Bearers of the Black Staff

The Elf cocks his head and thinks on it a moment. “Revenge is not what I seek by killing you, brother. Peace of mind is what I seek. If you are gone and I alone remain, who is left to challenge me? I can be whatever I wish once you are dead. I can be leader of all the Races and reshape the world in whatever ways I see fit.”


“You lie even to yourself.” The old man’s words are so soft they are almost inaudible. “You care nothing for peace of mind. You are here because I would not join you. You seek to make me suffer for refusing your offer. I would not partner with you in your cause, and so now you would make me pay the price for my temerity.”

The Elf’s features tighten and his face undergoes a sudden transformation, changing from calm to tense, mirroring rage and frustration and despair all at once, emotions he has kept bottled up inside but now break free. He shifts the black staff in the same way the old man did only moments earlier.

“Shall we find out who shall be judged right and who wrong?” he asks. “Shall we settle this?”

The old man does not reply. “Stay where you are,” he says over his shoulder to the boy, his voice soft enough that his enemy cannot hear his words. “Don’t try to help me. Don’t interfere.”

The boy has been taught to obey the old man and not question his directives. But this time he does not think he can do so. He cannot sit by and let his mentor be killed if he can do anything to stop it. He does not like what he sees and hears in the voice of the Elf. He thinks that the old man is in danger. How can he ignore this?

The old man has turned back to face the Elf, who is advancing on him once more. “Do not do this,” he says. “We are the last of our kind, the last who bear the staff. Think what—”

But the runes carved into the dark length of the other’s weapon are already flaring to life with the power of the Word’s magic, and abruptly white fire lances out at the old man. He blocks the strike with magic of his own, but the force of the attack knocks him back two steps. The Elf’s laughter is high and shrill as he comes on, the magic preceding him in a steady stream, as if water jetting from a pump. There seems to be no end to it, its power undiminished by loss of either strength or determination in the bearer. The old man has taught the boy that usage of the magic in any single situation is finite, that the supply is not inexhaustible, that it must be expended judiciously. The strength and longevity of the Elf’s attack seem to suggest otherwise.

The Elf screams suddenly, an explosion of sustained madness released in primal form, and the magic of his staff grows brighter and its force stronger. The old man is down on one knee, fighting to keep his balance while he fends off the killing attack. The boy, watching, begins to search the empty ground for anything at all that might help, any weapon that he can use.

His eyes settle on a rock that will just fit within the palm of his hand. He picks it up and starts forward.

“You are finished, brother!” the Elf shouts wildly as he sees the old man falter. “Your life is mine to take!”

The fire breaks through and begins to burn the old man. But the boy’s mentor continues to fight back, and suddenly the killing fire falters—just a little, but enough that the boy notices. The old man struggles back to his feet, his staff erupting with white fire of its own, fire discharged in fits and starts that hammers into the Elf over and over. The Elf does not bother with defenses, his own attack commanding the whole of his attention. The fire from the old man’s staff engulfs him. He screams in pain, but instead of falling under the withering assault, he rushes forward as the magic of his own staff reignites, slamming into the old man with crushing force.

The two stand within six feet of each other, the killing fires of each threatening to destroy the other.

Frantic with the need to do something, the boy draws back his arm and flings the rock in his hand. His aim is true; the rock strikes the Elf in the head, a blow that knocks him backward and for just a moment throws off his attack and leaves him exposed.

The boy’s mentor doesn’t hesitate. Seizing his opportunity, he uses his magic to hold the Elf fast, sets him ablaze from head to toe, chars him to the bone, and drops him to the ground a blackened husk from which small tendrils of smoke rise like early-morning vapor in the heat of the dawn’s sun.