by J. L. Ficks
The assassin picked up his pace as he found firmer footing under a path of trampled Ice Reeds. He made a mental note of these Muckhog paths every winter. Most people avoided such paths since Muckhogs had developed a reputation for overeating and wallowing in the mud. But living among these creatures, Shade understood them far better. In the summer food was plentiful and the wild pigs only ambled to the next muddy puddle, so the logic made sense. But Shade had noted that Muckhogs ran almost constantly to keep warm and to forge for food during the harsh winter months. In fact, Muckhogs had an almost uncanny sixth sense for staying out of the hypothermic waters and so the paths could be trusted at least for now.
He shook his head at the pretentious citizens of Doljinaar. They never appreciated these swamps or these fine paths that granted the assassin swift passage through the supposedly impassible Ice Marshes, but it was just as well. The Faelin understood that if more humans were interested in Jile, or in the marshlands for that matter, there would be keener interest in keeping him out.
Shade never regretted his choice to leave the Dark Elven forests. A hedge of fear surrounded Jui-Sae, fear of its Unseen Guardians and the grisly testament of its bone-littered landscape sent Men running from its borders. But Shade knew the shadowy murders were nothing but a grim warning to keep other races out of Jui-Sae, for his people sheltered many secrets. In truth Jui-Sae was a land of dark and inviting beauty, a land of rich black trees lit up by fields of midnight flowers and starlit glades…a breathtaking night kingdom where magnificent moonstone cities glowed majestically in the moonlight.
The assassin wondered how he had ever grown so attached to this stink hole. He could not even see the light of the three moons through the constant fog. He had lived a stranger in a world of men for decades, but oddly, he now felt more at home than he ever had in his own black country. Here he would not play pawn to the black and twisted will of a sociopath bent upon senseless torture. Here he could reign supreme. Jile was his palace and the Ice Marshes his own dark kingdom.
Shade quickened his pace. He watched as the crack of dawn crested over the murky horizon. He could not see the sun through the fog, but the glare reflected off the haze. He squinted fiercely. He had grown used to the sun, but the glare blinded him. He would be wise to find some breakfast and set up camp. He thought of his life, all the reasons he left Jui-Sae and what had led him up to this point. He continued on…a silent killer among silent killers. Soon, Lewd, very soon…
Shade crouched in the shadows of a small grove of trees watching as an eerie fog rolled over the empty streets of Graystone. He had put the Ice Marshes at his back, passing secretly through sparse groves that had once been part of Fogrim Forest. He had not seen any guards out on patrol, at least not yet. Graystone was a bleak and superstitious town that lay along the great northwestern road between old Fogrim and the Ruins of Garrlohan. He could hear the quiet rush of the south fork of the Shardenile River, the locals called Southfork. The assassin made his way down the foggy streets with studious care. He kept his eyes peeled for guards.
The light of the three marred moons of Covent danced across the dull gray buildings painting ghastly silhouettes. The buildings were old, constructed of Durnish brickwork and slate roofs. Roughshod half-timbered buildings also dotted the streets, but even the wood had grayed to an ash gray with age. Windows of old shops and homes were boarded up, but here and there a loose shutter creaked and banged in the wind. Oil lanterns swung from doorposts. Firelight peaked through shutters and cracks in the woodwork, but there would be no sign of townsfolk, not until daybreak tomorrow morning.
Shade ducked between alleyways, melting from shadow to shadow. This was not Jile. Most of the locals who had laid eyes on Shade had worse fears than one lone Dark Elf. He was permitted to walk their streets, but never to go in any buildings and that was the feeling of the local populace, not the local garrison. Jile was the only town that allowed Shade to frequent its establishments, due to a good word put in by Gordwin, a few good bribes, but mostly because the soldiers enjoyed drinking at The Dragon’s Den.
Shade overheard a few inconvenienced travelers grumbling about the overly superstitious townsfolk of Graystone who closed up shop at dusk. The travelers did not stay long however, but set out east along the safer roads to Kurn. The general behavior among men was to pass through Graystone quickly, only to replenish supplies and never to stay the night. A few more travelers galloped into town on horseback, paused and shook their heads in unmasked disgust and then they too ventured onto the next town.
Shade pulled his cloak tighter about him. He watched as the men thundered past him. He never knew just who might be passing through Graystone. He watched as the horses kicked up clouds of snow dust as they dropped from sight. Then all went quiet once again.
The assassin trudged through the gray slush until he reached the northern edge of town. Southfork cut a quiet passage across the landscape just north of the Great West Road. No boat or barrel barge chanced the fork, not this late in the night. The fog was thin enough tonight he could see over the river and into the eerie ruins. He looked out across a barren snow swept plain eerie and lifeless. The people had right to fear this land, for the plains encompassed the haunted Ruins of Garrlohan. The old Mino lands.
The entrance was marked by a pair of massive thirty-foot monolithic stone markers, roughhewn and wrought by crude stone hammers far too heavy to be the work of human hands. An ancient crumbled bridge comprised of huge stone slabs lay over the river. Shade studied the ruins. The bones of men and the curved horns of Minotaur skulls lay scattered across the snow-covered plain. The assassin watched them with an acute wariness as finely sharpened as his daggers. ‘Those bones have moved recently,’ he told himself, ‘the snowdrift on them looks but hours old.’ This was his road. The haunt of Garrlohan.
It was no secret that the most direct approach to Kurn was to pass through the Ruins of Garrlohan. Many considered it, but few dared risk the venture. Instead, travelers were forced to take a giant detour eastward to Stallway Vale and then double back west to Kurn, but Shade was not a man that he should reason like one. To him the greatest danger lay under the sun and the heavily guarded western passes. Night races were killed on sight in Doljinaar, being both hated and feared. There was a saying among night mortals, ‘Better to be caught by the dead than the living in Doljinaar.’
Shade was anxious to reach Kurn, but he knew better than to risk entering the Ruins of Garrlohan after nightfall. Those bones were probably lying in wait, watching him even now, begging him to cross the river. He had passed through the ruins many times before and he knew his only chance to get through. He would set up camp just outside town and wait until daybreak. Then not even the haunted ruins would separate him from his prey.
“You fool!” he heard an old raspy voice say.
Shade turned around to see an old Terramothian widow sitting on her porch glaring at him with baggy haunted, icy blue eyes. She rocked on a rickety old rocking chair. She pointed a long wrinkled finger at him. Her bleach-like skin hung from her cheekbones and her stark white hair had been tied back into a bun. She did not rise, but glowered at him with such festering hatred that even the unshakable assassin was momentarily unnerved.
“Dead fool!” she scolded again, “I can see it in your eyes. You seek the passage of the dead! You mean to take the cursed road of Garrlohan!”
Shade shook off his daze. He frowned. He had completely forgotten about this spooky old hag. She was the only citizen of Graystone whoever dared show her face at night. She had proclaimed his death a hundred times over again, but never seemed to remember him.
“Only the dead walk the blackened Ruins of Garrlohan and only the dead pass through it!” She flashed her blanched teeth. “My husband once thought as you did. He thought to establish a trade route between here and Kurn. Forty years and seventy-seven nights since he left me with warmth in his bones. Forty years and seventy-seven nights since he took that road. But the dead rose up and took him.
The dead pulled him down to their soiled graves!”
The old lady’s description gave him chills. He started to walk away when suddenly she jumped up from her rocking chair.
“A curse! A black curse lays thick on that land!” the woman shouted, gesticulating with wild abandon, “Death! Death comes to all who pass that way!”
Shade clenched his teeth. He spun a dagger into his fingers. He pulled his arm back for the throw that would end her mad raving forever.
“He still visits me, you know,” she said softly.
Shade froze.
“My husband returns to me every night…the flesh still rotting on his bones. He has joined them! Joined the ranks of the dead! He has asked me. He has asked me many moons to cross the river. To make our bed in the graves and dine on the flesh of the living, but I have resisted him. But you! You walk willingly into their embrace. Have you not learned? Men once came from all parts of the kingdom to plunder Garrlohan! Fools, just as you! But the undead rose up and drank their blood. And they will taste your highborn Elvish blood, Dark Elf! And you too will join the ranks of the walking dead!”
Shade snapped his arm back. The knife slid down naturally. It came to rest between his middle and index fingers. He was about to release when he heard the sound of heavy boots crunching snow behind him.
He turned to see six heavily armed Doljinaarian guards who had just emerged from the local garrison. They stared at him drawing their weapons, eyes widening in alarm at the sight of a Dark Elf.
The assassin glared daggers back and they hesitated. He could take them, he could take them all, but the last thing he needed was an entire Doljinaarian garrison on his heels. Shade twirled the dagger in his fingers again and slipped it back into its sheath. He swept his cloak about him. He sprinted toward the stone markers of Garrlohan. He passed the markers, made his way half way down the bridge, slipped into unseen form and waited.
He could hear a ghastly moan screaming from the deep ruins, as if he had awoken some horrible spirit. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. A ghastly wind blew through his hair. He clamped his hands over his ears as the maddening moan groaned loudly. He knew that blood-chilling lament…the lament of the one who haunted these ruins. He could not wait long. Already, he could see the bones rattling…soon to rise. They were coming for him.
“Death!” the old woman ragged on, “Death has claimed the fool!”
The guards waited a few more minutes and shrugged. They headed back to the garrison relieved, figuring the old lady was right. Shade breathed out a long sigh of relief. He slipped silently back over the bridge and cut back around the outskirts of town. He left Graystone and set up camp far off the northwestern road in a thick grove of old Fogrim Pines where he rested until the break of dawn.
Chapter Four:
The Ruins
of Garrlohan
Shade kicked up bits of mud as he sprinted madly through the mushy gray plains of Garrlohan. He could not escape the haunting voice that tortured the winds. He gritted his teeth and pulled at his hair as the blood-chilling moan rung louder, stabbing at his eardrums. He steeled his will and ran harder. He was on the verge of collapse, he was pushing himself too hard, but he could not stop now. The very air of Garrlohan rung with a bovine lowing that never ceased, but this was not the harmless groaning of some domestic cattle. This low was ghastly and haunting…the icy wailing of a vengeful undead, not of man or beast but Minotaur—the moaning of Xzoron.
Shade’s boot splashed in a puddle. His right quad cramped up. He grimaced and pushed through the pain. There was no room for weakness. Not now. The late evening sky hung with a thickening overcast that quickened the coming night. He felt a numbing drizzle touch his cheeks. He fixed his eyes upon the hazy sunset and ran like a condemned man towards the teasing light of heaven. He knew he could not escape nightfall and yet as the warm motherly touch of the sun left his skin he could not help but miss her soft kiss.
The Dark Elf covered his ears as Xzoron’s shrill maddening wail neared its peak. He could hear all the undead Minotaur’s rage in that harrowing cry, lashing out, scarring the very air. Generations of pent-up rage echoed in that chilling lament. He recognized the same ancient anger lurking in the silent empty eye sockets of every Minotaur skull he ran by. Skeletons lay strewn across the landscape, weapons rattling in their boney fingers, but they did not rise, not yet. It was not yet time to answer the summons of their new master.
Shade picked up the pace. His time was short. He did not fear the bones of men, but Minotaur. The Deadhorns as they had become more commonly feared. The Minotaur race reached a good ten feet tall up to the tip of their horns. The Minos who died here had carried giant hammers, mallets, axes and some had even wielded small trees. He saw the scattered bones of men and knew their bodies had been decimated by brute fury. Few withstood the warpath of a raging Minotaur. The accursed brutes could run at horse speed over short distances.
Shade could feel the anger of these ancient lands in the brown, dormant, Bullgrasses and in the tall stone monoliths sunken into the muddy earth. He used to marvel at their rage he felt humming through them whenever he touched one, but he could understand their vehemence. He knew what it was like to be hunted down due to the color of his skin. Men had been hunting and poaching Minotaur for centuries before the Mino Wars. The black curse laid on this land had wrested the plunder from the hands of its conquerors. Served them right, but such hollow sympathies would not aid him today. The land would never understand him, for here he too was a foreigner…a trespasser.
The setting sun was now only a sliver of light as the first massive stones of the ancient Minotaur city of Jahaeddra came into view. The ruined buildings were a series of four-hundred square foot monolithic stones, three standing and one large capstone to form crude Stone Age structures. Each building stood roughly twelve feet in height. At the center of town nine more mid-height monoliths, blackened with old blood, had been arranged in an ominous circle forming a cromlech the assassin knew to be the ancient place of Minotaur sacrifices. The scorched altar lay silent in front of Xzoron’s tomb from which the bovine lowing echoed into the night.
Shade turned his course slightly. He was not fool enough to run through the heart of the ruins, but his destination was on the far side of the outskirts. He began the long trek around the former Mino capital. A great battle had once been fought here. Jahaeddra was thick with bones, for it had been the Minotaurs’ last stand. The thousands of human bones paid grim testament to the wild berserker rage of a mere hundred Minotaur who gave their last breath to save their ancient homeland.
Xzoron was the only Minotaur wizard ever known to exist. Shade was quite familiar with the wizard’s history. Men at the tavern often spoke of the Curse of Garrlohan. Xzoron’s ways had been steeped in the black arts. He led his people through a series of campaigns against Doljinaar that came to be known as the Mino Wars. Eventually, the legions of Doljinaar marched against him and lay siege to Garrlohan, razing the crude stone cities all the way to the capital here at Jahaeddra.
Minotaur battled men for every square inch of their homeland, but eventually the legions of Doljinaar proved too many. The throngs of men overtook the ceremonial chamber in the deepest, darkest dungeon of Jahaeddra. At that exact moment Xzoron tore a horn from his head and plunged it deep into his chest. He uttered a curse upon his fallen country with his dying breath. Only a small remnant of Minotaur escaped by ship to the island now called Kildore.
That night the legions of Doljinaar threw a great bonfire and got drunk in celebration. Men fought over the spoils of war. Doljinaar had swelled its ranks with mercenaries and poachers to compensate for the heavy casualties. Mino hides and horns were worth much on the western markets. Other far more spineless poachers and bandits had waited on the outskirts of the battle. They descended on Jahaeddra like a host of vultures, opportunistic thieves of the same spine as Shade’s father.
At midnight Xzoron’s bovine wail rang free for the first time. The cr
y was so great and terrifying that it chilled the very ale in the men’s blood. The undead Minotaur wizard came raging out of his tomb. He pointed his horrible staff and melted the very skin off the bone.
War-hardened soldiers ran screaming into the night, but the very dead rose up—dead men and Minotaur. The undead behemoths tore through the legions, but even undead men heeded the command of Xzoron. Fallen human soldiers slew their fellow brothers in arms, taking the lives of comrades they had just given their lives for just hours before. By morning not a single living man remained behind in the old Mino country. All joined the ranks of the dead. Only one man escaped on horseback to tell the tale. Some years later he threw himself off a cliff.
Shade felt that cold and familiar chill seeping into his skin as the sun at last winked out of sight. The assassin made a living sending people to their grave. He found it to be a grim reversal to the natural order of things that some mortals were permitted to crawl back from death’s door.
The moaning of Xzoron rose to new heights as the red, cobalt and silver marred moons of Covent appeared in the late dusk sky. They glimmered faintly through the clouds and then the fog swallowed them. The chill air breathed icily down the back of his neck. His hairs stood at attention. Then when the last stabs of sunlight had finally retreated, Xzoron’s wail reached its vengeful peak.
The deafening moan raked his eardrums and ripped through his mind. He clamped his hands over his ears in a feeble attempt to drown out the awful noise. He closed his eyes and sprinted in a desperate rush to widen the distance between himself and that accursed cromlech. He heard the door to Xzoron’s tomb fly open. And then came the most chilling sound yet. The sound of Xzoron’s unmuffled wail ringing free and clear in the night air. ‘YOU FOOL!’ Shade seethed in his very thoughts, ‘You ran too close to the city!’ He just could not tell how close on account of the fog.