The Black Waltz

Elves aren't as innocent as they used to be.

 

            The Huntmaster looked up from the trail he was following.  To any mortal eyes the trail would have appeared as nothing more than a twisting trail left by a deer or any other friendly forest creature.  But Barda Norther new better.

            The Flawless had first given him this mission a few days ago.  The target had been an up and coming mage, whose beauty would have contributed much to society, but who had also experimented with magics beyond his ken and had come away from those experiments horribly scarred.  Elven society didn’t tolerate imperfections, and a single scar could mean the difference between dining with the Flawless and scrounging for scraps.  The most disfigured were cast away, as to not taint the sight of the perfect elves.

            First Barda had moved on the target’s family.  They knew the laws; yet had still decided to shelter the thing.  He shook his head not understanding how any one could tolerate one of their family living in such a state. 

            Norther broke into a jog.  He was almost on the target and he could feel his heart pump with the rush of adrenaline that he always got when he was closing in on the kill.  Barda patted his waist to reassure himself that his twin gladius’ were still belted securely there.  They were; they always were.

            Barda drew up suddenly.  He had come to the edge of a clearing, and the Blighted was making a mad dash through the center of it.  The sun was beginning to set and Barda took advantage of the lengthening shadows, becoming nearly invisible.

            The Blighted had stopped now, out of breath, and was fearfully looking around.  Norther began making his way silently through the high grass, and slowly drew his swords, bearing strong enchantments from the Flawless herself.

            Then he was behind the Blighted; it was still unaware of his presence.

            “Farewell, sight spoiler.”  The Blighted whirled around, and Barda caught a glimpse of a beautiful elven face, half of which was covered in a terrible burn scar, but it was too late.  The Huntmaster twirled and his twin blades leapt out from his form to cut open the Blighted’s throat and stomach.

            In the blink of an eye the Blighted was lying dead on the ground.  Barda wiped his swords on his target’s clothing and started on his way back to Quasqueton.

 

* * * * *

 

            The center of the elven city Quasqueton was arguably the most beautiful sight in all of the realms; however sight of the city was reserved for those who had the luck to be born into the superior elven race.  That’s how the elves saw it.

            Quasqueton was located in the Lost Woods and the elves had allowed nature to be the architect for their fair city.  Shelters were made of billowing sheets of pastel colored fabrics, or if more sturdy residences were needed, the greatest trees were shaped to contain room and small communities among their enormous branches.  The whole of the buildings gave the city the appearance of a great sylvan ship afloat in a sea of green.

            Not all was beautiful, however.  On the outskirts of the city lived those with minor scars or birth defects.  Forced to live off of scraps, garbage, and any excess that the perfect citizens of Quasqueton throw way, the lesser Blighted were treated as unwanted objects that someone hasn’t found a way to get rid of yet.

            Barda Norther made his way through the shantytowns of the lesser Blighted quickly.  Being around all of that filth made him sick; at least the Blighted stayed out of sight.  They knew better than to show their faces around the Huntmaster.

            As he made his way into the inner city the myriad of elves, all stunning and dressed in ostentatious clothing, averted their eyes when they spotted his plain black assassin’s tunic.  Even they, beautiful though they were, were only commoners and not worthy of looking the Huntmaster in the eyes.

            Confidently, he strode up to the palace of the Flawless.  A massive redwood tree that nestled many rooms in its branches, the palace was the heart of Quasqueton.  The guards at the base of the giant spiral staircase hesitated for an instant, unsure of whether or not to stop Barda, but a flash of his piercing blue eyes froze then and he was past in an instant, boldly climbing the stairs.

            At the top was a small platform, a sort of porch, leading into the Flawless’ audience chamber.  The massive door was carved to depict peaceful forest scenes, heavenly frescoes, and legions of elves dominating the lesser races.  Not pausing to knock Barda walked into the audience chamber.

            The Flawless sat on a chair on the far end of the chamber, surrounded by her court.  Her beauty was such that it hurt to look to well upon her, and it was that same excruciating beauty, and her mastery of the arcane arts, that allowed only her to be labeled “Flawless”, the ruler of Quasqeton.  In front of her throne on a marble dais was a glowing crystal ball.

            “We know of your success Norther,” the Flawless said, her unusually deep musical voice ringing throughout the chamber.  “You have served admirably as is to be expected of one in your position.”  Barda bowed deep.  “We have a new target for you.  Rithuviel will give you the information you need.”  She gestured to one of her aides and he came forward with a scroll and handed it to Barda.  He bowed low and turned to leave.

            Once Barda was outside he unrolled the scroll to see who the new target was.  A quick survey of the list told him all that he needed to know.  The target was a nobody; very low on the social ladder.  Barda was somewhat disappointed by this, the target hardly seemed to need the attention of an assassin of his training.  Reading further, he noted that the Blighted also lived as a ranger patrolling the forest.  That would make him much more difficult to track down.  The scroll also listed the target’s close family.  Barda decided he would start there.

            The target’s family lived in one of the shantytowns.  As the small cluster of shacks and tents came into view Barda could see many figures scrambling for cover.  He smiled, a cold, deadly smile, they could neither run nor hide from him.

            The target’s family lived in a small cottage built against a boulder so that three of the cottages walls were rock; the thatched roof drooped dangerously.  A quick inspection showed Barda that no one was home at the moment so he nimbly climbed up onto the boulder and settled himself into wait.

            He didn’t have to wait long.  Walking down the path to the cottage was a young elf, rather pretty considering her family’s station.  When she was just outside the cottage Barda slipped over the side of the boulder, drawing one of his swords as he went.  He landed lightly behind the girl and laid his sword next to her neck.

            “If you make one sound your life is forfeit,” he said.  She tensed and Barda could tell that she stifled a scream.  “Let’s go inside and you can tell me where to find the Blighted, or you can die here.  I assure you either option is fine with me.”  She whimpered as Barda pushed her through the cloth covering that served as a door.

            “Alluvia, is that you in there,” a voice said from outside.  The girl started to respond, but the glittering edge of Barda’s sword reminded her of her situation.

            A form pushed through the door carrying a bundle of wood.  The elf froze when he saw the sword against his daughter’s neck.

            “Please, whoever you are,” he said, “Don’t hurt my daughter.  I’ll do anything.”

            “You will tell me where the Blighted is,” Barda said, “if you don’t aid my search you will be guilty of harboring him and your life will be forfeit.”  The elf’s shoulders slumped visibly, and taking this as a sign of defeat Barda released the girl.  She retreated into a corner.

            “We don’t know where he went,” the elf said, “He was here a few days ago, but he disappeared and we haven’t seen him since.”  His eyes were focused on Barda.

            “I find that to hardly be likely; your kind always…” Barda stopped, noticing the elf’s eyes flicker to a point behind him.  His fighter’s sense warning him, Barda spun around in time to see the elf girl coming at him with a knife. Barda burst into motion drawing his remaining sword and taking the girls head from her shoulders with the other one.

            “I don’t play that game,” he said coldly.

 

* * * * *

 

            Five minutes later Barda walked out of the cottage.  His questioning of the father had revealed very little, however he did mention Maiden’s Glen, a clearing not far from where he was.  Over all, though, they really didn’t know where the Blighted had gone.  A shame, Barda thought, if the girl hadn’t tried to pull that stunt they both might still be alive.  He shrugged and continued on his search.

 

* * * * *

 

            Maiden’s glen was clearing in a shadowy part of the Lost Woods.  The sun never seemed to shine on the arcane circle of stones that took up the bulk of the clearing.  It was a place where lycanthropes, those cursed as a number of different were-beings would gather.

            As Barda approached he could hear the howls of the Maiden’s conclave.  He wasn’t worried as he drifted from shadow to shadow.  All of the beasts knew he could kill any of them effortlessly, and they always respected the superior Elven race.

            He crept into a shadow at the edge of the clearing.  From there he could see the whole of the activity in the clearing.  In the center of the glen a giant bonfire could be seen burning in the center of the stone ring.  Around the fire could be seen the twisting shapes of a myriad of hybrid human and animal forms, lycanthropes caught in all stages of the agonizing transformation from man to beast. 

            Then, Barda spotted the Blighted.  He was the only Elven form among the weaving crowd of shapeshifters.  The crowd consisted mostly of werewolves, with a few rat-human hybrids; those would be wererats, Barda thought, and two giant werebears. 

As Barda watched the Blighted curled over in an agonizing scream as his face rearranged itself into the short snout of a cat and thick black fur erupted in patches all over his body.  The target’s knees were reversed with a sickening crunch that could be heard over the howls of the wild dance and a luxurious black tail sprouted through the remains of his torn breeches.

            The howls continued as Barda strode out from his hiding place to put himself directly in front of the Blighted.  All of the howling were-creatures stopped in their tracks except for those who were still in the throes of their transformation.  Barda stared directly at the Blighted.

            “Your life is forfeit sight spoiler,” he said, and then turned to the assembled lycanthropes, “Any of you who think to interfere will be cut down as well.  Consider yourselves fortunate that I do not see fit to kill all of you and relieve my tainted sight.”

            “Our kind is too narrow minded,” growled the Blighted, “I have done no harm!”

            “If you only knew how many times I have heard that.”  Barda drew his swords and lunged at the Blighted, right hand leading.  The werepanther struck away Barda’s weapon and slashed at him.  Barda twirled out of the way, going into a crouch and launching himself in a flip over the werepanther.  Barda expected this move to catch the Blighted off guard, but with cat-like reflexes the Blighted spun around to match Barda’s movement and when Barda landed they were locked together, blade and claw.

            Throughout this whole display the other lycanthropes of the clearing stood watching in shock, but as their primal instincts took over they began to charge in and join the fray.

            Barda was magnificent.  He vaulted and side stepped over and around the lycanthropes, cutting throats and thrusting his swords deep into their vitals.  However, the werepanther avoided his grasp.

            He twirled away from a slash from the Blighted and noticed a werewolf coming up behind him.  Barda completed his spin by bringing his gladius up and opening the werewolf’s stomach.

            The forest’s gloom was deepening into night and the main source of light was the bonfire, still burning tall and casting flickering shadows on the ancient stones in the glen.  Barda was beginning to tire.  He thrust to pin a charging werebear’s jaw to the roof of its mouth and pierce its brain.  He sidestepped out of the falling beasts was and backed up to one of the monolithic stones lining the clearing.  The werepanther was nowhere in sight; Barda readied himself.

            In a flash of foliage, the Blighted burst out of the forest to Barda’s side.  Barda started to turn, but he wasn’t fast enough.  A searing pain flashed on the right side of his face where his ear was.  Barda screamed and saw the werepanther jumping back, its snout covered in blood, his blood, Barda realized.  Ignoring the burning pain in his ear, and trying to forget what he knew happened to those who received the lycanthropes bite, Barda jumped at the werepanther.  He batted aside one of the Blighted’s paws with one of his swords and plunged the other into its throat.  The werepanther fell, gurgling, to the ground and began to shift back to its elven form, but it died before the transformation was complete.  Barda wiped his swords on the fur of the twisted creature at his feet.

            “Farewell, sight spoiler,” he whispered.  Ignoring the burning where his right ear used to be and trying to forget the wicked curse now coursing through his veins Barda walked off in a daze towards an uncertain future.

 

* * * * *

 

            It was two days after Barda had killed the werepanther, and in the process been infected with the lycanthropes curse.  Two days since the magic had faded from his swords, a sure sign to Barda that he was no longer in the Flawless’ favor, or even considered an elf.  For a few hours after the battle he had wandered around in a daze, but Barda was a creature of action and despite his uncertainty of the future he knew what he had to do in the present.  The first thing he did was clean and dress his wound from the healer’s kit he always carried, yet never thought he would have to use.

            Barda wiped the sweat from his brow.  Even though it was high summer, Barda rarely sweat.  It was just another sign of how shaken up he was.  His hand brushed the stub of his ear and he winced.  That would be sore for another week or two.  As Barda watched the light play among the trees a million thoughts ran through his head.

            Where would he go now that he too was a Blighted?

            How long would it take for the Flawless to send a new Huntmaster after him?  This thought worried him, because now that he was singled out for death he discovered that he had that same tenacity that all Blighted seemed to have.  Barda realized that he did not want to die.

 

* * * * *

 

            After Barda’s revelation he sat in thoughtful silence.  He could not run from the next Huntmaster; he would always be found.  What Barda needed to do was prove to be so hopeless of a target that the Flawless would give him up as a lost cause.  Barda smile; he still was the best assassin ever to serve in the position of Huntmaster, and despite the fact that no Blighted had ever escaped the Huntmaster he knew he would be victorious.

            Barda’s smile slipped from his face as another thought entered his head.  What would he do after he had escaped the reach of the Flawless?  Staying within the Lost Woods would be impossible.  He shook his head to clear the thought.  Barda was a creature of the moment.  He would solve that problem when it came up; right now he had more important things to worry about.

 

* * * * *

 

            For the sight of the battle Barda chose a part of the forest that had been carved out by glaciers millennia ago and was now covered by a maze of deep, narrow crevasses.  One crevasse that led to a dead end particularly attracted Barda and he prepared to make his stand in the place.  At the top of the ravine Barda prepared boulders that could be pushed down with a moments notice, and on the ravine floor, just around the corner from the dead end, he dug a pit and lined the bottom with sharpened stakes, covering it with brush.

            By the time Barda had readied both the avalanche and the pit the sun was sinking over the horizon, signaling the end of the third day since he had been bitten by the werepanther.  Three days since his life had ended.

            Barda set up camp at the dead end of the crevasse and set down to wait.  He lit a fire, using pine to create smoke so that the new Huntmaster would be able to find him easier.

            He did not have to wait long.  The baying of the war hounds awakened Barda on the fourth day, and he hurriedly strapped on his sword belt and deftly climbed up the wall of the crevasse.  Barda agilely ran, jumping over the crevasses underneath until he was on the wall looking down to where he had dug the pit.  He could see the Huntmaster and his support.  Four elves total, one out front leading a pair of hounds.  Barda smiled, apparently the new Huntmaster, probably the one with the fancy plate armor, felt he needed help in subduing Barda.  This is going to be a piece of cake, Barda thought.

            Barda wiggled his fingers and whispered the words to one of the few spells that assassins learned and created a silent image, a perfect illusion of himself, on the other side of the pit.

            The elf leading the dogs spotted the illusion and shouted something that Barda didn’t catch back to the other three.  With a force of will, Barda had the illusion dart around the bend.  It then disappeared, the spell worn out.

            It was enough for the elf leading the hounds, however.  He allowed the dogs to run forward with him in tow, and right onto the pit.  Their agonized screams drifted up like sweet music to where Barda was hiding.  One less, he thought.

            Barda got up and raced to where he had set up the avalanche; at one point he peeked over the edge of the ravine and saw the three elves close on his heels.  He got to the pile of rocks a split second before the three in the ravine.  Barda kicked out the support rock and peered over the edge to watch his handiwork.  One elf, and Barda’s camp, was completely crushed beneath nearly a ton of rock and the other two caught glancing blows that were deflected by the helms that they wore.  Before the other two elves could orientate themselves, Barda drew his two gladius’ and dropped into the crevasse.  He landed lightly on his feet between the two elves and dropped one with a swift kick to the face.

            “Your life is forfeit sight spoiler!” the other elf wearing the fluted plate armor, and most likely bearing the title of newly ordained Huntmater, had time to say and he drew his sword.  The irony that he was on the receiving end of those words was not lost on Barda, and they set him into a cold, calculating rage.  He sneered and lunged at the elf who had reminded him of his position.

            The thrust would have been a killing one had the elf not been wearing enchanted plate, or if Barda’s gladius’ still bore their enchantments.  As it was Barda had just enough time to duck under a backhanded swing, and then jump to the side as the other elf recovered from Barda’s kick and joined the fight.

            The two elves converged on Barda and for the first time in his life, Barda found himself outfought.  No matter how fast he moved the two elves seemed to be right with him.  For the second time in his life, since he had fought the werepanther, Barda felt fear, and the knowledge that he should still fear for his life enraged him.  Taking a chance, Barda ducked and swung his leg out, hoping to catch one of the elves off balance and trip him.  Luck was on Barda’s side, as the Huntmaster had jumped back a bit at Barda’s sudden movement and was just coming back down as Barda caught him solidly in the legs.  He fell down in a heap and Barda jumped back.

            Barda quickly spat out another spell, one to ensure that his next attack was a hit, and he slipped under a thrust from the other elf.  Now barely inches apart, Barda thrust his sword at the elf’s side and mouthed a quick prayer to whatever gods were listening.  His prayer was answered when Barda felt his steel slide home, up into the elf’s chest cavity.  He quickly withdrew and turned to face the Huntmaster, who had regained his feet.

            Their swords met and sparks flew, but Barda had regained his confidence.  Two elves had been too much for him, but now the odds were more than even.  A smile played on his face as Barda batted aside the elf’s sword and shield, and then quickly retracted to plunge his sword into the elf’s heart.

            “Your life his forfeit Huntmaster,” he growled as the dead elf dropped to the ground.  Barda quickly went about stripping the dead elves of anything he could use.  He had a plan now.  Barda would leave the Lost Woods for the human country, Nyarrlath.  He knew that to stay in the Lost Woods would be his death, and maybe in that land of inferior humans and dwarves he would be able to find a cure to the lycanthropy that now coursed through his veins.

           

           

 

 

Reviews

[SanctifiedSavage]

Alright, let's try to leave a review again...

I had a lot of questions at the beginning of the passage during the hunt. I paused several times to wonder, and nearly turned to something else. Not because the writing was bad or slow... more because I was a little lost. However, you presented me with something too original for me to just walk away, so I continued on. The description of the city was beautiful as was the transformation scene when the Blighter turned into a were-panther. I am very curious as to what the Blighted have done to earn such treatment. I'm assuming that it is because they are scarred. Is magical power derived from beauty? If not, does that mean that there might be a Blighted out there who may be... magically better? Which led me to wonder whether magic is something they are born with or taught or a little bit of both.

What I did want to say was that I simply adore the originality of this piece. I am a strict advocate of detail, but nothing will win me over faster than something I've never read of. Kudos on that.

There is a little bit of repetition that I noticed at the start, and if there was more, I was too involved in the story to notice it. The only thing this story leaves me wanting is more. Both in a good way, because I want to know what happens to Barda and what he is going to do, and a not so good way because, as mentioned, I squirm for detail. The fights were a little quick, though good. The start left me a little lost because I wasn't clear on the setting. That, and I wanted to know what Barda looks like.

I'm already a fan of him. I usually am won over by assassins and such, so, kudos on that.

One last question... what are the standards of beauty for the other elves... and what do they look like? I know it may be a silly question. After all, who hasn't heard of elves? But it's always best to assume the reader doesn't know. And your elves may be different than what they know as the norm.

Anyways, keep writing.

[daftinklings]

Damn...he's still a tad close-minded huh? Who cares about the lycanthrope in his veins. I say it's a good thing. This is really pretty good. The Flawless and the Blighted. I like the idea of it. Some repetition at at a few parts, but it doesn't detract from the overall story.

[Doug]

i liked the story, and the fight scenes were very nicely done! i would probably give a little more information on the main character's background though....maybe how he rose to his position? cool story man. you should definitely keep writing.

-doug-