Chapter Three
“Phantoms of Illyndel”
The maw of the forest was dark and ominous. Life seemed to abandon the stillness found within. For a moment Edrick’s thoughts prompted him to turn away, but his will pushed him onward. Cold wind brushed by his heels, bringing wisps of cold winds that wove through the dense thickets. Thick, freezing, air burnt his lungs as he walked over the treacherous frozen earth where scattered shards of ice crunched beneath each step. The air got colder deeper into the forest, seeping over every gnarled branch and frost-laden path. Trees stood like spectral sentinels; their twisted limbs were etched with glistening frost that shimmered in the muted light.
Edrick took a deep breath to regain his resolve and followed the fog through heavy brush, in-between scattered rocks and dead trees. His green eyes were sunken in, showing signs of his age, a man in his forties, tired and weary from weeks of travel. When he felt that he had chosen the correct route he turned and signaled his companions, the young Garreth and the gaunt-looking Jorren, who were waiting for him at the forest entrance.
All three were human thralls, bound by a harsh and unyielding oath to the Velagoth, their every move dictated by their masters. It had been a week since the shell of ice surrounding the Sylph lands of Illyndel had melted. Neighboring towns and cities were given little warning, drowning under a flood of rushing tide. Malvicarus, the stern leader of the Dark Apostles, wasted little time with a response and dispatched three scouts to investigate and bring back word concerning the status of Illyndel and the melted shell. His faction, the Dark Apostles, shared considerable power with Lautrec, the ruler of the Velagoth. Together, they commanded the largest of the southern Velagoth armies, which had already begun preparing defenses against a possible Sylph invasion.
The three scouts had entered the ice-covered lands of Illyndel in a week, after the waves of melted ice had subsided. A dead calm engulfed its flooded grounds. From the start they knew that something was amiss. Things were too quiet. The fog was thick, like heavy blankets of snow, hovering just above their knees. The deeper the scouts traveled into the forest, the more their minds ached and the more the fog seemed to follow them. They tried their best to fight the urge to turn and leave, but pressed onward through the freezing glade of dead Phantom trees.
The wind howled with a ferocious bite, stinging their ears and slicing through their core with a freezing snarl. Edrick, Garreth, and Jorren halted, their breath fogging the frigid air. Already their inability to deal with the cold had begun to take its toll. Their blood started to crystallize and freeze. But, they had ways of dealing with it. Edrick gave each of them Eicara root, which they swallowed. The Eicara tripled their resilience to the cold, restoring their circulation and easing their discomfort.
Jorren, younger and more skeptical, shivered as he spoke, his voice tinged with a thick accent. “Ain’t nothin’ but cold left ‘ere. We’re chasin’ ghosts.”
“They’re dead, plain an’ simple,” Garreth, the most pragmatic of the trio, nodded in agreement, “We’ll freeze our bones if we stay out ‘ere.”
“We must press on,” Edrick urged with resoluteness.
Edrick was the most seasoned scout of the three with a reputation for getting the job done at all costs. His experience as a spy during the War of Thirteen Autumns included witnessing the Sylph king and queen in battle. He’d seen the fearsome things the Queen of Souls Legia D’artareon, and her Wraith King Malachi D’artareon had done. He was there during the siege of castle Lemuria, in that battle winter and dark spirit came alive and the elements fought for her. Many fell to Legia’s spells, frozen for all eternity, damned to an icy hell. Malachi, her guardian, was just as powerful as he recalled. In droves he sent enemies to their graves, fast and brutal, like a demon unleashed from the mouth of hell fighting with both lance and sword.
As they trudged forward, Garreth’s grumbling grew louder. “Why do we always end up at the bottom o’ the pile? We’re the ones doin’ all the dirty work, and what do we get? Nothin’ but frostbite and a kick in the teeth!”
Jorren, trudging alongside him, chimed in, his tone laced with frustration. “Aye, it’s always the same. We’re the human pissants, the ones sent out to do the muckin’ about while the dark lords sit cozy in their warm halls. It’s no wonder we’re always the ones left out in the cold.”
Garreth gave a disgruntled snort. “Malvicarus, Lautrec and their lot don’t care ‘bout us. We’re just tools, expendable, like chaff in the wind. Meanwhile, they’re tucked away in their fancy castles, worryin’ ‘bout their next feast.”
Edrick listened to their complaints with a mixture of sympathy and frustration. He knew the harsh truth of their status as human thralls, the lowest rank in a hierarchy dominated by darker forces. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but one they all had to accept if they wanted to survive.
“We may be at the bottom,” Edrick said abruptly, “but we’re the ones who get things done. We’re out here, risking our lives, for something that’s bigger than us. If we don’t do it, who will?”
Garreth and Jorren exchanged glances, their expressions softened slightly as they absorbed Edrick’s words. Though they still grumbled, they understood the necessity of their role, no matter how thankless it might seem.
Edrick’s gaze remained fixed on the trail ahead, his mind focused on the mission. “We must bring proof if they are alive,” he declared firmly, setting his course forward. He didn’t wait for a response, and instead pushed on with determination. Despite their complaints, Garreth and Jorren followed.
They came across the aftermath of a landslide. Several large boulders had tumbled across their path, blocking the rest of the way. After a long glance, Edrick found a tunnel between the rocks, large enough for them to fit through. Without hesitation, he wiggled into the unknown passage. A brush of icy wind mixed with a ghostly purplish glow swept over him, freezing the small ends of hair on the back of his neck.
He turned to the others. “Let us not linger here.”
Jorren and Garreth exchanged uneasy glances.
“Now,” ordered Edrick with urgency.
The scouts crawled through the tight space, worming their way until they reached the other side. Once out, they were surprised to find rows of ice-covered men, frozen inside spires. Rows upon rows of ice-encased figures stood frozen in the snow, their lifeless eyes seeming to watch them. Dark clouds gathered overhead, brewing a storm wreathed with heavy rain. The rain was sharp, thin, turning into shards of ice as it hurled down toward earth.
“We shouldn’t have come this far,” said Jorren with worry. He started to turn back, toward the way they came, but a blizzard of wind swept in and covered the entrance. A mocking, eerie laughter echoed through the storm.
“We must move!” yelled Edrick, trying to be heard over the howling wind.
They dashed through the rows of spires as the icy wind chased them. Through the haze of the storm, they found a ruined watchtower and hurried toward it. Once inside, they toppled over with exhaustion.
“We cannot rest here,” Edrick said firmly. “We have to keep going.”
Garreth, shivering and looking pale, muttered, “We’re gonna die out there.”
A sudden roar of wind exploded through the ruined watchtower, tearing at its weathered walls and sending debris crashing to the ground, as the tower’s ancient timbers groaned and splintered under the storm’s fury. Edrick veered his head over their cover, watching as a line of fog from the outside rolled in. It was alive, twisting through the air like a snake, searching for them in a holding pattern and hissed when it found them.
“Run!” cried Edrick urgently.
The scouts scrambled to their feet and hurried outside and were met by the violent storm, which slowed their movements, forcing them to the ground. Chilling laughter boomed ominously across the tundra once more.
“We are messengers from Morghalith , the kingdom of the Velagoth!” shouted Edrick into the tempest. “Please, give us a chance to deliver our message!”
A few moments later the storm subsided, and the air fell into an unsettling calm. Dark clouds above settled into a low, menacing rumble, and a sinister whispered through the stillness carrying with it an alluring voice, “Speak your peace.”
A host of Sylph warriors crept out from the shadows and took the scouts prisoner. They led them through a forest of phantom trees. Each tree was pale, translucent like glass, with their bark seeming to shift and ripple as if it were barely holding onto the appearance of solid form. Veins of shadowy darkness coursed through them, pulsating faintly with an unnatural rhythm. Their leaves were a misty, spectral silver, fluttering silently, casting a faint, ghostly glow.
Garreth leaned into Edrick, keeping his voice low, “Messengers?”
Edrick gave a nod before whispering back, “Follow my lead and we may live through this yet,” he glanced at Jorren, his face set in panic. “Stay focused, Jorren. We don’t have time for fear.”
Jorren’s eyes darted nervously around them; his breathing came in short, anxious bursts. “The Sylph are alive…we’re done for.”
The Sylph warriors moved with an otherworldly grace, their forms were a seamless blend of ethereal beauty and deadly precision. Standing at heights slightly above the average human, their agile and elongated figures were accentuated by a shimmering, translucent quality that gave them an almost spectral appearance. Their skin was a pale luminescent hue that seemed to absorb and reflect the faint light, casting a ghostly glow that shifted with every movement. They wore armor that was both delicate and formidable, crafted from a substance that resembled a mix of polished obsidian and ethereal mist, fitting closely to their forms while allowing for fluid, almost dance-like movement. The armor’s surface was etched with intricate patterns that glowed faintly in the dark, shifting with an unnatural light as if the patterns were alive. Their weapons were as otherworldly as their appearance: slender, razor-sharp blades forged from a material that seemed to shimmer.
At the edge of the forest, the path gave way to a barren, lifeless, expanse that extended out for miles in all directions. In the center of the emptiness stood castle Valafar, a brooding fortress that seemed to rise out of the very earth itself. Sharp spires of pure crystal, rose like icy daggers towards the sky, their surfaces refracting the moonlight into a dazzling array of colors. They seemed to pulse and glimmer with a cold, inner light, as if the castle itself was alive with an ancient, spectral force. The drawbridge was a massive slab of ice, carved with swirling patterns and frozen runes that glowed faintly. It creaked and groaned; its surface was slick with a thin layer of frost. Spirits, ghostly and frail, hovered around the castle grounds, drifting through the air aimlessly wailing in whispers that mingled with the howling wind.
The scouts were led to the front of the drawbridge and forced to their knees on the cold, icy ground. As the drawbridge crept down, the scouts’ eyes widened in fear as two imposing figures emerged from the darkness beyond the lowered bridge. Malachi was the first to appear, a towering figure of dark elegance with long black hair that flowed over his pale blue skin, shimmering with an almost metallic sheen. His light blue eyes were sharp and calculating as they surveyed the scene with a predatory calm. Each movement he made exuded a lethal grace and his powerful frame was a reminder of the danger he represented.
Legia followed closely, her presence was both haunting and captivating. Her soft, ghostly blue skin complimented her flowing violet hair, which seemed to flicker like liquid fire in the moonlight. Her blue eyes glinted with an ethereal light that held both allure and danger. Her movements were a blend of fluid grace and menace, each step echoed with authority. Ancient tattoos adorned her arms and neck, symbols of her exalted status in Sylph society, and ones that she shared with Malachi.
As Legia and Malachi approached, the Sylph host bowed their heads in reverence. With a regal nod she signaled one of her soldiers, who promptly searched the scouts. They tossed what they found to the ground. There was little there, small rations, a knife and a map of Illyndel. When they were done, the soldier fell back in line.
Garreth was the first to speak, “My lady-”
“Silence!” interrupted Edrick.
Garreth continued anyway, “Please...have pity.”
“Silence!” interrupted Malachi.
A smirk came over Legia’s face. “Pity?”
“I beg you,” Jorren pleaded.
“You beg me?” she repeated with a sinister smirk.
Jorren nodded nervously.
“He is frightened, your Grace, please excuse his rudeness,” implored Edrick.
“Why should he have cause to fear me?” Legia asked insidiously.
“He is but a fool,” Edrick replied.
“What does that make you?” asked Malachi. “The leader of fools?”
Legia chuckled. “Forgive my dear husband, he is irritable.”
“You bring a message?” asked Legia in a yawn, getting to the point. “From whom? The Crimson Prince?”
“The Apostles, your Grace,” answered Edrick.
“And what do they want? Now, that the wall of ice and spirit has fallen,” inquired Legia. “Do they fear a battle is upon them? Do they fear we will want revenge?”
“Will you seek it…revenge?” Edrick asked, frightened.
“What is your message?” she asked again.
Edrick didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes were drawn to Malachi’s brutal and ominous stance, at his black armor and the silver emblems that glistened. He saw his long cape, became worried about his spiked gloves, and drew backward from the sight of the serrated chains wrapped around his long menacing boots. Legia saw the look of fear in his eyes and noticed that the presence of Malachi was making him nervous.
“Does my king quicken you to shell up with fright?” she asked, amused.
Edrick shook his head, hoping to get away with his lie. “N-no.”
Without hesitation, and at blinding speed, Malachi cut off the Edrick’s hand. Blood sprayed from the wound, as he nursed it immediately, holding it tightly against his body before letting out a horrific scream.
“Leader of fools,” mocked Malachi as he stood over him menacingly.
“W-we’re here under the f-f-flag of Morg-g-alith,” the wounded Edrick told them, fighting through the pain. “You’ve harmed a m-m-messenger sent at the behest of the Apostle Malvicarus…under the protection of the great king of Hell, the Hell God.”
“And you believe they will save you?” Legia laughed dismissively. “Poor soul, we care not of your kings and gods.”
“Your masters have no dominion over us,” Malachi added. “You’ve treaded too far.”
“T-then we will take our leave,” Edrick stated.
“What does your Hell God fear?” Legia inquired.
Edrick didn’t answer, instead he looked confused by the question.
Legia went on, “He fears the death of love.”
“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” concluded Edrick.
“Poor soul…I am here to set you free,” stated Legia with conviction as she reached into his chest and pulled out his spirit, leaving behind a mindless husk; one that she had total control over.
Garreth cried out in fear. “What are you doing?”
“You came to spy on us, to discover the cause of our awakening,” Legia stated. “But, fear not, I will not kill you.”
Garreth and Jorren sighed, relieved.
Legia turned, with a sneer, toward Edrick. “You will tell me where the Apostles have placed their armies, won’t you?” she asked. “Tell me what they are planning.”
Edrick’s eyes softened into a lustful stare as his lips moistened. His tongue began to swell, and his head throbbed with desire. His breathing grew heavy, and he took a step closer to the Queen, unable to suppress his yearning for her. A mist grew around her body and wormed through her glowing locks. Saliva poured from his mouth as he watched, and tears ran down his face.
He reached for her. “Such beauty,” he said, enthralled. “Must be crowned the queen of all lust.”
“What are you doing?” asked Jorren. “Wicked queen, what have you done?”
Legia hovered across the mist, gracefully, toward the spellbound Edrick.
“The southern army,” Edrick told her. His eyes burnt and turned red as fiery tears streamed down his face.
“Where?” she asked.
“Wraithenhold,” he answered, blissfully entranced,
“That is all?” asked Legia impatiently.
Edrick nodded. “Not even Prince Lautrec knows about Wraithenhold,” he admitted.
“Pitiful man?” asked Legia sardonically.
“Yes, my love?” Edrick replied.
“Do you truly love me?” she asked.
“Of course,” he answered, bated.
She smiled murderously. “Then, kill for me,” she stated before handing him a ghost-like knife.
“Strike her down!” yelled Garreth.
Edrick turned toward his companions, knife in hand, and ran the blade across Garreth’s neck. Blood blasted into the air as he hurried his way toward Jorren, hacking him down to a mess of flesh and bone. When they were both dead, he stood over their dead bodies, staring off with glazed eyes, letting their blood run down his arms.
“Pitiful man?” asked Legia.
Edrick replied with no emotion, “Yes, your Grace?”
“You are of no use to me anymore,” she stated dismissively.
Edrick gave a humble bow. “Of course,” he said as he brought the knife to his neck and sliced through, scraping the spine. His neck split open, and his body toppled over dying. His soulless husk began to decay, but he was still able to watch what was going on around him.
“Their souls are weak,” Malachi said, standing over the scouts’ dead bodies.
Legia agreed, “Yes. They will not serve the Shadow.”
“My beloved, should I ever have worry with you by my side?” Malachi asked, drawing his body close to her.
She glided her hand across his face. “Never, my love.”
He pressed her body against his. “Should I ever hunger?”
“Never, my love,” she said, bringing her lips to his.
They kissed passionately and with love, each melding into the moment. And when it was done, they looked adoringly into each other’s eyes.
“I could have found out what you wanted,” said Malachi. “You did not need to exert yourself by using your magick.”
“I know,” Legia agreed. “My body is still adjusting from the hibernation. I needed the practice.”
“My beloved Legia, tamer of weak hearts, should any man have the will to resist your lure?” he asked.
She glided her hand across his face. “Only you.”
He pulled deeper into his arms. “Oh, but I am most spellbound.”
“Malachi, we stand now, poised, ready to strike,” she whispered lovingly into his ear. “Where our cause leads us, I know not, but as long as you are by my side it matters not.”
He kissed her hand. “I await your order.”
“Wraith King of the Sylph, guide us towards our enemies,” Legia said with vigor. “Grant us the vehemence of your sword and lance, to ash the battlefield, bleed sweet the wounds of war and then we shall see if destiny has forsaken us. Gather more souls with the Scepter of K’rauxius, for I desire to feed. I shall bathe in the soul stream of the earth until my strength is full. And when this is complete, we shall venture into the world to destroy our enemies and kill the half-breed girl that Lautrec has hidden.”
Edrick’s eyes closed after hearing Legia’s words. His soul was already gone, so when his mortal shell died there was nothing but darkness and silence.
