by Tony Roberts
She leaned against the wall and drew in her breath. Unsuspecting men they may be, but once she appeared they would be doing their best to kill her. She closed her eyes and allowed her blood to course through her entire body. The feeling was good. Inside her she felt her other self growling and hissing, eager to be let loose. For the moment, no. However, there may be a time she would have to.
She stepped into the opening, framing herself there, sword gripped in both hands, eyes moving left and right. Six men, all turning to see who it was. Eyes widened in surprise, then anticipation. A lone girl? A slightly-built one, too. A nice sword. Someone would have that as a trophy. Elf-blood? How unusual. Dark skin? What was this?
They all pulled their swords clear, not using the long-shafted pole-arms as the confines of the room made wielding such items impractical. They pushed aside the chairs in their way and came towards her, smiling.
“Still bored?” Faer asked conversationally.
“Not now,” the nearest said. “Perhaps we’ll all have our way with you before we cut your throat.”
“You wouldn’t have the energy,” she replied. “But you’ll all be dead in moments anyway, so it’s not relevant.”
“Kill this silly bitch,” one of the others said, kicking a small table aside in temper.
Two came at her, the one who had first spoken to her and the man next to him. Faer took one step forward and swung hard, from right to left and upwards. Her blow took the down-cut of the nearest man and sent it back, the shock jarring his arms. He staggered to one side in surprise.
Faer planted her right foot down hard. Her next cut was down, across the second man’s line of approach. He only just countered, blinking in shock. Not hesitating she half-turned and brought her blade back under the first man’s guard and cut across his torso.
The sound of his sword striking the stone floor filled the chamber and she stepped back. The man slowly sank to the floor, clutching his wound, his eyes wide and staring. Five left. They spread out slowly, much more warily. This girl was fast and deadly.
Two to the left. Two to the right. One centre. She forced up a wall of power and slammed it into the centre man, sending him staggering back, dumbfounded as to what was happening to him. She span and came at the two to her right hard and fast. Two blows, one to knock the guard aside and down through shoulder and chest. As he fell she stepped over him and hacked down on the other man’s head. He blocked.
The two on the left came at her. One hand left her hilt and shot a column of fire at the two, striking them in the face and chest. They both furiously swatted at the flames, screaming. She turned back to her opponent. He tried to disembowel her but she nimbly avoided the thrust. Her counter sank into his throat and he fell to the floor coughing blood.
The centre man pushed himself away from the table that had stopped his backwards movement and came for her, his blade seeking her soft flesh. She blocked high and span round, her movement aiding her strike which cut through his stomach, ripping aside the padded leather armour. He gargled in agony and keeled over.
The two who were scorched attacked in desperation. What they were facing here was something they’d never taken on before. It scared them. Two more failed blows, two more successful counters. Faer was left standing in a charnel house, looking round at the six men lying dead. She felt nothing. It had been her or them. A heavy blow to her back sent her staggering, and she heard the clatter of something strike the floor behind her.
She stopped, turned and saw a crossbowman in the doorway looking at her in consternation. The bolt he’d shot should have killed her, yet it had merely bounced off. Faer grimaced. One bruise coming up. She held out her hand and turned it up, fingers turning into claws. Her face twisted in fury and her eyes bored into his. She closed her fingers and the crossbowman gripped his throat, choking. She held her spell grip tight, and he sank to his knees, one hand flapping uselessly, the other trying to free his constricted throat to no avail. What was he trying to stop? He couldn’t see anything or touch anything.
He fell forward onto his face and she released her grip. She was bathed in sweat. A lot of energy used up. She moved to the doorway, stepping over the downed crossbowman and looked left and right. The wooden door was open. She looked in. A staircase going down. Clearly he’d heard the sound of fighting and had come up that way. She went down, and the stairs opened to a large room directly underneath the central part of the gatehouse. Here was where the winch equipment for the portcullises and drawbridge were. Another doorway stood opposite. The floor was of wood. Two slots stood in the floor and here the iron portcullises were raised and lowered. They were lowered at that moment, and only the tops were visible, and above them iron linked chains rose to winches close to the roof and fixed to the floor beneath these were wheels, clearly used to raise and lower the gates.
To the left, against the wall, two more drum winches stood, these were the drawbridge raising and lowering devices. Iron chains led out through slots in the wall next to these. More slots stood in the wall, these in the form of crosses for both bow and crossbow to be able to loose out onto attackers, and in the floor in between the winches were slots the width of a man’s foot. These were ‘murder holes’ and would be where defenders could shoot down onto attackers, or drop unpleasant objects onto them.
Faer took all this in as she entered the room. Two more men were here, one close, another to the far side. “Hey, who are you?” the nearest man demanded, raising his crossbow. He was dressed in a leather padded outfit and had a circular helm. Faer contemptuously slapped him aside with a push, the man falling untidily over a winch, his crossbow clattering to the floorboards.
The other man stepped forward, his mouth opening in surprise. Faer crouched, and shot out her left hand, palm out, and blasted a small fireball into his face. The man screamed and staggered about, hands to his face.
The first man got to his hands and knees, groggily shaking his head, so she went up to him and clamped her hand to his face, drawing into her his energy. She left him drained and faintly moving, groaning as all his strength had been sapped. He would live. At least for the moment. Let Heller and his men deal with him as they saw fit. You should have sucked him dry! came an accusing voice from within.
“Shut up, we are restored,” Faer admonished herself. She strode to the screaming man and smashed the pommel of her sword into his neck, knocking him to the floor. Leaving the two men incapacitated, the went through the other door. She followed the stairs down and came to the base of the drum tower, which was a guardroom-cum-office. Slots looked out to the entry passageway, and a door stood at the back. She found a few poleaxes and jammed them into the door, blocking it and barring it as good as she could.
Using the stairs once more, she went up to the top of the tower. One more man was here and she left him draining blood into the stonework. Once more she went down and this time stopped at the level of the walkway. Looking out along the battlements she saw a guard some distance off. He would have to be taken out when he got to the gatehouse. The door was leaning open against the wall so she pushed it shut, barred it and went back the way she’d come.
She once again concealed herself in darkness, pulled up the rope and went back to the gatehouse. She dropped the rope down alongside the tower, then picked up a torch and waved it to and fro a few times. That should bring Heller and his men.
She went back to the tower where she’d dispatched the six men. A quick search revealed nothing of value, so she left the room and waited for Heller. He wasn’t long in arriving. He took hold of her and kissed her hard. She let him for a few moments, then pulled away. “There are four ways in. I’ve blocked the two on the far side, but the basement below us and this one I’ve yet to do so. I’m leaving by the bottom, so bar the door after I’ve gone.”
“Looks like you’ve been busy. What would a regiment of dark elves be like to face?”
“I don’t want to think about it,” she said. Indeed it was a frightening thought. If she, a h
alf elf, could do this kind of damage, what then a group of full-bloods? Or was it because she was from a royal house and had special powers? All this had to be discovered, and this was one reason why she was eager to continue her quest. “I’ve got to go.”
“Please take care.”
She turned in the doorway leading down, looked at him for a moment, then smiled briefly and was gone from his sight. She came to the circular room and saw papers on the table in the middle of the room. A quick idle glance at them, and she left them where they were. Manifests and trading schedules. The door opened to the entryway, and to the right the city began. She shut the door and walked confidently out, her heart pounding.
Dark elves. They had a fearsome reputation. Now she had an idea of what powers they had, she could see why. Why hadn’t they tried to subjugate the rest of the world? Surely they could, given the powers she had. Or maybe there were greater powers around with nobler ideals that kept them down? She shook her head.
The streets were dark and mostly deserted. She was quite noticeable with her sword poking up above her head in the back scabbard, and as she was clearly not of the garrison, she would be challenged if seen. She made her way quickly into the city away from the gatehouse. The palace was in the middle, with parkland separating it from the housing. The parkland was patrolled, so she would have to be careful crossing this.
She passed three people on her way to the parks, all of whom looked at her in surprise, then hurried on their way. They did not want to get into an argument with a sword-wielder. There were trees lining the edge of the park, and they were bare of leaf. Spring was coming but wasn’t there yet. So her eyes picked out two moving man-shaped orange objects. She moved softly through the grass and as she came close to the first guard, coated herself in darkness and drifted past the unsuspecting man.
The second was moving away so she crossed a road, into another piece of parkland, skirted a stone fountain, passed through an avenue of yew hedging and then there it loomed ahead of her, the palace. A clear space of stone paving, a fence, and then she would be in. She looked both ways, and saw it was clear. A dog barked somewhere off to the right in the distance. She was down on one knee and she could smell the moist earth as she made her mind up to go.
She coated herself in her darkness and walked across the clear space. In the dark of the night nobody saw her and she came to the fence, a tall wrought iron barrier. There were gates and she made her way to them. Two guards stood here, looking bored and tired. The gate was shut and barred.
One guard was close to the fence so she slid her sword free and the first either man knew of the danger was a length of steel emerging from the man’s chest in a shower of blood. He stood in shock, eyes bulging, then slumped to the ground. The second dragged his sword free but Faer was already switching her attention to him. One push sent him over onto his backside, and he banged his head painfully on the solid flagstone surface. Even with an iron helmet he was stunned, and lay there, his world spinning.
Faer climbed up the gate and swung over, landing nimbly on her feet. The guard tried to get up but suddenly a pair of soft warm lips were on his and the most delicious feeling spread through him as a female tongue slid into his mouth. He went to push her away but found his limbs disobeying him and then he was more concerned in eliciting as much pleasure he could from the kiss. His mind spun and then he didn’t care about anything.
Faer remained fixed to him for a long time, then released him. He lay there, staring up into space, a look of pure joy on his face. “Come on, get up,” she said. He obeyed at once, getting to his feet.
“I want to know the password, and what doors to go through to get to the dungeons.”
He provided her with the information.
Faer nodded. “Remain here on guard, and hide the body of your colleague. If anyone asks, say he went off to relieve himself. Do not worry about anything.”
“Yes, mistress,” he said dreamily.
She walked towards the side of the building. Going through the main entrance was not a good idea, but there was a side entrance and she found it after retracing her steps after a wrong turn. The gate was accessible down a ramp into the immense wall and at the bottom of an alcove. A man stood here.
“Password,” he snapped.
“Lunar quarter,” she said confidently.
The man hesitated, then grunted. He wasn’t happy in letting someone he didn’t know in, but she had the password. “What unit are you?” he challenged her as he slid back the bolt.
“Captain Sherea’s Scouts. I’m a mercenary. I left here a few weeks ago.”
The guard had no idea whether she was speaking the truth or not, but it wasn’t his business, and besides, she didn’t look as if she could challenge a ten-year old, even if she did have a fancy sword. She did have a great arse though, and he looked at her as she walked past him along the passageway that led into the basement of the palace.
Faer needed no torchlight to guide her; where there were torches she could see well enough, but where it was dark her elf vision switched in and she hardly hesitated. The few remaining memories of Theruddas’ mind guided her. She was aware that there was a large chamber that stood more or less directly below the throne room, and off this were the dungeons. She’d been there briefly before when they had shown her the bogus Captain Lace.
She could smell the torches and hear men talking; the stone passages echoed to any noise. She slowed. Light shone brightly ahead and more voices came to her ears. She kept her sword sheathed. Taking two deep breaths she stepped forward and entered the chamber.
Five men turned to survey her. “Who in the name of the gods are you?” the biggest of the five demanded. He had an unshaven face, clear blue eyes and a strong jaw. “Who let you in?”
“I’m a mercenary employed by Capel to find the heir to the throne. I was hired three weeks ago here. I’ve returned to give Capel the news.”
“What news?”
“That’s for his ears only, not for some grunt.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “Oh, a wise girl eh? And what in the name of the fires of the afterlife are you anyway? Elf-blood?”
“Some, yes,” Faer admitted. “Is that a problem?”
The man pulled a face and grunted. “Maybe. You don’t look right.”
“Sorry,” Faer said without sounding it. “None of us can help how we look, can we?” she said, looking deep into his eyes.
“You being funny or what?” the man growled, flexing his shoulders.
“What,” she replied in a deadpan tone.
The others came crowding round, grinning. This was going to be fun. They’d dealt with some big-mouthed individuals before, and women were extra-special fun. Most of them ended up being repeatedly raped by all of them, and only discarded, broken in mind and spirit, once they had all sated themselves.
Lancer spin attack? Faer’s dark half asked, a touch of excitement detectable. Faer gauged the distance of all five. They were in range. A spin attack was a special move; she’d discovered she had this ability in Kaltinar. Apparently it was inherent in all dark elves.
“Alright, you big-mouthed bitch, you’re going to tell us everything or we’re going to each have fun with you.”
“Not as much fun as I’m going to have,” Faer smiled back.
The men looked at one another. This wasn’t how women were supposed to answer; they usually looked frightened and shook. This little dark girl sounded too confident.
Faer gripped the hilt of her sword, her mind switching in an instant to her dark elf half. As if seeing it all through a dream, Faer felt herself leap up onto one leg and her sword coming free of its sheath, blade now rising. She began to twist, power flooding to her hips, legs and arms. In a blur, too fast for any of the men to comprehend, she spun a full circle, the blade falling in a diagonal, then rising again.
She came to a halt, both feet planted firmly on the floor. She was stood there, both hands firmly gripping the hilt of the sword, looking arou
nd. Five men lay at her feet, all with deep wounds on their chests, heads, stomachs and arms. She eyed the blood on her blade, then wiped it clean.
Very good came her inner voice. You’re learning. “When the need arises,” Faer added, regaining control. She left the chamber, using a descending stone staircase she had seen past a half-open arched oaken door. The steps turned, and the smell of unwashed bodies, blood, ordure and other unpleasant things came to her. Twitching her nostrils, she came to the bottom, sword in hand, and slowly advanced.
An occasional torch lit the way along the green-tinged stone passageway. It was arched with iron brackets in the walls every ten paces or so. Most of these had rust on them, and the smell of damp was quite discernible. Light came to her from behind a shut door ahead, and she went up to it and listened.
She heard groans and sobs, and the clanking of iron. She put her hand on the handle and twisted, pushing the door in at the same time. A man was strapped to a table in the centre of the room, and objects of torture could be seen all round; racks, shackles, braziers, thumbscrews. Two men were stood on either side of the table and they whirled at her entry.
“Whad’ya doin’ ‘ere?” one demanded, hefting a glowing iron bar. He’d been using it on the prisoner, searing his flesh. The brazier stood by his side and he was bare-chested, showing off a paunchy hairy torso. Not pleasant. His face was less attractive. She saw nothing but bestial depravity in his eyes.
“Capel – where is he?”
“You ain’t getting’ an answer,” the man growled and advanced on her. His companion, a taller and slimmer man with a club, came round the other side, a leer on his face. A young attractive woman. It would make a change to the broken men he was used to using.
Make him ours Faer’s inner voice suggested. Faer felt sick. There were limits and this was way beyond that. The iron bar was still red and the torturer waved it before him, making Faer retreat.
It was a feint. As the man came at her she suddenly stepped forward, her sword coming up from low, and the torturer was left staring stupidly at his arm lying on the floor, staining it with more blood, adding a new layer to the years of it already spilled. The second man sprang forward and slammed the club down but Faer had moved aside and the club smashed into a frame of a rack. Faer turned and cut across his chest, teeth gritted. The man spun, clutching his wound, and fell onto his side, twitching in his death throes.
