Fervor: Part 2

The cantrip, still lingering in his mind flew forth again. The elf remembered seeing one of the caravan guards daggers next to the remains of his horse, and a short sword, slightly longer than the dagger lay near the body of Yi'Tarriel; a druid of the moor and a protector of the icon. He had insisted on coming along for further assurance that the relic would be safely delivered and he was among the first to die in the raid. One more thing to pray for, if the elf survived this.

In seconds, both blades were in his hands. He took a practice swing, flourishing the blades together in the front and then off to his sides. His right arm burned with the motion and he nearly dropped the dagger but now was not the time to squabble over pain. He was drawing breath still, and so were his enemies. It was his job to change that. In his own language he screamed his battle cry, "IL MELISTIO VRUNAN!" and ran forward. As he neared his foes he heard the groaning of the trees again, making the men jump. The forest was giving him more help than he asked for - there would be much for which to give thanks. He slipped between two outstretched swords from the front of the group, letting the blade in each hand slide across the throats of the men holding them as he passed. They were not well organized, and were far too close together. To do the most damage he would need to be among them. At the center of the group he heard the two leading men hit the ground.
"Twelve." He thought. Another man made a stab at him and he turned it away with all the force he could muster from his right hand, driving the man's blade into the unprotected crotch of his comrade. The elf did not hear a scream however until he leapt onto the flat edge of the now horizontal sword, pivoted and leapt again into the air. He landed on the back of one of the larger men and quickly cut his throat before pushing off the mans back with his feet, launching him noisily into four others.

By the time he had landed he had already begun freeing his mind. The mind needed to be void of emotion and thought to begin the bond, and without merging with the forest around him he had no chance of survival. In a flash of time he was ready, and the forest called out to him. Animals, insects, and the very trees of the forest were aware; The life around him sprang into his mind. He knew them all and he knew where they were. They were watching him and he could see through their eyes. He could see himself and the men surrounding him and he therefore could see what those in all directions from him were about to do. Behind him, three of the brutes swung forward. A blade and the heads of two barbed maces arced toward him. With the best of his speed he wheeled to the side as a mace was buried into the hard packed clay of the road. The blade glazed the outside of his thigh and he grit his teeth and parried the remaining mace. Grabbing the shaft of the weapon, he pulled it forward, hauling the wielder onto the blade of the elf's dagger. He dropped his short sword and grabbed the handle of the mace in one motion to swing it around and into the face of the blade bearer who opened the new leg wound. Before the men around him could react further, the elf kicked his foot and the short sword bounced up from the ground and back into his grasp.

The giant of a man stood to the side of the clearing with his arms at his sides. His face nearing the color of the emblem on his chest. This was no ordinary elf, and this mission was costing him and his band more than it was worth. It was too late to intervene now. Sending the men at the elf had been a mistake but telling them to retreat would only cause them to lose their guard long enough for the elf to slaughter the rest of them. The giant watched the heavily wounded elf dance among his elite guards like practice dummies as he retrieved his maul from the tree it had been leaning against, preparing for his own battle.

The elf was dying. He had a knife in his lower back now and his torso was covered in slits and bloody wounds. He thrust a knee into a mans stomach and as the brute haunched over groaning, rammed his short sword into the back of the mans neck. With a twist at the end of that motion he rolled over the mans back, and using the momentum from his roll, launched his now heavily cleaved dagger into another mans face. Without a wasted motion, the elf grasped the short sword from the falling bandit's neck and with the last of his strength swung it forward again. He had aimed to sever the head of the last opponent in front of him, but his lack of strength simply wedged the blade a couple of inches in his neck. The last of them gurgled, bled, and toppled over. The elf fell to his knees.

His eyes tried to slide closed but he forced them open. There was one man left in the clearing, and he would be awake to address him. He would have his honor. The elf knelt with his head down as the giant thumped over to him. His knees vibrated as the huge maul dropped to the ground at the giant's feet. The elf saw one massive hand close around the empty baldric at his chest and his feet left the ground. When he looked up he was staring into the hairy face of the the groups leader. He could smell the ale and meat on his breath, and the staleness of his sweat. The leader held the elf at arms length looking him up and down. It was some time before he spoke.

"Do you know who I am little elf?" The mockery in his voice was thick.
"There are few elven lawmen who know not the name of Tarek Orthanial, brigand. The name of the leader of such a blood thirsty and savage group of outcasts gets passed around in many tongues." He seemed to take it as a compliment, for he smiled for his next words.
"Good, then I need not introduce myself and we can get right down to why we are both here." The smile faded and his face took on a dangerous tone. "The stone elf, where is it?" With that, it was the elf's turn to smile.
"Nowhere, fool. Everywhere. The stone will soon be beyond your reach; beyond the reach of that demon who sent you here. It will be given back to the earth." The elf's majestic voice lifted in laughter but was cut off as another massive hand gripped his throat and squeezed.
"I'll ask you once more elf. Where is the stone?" The elf smiled again at the fury in the humans eyes.
"Gone. Gone to where filth like you may never again taint its light. Cast out of the mortal realm by our wizards to where its power can never again be abused. Now kill me human. Kill me or leave me to die here." There was a fire ablaze in the humans eyes.
"You've killed dozens of my men, you've hindered my mission and dragged me days into this cursed forest. Tell me your name elf. Before I kill you."
"My name is El'Varien Ru Silva. High Druid and Commander of the Terianis army; Second in line for the throne of the northern free world; Guardian of the Icon of Su'Shan and life mate to her highness Matiara Luen. Remember it wretch, for it will he by that name who kills you."

The human smiled a wicked smiled and twisted his fist. After a snapping noise he released his grip and the elf dropped lifelessly to the ground. Big hands ripped open the light shirt under the elfs tunic, moved around at his belt and finally drew away holding a tiny elegant box with a silver lock. With a grunt the man ripped the top off to look inside - the tiny lock, shattered, clinked to the road. Inside lay what he had come for; The stone. He had never seen it, but the description from the devil was flawless. Something as beautiful as this could be nothing other than the remains of Su'Shan.

He looked up to see the moon, now fully visible in the night sky, and tipped the box up to empty it and then disgarded it. Standing in the moonlight looking at it, smiling he thought about running with it. Stealing it from the devils and using it for himself. It was that thought that triggered the spell. The stone crumbled in his grip and turned to dust that swirled up and around the one man left in the clearing. It began to spin around him faster and faster until it was a solid ring about his chest. And it started to shrink. Tarek Orthanial screamed at the realization he had been cheated. It was a trap. The ring shrank to his chest and began to press against his armor. He was having trouble breathing. He collapsed to his knees loudly and gasped, ripping at his chest frantically. The ring closed and another snapping noise echoed through the branches and the man went still, leaving only the forest, once more.

And far off to the west along the road an owl glided through the night. It hungered for the hunt but could not be swayed from its journey. It traveled through the darkness until the sun had risen, and set, and risen again. And on the morning of the third day it flew through an open window in the eastern wall of Matiara Luen's great throne room. It came to rest lightly on the marble floor at the foot of her dais and stared up at her.

The elf stood. She was divine in her beauty and celebrated through all the free kingdoms but right now her face was ashen. She walked slowly down the thirteen steps of her dais and crouched to the animal at her feet. The bird jumped to her lap and she saw the tiny silver chain tied to its talon; The tiny silver chain with a stone attached. She stood with the owl on her arm and untied the chain. She whispered her thanks to the gods and to the bird and let it fly once again, back to the wild.

With what was left of her composure she strode off, away from her guards, servants, and the prying eyes of the court and pushed open the door to her private chapel. Before it was entirely closed behind her she burst into tears and fell to her knees. She had told him what would happen if he accepted this task. Yet even as she did she knew it would not change his resolve. Without him they would have forever been lost.

Yet the battle was won. With what was left of her strength she pulled herself to her altar to meditate. She thanked the gods for what they had done for her, for them all. And she prayed, long into the night and until the sun rose again for those who sought this victory, and paid all sacrifice for it to come to pass.

Fervor: Part 1

She had told him it would most likely come to this and that when the time indeed came he would most likely not survive it. He remembered her elegant grace, slipping the tiny stone into his hands as she whispered to his mind what would become of him if he accepted the task. There had never been any hope of his survival. It had meant little to him because to be entrusted with a task as sacred as protecting and transporting the icon was the greatest honor he could ever have thought possible. He therefore had resolved himself to show the gods that he was worthy of such an honor. He would get the icon to Terianis, the capital, by his life or death.

He broke from his thoughts on the subject and blinked blood from his eyes, wondering - not for the first time - how much of it was his own. The gash on his back was making it difficult to stand and even though he had broken the end off the arrow that was protruding from the underside of his right arm, the head was still buried deep inside the flesh and made moving the limb too slow and painful to make it useful. Almost subconsciously he switched his weapon to his off hand just as another of the bandits ran screaming at him, both white-knuckled hands above his head ready to bring a rusty sword down on him.

With a matching scream of his own he swung his ruined sword up to parry the overhead swing. He used his good leg to push himself off the fallen tree that he had momentarily collapsed against. Then, using the momentum it gave him he rammed his shoulder into the bandits chest, knocking the criminal back a few steps and giving himself the extra moment he needed. Lunging forward again he buried what was left of his sword - his fathers sword - into the chest of the man in front of him. He saw the victims teeth, brown and rotting as he screamed, went rigid, and slid off the broken blade to the ground.

Panting, bleeding, he threw back his hood, revealing the long slender ears intrinsic of his race. He was alone. His entire escort and all of his friends were among the bodies at his feet and there were still bandits running from the trees toward the caravan. It was now simply a matter of time.

He looked to his chest to see only three knives left on his baldric and swore. The curse had not reached the outside of his mouth before the muscles in his ears contracted and he knew someone was behind him. His turn was liquid; his knees gave way and hit the ground and there was a knife in his hand. The blade of a very large axe swept by his head, close enough for him to feel the wind from it. Then his knife was gone from his hand and hidden - apart from the hilt - in the man's neck.

"Blessings again," he thought, "these men move like boars." To his left, between the wheels of a caravan wagon he saw another figure move around the wagon towards him. Grunting from the pain of using both legs, he dove forward, silently thanking the gods that the freshest corpse had fallen on his back. In midair he let go of his fathers sword and used his left hand to pull the blood soaked knife from its resting place before shifting his weight and pushing off the corpse with his fists. The bandit saw only a shadowy, robed form cartwheel in front of him before the knife slammed into his eye, killing him. The elf was on his feet, reclaiming his weapon before his newest victim had hit the ground.

In the following few seconds of peace that he had, he surveyed the ground for his bow. It had fallen from his grasp as his horse, slain by an arrow, had toppled over, throwing him to the ground. The beast had landed on his left leg, but he could tell it was not broken. That was another blessing he could only hope he lived to thank the gods for. He was halfway to the animals carcass before he saw the bow protruding from under the beast. He stopped. Even from where he stood he could tell it was badly damaged and the wire was snapped. There would be no way his marksmanship would get him out of this.

He heard the whoosh of an arrow release and instinctively dove to his left. He grunted loudly with pain as he went into a roll and landed on his feet. There was an arrow in his right shoulder and he was losing a great deal of blood. His wounds were becoming grievous and they were slowing him down. His time was nearly up.

Four of the bandits who were running up the quickly darkening road made it to the clearing he was standing in. They rushed at him together, stamping over the casualties of both sides. His knuckles went white around the hilt of his broken sword and he gritted his teeth. The elf waited for them to be within 10 feet of him and threw his sword a few paces in front of him. Watching them hesitate, if not stop gave him some renewed hope. He drew his last knives, one in each hand and threw them both. Two of the men dropped and the remaining pair faltered and slowed. It was dark, and they had no way of knowing how many knives he had left. His eyes, trained for the night slid closed and he spoke with the trees around him. They answered his request and he set his mind to the task of summoning the simple cantrip he needed. Seconds later those eyes burst open again to the sound of the forest around him groaning and creaking. He saw the men through the dim, eyes wide, scared and unsure. It was all the diversion he needed. He sprang forth without a sound and called his cantrip. The wisp of magic he had left flew from his mind and snared his sword. Leaning forward he caught the ground with his good hand and pushed himself off cartwheeling again to land on his feet in front of the two frightened men with his left hand hauled back to strike them. His sword, seemingly by it's own free will shot from the ground and snapped into his hand and he swung it forth. The heads of the two men toppled slowly off, separated from their bodies by the motion.

He blinked again. His limbs were screaming at him for rest and his mind was beginning to dim. He shook his head violently and a mist of blood and sweat flicked off into the night. The fight was not done, and he was not dead. He would find no rest until one or the other had come to pass. Such was the life of a zealot.

His ears vibrated again and once more he dove to the ground. This time he succeeded in avoiding an arrow from the trees, if just barely. He crawled to the wagon and leaned his back against it. Glancing about again and seeing the carnage, he said a short, silent prayer to the gods to forgive him of this slaughter and telling them it was for good cause. He slowly grunted to his feet as a troop of the marauders clanked into the clearing. They were not the same as the men he had been fighting. They were bigger, and were wearing chainmail with emblems on the front. The emblems were spiders, blood red. He should have guessed, the bandits were the shadow dwellers, named after the giant spiders that lurked in the deeper reaches of the forest. Each of the men had an array of weapons hanging at their belts and bastard swords on their backs. Swords that looked much like his own did, before it had been cleaved in two.

From among the well-armed bandits strode a man who could only be their leader. He was giant. Most of his face and neck were covered in thick mats of hair despite his baldness and his hands were nearly the size of the elfs chest. One of those hands held a maul suitable for a man of his size. He looked about at the carnage shaking his head, obviously furious and screamed at the men.
"You can slaughter a caravan of our own kind at a moments notice yet you cannot kill one bastard elf?! Finish the vermin! Now!" Visibly stirred, the men - at least a dozen - moved slowly forward reaching for their belts. The elf's mind raced. He counted them. Fourteen. His fathers sword, missing so much of the blade would be of no help to him. He let it fall from his grasp for the last time.