“That’s the strange thing,” El replied. “The only colonies I’ve ever heard of were in the Great Swamp - very deep in the swamp from what I’d understood. That’s why Lan’thor and I thought it would make such a great cover story for you, Raeth. We rarely see any travellers at all in Er’thaental, and the last time a Dark Elf visited was nearly a century ago. When the Dark Elves left the great trees millennia ago, they swore they would never return. And Elves, no matter their colour, take their oaths very, very seriously.”
Logan remembered the conversation months earlier, when they had first decided that Raeth should impersonate one of the Elfin brethren to make her transition into Er’thaental easier. As he recalled, the Dark Elves had disagreed with their brethren’s use of magic and decided to leave the forest because of it, eventually settling in the Great Swamp as Raeth’s own people did. Even so, a hundred years between visits seemed a bit extreme.
“So a hundred years with no contact?” asked Logan?
Raeth turned at his question and took a seat, looking expectantly at El. El frowned for a moment searching her memory and trying to figure out how best to explain things.
“Okay, let me tell you the story as I learned it. It might offer some insight into the Elfin mind,” El said as she began. “From what I’ve been told, once long, long ago, before the humans even appeared on Tir’an, the Dark Elves and Forest Elves lived in harmony, sharing the forest. The Dark Elves living on the ground while the Forest Elves resided in the trees. We were a younger people then, we travelled and welcomed visitors. In fact it was some transgression or perceived transgression that led to the ‘Great War’ with the Dwarves. What that actual transgression might have been has been lost through the years. As you know, both peoples are incredibly proud and have always been so, it wouldn’t have taken much. Regardless, some slight or perceived offence was allowed to fester until the egos involved could find no alternative and the Southern half of Tir’an was plunged into the bloodiest war in history.
The Elves, light and dark, fought together as one people. Even back then, the Dark Elves were an abnormality, or at least we Forest Elves always thought so. As I said, they lived on the ground, and though it wasn’t unheard of back then for an Elf to use metal it was uncommon, at least for the Forest Elves. The Dark Elves used metal tools and weapons and, even more disturbing to the Forest Elves, they avoided magic. They shunned it, flat out refused to use it. But, they were kin and they had their uses. They were excellent trackers, better even than their treetop brethren and they could disappear into the dense forest floor foliage like shadows. In the war, these skills were magnificent assets and the Dark Elves soon proved themselves to be the most deadly of scouts, able to disappear behind enemy lines, returning with intelligence or simply wreaking havoc on the Dwarves. As the war raged on, they formed their own elite warrior troop. They were the frontline troops, often spilling first blood. They were the ones that went toe-to-toe, weapon-to-weapon with the Dwarves. It was brutal and nasty fighting with no mercy or quarter given by either side.
The Forest Elves avoided this sort of engagement where they could. They preferred to use their magic from a distance, away from the blood and fighting. It was the use of Dwarven and Elfin magics that obliterated the gnome empire - an empire whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught between two incredibly powerful adversaries who had lost all sense of reason in their escalating hostilities. The war was a horrific game of one-upmanship that resulted in the near genocide of the gnomish people and the creation of the Western Desert.” El took a breath and shook her head in sadness.
As El spoke, Logan couldn’t help think about his friend Rimple Curmidgly, a gnome he’d met in the slave mines of Tael. The little man was upbeat, lively and more than a bit of a troublemaker. He’d turned out to be the leader of the thieves’ guild in Tael and had been instrumental in overthrowing the puppet king and taking the city. He’d made a home and a life for himself in Tael, but he was always the outcast due to his diminutive stature. Logan couldn’t help wonder how the resourceful gnome was doing and hoped that he wasn’t giving king Jarod to hard a time.
“The Elves and the Dwarves were stricken,” El continued. “Disgusted and horrified by what their war had brought to fruition. The rest of the story you know. The Dwarves gave up magic altogether, or so they claim, and retreated into their underground cities deep within the Spine. The Forest Elves embraced the essence of nature and made their vows to always be its protectors. They felt this service was a debt they owed the world for their crime of arrogance, a punishment for the havoc they had caused. As part of that pledge, the Forest Elves made the decision to give up metal completely and live in harmony with nature and all living things. They abolished mining for metals, cutting of lumber – even their staves were presents from the trees around them – and anything else that they believed would harm or cause to come to harm, the land of Tir’an.
The Dark Elves disagreed with the Forest Elves’ pledge. They believed, much as the Dwarves did, that magic was a far greater threat to the land of Tir’an than metal. As bloody and messy as the hand-to-hand fighting had been, it was the magical attacks that had caused the indiscriminate damage that had wiped out the Gnome city. And, like the Dwarves, they swore never to use magic again. As you can imagine, this vow put them at odds with the Forest Elves. Both groups found the actions of the other abhorrent and soon it was simply impossible to share the same forest. Finally, seeing an Elfin civil war on the not too distant horizon, the Dark Elf clan chiefs made the decision to leave their forest home, praying that distance would be enough to prevent another war. For our part, the Forest Elves also understood what was at stake and could read the signs of the coming conflict and therefore, we accepted their decision. We both understood that we couldn’t continue to share the same forests, our ideologies had diverged too far.
So, the Dark Elves left the forest and segregated themselves in the Great Swamp and the Forest Elves became even more aloof than before. Neither group wanted much of anything to do with the outside world, preferring to avoid the conflicts that came with such interactions. And except for the occasional wanderer, we have lived apart ever since,” El paused for a moment.
“In those early years the Forest Elves avoided all interaction with the outside, everything was too fresh. As the centuries wore on and memories began to fade, they began to accept that the outside world could not be completely ignored. The occasional traveller passed through and the young in the community, as is their nature, were fascinated with the idea of what lay beyond our borders. Slowly, things began to change and the council of elders allowed the restrictions to ease, though they’ve never lifted them entirely and water clan – who would become our travellers and merchants - was allowed to make contact with the world outside Er’thaental.
Then came the biggest challenge of all, the conflict with the Trolls. The realization that though our magic was superior and the Trolls would eventually fall, the damage they would cause would decimate our people. So we did the unthinkable, we asked the humans for help.”
Logan frowned as he considered El’s words.
“So, that leaves us with some questions. What would cause a Dark Elf to travel, apparently alone, from the heart of the Great Swamp to the brethren they’d left over a thousand years ago?” Logan asked. “And why does it look like the poor bastard ran the entire way?”
“Whatever the reason, I’m willing to bet its nothing good,” said Raeth, breaking the silence that had followed Logan’s questions. She glanced out the window. “Morning is coming. I think we should retire to the chamber Lan’thor and I share. He can bring us up to speed when he returns.”
We Have Ways Of Making You Talk
It was early morning and the sun was just starting to rise and shine through the holes in the forest canopy, when Lan’thor finally got the chance to head back to his chambers. He was exhausted, the effects of the earlier alcohol consumption still mucking with his system. He di
dn’t know how his father did it. The clan chief had led the festivities and from Lan’s point of view, it had seemed like he consumed far more ale than anyone else at the celebration. Yet, with a moment’s notice, he appeared to be completely sober. I’ll have to ask Da to teach me his trick, thought Lan’thor through his hangover haze. For right now though, Lan’thor was simply looking forward to catching a few hours of sleep. It wasn’t to be.
He opened the door and found Raeth and El sitting on his bed while Logan leaned against the wall. All eyes were watching him as he stepped into the chamber. Shoulders slumping and sighing deeply, Lan managed a half-hearted smile to his companions.
“I take it we’re not having a slumber party?”
No one answered as he lowered himself into a leaf chair.
“Let me take a wild guess, you want to know about the Dark Elf?”
For a moment, Logan thought he was going to have to restrain El as she leapt to her feet in agitation. Logan smiled inwardly. Waiting was never her strong suit.
“Why else would we all be gathered around your chamber at this ungodly hour?” El demanded. “Come on Lan, out with it.”
Lan’thor couldn’t help smiling at the Elfin maid’s outburst. He’d known El for a lot of years and knew exactly how fond she was of waiting and being left in the dark.
“El, it’s been a really long night. I just want to get a couple hours of sleep,” he pleaded, but saw no sympathy in the mage’s eyes. He realized that sleep was a lost cause, at least until he satisfied their curiousity.
“Fine,” he finally said. “Though you know I’m not supposed to say anything to anyone and I’m disobeying your father’s specific instructions.”
Lan looked around the room for support and found none. Logan simply leaned against the wall staring at him flatly. To his right, Raeth was giving him a very dangerous look. Lan’thor had been with the assassin long enough to know what that look meant. Like El, she hated being kept in the dark about things, she just wasn’t nearly so vocal about it. Whether that was better or worse, Lan didn’t care to speculate. Right now it was enough that he knew exactly what that look meant.
“Alright, alright!” he relented, lifting both hands in a gesture of surrender. “As I’m sure you already know, our visitor is from the Dark Elf community in the Great Swamp. And, before anyone asks, our cover story that our Dark Elf, Raeth, was afflicted with a rare curse of wanderlust and has been travelling the world for the last several decades has held up. The Dark Elf – his name is Dan’tal by the way - barely remained conscious long enough to tell us his story, and that was only because of Frea’lin’s help. The poor guy’s been running for days, running for his life by the sounds of it.”
Lan’thor paused for a moment, closing his eyes as he thought of the poor Elf, lying unconscious in the healing chamber. He prayed to several gods that the Elf would survive, but the healers had made it clear that the Elf’s ordeal, his flight from the swamps and the myriad of small wounds that had become infected, had taken their toll and had left him in dire straights. Opening his eyes, he found his three friends staring at him expectantly.
“Apparently, the Dark Elf village in the Great Swamp is in a lot of trouble and he’s come to ask us for help.”
Lan’thor poured himself water from the ewer on the table and sat more comfortably in his chair before continuing.
“About six months ago an old man, human apparently, blind with wild, white hair, stumbled into their village leading an equally dishevelled packhorse. The village elders greeted him as he reached the village square and the old man begged healing for his friend. Though the Dark Elves are no fonder of visitors than we are, you just can’t turn away a request for healing.
At first, the elders thought the blind, old man delusional. He appeared to be alone, save for the horse. It wasn’t until he moved to the side of the packhorse and began untying the large bundle slung across the animal’s withers that they began to understand. By this time, a large group had gathered. This was the most excitement the village had seen in years.
The old man pulled the bundle from the horse’s back and it hit the ground with a dull thud. Stooping, he dragged it away from the horse and into the centre of the village square where he laid the bundle out and began working on the leather straps. When the old man finally untied the last lashings and pulled back the blankets, they saw that it was indeed a body, and apparently not a fresh one, as anybody with a functioning sense of smell could attest. The body was long dead and was well along the path of decomposition. Flies and swamp bugs began to gather almost the moment the body was unwrapped.
The elders felt sympathy for the old man. Obviously, he wasn’t at all well in the head but just as obviously, he cared deeply for the figure lying in the middle of the square. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough. They knew the body was too far gone to heal. Healing requires the spark of life to be present and in this case, there was none. The elders tried to explain to the old man that his friend was gone, that he was dead and long past healing. The old man disagreed and insisted that the Dark Elves held the key to his friend’s recovery and could heal him. After all, he explained, his god had assured him of this truth. The elders, uncomfortable with the old man’s insistence, summoned the village healer, hoping that she could offer the old man some peace.
The healer came, wrinkled her nose at the smell of decay, and knew there was nothing she that could do. But, seeing the old man’s desperation, she knelt to study the body on the ground. The blind, old man knelt beside her as she worked. After several moments, the healer turned towards the old man and explained that the body was too far gone to heal. She explained that there was no life left within it to nurture, no spark upon which to build. And with all her compassion, she explained that there was nothing she could do for him. The old man’s blind eyes sought hers and a grim smile crept across his face. He assured her that his god, Ares, had promised him that she and her village would be able to help his friend.
In a blur of motion that belied the man’s apparent age and infirmity, the man slit the healer’s throat before any had a chance to react. Blood gushed from the deep wound, arteries continuing to pump, splashing the fluid of life onto the corpse. It had happened so fast, that by the time those watching registered what they were seeing, the Elfin healer was collapsing onto the corpse before her and the old man was regaining his feet, a strange crackling, crimson energy pouring out of his outstretched hands. The energy struck each of the elders, a heavy blow to the chest, and they arched back in agony.
Several young warriors moved to stop the old man’s attack on the elders, only to discover that while they had all been engrossed in the strange tableau taking place in the centre of town, they had been surrounded by a horde of Goblins. Who knew that the creatures could move so silently? As the first warriors moved to the aid of their elders, they fell to the ground, Goblin spears piercing their backs. As these young warriors died, the crimson energy of the old man enveloped them, too. The rest of the villagers held their place, hopelessly outnumbered by the horde and afraid to move. They watched in horror as their elders began to age.
Years passed in moments as life was pulled out of them. Their skins were drawn taut across their bones, before simply breaking down. Skeletons replaced the living, until they, too, broke down, crumbling to dust. The village watched in a mixture of horror and revulsion as the crimson energy poured its stolen life into the corpse on the ground. Before anguished eyes, the dust that had been their elders was scattered by the wind.
All was quiet for several moments, and then the corpse, still glowing in crimson energy, started to move. The decaying flesh had taken on a pinker, healthier hue as the ravages of decay were pushed back. Slowly, and what appeared to be painfully, the corpse got to its feet. Countless wounds closed as the crimson glow began to fade away. The dead man stood before them and slowly looked around at the villagers. Quietly at first and then growing in volume as his throat continued to heal, he began to laugh. It was nea
rly hysterical. An evil sound that sent shivers down the villagers’ spines.
Things moved quickly after that. The two humans had then taken up residence in the town. Between the blind man’s magic and the horde of Goblins, the villagers found themselves enslaved. Several of the Dark Elves had tried to escape into the swamps only to be run down by magic and the Goblin horde. The lucky ones died in the attempt and became food for the horde, the unlucky were dragged back to the village, their life essence’s used to feed the re-animated man’s nearly constant need for life. These captives weren’t killed outright like the elders and those first warriors. Rather, a smaller amount of their life force was taken each time, leaving them some semblance of life. They could survive for months like this, hollow shells of their former selves. Emaciated and lethargic, they lost the will to fight, lost the will to live as they waited for the inevitable. Examples to the rest, the Dark Elves quickly learned obedience.”
Lan shook his head in sadness as he shared his brethren’s pain.
“Dan’tal was a member of a foraging party. He was one of a group assigned to bring timber and such back to the village, slaves under the tender ministrations of a Goblin overseer and his troop. Goblins being Goblins, the overseers quickly found a reason to squabble amongst themselves and he and two others took advantage of their captors’ distraction. They were already at the farthest edge of the slave party when they seized the opportunity, plunging into the fetid swamp and swimming toward freedom.
The Goblins pursued them hard, and as you know, the swamp isn’t exactly gentle. In the end, his two companions didn’t make it, though they did manage to get themselves killed rather than allowing themselves to be captured. Being food for the Goblins was better than being food for the dead man. Our Dark Elf found himself alone with nowhere to turn, so he came here.”
The Axe's Edge Page 18