Page 58 of Revenge of the Elf Lord

Haman was not a stupid elf, nor was he inept in magic. Cyran’s biggest fear was the depth of black magic Haman had acquired over the centuries.

His problem, however, was that if the new spell worked and Haman was forced back into a more permanent sleep state, what would he do with him then? He could not send him back to his laboratory, but maybe Freyja or Heimdall might know of a secure location.

He was surprised to discover he did not want to kill his stepfather. He had killed many people during times of war and strife, but unless Haman attacked him or, worse, Shalendra, he would not kill the man who raised him, no matter how much he hated him. To do something like that would be stooping to Haman’s low level, and Cyran wanted to be a better elf than that.

Closing his eyes, he bowed his head and exhaled. Calming his mind, he whispered the spell.

Take this elf, give him rest.

Slow his body, stop his quest.

Arrest the pain given to others.

Allow for healing, all sisters and brothers.

From stasis he arrived, to stasis he will go.

His plans revised, everyone’s foe.

His future gone, a healer no more.

His spirit bound, standing at death’s door.

A brilliant light formed around Haman, who grabbed Shalendra by the throat and pulled her back to him, his ceremonial knife pressing against her throat. “Stop what you are doing, Cyran, or your female will only die faster. Many things have been set in motion, and you cannot change fate. We are so much more than simple healers. We have the power of life and death at our fingertips. Join me! Help me make our world right again. Help me take back Alfheimr and make it great again.”

“I’m sorry, Haman. I, too, have set plans in motion that can't be changed. You never understood the most important emotion above all others—love. Love is what will heal our people, not hate. Love will unite us as one race, as it should have been these many centuries. Lamruil and Ailuin will achieve this feat, not you. You will be no more.”

He slammed his hands together, the single clap echoing in the room. “Haman Daralei, once healer to the king of all elves, your spirit is bound for all time.”

His stepfather’s eyes widened, and the ceremonial knife clattered to the stone floor. His mouth opened, whether to speak or scream, they would never know. The light brightened until the room was bathed in golden sunlight, and everyone’s eyes snapped shut.

After a few seconds, the brilliance faded, and Cyran’s eyes opened to find his stepfather’s body frozen, like a statue, his eyes wide and mouth open as if in a never-ending scream. The expression was typical to him—one he had witnessed during his youth.

“It is done.”

“Cyran,” Shalendra whispered as her body slumped forward.

In a single leap, he reached her just before she hit the hard rock and pulled her into his embrace. She was burning up, her skin on fire, but her face was almost transparent, reminding him of the twin ghosts they had rescued.

Reaching up, he lifted one eyelid. Her eye was glazed over, yet red, and her pupils were dilated. When a narrow stream of blood seeped from her nostril, he fashioned protective gloves over his hands.

“Can you save her?” Zel squatted beside him.

“Don’t get too close. Elves do not get sick, much less from human diseases, but I recognize these symptoms, and if Haman mutated them, which I believe he did, this might have the capacity to kill us all.”

“I recognize what may be causing the blood to flow from her eyes, nose, and mouth,” Zel said as Cyran wiped more blood escaping from the outer and inner corners of her closed eyes. “This reminds me of what the Africans on Midgard call Ebola. I was not affected and was in direct contact with contaminated people.”

Cyran nodded. “Yes, Ebola is one of the viruses.” He pointed to her swollen neck lymph nodes and the clusters of red spots on her chest and forehead. “The swollen lymph nodes are from the black plague, and the red spots are smallpox.” He glanced at Zel, then Loki. “Have either of you been in direct contact with those?”

Zel shook his head and scooted back, but Loki nodded. “I was sort of responsible for the plague symptoms escaping. I was with Tamerlane in 1396 after he defeated the Golden Horde and convinced him to sell artifacts to people around the Mediterranean Sea. Unfortunately, I didn’t know about the plague, which migrated with fleas on the ships. Lots of death.”

Cyran’s brows rose, disbelief on his face. “Seriously? It killed sixty percent of the humans.”

“I didn’t do it intentionally, but I have immunity. I came across a family suffering from the disease. Their five-year-old daughter reminded me of Hel, and I couldn’t let her or her parents die, so I showed them how to care for each other. I checked on them years later and discovered the young girl had grown up and had a family of her own. She still practiced the cleaning techniques I showed her as a child.”

Cyran smiled. “So, you do have a heart. People would like you more if you showed that side of you.”

The god shrugged. “Shalendra told me the same thing. My way allows me to do the things I want without interference.”

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