The Broken Song

Chapter Nine

— The Doom that Consumes the World, Svartalfheim —

This was a place of dark magic. The air was eerily still, the sensation of a thousand eyes watching them as they approached the Doom. Idelle's body trembled. Her steps followed Lulu, but her attention was elsewhere, her mind awash with the magnitude of the Doom's presence. It curled around her, instinctively knowing she possessed a deep well of aether. It tried to draw it out, convince her to tap into its power for her own gain. Her resolve remained firm, but it was easy to see how so many had been consumed by the Doom. The trail to the altar at the base of the volcanic mountain was littered with the skeletons of those foolish enough to believe themselves capable of withstanding the power.

Ahead, near the altar, was a cluster of tents where the priestesses congregated. Their chanting and singing were growing louder with every step. They were near the circle of white rocks that served as the boundary when Idelle spotted a corpse deposited a short ways off the road. The body had just begun to decay. She recognized the features still visible. Larkavin, an elf of only fifteen. She had saved him just last year in Alfheim, pulling him back from the brink of allowing his power to consume him. But now, he was dead. She hadn't managed to save him after all. Quietly, she sent a prayer to her gods, to the Mother, to Leira, and to Draugira. They were each of different traditions, Alfheim, Valdornne, Medyulana, but they were each a part of her. They would lay her friend to rest.

She finished her prayer just as her feet reached the boundary. There were no gods here, only devils, power, and other dark things. A shiver ran down her spine, the magic curling violently when, at last, the Doom recognized her for whom she was. It riled, hissing inaudibly like an angry mob. It didn't want her there, bearing down on her, wave after wave of dark magic crashing against her as though she fought against a roaring tide. Her eyes were already growing heavy, each step a triumph of will.

*************

Ahead, Lulu didn't notice her friend's distress. She was too focused on the dramatic landscape that surrounded them. At the base of a slowly erupting volcano, lava poured around them in wide, angry rivers, black ash billowed overhead, and every now and then, small earthquakes rumbled the soil beneath their feet. The cluster of tents was perched at the center of a piece of land that was nearly its own island by the amount of lava flowing from the mountain.

Rolanberry had left them as soon as he was no longer needed to navigate the very specific path through the lava drenched landscape. He had seen them off with a nod of his head and shaking hands. It had seemed as though he couldn't run away from the Doom fast enough.

Lulu rolled her eyes. A bit too dramatic for a bunch of ladies wearing robes and promising to perform miracles. She imagined it worked, though. Undoubtedly, their backdrop had served them well with simpler folk. But this display was unimpressive to her. In her experience, the level of showmanship accurately portrayed the level of the conjuror's skill. More theatrics, less competency. It was an easy test that always proved true. This time would be no different.

When they approached the tents, the chanting abruptly stopped, every priestess falling silent as their hooded figures turned toward the newcomers. Lulu applauded, but at her side, Idelle remained stock still, her eyes fixed on the priestesses.

"Good job," Lulu bowed to them. "Truly. You're all pulling off the creepy vibe with flying colors. I'm very impressed. Does that usually make people shit themselves, or do you have to pull out another 'magical' trick?"

"We do not answer to you," one spoke.

"You came to us," another answered.

"Elusia Vale," the nearest one rasped.