Darkness Falls (Tales of the Wolf) (12 page)

Stepping inside the wild swing, Cord blocked the two-handed hammer on the shaft with his bronze bracer. Seeing the look on boy’s face was priceless. It was pure shock. Lashing out with the pommel of his sword, he scored a wicked blow to the boy’s temple and watched as the lights went out in his eyes.

Turning to find the second attacker, Cord paused. The second kid was lean as a wolf and was squatting on the limp form of Hannes. Judging from the blood, he would not be getting up anytime soon. When the wolf-boy looked up at him, Cord felt a slight ripple of fear run down his back. The boy’s face was covered with the splattered blood of his friend and his steel-grey eyes showed hatred and death. Before Cord could say anything, the dammed wolf-boy growled and charged at him.

*    *    *    *    *

Gray had turned just in time to see the mercenary leader take out Garoth. He glanced once at Annabelle and wanted to take out her captor but he knew that he could not leave an enemy standing behind him. He cursed himself for leaving his sword behind in the Inn, buried in some hapless goblin’s gut. He instinctively realized that he did not have the time to pull out his bow since it was unstrung, which left only one option. Attack.

Gray subconsciously prayed for more speed. Unknown to him, the Spirits of the Wild heard him. Since it was not an official prayer or request, they could not grant him one of their forms but the Puma Spirit did impart to him some of her agility. Gray dodged under the mercenary’s first attack and lashed out with his own strike, which the mercenary blocked with his off-hand dagger. The next minute was filled with a flurry of strikes, blocks, parries and thrusts. The mercenary was highly skilled but Gray was motivated and had the blessings of the Puma Spirit behind him, even if he did not know it.

*    *    *    *    *

Cord had never fought someone with such dexterity. The wolf-boy’s attacks were inhumanly swift. Only the skills he had gained over long years of war kept him alive, so far.

Knowing his window of opportunity was closing fast, Cord knew he had to do something desperate. He timed his head butt at about the same time he blocked the deadly warclub. The wolf-boy had not been expecting something so raw and Cord was rewarded with his opponent falling backwards and his warclub flying off into the darkness.

*    *    *    *    *

Gray felt his nose shatter and the flash of pain that accompanied it. He also knew two things, he had lost his father’s warclub and he was falling. Tucking his head to his chin, Gray went with the fall and smoothly rolled out of it. Landing in a crouch, Gray did not even bother to open his eyes. He trusted his instincts and threw his knife.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked several times to clear his vision. His opponent was on his knees looking down at the knife that was protruding from his belly. The look on his face was a mixture of pain and bewilderment.

Gray did not give him another thought and turned his attention to the last mercenary. His eyes were wide with fear and he was glancing around but he did still have his knife to Annabelle’s throat.

One part of Gray’s mind registered the fact that there was a lot of sounds coming from the camp. However, at this very moment that was not his concern, the bastard holding a blade to his love’s throat was. Gray pulled free his last weapon, his tomahawk, and took a slow step forward.

“Let her go and you can live.”

The captor’s eyes were wide. “Back off or I will cut her. I swear I will!”

Gray stopped moving forward and made eye contact with Annabelle. He could tell that she was trying her best to remain calm and control her fear. Her face was wet with tears and a fresh bruise covered her left cheek.

“Gray…” she started to say before the bastard tightened his grip and raked the blade over her throat.

“Quiet bitch. If he attacks, you die. I know it and he knows it.”

Annabelle subtly gestured with her right arm showing that she intended to copy Kariah’s move with the elbow.

Graytael swallowed hard and tried to shake his head but she was already moving. Knowing he had one chance, he hurled his tomahawk with all his might even as he yelled, “No!”

The next few seconds would be seared into Gray’s mind for all his days.

Annabelle lashed out at her captor with a powerful back elbow to his gut. Unfortunately, she did not take into consideration the body mechanics of someone that is right handed holding a knife to your throat. As her strike made the mercenary flinch, so did it pull his right arm back and across her own
throat. The razor sharp knife easily parted the skin and artery hidden underneath.

Gray’s tomahawk was perfectly thrown and buried itself in the forehead of the mercenary but by that time the damage was done. He rushed to Annabelle’s side as she fell limp on the grass. Blood covered her whole body and she was already growing pale. He slapped his hand over the wound but knew it was too late.

When she spoke, he voice was barely a whisper. “Gray…gra…”

She reached up with her left hand to Gray’s neck and tried to pull him close.

“I’m here my love, I’m here.”

Leaning down, Gray kissed her one last time as he felt the life leave her body.

He had failed. Annabelle was dead.

Unknown to him, his medicine bag was still clutched in Annabelle’s lifeless hands. Gray was completely numb and just sat there holding the lifeless form of his first love as numerous orcs stepped out of the darkness. He did not even resist as they grabbed him up and roughly bound his hands behind him. Nor did he resist as they led him away.

Why did it matter? He had failed.

Chapter 12

As the sun crept over the horizon, it lit the sky a fiery red. Which somehow seemed fitting since the entire Southland was aflame. Rjurik knew it was an exaggeration but at this very moment, that was what it felt like.

He looked around at the small band of survivors he and Anasazi had been able to gather. There were not many and only six of them had any combat experience. Matanza and Broun had been the first two to join up with them. They had come up from the southern fields and joined in the defense of the town. Then, there was Gaspar the blacksmith, father to Garoth. Even though he was not one of Rjurik’s favorite people, he did swing a mean hammer and had held his own during the attack. That meant a lot to the old dwarf.

The surprising addition to their little party had been Aleena, the blonde daughter of the town’s seamstress. Evidently, she had been holding out on everyone with her skills with knives. When the goblins had attacked her home, she had killed three of them with only a pair of knitting needles. Then, she had grabbed their knives and went hunting. She now sported a scar down the left side of her face that marred her perfect skin but she felt that was a small price to pay for her life. Now she was armed with at least twelve knives of varying lengths and those were just the ones that the dwarf could see. He suspected that she had more hidden away somewhere on her body. He was not too sure where since she was scantily dressed in tight leathers but she had proven that she could use those blades with deadly precision too many times over the last twenty hours for him to complain.

Rjurik glanced at the twenty-three villagers huddled together under the boughs of the trees. They were nothing more than sheep. He hated to think of them that way but that was about it. They were too scared to do anything but cry and whimper. They could not or would not even lift up a shovel to defend themselves. The rest of the villagers had been either killed or captured.

Rjurik watched as Anasazi moved among the villagers, placing a hand on each of their foreheads before moving onto the next. He was not sure why or what the old man was doing but the warrior had learned not to ask. The affairs of wizards and shaman were well beyond this simple dwarf.

Matanza joined the dwarf and nodded his head toward the old shaman in silent question. Rjurik just shrugged. The two friends waited for him to finish. It was not long before he walked out of the woods and back towards their campsite. When they joined him, the centuarian chieftain asked, “So what’s the plan?”

Anasazi shrugged. “There is no plan. We are behind the enemy’s lines. If we rush forward, we will only catch up to the raiders. If we stay, the secondary lines will catch us. We are between a rock and a hard place.”

“But we’in can’t be doin’ nothing,” roared Rjurik.

“We aren’t. We are going hunting.”

By this time, they had reached the campsite and the others had heard the shaman’s last remark. It was Aleena who asked, “Who are we hunting?”

Anasazi just nodded his head toward the halfling. Broun grinned and took up the explanation. “The slavers. This was too well planned out to be just a random attack. It was well organized and orchestrated. If you noticed, the Orcs and jotens did not stay and pillage. They attacked, destroyed and moved on. The only thing they slowed down to do was take prisoners.”

Aleena nodded. “And you think we can catch up and possibly free them?”

“Possibly. The slavers will be outnumbered and can only move at the speed of their slowest slave,” explained Anasazi. “If we follow the Draken we should be able to find them.”

Gaspar pointed his huge hammer at the old man. “Why do you think they’ll be near the river?”

Unfazed, Anasazi kicked some dirt on the campfire. “They will need to keep the slaves fed and watered. It would be cheaper and easier to give them water from the river instead of hauling it.”

Gaspar tilted his head to one side. “Well then, let’s get moving.”

Anasazi shook his head. “Someone has to stay and lead the villagers to safety.”

Gaspar threw his head back. “Well don’t go looking at me. I don’t have any family in there. My son is down south somewhere.”

“True but your son followed the slavers by his own free will.”

“So you say.”

Broun got defensive. “I don’t say, the tracks say. It’s as obvious as the horn on a unicorn.”

Matanza stepped forward slightly. “I will stay and lead the villagers to safety. My herd is scattered. I may yet find some of them along the way.”

Broun immediately seemed torn. It was obvious that he wanted to go on the hunt to rescue his son but he did not relish leaving behind his friend.

Anasazi settled it for him. “Broun, you should stay also. You know the roads east of here and can help guide them to Krantos and safety.” The halfling nodded but the old shaman was not finished. “And Gaspar you shall travel with them also. They will need your protection if they are to survive the trip.”

The blacksmith puffed up his chest and slammed his sledgehammer into the ground. “I will do no such thing. I want combat, not babysitting.”

Anasazi calmly waved his right hand. “Perhaps there will be more glory in protecting the villagers.”

Gaspar’s bluster quickly faded as his said, “Perhaps there will be more glory in protecting the villagers.”

“There’s no need to look for trouble,” said Anasazi calmly.

“There’s no need to look for trouble.”

“The villagers need help. It’s your duty to protect them.”

Gaspar’s face seemed to lose the constant look of anger as he said, “The villagers need help. It’s my duty to protect them.”

Anasazi broke eye contact and finished covering up the fire. “You had best be going.”

Gaspar threw his sledgehammer over his shoulder and moved toward the waiting villagers. “We had best be going.”

Aleena, Broun and Matanza all looked at the blacksmith with wide-eyed wonder and then back to the ancient shaman. Broun started to ask, “You didn’t…”

Anasazi shook his head. “I did no such thing. It was what he really wanted to do all along. I just sort of cleared away the cloud of anger that was poisoning him. Incidentally, I think you two will find him a bit more agreeable.”

Matanza just laughed and shook hands with those staying behind. “Good hunting. May your arrows always fly true and your string never break.”

Aleena gave both the centuarian chief and the halfling rogue a big hug. “Be careful you two.”

It was not long before the remaining villagers under the guidance of Broun, Matanza and Gaspar set off for Krantos. The other three gathered up their belongings and headed south following the banks of the river.

*    *    *    *    *

Rhiánön, Queen of the Elves, had never even considered her current situation. Not even in her deepest, darkest nightmares. She was bound, both physically and magically, by her own son. When she saw the head of the young elf explode, killing her two bodyguards, Rhiánön believed she would be next. A simple slice across her throat or a thrust into her heart, both would be quick and lethal. Even a stab to the kidneys would be deadly and especially painful…but she was wrong.

Once Mortharona had gained complete control over her, he pulled off her crown and tossed it aside. One by one, he cut off her clothes until she stood naked before him. At first, she thought he just wanted to humiliate her before killing her. Once again, she was wrong.

Rhiánön almost did not recognize her son. Mortharona was always quick-tempered but never malicious. He completely ignored her tears and pleas. He just set about doing his work with the most serious, almost business-like expression. Rhiánön could not believe it when he guided her to her own throne and bent her across the armrest. Then he entered her from behind and she screamed.

Rape. How could her own son rape her? This was the thought that repeated through her mind as he savagely abused her body. It went on for what seemed hours.

Rhiánön screamed until her throat was raw but still he violated her. It was at this moment when she had a flash of insight to what her only daughter Tatianna must have felt all those years ago. The memory saddened her. Even as her son climaxed inside her, Rhiánön cried for her dead daughter and the grandson she never knew.

*    *    *    *    *

Mortharona stepped back and looked down on the beaten and bruised body of his mother. He had done his best to violate her in every way possible, just as the Spinner had decreed. Hearing the sounds of running feet, Mortharona spit on her and took a couple steps back. Drawing his twin swords, he waited for his brother.

Almost exactly on time,
Khlekluëllin entered the Royal Suites at a dead run and skidded to a stop.

“By Clotho, you are so damn predictable.”

Khlekluëllin looked at his brother, then back to the naked and battered body of their mother.

Mortharona could almost see the wheels turning in his mind as he tried to fit all the pieces together. But the dark-haired twin didn’t plan on letting his brother live long enough to do anything about it. Therefore, he attacked.

*    *    *    *    *

When
Khlekluëllin came to a stop inside the Royal Suites, he was dumbfounded and shocked at what he saw before him. Not only had his brother murdered all of his men, it was obvious that he had raped their mother. When his brother spoke, he knew that his greatest fears were true.

“By Clotho, you are so damn predictable.”

Somehow, someway, his brother had been seduced to the Dark Alliance but before Khlekluëllin could say anything, his twin attacked.

Eight black bolts of energy flew out of Mortharona’s twin swords to strike him in the chest.

Khlekluëllin had been so shocked at the maltreatment of their mother that he hadn’t manage to summon a shield in time and was knocked backwards into the hallway from the energy of the spell. Luckily for him, Mortharona was nowhere as strong a spellcaster as their mother or long-lost sister.

Khlekluëllin
jumped up and drew his own sword. The Dawnsword flared to life and filled the hallway with a brilliant yellow light. His blade was one of three legendary Swords of the Moirai, sometimes called the Blades of Fate. His blade was dedicated to Aurora, the Mistress of the Morning and the patron goddess of the Elves. Unfortunately, his brother also carried one of the swords. His was the Darksword and it was dedicated to Hecate, Goddess of the Night and the patron goddess of the Dark Elves.

“How long have you been serving the Spinner?”
Khlekluëllin cracked his neck as the two brothers began to slowly circle each other. They had sparred against each other since they were children, however this would be their first real duel.

“Does it really matter? The invasion had begun. All across Terreth, anarchy and chaos will soon reign.” Mortharona feinted with a quick thrust with the Darksword which his brother blocked easily but had to jump backwards to avoid the jab from his offhand sword.

Even as Khlekluëllin moved out of the way and countered with his own slash, he absentmindedly noted that his twin’s offhand sword seemed to be dripping a black poison or possibly acid since it sizzled when the drops hit the wooden floor. This was not going to be an easy fight and they both knew it. The problem was that they both knew each other too well. Whenever a small opening or gap in their defenses appeared, it would be quickly seized upon but just as easily blocked and countered. Khlekluëllin wanted to keep him distracted until reinforcements arrived. “But why? Why would you turn your back on your people?”

“Ha! My people. We elves have failed to step forward and claim what should rightfully be ours. The other races are weak and constantly looking to us for aid and guidance. I say make them serve us. We should be rulers not advisors.”

“So, you wish to dominate others? Is that why you raped our mother?”

“No, that was purely for fun.” Mortharona’s grin was venomous. “Clotho just wanted her humiliated and beaten. This was all my doing.”

“So you did to our mother what was done to our sister? Who are you?”

In the back of
Khlekluëllin’s mind he heard his friend’s voice. *
Almost there.*

The twins went through a flurry of stabs, slices, thrusts and jabs. None could get past either Bladeweaver’s defenses. They were just too similar.

For an elf, Bladeweaving was more than just a style of combat. It was a way of life. It was the art of blending swordsmanship and spell craft into one formidable skill. Khlekluëllin had chosen the way of the Dragon, an ancient style of bladeweaving; while Mortharona chose the way of the Panther, a more subtle and surreptitious style. Both were challenging paths and extremely effective. But since the twins had been sparring against each other for over a century, they knew each other’s nuances and tells.

*    *    *    *    *

Mortharona knew that his brother was stalling, probably waiting for reinforcements. But they were spread far and wide throughout the Great Forest. Not that they would not arrive but not in time to save his virtuous brother. Mortharona had planned for this circumstance.

He only needed to move Khlekluëllin over about three more feet to his left. So, Mortharona launched a flurry of attacks, not that he expected any to land but they would cause his twin to move. Which he did, and stopped right underneath the Harvestman Spider Mortharona had conjured earlier for just such a situation.