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.