myself to justice. It is best I do so. It is our way.”

Morilwen’s serious features bore a hint of sadness as she watched the large man walk over to the big wooden chest that had contained Othorion. She knew that he would do as he said, and that there was little chance of mercy for the human. The laws of the rimelands were as rigid as ice, as immutable as the seasons, and as severe as the winter snows.

Hallgrim reached into the wooden chest and pulled out the shard of inferno he had placed in it to keep Othorion as warm as possible. He searched for the other item he had put in with him in the hopes of keeping him sane, the ring of betrothal Othorion’s wife Esta had given him when they courted, but he could not find it. A rare smile played on his face as he realized that the ring was likely frozen in the ice with Othorion.

Morilwen finished gathering the remains of the departed. “I too must to face the judgment of my people. There is much shame and grief in my family’s future…” she pulled Lysander’s deity dagger out of her belt and stared thoughtfully at it for a while, its violet luminescence playing on her elven features, “...but the future comes to judge us all whether we are prepared for it or not. We can only face it and await our sentencing.”

Hallgrim picked up the leather straps to the sledge that carried the chest. “Better a bleak future than none at all, eh?” said Hallgrim, not unkindly.

The two turned back to the giant blue orb of ice in the center of the chamber for a moment, then headed out of the cavern together.