“What burden is that?” Brisbois asked gently. Karleah turned to watch the man. Could he really be looking at the Keeper with something other than his usual wanton lust? It seemed unlikely.
The Keeper surveyed the group before her. “Thousands upon thousands of years ago, so long ago that even the elves and the dwarves—” she inclined her head toward Braddoc, who responded in kind “—have but the slightest memory, our world, Mystara, was closely tied to another, whose name I dare not mention. It was a place of darkness and shadow and powerful sorcery, though not an evil place. Indeed, it had a beauty and nobility that Mystara has never attained. For in that world, there lived a race of surpassing grace. In the old tongue they were called the a’bay’otte, a name which has been corrupted by the tongues of men to abelaat.”
Jo reflexively touched her scarred left shoulder, and Dayin crossed his arms, his fists guarding the marks on his inner elbows. Interesting, Karleah thought, that memories can be provoked from a single word.
“Abelaats … beautiful?” Jo asked, incredulously. “I have never seen a fouler creature in all the world.”
“Yes,” the Keeper said simply. She added, “Those abelaats that live now are horrible perversions of the creatures of old. The original abelaats roamed their own world in grace and constructed magical gates into Mystara—for they were a sorcerous race, and their world a sorcerous world. But Mystara, in those days, was not magical at all. Was it, dwarf?” Keeper Grainger turned to Braddoc, who stood in the shadows.
Braddoc cleared his throat clumsily and said, “No … not as it is today—or so legends say.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about the abelaats before, Braddoc?” Jo asked.
The dwarf shrugged. “It was an ancient, ancient tale, so old no one believed it anymore. I’ve plenty of ancient dwarven tales that I haven’t bored you with.”
“Believe the tale, dwarf,” Keeper Grainger said huskily. “Believe the tale, for it is true.” She turned back to the others and continued, “The abelaats multiplied across their twilight world, where they were the master race—beautiful and shining. They crossed their magical bridges to reach Mystara, and spread out here as well.” Keeper Grainger paused for breath, and the fire crackled in the silence that fell.
“But, in the dawn-time of Mystara, new races crawled from their birthing beds. The elven race slowly gained a foothold on Mystara, as did the dwarves. The abelaats lived contentedly with these new folk, trading with the artisan dwarves, and teaching small magicks to the elves. They even traded their blood crystals to the young races of Mystara.
“But the abelaats had not realized the power of their crystals. They did not know the magic inherent in their blood and spittle. It was their essence, their magical essence, that they were gradually trading away to the dwarves and elves. And the land changed because of the abelaat crystals. Mystara began to crave magic, as a starving man craves food. It began to draw magic away from the abelaats’ home world, through the sorcerous portals and gates the abelaats themselves had built.
“Then Mystara gave birth to a new race, the humans.” The Keeper paused, looking at Johauna and Brisbois, a faint edge of accusation in her eyes. Karleah pursed her lips and wondered how the woman knew not to look at her or Dayin.
“Go on, Keeper,” Dayin whispered. “Go on.”
The woman nodded. “The birth of humans marked the doom of the abelaats, for humans hated abelaats and called them the creatures of the night. Humans multiplied quickly and took over the land. The abelaats were forced from their homes and hunted.” Keeper Grainger lowered her head momentarily. “The butcheries they brought on the abelaats were great. They hunted them for fear and sport and cruelty, and they left their bodies to lie in waste.
“That’s when the abelaats began their ceaseless war with the humans. They started to hunt them for food. But even that was no great crime—for millennia, the abelaats had fed off one another as well.”
“The abelaats … ate each other?” Jo asked, horror lacing her words.
Keeper Grainger shook her head. “No. They drew sustenance from each other’s blood. But as their numbers dwindled on Mystara, and as their gates to their home world collapsed, one by one, the abelaats began to seek sustenance from human blood.”
The Keeper’s voice hardened. “Humans destroyed all but a few of the abelaats. The survivors hid in the mountains and the valleys and the deepest gorges, seeking escape from the encroaching hordes. In the end, only one true abelaat remained; Aeltic was his name.”
“Abelaats had names?” Jo asked hesitantly. Her hand rubbed her scarred shoulder nervously.
“Have, squire, not had,” Keeper Grainger gently chided. “Even the pathetic creatures who attacked you and the boy had names.”
Jo shot an amazed glance at Dayin, who returned her look. “How … how did you know we’ve been … we’ve both been attacked by abelaats?” Jo asked uncertainly. Karleah felt a pang in her heart for the two of them. Neither wanted to be reminded of those awful times.
The Keeper’s pale green eyes flickered in the firelight as she gazed from Jo to Dayin. “The bile of the abelaats lingers in your bodies. It … gives off a distinct odor. Some of us are sensitive to it.”
Karleah leaned forward intently. Will the Keeper reveal her secret? she wondered.
Keeper Grainer looked down at her white hands, then slowly added another piece of peat to the brazier. Her furrowed brow smoothed, and a certain calmness seemed to enter the woman. For a moment, it seemed as if the Keeper would not continue.
“Tell them, and be done,” Karleah hissed.
The pain in Keeper Grainger’s eyes deepened, and she closed them as she spoke. “What none of the legends say is that the abelaats’ world was drained of so much magic that the abelaats who were still there grew weak and, eventually, turned slowly to stone. Magic was their life essence, and without it, they became crude, slumbering statues. As the magic energy ebbed, the last gates between their world and this one fell. The abelaats on Mystara could not return home, could not bring back magic to awaken their sleeping brothers from the stony ground.”
“And Aeltic descended from those few survivors,” Karleah supplied.
“Yes. Aeltic was the last true abelaat.”
Karleah huffed and drew the blanket back from her features. “A pretty and tragic tale, the Keeper tells. But it is only half true.”
Karleah stood and gestured for the others to remain seated. A wry smile formed on the crone’s lips. “Your story has told us much that we needed to know. Now let me tell my companions the rest. The abelaats were a beautiful race indeed, as are vampires and other creatures of darkness. Their beauty is cold and lethal. Abelaats have no love for the children of the day, treating them like cattle, subsisting on their blood. Humans, elves, and dwarves alike.”
“Abelaats are vampires?” Jo asked, confused.
Karleah shook her head. “No. They are like vampires, but are living creatures, not undead. Abelaats are born of sorcerous darkness and blood-lust.”
Jo looked worriedly at the Keeper, expecting her to take offense. But the woman’s drawn features stared emptily into the brazier.
Karleah approached Braddoc, jabbing a finger into his chest. “The dwarves feel a kinship with the abelaats because they were, like the dwarves, creatures of stone and darkness. According to dwarven legends, abelaats and dwarves were brothers. That is rubbish. It was only by trickery and illusion that the abelaats could even move among Braddoc’s folk.”