Blood Debt of the Wild Elf

by Amanda Clover

  “So Quaysun did watch out for them?” Bronwen murmured.

  “So it seemed. Fairsea became Nokings and for a time after they won their freedom they prospered as a free city.” He shook his head. “But without the protection of the Empire of Urik, the monsters came. The men held for a while, thanks to the walls, but when their city fell the men were slaughtered and the women enslaved. Nokings has ever since belonged to the monsters. Once a moon, a moot is held for five days, and the city’s numbers swell to bursting.”

  “The gods should smite this whole place,” says Bronwen, her lips curling back in a snarl.

  “The gods do not exist,” says Gerrik. “None of them. It is all men and machines, like I said before.”

  Bronwen experiences a flash of anger that Gerrik would erase Adrahil from existence with such a casual remark. The goddess is real, she knows it in her heart, and no Blood Debt will convince her that Adrahil does not watch over her now.

  Before she can say as much to Gerrik, a loud fight breaks out behind them, drawing attention to the marketplace. Bronwen glimpses orcs battling with a pair of blue-skinned giants with strange tattoos. There is a flash of magic, screams, and the fight turns into an outright battle, with orc bodies flung through the air and spears being thrown by scalefolk nearby.

  “Nice distraction,” says Gerrik. “Now would be a good time to get to the undercroft.”

  The church itself is unguarded, with just a few goblins picking over the seats and the rubble in search of something worth salvaging. They scatter fearfully when they see Bronwen in her deep elf cloak. Nearer to the stage are orcs working to carry cages up onto the stage and begin lighting oil-lamps for the auction. Bronwen realizes that the reason for the timing of the auction is that a hole in the roof directly above the stage will allow moonlight to provide additional illumination.

  She thinks to wonder why the monsters do not simple hold the auction during the day. Then she recalls the well-dressed vampire thralls in the marketplace. Nor are vampires the only nocturnal creatures that might wish to purchase humans and elves. Pale and unwholesome things from the lightless earth, as well as actual deep elves, might desire sentient slaves.

  The orcs glance warily at Bronwen and Gerrik. A few mutter to each other as Bronwen skirts around the stage and tries to stride casually down a short flight of steps to an open double-door. It is dimly lit with torches in the stairwell beyond. Her way is blocked by a man in full plate armor of black iron, a massive sword gripped by both hands with the tip of the blade resting on the ground. She slows her approach and the armored man lifts his sword from the floor.

  An unearthly voice emanates from the suit of armor, echoing as if from a great distance, “You may not pass before the auction.”

  She looks carefully at this man and red text materializes above his head.

  Teles Cleave - Level 20 Zombie Nightguard

  He is undead and of a much higher level! Doubt creeps into her mind as she tries to recall the teaching of her tribe about Zombies. She can remember Cliara the Lore Keeper speaking to her and the other young warrior girls of the Red Feather about the many dangers they will face. Zombies… what did Cliara say about them?

  She knows they are slower and less intelligent than humans, but very difficult to put down and immune to fear and pain. Cliara warned that their single-minded nature makes them a dangerous foe when you have their attention.

  “What do we do?” She mutters to Gerrik, wondering how they avoid Teles Cleave’s attention.

  “We have to get through him to get to the slaves,” says Gerrik, fumbling with his pouches with one hand and holding his staff with the other.

  “The smoke bombs?” She whispers.

  “No, he’ll see through the smoke,” hisses Gerrik.

  Telese Cleave takes a step towards them, his iron boots clanking on the stone staircase and his sword raised so high above his head it almost touches the slope of the ceiling. His voice booms out from his sinister helmet.

  “Return to the surface now. I will not warn you again, interlopers.”

  “I have a charm for blinding the undead,” says Gerrik, pulling out pouches and beginning to weave his magic.

  Bronwen sees that the hulking zombie is already stepping forward once more to bring them into the reach of his massive sword. She draws her blade and places herself between Gerrik and the zombie.

  “Get back,” she grunts to Gerrik. He scrambles back, his spell abandoned as the zombie swings. Bronwen steps aside as the zombie’s massive sword comes crashing down with enough force to chip stone from the stairs. The blade rings as loud as a cannon shot. The Zombie advances another step and lifts the blade again.

  Bronwen is ready. As Telese Cleave hefts the huge blade above his head, she activates her Power Strike ability. The text flashes before her and she feels her muscles burning with incredible force. Before the Zombie can bring the sword crashing down again, she steps close and drives her blade into the zombie’s iron cuirass.

  42 HP Damage

  The text floats from the wounded zombie as she wrenches her blade from his punctured plate with a screech of metal. Black blood oozes out of his armor, filling the air with the scent of his corruption. She raises her sword to swing again and Telese Cleave brings his mighty blade crashing down on Bronwen. With only the barest of margins, she gets her guard up in time to catch the blow. Their blades lock, hers above her face to block the downward swing of the zombie’s massive sword. Her arm muscles shake as the zombie exerts incredible force.

  “Go, Gerrik!” Bronwen cries. “I cannot hold him!”

  But Gerrik does not go. He steps beside her, his staff raised and violet magic swirling around the gnarled top. He chants a magical tongue, his voice far deeper than normal. Bronwen’s arms are failing, her strength finally overcome by the indefatigable zombie. She grits her teeth and lets out a last cry through them, spending every measure of her strength to hold the zombie’s blade a moment longer.

  Gerrik’s chanting reaches its peak and the goblin shouts, “Enervatus Rescindum!”

  Swirling violet energy bursts from the tip of Gerrik’s staff and slams into the black helm of Telese Cleave. The force pushing down on Bronwen’s sword lifts immediately and the zombie staggers back, dropping his massive sword and tearing at the iron mask of his helmet. Acrid smoke pours from his visor and black blood sluices through the grille of his mask. He thumps loudly to his knees, clawing at his mask for a moment before tumbling over.

  Zombie Defeated +1100 XP

  Bronwen barely notices her windfall for participating in slaying the zombie. She stands horrorstruck gazing down upon the fallen creature. Shouting from the church above rouses Bronwen from her daze. She realizes that the orcs laboring in the chapel surely heard the encounter with the zombie.

  “We have to get out of here,” says Gerrik.

  “I came here to save Elyana,” says Bronwen, her courage returning in a rush. “I will not leave without her!”

  “Shit,” mutters Gerrik. “Go then, quickly, I will deal with these orcs.”

  “Master?” She says, concern edging her voice.

  “I’m not stupid, I can take them,” says Gerrik. “Go and come straight back up. If there is a fight you cannot manage then return to me here, there will be other chances to save her.”

  “Yes, master,” she says, nodding gratefully and turning to hurry through the now-unguarded door.

  “Bronwen,” Gerrik calls over his shoulder.

  She hesitates at the threshold and looks back at him. “Yes, master?”

  “Do not die,” he commands. “I forbid it.”

  “I promise master,” she says and her heart yearns to say more. She wants to call out to him and refuse to leave his side, but she knows trust he will be safe if she is to rescue Elyana.

  She steals a last glimpse at Gerrik as he makes ready to battle the orcs, his lean muscles tense and his bony fingers searching through his charms and herbal components. She leaves him and descends int
o the torchlit depths of the undercroft, in search of her friend.

  The space beneath the cathedral is vast and those guttering torches provide insufficient light for a human to see. Thankfully, Bronwen’s Wild Elf eyes provide her with enhanced vision. Shadows lighten and the glow of torches reaches past the stone corridors and into the massive chamber beyond. Her sensitive hearing picks up the distant sound of soft voices, coughing, shuffling feet, and moans.

  She moves as silently as she can through the undercroft, keeping to the shadows and slipping around the pools of torchlight that glow in the darkness. She passes bunks where orcs are snoring in their beds and a small room with a closed door. She can hear moans and grunts from inside and knows, by the smell if nothing else, that this is the place the orcs take their slaves to defile them.

  Her hand tightens on the grip of her sword and she imagines throwing open the door and slashing open the necks of every orc that would impose his pleasure upon elf or human. But there are many orcs sleeping in the nearby barracks. As soon as the noise were to rouse them from their sleep she would be hacked to pieces or, worse, captured and pressed into slavery. Her encounter with the orc, Bone Carver, had given her a taste of what such a life might be like, but she knew it could be worse still to be sold at auction to one of the horrors that she witnessed in the marketplace.

  Bronwen creeps carefully past the room filled with moaning and rutting sounds, hoping that beautiful Elyana is not among those being defiled by their captors. She approaches the sounds of shuffling feet and the faint movement of hunched figures in the darkness beyond the torchlight and finds a maze of iron cages. Each cage holds between five and ten captives and there are dozens of cages spread out across the cold stone floor. Pale figures huddle or pace in each cage. Some look up at Bronwen, faces streaked with filth and tears, and quickly look away, perhaps assuming she is a deep elf purchaser come to survey the slaves.

  It is just as well they mistake her for one of their captors, if they knew the truth they might begin clamoring to be released. It tears to see others of her tribe locked into the cages. There is Udora, the stately Warsinger of the tribe, face filthy and shoulders slumped against the bars of her cage. Her voice stirred the fury within the warriors of the Red Feaher before their battle. In another cage, Mella and Chani huddle together, their slender bodies arm-in-arm, their bare backs covered in bruises and whip-marks. The pair of warriors had become hearthmates despite being distantly related by blood. It was not common, but not unheard of for such things to happen in the small tribe.

  Bronwen slipped quietly past them and others of her tribe. They were too few in number and too scattered among human captives for her to attempt a mass release. The moment she opened one cage, they might all react, and the guards would surely come.

  Her search through the cages grows frantic as she hears cries of alarm echoing down the stairs from the upper level. This, in turn, begins to rouse the orcs from the barracks. Their attention is not on the cages, not yet, but her time is running out. She prays to Adrahil that Gerrik is not hurt.

  “Elyana?” Bronwen hisses, risking drawing attention. “Elyana are you there?”

  She moves from cage to cage, peering inside each for but a moment and asking, “Elyana?”

  “Y-you’re no deep elf,” says one human woman.

  Bronwen quickly moves on as word spreads and the captives begin to rise to their feet. The reach out for her and pull at Bronwen’s cloak.

  “Elyana?!” Bronwen cries, her tension mounting as the orcs leaving the barracks begin to shout. One hard-faced human woman grabs the sleeve of Bronwen’s cloak. She has to slip out of the heavy garment to escape the woman’s grasp. Now with her pale skin and dappled shoulders visible, the captives begin to call out for her, their voices rising in a din all around her. Moving between the cages, dodging reaching hands, she has to shout to be heard, “Elyana?! Are you there?!”

  “Bronwen?”

  She can barely hear the hoarse rasping through the captives pleading to be let go. She stands on her toes and looks over the heads of the captives.

  She calls out again and is answered with a desperate cry, “Bronwen! It is me!”

  The heavy thumping of boots is approaching across the stone floor, torches bobbing as orcs approach the pandemonium in the cages. She has very little time, but… there! A snatch of crimson hair, a waving hand, those brilliant sapphire eyes of Elyana glittering in the dark.

  “I am coming!” Bronwen cries, vaulting over one cage and tearing free from the hands that grip her at another. She reaches the cage containing Elyana.

  Elyana-of-the-Red-Feather - Level 2 Wild Elf Spellweaver

  Bronwen’s heart aches at the sight of her old friend, her red hair matted with dried blood and her face smeared with dirt. They embrace through the bars of the cage, Elyana crying with relief.

  “Please, let us out,” moans one of the human women sharing the cage with Elyana.

  Bronwen looks down at the heavy iron lock and her heart sinks. She draws her sword and begins to hammer the hilt against the lock. The delicate sword is magically strong and does not break, but it lacks the weight, and Bronwen lacks the strength, to smash the lock.

  “Hurry,” cries Elyana, pointing past Bronwen. “An orc is coming!”

  Bronwen roars with fury and slams the hilt of her sword against the lock. Metal sparks on metal and the blow dents the lock’s casing, but it does not break it open. Before she can try again, the orc is upon her.

  Mung the Virgin Ruiner - Level 3 Orc Slaver

  The red text floating above his head matches the hateful gleam in the orc’s beady eyes. He grips a slaver’s lasso in one hand and a short, saw-toothed blade in the other. He is leaner than the orc she fought before, his arms covered with scars from past battles, and his loincloth bulges obscenely with what must be an immense cock.

  “Lookit,” growls the orc. “Elf bitch want to join the cages. I put her in.”

  He thunders towards her and she whirls, bringing up her guard just in time to catch his blow and turn it aside. He is strong, but so is she, and she is evenly matched with ferocity. Her blade slashes a crimson wound across his chest and he replies with a backhand to Bronwen’s face that loosens her teeth and leaves her dazed.

  7 HP DAMAGE

  The red text informs her as her back slams against the bars of the cage containing Elyana. The crimson-haired elf cries out with fear.

  “Do not yield to him!” Elyana cries.

  “I did not intend to,” growls Bronwen, pushing off the cage just as the orc is upon her again.

  Their blades meet once again, but this time Bronwen lashes out with her foot, driving it up and into the orc’s bulging loincloth. She feels the soft meat of his bollocks compress and shift and the orc’s eyes widen enough to show white. His blade drops and she presses the attack, slicing off his hand holding the lasso and then driving her broken sword deep into his chest. He staggers back and bangs into the cage across from Elyana’s. Hands inside the cage tear at his ears and feet kick at his body as he slumps down to the ground.

  ORC DEFEATED + 300 XP

  Bronwen shakes off the dizziness from the blow she took and crouches beside the fallen orc. There is a ring of many keys hanging from his belt. It jangles as she hefts it up. It is attached to a leather cord, but she slices that free. She rises, holding the keys that will allow her to free Elyana and all the others. The orcs are coming, but she has time. A smile spreads on her face, but there is a look of horror on Elyana’s.

  The red-haired elf cries out, “Behind you!”

  Bronwen only manages a half turn before a blurry lavender shape slams into her back and drives her to the floor. The impact is painful and she lands poorly on her left shoulder on the cold stones.

  3 HP Damage

  Though stunned, she is able to twist beneath her attacker and get her hand on her sword. She finds herself looking up into the face of an elf with eerie moon-white eyes rimmed with darkness. The elf’s face is fra
med by the hood of a lavender cloak and her skin is dusky lavender to match. Her cruel smile reveals sharp canines and a row of perfect white teeth.

  Thanwyn Serassa - Level 41 Deep Elf Sellsword

  Bronwen tries to raise her sword and the elf woman presses down with a dagger of black stone that feels oddly warm against Bronwen’s throat.

  “Try it, tree elf,” murmurs Thanwyn, pressing her knees painfully into Bronwen’s abdomen. “One slash and your wound will never close again. You will go to meet your precious goddess. Except… she isn’t real.”

  Something about the cruelty in Thanwyn’s words is more terrifying to Bronwen than the blade pressed to her throat. Bronwen opens her hand and the sword drops from her grasp. Thanwyn picks it up without looking at it.

  “Pretty sword for a little Level 3 tree elf,” chuckles Thanwyn. “Come to try to free your friend there?”

  “To the hells with you,” curses Bronwen. “I would rather die on this floor than be paid by orcs to sell my kin.”

  “You’re no kin of mine,” laughs Thanwyn, leaping easily to her feet and hefting Bronwen up from the floor. “You tree elves prance through the forests and jungles, mingling with men. We dwell close to the mother’s heart, within the hallowed earth, and we do not give quarter to the destroyers of our way.”

  Bronwen sees hatred in the deep elf’s eyes beyond merely racial animus. Thanwyn has been wronged, personally, and repays it with her cruelty.