Of Dark Elves And Dragons

by Greg Curtis

  Thankfully, the wait wasn’t forever and eventually he was close enough.

  “Something on your mind?” Alan decided to put the man out of his misery as he crept up on him, or at least make him aware that his ruse had failed. It was a mercy of a sort; the man was so tense that he could actually have had a fit. Not a good sensation for an assassin. Of course the result was completely predictable.

  The assassin started, and then true to his training flung something at him, no doubt something lethal as he intended to kill him. But Alan was expecting it, and even as he felt the man hurling his weapon at him, he was rolling off the bench, dodging to the side and drawing his swords all in a single fluid movement. Years of practice had made him far more capable than any normal wizard would be, and he had already decided to handle the assassin with his weapons alone. He needed to keep his skills sharp and it had been a long time since he’d had someone to fight.

  The dart went sailing past him even as he made it to his feet, and Alan was just fast enough to see that it had a surprisingly dark point, likely a sign of poison. But that didn’t matter as the man, still completely invisible under his cloak, sprinted towards him, closing the distance between them as he launched three more darts at him. The man was skilled. Unfortunately for him so was Alan.

  He ducked and weaved and parried, his parrying blade knocking the first of the poisoned darts off course, while the others simply missed him as he spun. But then the man was on him, a poisoned dirk in his hands, and struck at him faster than a viper. He was fast, and hidden as he was under his cloak so that the only part of him that Alan could see was the blade dripping with some deadly black ichor. No doubt he had killed many people that way. Alan though wasn’t going to be one of them, and though all he could see was the blade it was enough, as he simply parried it again and again.

  He could have used his magic, could have simply smashed him with a fireball, but he didn’t want to do that, even though the man was no stripling. The challenge of fighting him was a reward in itself, and he thrilled in a way he hadn’t in far too long as the poisoned dirk darted in and out like a striking snake. Of course he didn’t want to die either, and though he could have stood there all day simply parrying his strikes, he still needed to take him down and teach him a lesson.

  So every so often as the man struck at him from behind his cloak of invisibility, Alan let his longsword simply slip in behind his defences, and give him a little tickle, a knick here, a bite there. It was a surprisingly effective technique, the man kept leaping back in shock, like a cat caught by surprise, and each time he returned to the fight it was to show another and then another little spot of blood soaking into his invisible robe, making it manifest.

  Soon the cloak was all but useless, as the spots of blood marked his torso and arms, making him perfectly visible despite his spell, and Alan knew he had the battle won. Maybe it was time for a little gloating.

  “You do realise I can see you perfectly.” Of course he couldn’t, he could only see the spots of blood in the air, but that wasn’t the point. It was about letting his opponent know that he was at his mercy. A good gloat as his father had taught him, was as useful as a good strike, as it left an opponent either frightened or desperate. Either was useful in a fight, as frightened and desperate people made mistakes. The assassin proved his father’s words true a heartbeat later, as he let his cloak slip open a tiny bit as he desperately reached inside for something on his belt, throwing stars by the looks of things, and Alan saw his chance.

  He struck faster than the man had expected, letting his longsword slice in at the handle of the dirk as he foolishly forgot it as he reached to one side, and then spun as the man screamed to let his parrying blade open up a nice long slit in the man’s stomach. The assassin screamed some more after that, dropping his poisoned blade to the ground along with some fingers and then clutching at his middle with the other hand, instinctively trying to staunch the flow of blood. It wasn’t enough and the cloak which covered him like a robe tied tightly all around him, simply turned red and one entire leg could soon be seen. It had been a good strike.

  The battle was over.

  Alan knew that and he was briefly disappointed by it. It had been too short, and even though the man had been skilled, he had clearly not been prepared for a battle with a capable swordsman. It seemed he preferred his targets rather more helpless.

  Quickly Alan had a stone elemental grab him, its huge stone hands simply finding his shoulders and lifting him high off the ground while he screamed in fear and anger. He screamed some more when another elemental grabbed at his clothing, cloak and all and simply ripped it all off him, leaving a mostly naked, bleeding man held easily six feet off the ground with no hope of continuing the fight.

  “So, you’re what passes for an assassin.” In truth he was surprised by the man. He didn’t know what he’d expected of him, certainly someone with a hard face and a lot of wiry muscles. But he just wasn’t like that. His body showed a little muscling, but also a healthy covering of fat. He had clearly been living well for many years and it showed. Maybe that had made him less the challenge than he should have been and Alan resolved there and then to do some more training with his blades. Meanwhile his face showed nothing of the darkness of his soul. Instead where he would have expected to see cold eyes and the harsh features of a killer, there was the smooth and innocent look of a boy. He wasn’t a boy, he was older than Alan, and the stains on his soul were obvious to anyone with even a trace of the talent, but still he would have looked perfectly at home as a priest in his church. Or even a young neophyte, just starting out in the faith.

  “Please sir, please! I’m just a victim. The king, he has my children.” And there in lay the value in his features Alan realised. Whatever magic he used to make himself look so young and innocent, it was just another weapon in his arsenal of murder. And yet it was surprisingly effective. He truly looked the part, a frightened innocent, and Alan could well imagine that many without the skill would have been deceived by him. Unfortunately it wouldn’t work on him.

  “You do realise that I can read your soul.” He dragged out a cloth from his pocket and began cleaning his blades. Blood tended to eat into the metal if left too long, even the silver inlay, and he meant to keep them in good order for as long as he could. The sword was precious to him having been given to him by his father.

  “The endless killing is like a waterfall drowning your heart in blood. And you don’t have a family. You don’t have anything of love in you. And you don’t like women. It's boys and pain that makes you breathe hard.” And that made him feel even more sick. That he might like men wasn’t so much of a worry, but that he liked to see them suffer, especially the young, that was terrible. And there was much of that evil in him as well. The man had hurt a lot of children and his young sweet face was simply another tool to help him get close to them. But no more.

  “No!”

  “Close your mouth piss wart.” Of course he was going to deny it. Denial was all he had left, his only defence, but it was no defence at all.

  “Never again will you harm a child.” And with scarcely a though he simply reached out with his magic and turned off his sickening desires. Though it was something he’d never done before, it was easy, especially when those desires were so twisted. It was so very easy to remove his physical ability to know hunger. “There will be no more pleasure for you.”

  “And never again will you use your face to lie and deceive the innocent.” Another simple touch with his magic, and the man’s skin began to blister. It was not a lethal magic, the blisters would heal, but the scars they left behind would be disfiguring. It seemed only right that his form should match his heart, that his face should never again deceive the innocent with its beauty. The man screamed then, horrified by the blisters he could see growing on his arms in front of them and feeling them everywhere else. He put his hands to his face and then screamed some more when they came away covered in blood and muck.

  �
�And absolutely never again will you murder innocents. Already too many are dead at your hands, and there is nothing you can do to address your crimes.” The man was still too busy screaming in horror to answer him, but that was for the best.

  “You will spend the rest of your years alone, save for your master, on a rock in the middle of the great western ocean, far from land, and far from any ships that might ply those waters. I suggest you learn to fish.”

  “No!” The man seemed upset by his words, and by his blisters as he held his muck covered hands to his face, and that was as it should be. “You should just kill me.” Of course he didn’t want to die, but exile to a lonely rock for the rest of his life was probably a worse fate for a man used to the comforts of life, and that was just as well. Knight or not he had to obey the edicts of the Order, and he had no authority to kill. Even as much as he was doing, exiling one who he knew to be evil and who had wronged him, was stretching the bounds of a noble’s authority. To do anything more, no matter that the man might deserve it, would require a formal trial and a judge, and sentence to be passed in view of witnesses.

  “You aren’t worth it.”

  With that he summoned a storm elemental, the most powerful of his air elementals, and with the anger and disgust raging through him, it came easily enough for once. Half a minute later he had the stone elemental simply throw the assassin, still screaming, into its core and then watched as the furiously spinning funnel of dark cloud, simply carried him up high into the air and then far away. The elemental knew exactly where to take him. It was a rock, or rather a series of rocks in the great western ocean.

  Once as a child Alan had sailed those seas with his father, and the captain of the clipper they had journeyed on, had shown him the rocks, tiny islets as they passed them by, even let him study them through a spyglass. He had never forgotten them. They were known as the teeth of Hades by the sailors, and no one would ever go near them in a ship. Too many had foolishly done that and the remains of their vessels littered the myriad of rocks and islets. No one would go there willingly, and no one would know to look there for the assassin and his master.

  Quickly the air was calm once more, and the sun shone brightly again, though in truth it had never stopped. That was just the darkness of his thoughts playing tricks on him. Sometimes there were disadvantages to being able to see so deeply into another’s soul, especially one so dark.

  A few more subtle gestures opened up the ground and allowed the man’s weapons and fingers and his clothing, to be returned to the soil. Eventually they would become a healthy part of it again and that was for the good.

  But then came the hard part. He had to decide what to do about Umber. Though the assassin had said nothing of him, the stench of the baron - no, now the king - was all over him. The two had been as one for a very long time, and Alan knew from the assassin’s thoughts that all of those rumours of the baron’s foes disappearing over the years were due to him and a few others of his guild. It was the king’s coin that had let him grow soft and fat.

  The king it seemed, also knew of him, and that was bad. If he knew enough to send an assassin against him, then he knew he wasn’t a demon god. So he knew he was a wizard, and he had tried subtlety first. Next he would probably try force, and while Alan had no doubt he would win, he had no great wish to send soldiers to their deaths. Especially when they were only obeying orders and the necromancer was about.

  The only answer was to cut off the head of the snake. It was time that the king discovered just how limited his power actually was. It was time that he learned that you should never annoy the demon god of the forest, especially when he had been warned of what would happen if he sent his servants into the Haellor Forest not once but twice. And maybe it was time that the people found a new king.

  **************

  The king was sitting in his war room when the first minor sounds of the assault started, and lost in thought as he planned his southern push into the badlands to take control of the rebel towns as he thought of them, he didn’t pay them any attention. A few minor thumps in the distance meant nothing to him, and he had a war to plan.

  The previous Council had been very weak in his view, leaving the independent towns and cities of the south to remain free, choosing trade and diplomacy over control, and it was time to address their failings. First would be Anderbarra and its outlying towns. Technically Andebarra was a small dukedom, but it had rich grazing lands and valuable copper and iron deposits which it barely touched. All the things that he could put together with his coal and bronze works to make armour and cannon. And they had men too, farm boys in truth, but strong and fit and plentiful, and they would strengthen his armies for the push further south. In time, and it might be five years or more, he would have all five of the southern dukedoms and principalities under his control, and Calumbria would become one of the largest and most important of the human provinces.

  Then his dreams could truly begin.

  It was only when the banging and crashing became louder and almost continuous that he looked up, taking his eyes off the strategic maps of the southern lands, to look at his major domo and raise his eyebrows in question. The scar faced man in turn stared back at him and shrugged his shoulders, before turning away from the scribes who were busy taking down all the details of supplies and resources the army would need, to head over to the distant window. Once there though Arnou lost his usual calm demeanour, froze for a moment before turning back to him, his eyes wide with shock.

  “By the Gods Majesty, you need to see this.” The shaking in his voice was the most important clue that something was badly wrong, and Umber didn’t like it. The man had gained his scars as a youth in a battle with a rogue troll, a battle that he had won through discipline and keeping his nerve, when nine out of ten would have fallen in fear, and ever since then he had been known far and wide for his calm. It was one of the things Umber had always valued in him, and why he had promoted him over the years, first to the commander of his armies, and then when he had become king instead of just the baron, to his second in command. An army needed cool heads to lead it.

  Umber got up and headed his way rather quickly, realizing that if Arnou could be shaken by what he was seeing then it had to be serious. But when he got there it was far worse than he’d imagined. The outer walls were under attack, and not by cannon and armies, but rather by huge titans of living steel that were simply smashing the walls down with their bare hands. They were winning too.

  Each punch knocked out hundreds of pounds worth of stone, turning it to pebbles and dust, and there were so many of them, hundreds of them surely, simply smashing their way through. The walls were ten feet thick, twenty feet high, and properly crafted with the huge blocks of stone each perfectly carved to fit and then placed with steel anchors to hold them. Yet to the titans they were but fields of wheat which needed to be scythed.

  “Sound the alarm!” He screeched the order desperately; it was obeyed almost before the words had left his mouth and he heard the bells ringing out. But it wasn’t enough. Even as he watched the men scrambling out of their barracks, many of them half-dressed and grabbing up whatever weapons they could find as they joined their brothers in arms, one of the titans burst through a hole in the wall and he saw them standing against him and knew they had no chance. They were mice against a cat, barely even coming up to their knees. But it was worse than that.

  He saw a small troop of half a dozen men striking out at the leg of one of the titans, their swords and hammers smashing into him with all their might, and bouncing off with no effect. Arrows and bolts were similarly useless, as they simply shattered on their steel flesh. Good steel swords and bolts, useless. The titan didn’t even pay the men any attention as it kept smashing down the wall. They were less than fleas.

  The other defences were useless too. The cannon mounted in the walls couldn’t be fired at such close quarters, though several were being loaded as fast as humanly possible. Before the very wall they were mounted
in, crumbled beneath them.

  Bad turned to worse as one of the mobile cannon in the courtyard unexpectedly roared into life, and he was treated to a perfect view as the ball smashed into the back of one of the titans in a cloud of smoke, knocking it forward half a step, and maybe leaving a small dent in its back, before falling harmlessly to the ground as a misshapen lump of metal while the titan carried on with his work, unperturbed. Another of the titans he realized was covered in black tar, the boiling liquid having been poured on it as it attacked the portcullis, but it didn’t seem to be in any way bothered by it. The titan just kept attacking the walls as if everything was normal.

  The men though saw the same things he did and he could see the fear growing in their hearts. Their weapons were completely useless and they knew it. Many had simply given up and were just standing there in the giant courtyard, staring, with no idea of what to do, and he felt much the same. In truth the only ones who seemed to have any clue were the castle staff, the cooks, stable hands, cleaners and so many more who saw them and ran. Unarmed they were fleeing for their lives, running in all directions like chickens after the farmer had chopped off their heads. They had the right idea he supposed.