“Yes, Sir. We was going to take some bacon down to your boys this morning, but there’s no fires and then tents is all pulled down and grass is all torn up around the camp. We didn’t get close, on account of them being any wood-dwellers still around. They shoot arrows at us if we is gettin too close to the trees.”
Torus swore under his breath and the man reddened, the wine in his cup threatening to splash over the rim, his hands were shaking so violently. The lieutenant reached across and plucked the cup from the man’s grasp, setting it firmly on the table.
“You’ll take me there, immediately.”
Torus grabbed his helm from the shelf above the table and picked up his long sword from the rack beside the door. It was a well weathered weapon, with many dings and scratches. It had been his since he had been sworn into the guard as a youngster and had served him through his entire service. The feel of it sliding into the scabbard slung over his shoulder was comforting and brought a sense of peace to him that few things did.
He reached up and pulled the rope that lead to the bell in the barracks. The loud pealing echoed through the room and the mousy man clasped his hands over his ears.
“Get up, you lazy bastards!” Torus roared down the hallway. “There’s trouble and we need to see what kind.”
To their credit, his soldiers appeared through the doorway momentarily, pulling on plates of thick leather armor and buckling on scabbard and quiver. They presented themselves to the officer with a crisp salute, which he returned before he looked them over. Not bad for an emergency muster, he thought. He pulled a strap here, untwisted a buckle there, but the three kids in his charge were as ready as they were going to be.
It was fortunate that the path down to the tree line wasn’t too far from the guardhouse. The nearer they got to the forward camp, the more nervous the villager became. Before long, reached the split rail fence that separated the village proper from the wide swathe of land that marked the border between the Imperium and Aldstock, the ancestral home of the elves. The villager refused to go any further, showing a surprising amount of backbone that Torus wouldn’t have believed he possessed had he not seen it.
Torus wondered for a moment if the man or the villagers hadn’t had something to do with the attack, but that didn’t add up. Why would the man have come to tell them that something was amiss? Certainly they’d have tried to avoid the confrontation altogether. Besides, the man was genuinely afraid of going any further toward the camp. They had been there before, playing dice, so there was no reason that he should not want to return unless he really felt there was something wrong.
From the gentle slope above the camp, it was obvious that there was something amiss. The tents, normally pulled taut against their supporting poles, sagged limply toward the dew-covered ground. The fire rings had been scattered and no whisper of smoke scented the morning breeze. Clothing and cookery items were scattered about. Most disturbing, however, were the weapons that lay, abandoned, around the camp.
Whatever had happened here had happened quickly and with the element of surprise. Torus drew his sword, prompting the others to ready their weapons. Two archers and two swordsmen suddenly seemed like long odds. It didn’t help, Torus thought, that these boys were as green as spring grass. None of them had been in combat and spilled blood. Shooting an arrow at a training target was one thing. Shooting one at something that shot back was something else entirely.
He motioned silently to the archers, who nodded and spread out on the ridge. Another gesture and the boy with the sword fell into step beside him. Their approach to the camp was agonizingly slow, eye and ear alert for the slightest warning or indication of danger. As they neared the closest tent, Torus knew they would find no survivors here. The wind brought the smell of sewer sludge, tinged with the thick coppery smell of spilled blood. It was the smell of death. Torus had smelled it on enough battlefields to know that whatever had happened here had been a massacre. He didn’t look forward to what they would find.
Torus nodded to the boy, urging him into position across from him, outside the flap of the nearest tent. The lieutenant flipped the flap open with the tip of his sword. The boy beside him dropped his blade and promptly vomited into the grass by his feet. As a soldier, Torus judged him harshly, but as a human being, he couldn’t fault the boy. Inside the tent, a scattered mass of flesh, tissue, and bone that had once been one of their brothers-in-arms. Whatever had torn him apart had done so some hours ago. The offal was already beginning to blacken with decay. The stench was nearly overwhelming.
A shout went up from the ridge, and Torus whirled, his blade at the ready. A man stood at the edge of the tree line. He was naked from the waist up, his muscular arms held high above his head. In one he grasped an ornate bow. In the other, a bunch of arrows. He wore breeches of forest green and brown boots that seemed to blend into the ground where he stood.
He walked forward in measured steps, never dropping his eyes from Torus’ face. Torus sheathed his sword. He knew an armistice when he saw one. Besides, the look on the elf’s face was raw enough that Torus could recognize it even at this distance. He was terrified.
“You may call me Dendrel,” the elf said as they came within speaking distance. “My people are not responsible for this, certainly you see that?”
“Torus,” the lieutenant replied, gesturing over his shoulder. “I’m not certain of anything, but I’ve never heard of that kind of brutality from your kind.”
The elf shook his head, sadness reflected in his oval, deep blue eyes.
“Our people aren’t so different,” he said slowly. “This, I think, is a common enemy, if an old one.”
“Then you saw who did this?” Torus was growing impatient. If the elf or his kin had seen who the attackers were, they could pursue them immediately and call up reinforcements from elsewhere along the line. Even to Dragonfell and Blackbeach if need be.
“Yes. Your men were slaughtered by the Xarundi.”
It took a moment for that thought to register. For a moment, Torus was certain the elf was mocking him and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. The elf dropped his bow and arrows in the grass at Torus’ feet, looking up at him with those sad eyes.
“You’re mad.” Torus’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
“If only I were.”
The elf moved to the side, slowly lifting the flap to the tent that was sagging there. Deep score marks marred the tent post. A footprint in the soft dirt was reminiscent of a dire-wolf, but far larger.
“A wild animal,” Torus said, half-heartedly. The answering look the elf gave him was no longer sad, but disdainful.
“What animal do you know of that walks on two legs, like man, and has such deadly claws?”
Torus didn’t answer. He had nothing to say.
* * *
A mass of black shapes moved along the road toward the village. The pack was silent and only stood out from the night's blackness when the moonlight fell on sleek fur or reflected in luminescent blue eyes. They loped along easily, covering the distance between Aldstock and the sleeping town as fast as a man on horseback.
The leader stood eight feet high, a full foot or so taller than the tallest of his closest kin. He loped along on powerful hind legs, thickly roped with muscle and designed for springing with terrible speed on unsuspecting prey. His arms were equally powerful, with huge hands and fingers tipped by razor sharp claws that slipped in and out of their sheaths with unconscious agitation.
Glowing blue eyes were set above a narrow muzzle and strong jaw. The Xarundi's ears were erect and swiveled two and fro, alert for any sound that might indicate danger or detection. He smelled the stench of man and his nose twitched in hunger and anticipation.
“Where?” growled one of the pack in the guttural tongue of the Xarundi. The language was harsh and sounded very similar to the dialect of their simpler lupine cousins. A series of growls, yips, and snarls served to convey the basics of language.
“Close. Can't
you can smell the reek of them?” Zarfensis wrinkled his nose in distaste. The settlements of man were growing entirely too close to the ancient forest. They would need to be shown their proper place and made to respect their rightful masters. Snarling quietly, the High Priest called the clerics up from the rear ranks. Their magic would be needed. First to confuse and cause panic among the prey. Second to heal any of the Chosen who might be injured in the struggle against the pink-skinned, hairless, vermin. The infestation spreading across the land like wildfire.
They were near enough the settlement now to make out the sentries as they patrolled on the high wooden wall that surrounded the little village. Zarfensis called the darters forward and snarled an order. Four Xarundi raised long, hollow tubes and, as one, fitted darts into the near end. Each feathered dart was tipped in a poison so potent that a mere drop would cause a sleep that lasted for days and might never end. The amount of poison on each dart was enough to kill a fully grown Xarundi. A human would have little protection against its effects.
“Fire,” Zarfensis growled.
There were muted thumps as each darter fired his weapon. Up on the wall, the human guards slumped over at their posts. One fell over the outer wall, hitting the ground below like a sack of vegetables collapsing in on itself.
“Now,” the High Priest growled, dropping his jaw in a grin. “We eat well tonight.”
The Xarundi closed the distance to the heavy wooden gates with a speed and ferocity that would have terrorized the people of the village, had they had any warning. Without the guards at the top of the wall, the only alert the village would have would be the splintering wood of the Xarundi pulling the gate apart. A feat which they performed with little resistance, as their sharp claws tore easily through wood and pitch.
The gate fell, and the Xarundi poured into the village, pulling down lanterns and torches as they went, plunging the village into darkness. They crashed into doors, knocking them off their hinges and filling the night with the screams of the panicking villagers. As others began to awaken and run, the powerful wolf-men ran down their quarry, tearing out their throats and gorging themselves on the blood and flesh of their prey.
A few of the humans tried to put up a fight, but the clerics made short work of them with spell and staff. The entire attack was over in less than an hour. Every living thing in the village lay dead or dying, except the Xarundi. Slowly, the pack began to reform around the High Priest.
“Orders, Your Holiness?”
Amanuensis's long black tongue flicked out, cleaning off the blood and gore that dripped from his long talons. Once they were clean, he turned to his second in command.
“Collect the offal and set it to burn. Then burn the village. I want nothing left standing.”
Chapter 7 - Final Justice
“I just can't,” she screamed, throwing the blade down in the grass by her feet. She wanted to cry and in truth, she was dangerously close to tears, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction.
The Captain just stared at her, his lips set in a thin, white, disapproving line. She knew she was disappointing him, but they had been training for four hours and she was sore and tired and frustrated.
“Pick up your weapon.”
She took a little too long to follow his order and she paid for it with a sharp slap of the broad side of his scimitar across the backs of her thighs. She yelped, and this time she did start to cry.
“I don't understand why this is so important to you anyway,” she sobbed. “Maybe you are wrong!”
“I'm not wrong,” he said quietly. “You need to focus. You need to center and stop getting distracted. Only then will you be able to channel your power.”
Tiadaria bit her tongue. She wanted to tell him exactly where he could stuff his center and his power and even his scimitar. She had told him off once. Exactly once. She'd had the bruises for days afterward. There were times when she thought that “training” was just a synonym for “thrashing”. At least, that's what it felt like.
“On your guard, little one,” the Captain said, shifting effortlessly into an offensive stance.
She raised her sword, resigned to taking the beating he would no doubt dish out in response to her stubborn outburst. Then she noticed the men at the edge of the training field. Her grip went slack, the sword nearly falling from her fingers.
The Captain turned to look over his shoulder, seeing that she wasn't being obstinate this time. He sheathed his scimitar and crossed the training field in long strides.
She watched the men talk from a distance. She heard the Captain raise his voice and gesture wildly, but she couldn't make out the words. Her stomach lurched in response to his mannerisms. He was agitated and getting more so by the second. One of men dropped a hand to his belt dagger and the Captain took a step back. His hand went to the hilt of his scimitar, but the taller of the men, clad in a voluminous gray robe, raised a warning hand. He said something to the Captain, who looked at Tiadaria and shook his head violently.
Whatever was going on, it wasn't good. Tiadaria knew the beginning of a fight when she saw one. She had seen more than one brawl in the longhouses and it wouldn't be long before the conflict at the edge of the field came to blows. She wasn't going to wait around to find out how it turned out. She plucked her practice sword from the grass, turned on her heel, and set off in a dead run.
There was a shout behind her and she knew, without looking back, that whoever these men were, they planned to run her down. The edge of the training field was thickly wooded with dense conifer growth. If she could make it into those protecting boughs, she could circle around and meet the Captain back at his cottage and find out what, exactly was going on.
Her lungs ached with the effort of keeping her legs pumping toward the wood. The felt the pressure of the air change on her left and she ducked right. She was thirty feet from the edge of the wood. Just a little longer and she would be safe. She could slip into the wood and—
Her frantic thought was cut off as something slammed into her shoulder, spinning her around. An invisible blow slammed into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her and sending her falling backward over her own feet. She crashed into the ground, her head snapping forward as she hit the drought-hardened ground. Tiadaria's world went black.
She floated back and forth between states of consciousness. Things would lighten for a moment and then slip away. She could smell dirt and blood, but everything sounded as if she was underwater. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the Captain calling her name. He sounded upset.
Tiadaria wanted to tell him that she was okay, that she was just very tired, but she couldn't seem to open her eyes, much less make her mouth work. She heard someone tell the Captain that she was alright, that she would recover completely in a few hours. Of course she would recover. She had just fallen down.
Suddenly she was seven years old again. Even though she had been scolded time and again about climbing the watchtowers, she had picked her way to the very top of the tower that overlooked the valley. She had stayed there most of the day, only climbing down as the sun was slipping low to the horizon. Her brothers thought it would be fun to teach her a lesson, so they waited at the bottom of the tower and shouted at her, scaring her, as she descended. Her foot slipped off the cross-rung and she fell fifteen feet to the frozen earth below. Her brothers hadn't known what to do when she wouldn't wake up, so they ran to the village and brought their mother and father. It was scant consolation that the boys got just as much of a punishment as she did. She'd had a headache for days.
Tiadaria felt a pressure on her head and then warm breath in her ear. It was the Captain and he was whispering something urgently, over and over.
“I'll come for you,” he said. “I promise.”
She tried to tell him that she understood, but she was too tired to fight against the coming darkness. She gave in and was still.
* * *
Tia woke with a splitting headache that made her stomach churn. She felt a
s if any movement, no matter how slight, would set off her sickness, so she stayed as still as possible and kept her eyes closed. She had no idea how long she laid there, but eventually the nausea subsided and she was able to sit up without retching.
She sat on a thin, threadbare mattress on a plain iron frame. The walls were lichen-covered stone and damp to the touch. The air was cool and carried an unpleasant odor of mold, urine, and stagnant water. A black web of mildew traced its way across the side of the mattress. The only light came from a flickering torch on the wall outside her cell.
“Hello?” she called tentatively. The only response she got was her own voice, a faint echo down what must be a long corridor.
What had happened to her? She remembered seeing the men at the edge of the field. She remembered the Captain telling her that he would come for her, but the rest was awash in a murkiness of memory that she just couldn't shake.
Over time, her headache began to subside. As it did, she found that there was a distinct pain in her throat where the witchmetal collar touched her skin. She worked a finger between the collar and her throat, trying to ease the discomfort, but that only seemed to make it worse. It was tolerable, for now, but she hoped that she wouldn't be here for long. Whether it was the iron bars, or a remnant of the blow to her head, she just wanted it to stop.
As frustrated and angry as she had been at the Captain during their training, she wanted nothing more now than to be with him. In the field with a sword in her hand, or anywhere that isn't here. She thought longingly of their comfortable nights around the hearth, exchanging tales and adventures. Her sword, obviously, was nowhere to be found. She was truly a prisoner then. There was no way out and she had no weapon. She was once again trapped against her will.
Tiadaria began to cry.
“Now, now, girl. No reason for all of that.” The droning voice came from the man she first recognized by his robe. The Magistrate was leaning on a long wooden staff and peering into her cell. She hadn't heard him approach, being rather involved with her own problems.
The Swordmage Trilogy: Volume 01 - The Last Swordmage Page 6