Chapter 19: The Seal

         The stairs climbed on and on like the thoughts building in Grom’s mind. As he climbed, his vision began to blur, and the black walls and white stairs faded away, leaving Grom alone in a void of nothingness. He looked around him, reaching his hands out to grasp something, anything that could reassure him of his own existence. Black walls formed around him, and the pile of corpses appeared before his eyes once again. Isac’s body was now buried by a league of men clad in black armor. Caught in the middle of them was the scaled claw of Kravitz and the expressionless face of Shenk. At the very top of the pile was Pyras, Cloey’s dagger and the sword still lodged in her gut. Cloey rested on top of her, curled up in a ball, her hands clutched together and stained red.

         Footsteps echoed like falling rocks, and Grom watched a figure step forward from the darkness, carrying Prescott in his arms. Grom took a step forward to get a closer look, and his eyes grew large with disbelief. Prescott’s body fell amongst the other corpses, dropped to the ground by none other than Grom himself. His image was covered with deep gashes, and his armor was torn and ripped to shreds. He looked up with dry, bloodshot eyes and fell to his knees, covering his face with his hands. His muffled cries pounded against the walls with such force that bits of rock and debris fell from the ceiling and bounced off the ground and the pile of dead. From the shadows behind the weeping Grom came the gleam of metal and the simmer of a blood red stone. The Sword of the Keeper raced downward with the intent to kill, and Astaroth, Lord of Mortillus, held it in his ashy white hands. His eyes swirled like dark pools of water, and he licked his dry lips in a thirst for blood.

         “Stop!” Grom screamed, clutching his eyes closed to block out the scene before him. He waited for the sound of tearing flesh and spilling blood, but he heard neither. Opening his eyes, he again stood on the dark staircase of bone, and Prescott stood waiting and watched several steps above him.

         “Stop what?” Prescott asked, but his voice shook with impatience rather than worry.

         “I . . . I’m sorry. I fell into a daze,” Grom muttered, looking down at his hands. He dropped his axe, which clattered against the bone floor, and turned his hands over again and again, looking at the blood of the dark knights and Pyras. He rubbed them together and shook them, but he could not clean away the stains.

         “Snap out of it!” Prescott shouted, stepping down in front of him. He grabbed Grom’s shoulder and shook him three times. “We need to go! Right now, come on! Pick up your axe and follow me.”

         Prescott turned and began up the stairs again. Grom stooped and wrapped his hands around the handle of his axe, looking down at it and the red stains along both blades. He thought of the dead and placed the blame upon himself. He fought to save the land, but only at the cost of life. He went up the steps after Prescott, leaving the bodies of the dead lingering behind.

         The higher they climbed, the colder the air felt against their skin. Grom’s body ached from lack of rest, and each step he took sent a sharp pain through his entire body. He considered stopping and letting his body fall upon the stairs, but faint words crept down the passageway above and kept him from collapsing.

         “Stay close and step lightly,” Prescott whispered just above a breath.

         The voices they heard became louder, but Grom could not understand what they were saying. The rising noises sounded like some sort of chanting. The sounds became clearer with each advancing step, and Grom soon realized that the chanting was in a tongue that he was unfamiliar with. A wave of unease washed over his mind, but he fought through the crashing tides of fear.

         A flash of purple light appeared ahead of them, illuminating the distant exit and casting their shadows down the steps behind them. They pushed on with the realization that the stairs did indeed have an end, which came as a blessing and a pain. With hearts beating in pace with their sprint to the top, they came to the end of their dream-like climb to their nightmarish fate.

         The stairs brought them into a spacious room with gray stone walls. The ceiling towered high above and a round opening as far across as a giant’s height was positioned in the center. Open doorways to the side led out to a balcony, which served to bring in the light from the flashing bolts of energy dancing across the sky. Six pillars stood in a circle in the center of the room, alternating obsidian and alabaster stone and standing six feet tall. Dark elves clad in gray cloaks with the hoods pulled down over their eyes occupied each pillar. They stood with their hands clutched together, each one shouting the same foreign commands. Their hidden milky-white stares fixed on an altar in the center of the room, which laid directly beneath the opening in the ceiling. Lord Astaroth stood in front of the altar, sword raised with both hands into the air. The Blood Stone shimmered from its new home, settled in the hilt of The Sword of the Keeper.

         “Astaroth, stop what you are doing!” Grom shouted, holding his axe in front of him. All unease fled from his mind, leaving him with this moment and the memories of all his friends. He felt the presence of Isac, Shenk, Kravitz, and Cloey behind him, giving him strength. He stood with new resolve and refused to back down.

         “So, you have made it this far. I commend you,” Astaroth said, turning around to face them. The Amulet of Passage hung around his neck, its carved skull grinning at them. Astaroth’s lips curled into a smile as he watched the two with a deep, black stare, the kind of stare that could steal a man’s soul. The gaze made Grom uneasy again. “I see only two of you. Then again, I am surprised that you made it free from the volcano. Tell me, what happened to the brute half-orc and the little girl?”

         “Shenk and Cloey sacrificed their lives so that we might save Feldos from the plague you wish to unleash! Their deaths will not be in vain, Astaroth! I promise to avenge them and my brother with your blood!” Prescott shouted with a new fervor. He held his curved sword out in front of him and looked ready to lunge at any moment.

         “Drop the sword, unless you want to end up like your dark elf girlfriend down those stairs,” Grom added. Another burst of light covered the room as a momentary release from the darkness.

         “Yes, you did manage to escape my trap. Pyras served her purpose and will be remembered for her bravery. Perhaps I’ll name one of Feldos’s many kingdoms after her,” Astaroth said, lowering his sword to his side.

         “Why are you doing this? What good will this chaos bring?” Prescott asked.

         “Who said anything about bringing good to Feldos? We have been imprisoned on this island for more years than you can even fathom. Men, dark elves, hobgoblins, and other creatures of darkness have all tried to break the spell that binds us here. However, I am the first one to find a way to counter the will of the gods, and I shall be remembered and hailed as Lord of Creation,” Astaroth spoke, turning his glance to Grom. His eyes bore a passage into Grom’s soul. “Tell me, dwarf, do you not have your own goals and ambitions? Do you not care for your friends? Is there not someone in which you love? You can still save all that you find dear. Put down your weapons and witness the opening of the door, leading us into the world once again. Come with us and stand by our side, and we will spare those you care about from torment and slaughter.”

         “What makes you think that we should believe you?” Grom asked, tightening his grip on his axe.

         “I would put the weapons down now before it is too late,” Astaroth said. He turned back to the altar and raised his sword once again. He lifted his voice and chanted along with the dark elves, shouted out above them. The ground beneath them began to shake and Astaroth turned his sword toward the top of the altar and thrust it downward. Red sparks flew from the stone altar as the blade cut its way through. They all ceased their chanting for several moments, and a thunderous crackling from above shook the silent, dark room. A pillar of purple energy crashed down through the opening in the ceiling and absorbed the altar. Grom and Prescott threw their arms in front of their faces to shield themselves from the blinding light. Grom squinted through the blaze and saw Astaroth standing unfazed a short distance from the raging pillar, cape and hair flying behind him. Bolts shot off in arcs from the streaming energy, striking the dark elves that stood upon the stone columns. The energy lifted their bodies into the air, and they floated with their arms still held out and hands locked. They shouted their chants over the deafening noise, unaffected by the pulsing energy. Astaroth stood still and marveled at the force he had created.

         “We are too late,” Prescott said.

         Grom did not hear Prescott’s words over the deafening madness. He ran at Astaroth with axe held at the side, swinging it across his body at Astaroth’s back. Before he could connect, a jolt of energy raced out at him, knocking him in the chest like a hammer and sending him flying across the room onto the cold floor.

         “It is glorious!” Astaroth shouted, holding his hands into the air. “Soon my army shall be released from this prison! Soon I shall rule over all lands! Prepare yourselves, great kings and rulers of Feldos, Mortillus shall arrive and destroy you all!”

         Prescott rushed to Grom’s side and lowered his ear in front of his mouth, listening for signs of breathing. He brushed his hand against the side of Grom’s face and whispered to him. “Grom, you have to get up. Are you all right? Astaroth cannot win this way. I cannot defeat him on my own. We need to fight him together.”

         “Prescott,” Grom coughed, forcing himself to sit up. Prescott tried to hold him down, pressing against his shoulders. The blast of energy tore open and exposed the front of his leather armor in places, charring it black. “Prescott, we have to stop him before it’s too late. We must save Oneria and Anon. Anne, save Princess Anne.”

         Grom’s vision blurred. He saw Prescott’s lips move and his face quiver like a shifting mirage. Prescott’s visage wavered and transformed, and he saw Anne smiling down at him. She leaned down and brushed her lips against his forehead.

         “Be brave and do not succumb to fear, my dear Grom. Your friends are with you. They will help you find the way home.”

         “Anne, I finally get to see your face one last time,” Grom whispered. He raised his hand to touch her face, but she pulled away from him. Grom’s hand fell against Prescott’s returning face, who watched him with worry.

         A cry stole Prescott’s attention away from Grom and back toward the circle of energy. The closest of the floating dark elf priests threw his head back, the hood falling away from his eyes. Sticking from his back was the black handle of a dagger. The energy holding him up surrounded his body, pulsing and crackling in intense flashes. The drow cried once more as the energy tore at his face, breaking his skin into white flakes. The cloak caught fire, working its way from the bottom up, and within moments the dark elf’s body crumbled to ash and disbursed in an explosion of the energy that had destroyed him. The dagger with a gleaming, obsidian blade bounced from the alabaster pillar and fell to the ground.

         Cloey stood at the doorway, her torso stained red around the gash and her arm extended. She stood as rigid as a statue, and her ghostly face dripped with sweat. She fell to her knees and onto the floor with a sickening smack.

         The arc of energy whipped back and forth like a snake striking at its prey. The tendril flew across to another chanting dark elf and struck him in the chest. Losing his concentration, the dark elf cried out in pain. As the energy began to absorb his body, more bolts lashed out at the other elves and overtook them. A collective cry rose from them as one by one their ashes flew in all directions like a display of bursting firework and drifted to the ground like snow.

         Prescott helped Grom to his feet, and they scrambled over to Cloey’s side. Prescott placed two fingers against the side of her neck and lowered his head. Grom looked on in horror, oblivious to the crumbling death or the uncontrollable energy around them. He touched her hair with a trembling hand, but recoiled it back to his side. He clawed at the side of his face in frustration and let out a heartfelt cry of longing.

         The tendrils flailed like the arms of an octopus as the pillar began to shrink and expand. Astaroth held his arms in front of his face as a blanket of light expanded over the entirety of the room. Flashes of white, purple, and black alternated until the pulsing light faded and returned upward through the opening in the ceiling. The altar broke into pieces and ascended upward with the fleeing pillar, leaving Astaroth’s sword hanging in the air for a moment before falling to the ground. Then there was silence.

         Astaroth lowered his hands from his face and stared up through the hole at the dark, starless sky. The flashes of light that illuminated the night became nothing more than a memory now, leaving only darkness.

         Grom turned from Cloey and stood. He lifted his axe and watched Astaroth. They had succeeded. They stopped the spell and saved Feldos from Mortillus and Astaroth’s army of black knights. The dark skies over Feldos could now lift and reveal the bright light of the sun once more.

         “This cannot be,” Astaroth said, his voice shaking. He knelt down and lifted The Sword of the Keepers and turned to face Grom. An unexplainable anger swept over his features, twisting his lips, cheeks, and brow. He held out his sword and charged with a ferocious cry. He moved with such speed that Grom was unable to brace himself. The sword came down toward him, but before it could reach him, Prescott dove with his own blade and deflected the strike. Astaroth snarled and pushed Prescott back with his sword. Prescott stumbled, and Grom raised his axe again, but Astaroth kicked him in the chest and sent him tumbling to the ground. Prescott lunged forward and crossed swords again with Astaroth.

         They forced one another along the ground, neither gaining an advantage on their opponent. Feet danced back and forth to gain position, and they fought their way toward the open balcony.

         Grom wanted to jump in and fight, but he feared that he would somehow slip up and cause Prescott harm. He looked down at Cloey, who rested by his feet. He waited for her to pull herself up and dust herself off like nothing had happened. Of course, that never came to reality, and he lifted his head and looked back at the two fighting.

         Prescott swung his blade again and connected with Astaroth’s sword. They stood deadlocked, staring at one another. Prescott pushed the blade to the side and caught Astaroth’s cheek. Blood trickled along the cut and ran in a single line down his pale face. He staggered back, and Prescott raised his sword for the kill. He drove his weapon down, but Astaroth managed to parry the strike and thrust his blade forward into Prescott’s chest. Prescott’s eyes shot open, and he opened his mouth to cry out. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his blade slipped from his hands. Astaroth gave his blade a final twist before shoving him to the ground. He placed his foot in Prescott’s gut and pulled out the slick, red blade. Astaroth ran his finger along his cheek and brought his finger to his lips. He licked the blood from it and spit upon Prescott’s prone body.

         Grom cried out and stood in shock. The moment Prescott’s head bounced off the stone floor, Grom knew that he was now alone. Prescott’s body fell amongst the other bodies, dropped to the ground by Grom himself. He stood in front of the pile of bodies, and each one laid there because of him.

         “My friends,” Grom whispered.

         “You chose the hard way to go about things, and now your friends are all gone. Their blood is on your hands, dwarf! And you shall soon join them in the land of the dead!” Astaroth howled, raising his blood-covered sword.

         Memories of his friends flooded Grom’s mind. He saw Isac throw himself in front of the racing dagger, saving the life of his brother Prescott. He watched Kravitz sacrifice himself, running straight for Astaroth and getting cut down for his bravery. He felt the shadow of the boulder hanging over his head, and he stared over his shoulder at Shenk’s sacrifice to save his companions inside the volcano. He heard Cloey’s cries – “Go now! Go now!” He witnessed her fall onto the ground after stopping the ritual. He stood still as Prescott fought to save them from Astaroth, and he cringed as Prescott’s courage failed. Each and everyone sacrificed their own lives in order to save one another, and Grom was the only one left alive.

         Clenching his teeth and his axe, Grom charged forward toward the balcony. He hefted his axe over his head and tossed it with all his might. The heavy axe flew forward and Astaroth did his best to parry it with his sword, but the weight proved too much. Astaroth’s sword left his grasp and flew through the air over the edge of the balcony with Grom’s axe. The two weapons gleamed once before being swallowed by the darkness. Before Astaroth could see his weapon slipping from all sight, Grom rushed forward and threw all his weight against Astaroth, pushing the black knight toward the edge of the balcony. Astaroth stumbled backward and tried to grab hold of the banister that ran along the balcony, but his fingers slipped and lost their grip. Astaroth tumbled over the edge and down after the weapons into the thick back below. Grom managed to grab hold and keep himself on the balcony. He leaned over the edge and watched Astaroth spin and plummet through the air, disappearing among the rocks surrounding the great black dragon castle.

         Grom staggered to Prescott and fell to his knees beside him. He lifted his head, his hands sliding through the slick blood that pooled underneath his body. Prescott opened his eyes and whispered something.

         Grom thought he heard him whisper, “You let me die.”

         He shook his head and pressed Prescott’s face against his chest. Grom broke down sobbing, tears running down his face and collecting in Prescott’s hair.

         “Brother, I see you.”

         Prescott uttered those last words. Grom sat there out on the balcony, cradling Prescott’s body back and forth as he cried. He threw his head back and screamed. His voice echoed across the air and throughout the blackened isle of Mortillus, land of death and darkness.

ID: 966320   (Rated: 13+) Chapter 20: Statue  Grom returns to Oneria, where a celebration is waiting for him... by The Lemon