Dark Lord pt 3
Dark Lord
Part 3: "Escape"
by Greywolf the Wanderer
Email: greywolf@ufl.edu
The air shimmered like the desert at high sun as Greywolf materialized
in the northern foothills of the Great Barricade Mountains, where he had
initially stood three days before. His abrupt appearance had startled a
small fox that had been chasing a rather large rat. Both had scattered
before Greywolf could get his bearings. He was still not used to
'teleporting' as the wizard had called it, and it always left his
stomach queasy. Fortunately he did not do it very often. Brief moments
passed until Greywolf was confident of his location. He knew that the
assassins tailing him would at the very least be on horse back. And
though he had not seen any provisions for housing flying mounts at the
camp of Falgar, he could not discount that possibility either. Either
way it would only be a matter of hours before they would catch him, as
he could not outrun horses on foot. He knew that he would have to beat
them to the mists that separated Tir-na-nog from the lands of men. And
then another shudder struck him in mid-thought. Falgar had said that he
planned to invade Tir-na-nog! That meant that the son-of-a-slug had some
means to breach the veil. He could not allow the assassins to follow him
into the Land of Promise. He would have to stay back and kill them.
He paused for a minute to look at the map he had relieved from
Falgar's tent. It was a map of Shadow Walk, with numbers written next to
each fortress. There was also a map of the encampment along with a list
of troop strengths. He smiled to himself. If he made it back alive he
would definitely have an advantage. He walked out to the edge of a
parapet, stood facing the wind and turned to face the south.
Closing his eyes he formed a mental picture of a valiant winged
steed, snow white in color. He envisioned the rippled muscles not unlike
those of a heavy mountain war horse, or even the war-horses of the
plains that the Wild Elves bred. But it was not a horse that he
envisioned. It was his Pegasus…. Moonshadow, whom he had pair bonded
with when he passed his ordeal to become a Ranger. When he could clearly
see his beloved mount in his mind’s eye, he spoke out in a loud, clear
voice that seemed to penetrate through space and time.
"Moonshadow…. of you I am in need, old friend. Come, there is a new
evil in the world, or perhaps just a new face to an old one. Tir-na-nog
needs us to join and walk together for awhile so abandon your doings and
come to me now."
He stood on the hilltop for a few seconds more, Then made his way
quickly into the mountains, heading ever south.
*********
"We should've came across the accursed Elf Spawn by now. He was
supposedly on foot. We are on horseback. I do not like this", a dark
cloaked figure grumbled.
"You will like it much less, Metaspurr, if you return to Lord Falgar
without the company of his head", replied the tallest of the four, "He
must have had a horse hidden in the dunes somewhere".
"No, Nightblade, he did not", came the reply from the assassin who was
on his knees sniffing the sand beneath them. "His tracks come clearly
right up to here…", he said pointing,"… and they just stop."
"Are you absolutely certain, Bloodpick?" Metaspurr questioned. "Look
hard."
"He needs to look no further", the silent one until now replied. He was
their leader. His enemies called him Viper. He had no friends. "The Elf
has escaped with the aid of magic".
"Magic?", replied Nightblade, "Then he could be anywhere."
"He is headed for the Mists. Lord Falgar was certain of this. So we will
head straight for the Mists and make haste. Unless of course one of us
happens to stumble upon him on the way and kills him first. That being
the case we shall drink much ale in celebrating our completion of the
contract. Now…. there are four passes leading into the mountains from
the desert. They all intersect at the Mists… deep in the mountains. I
will take the eastern most. Each of the rest of you pick one and head
for it. Maybe luck shall embrace us on the way. I have a little surprise
that even Lord Falgar knows nothing about", he finished, pulling open
his cloak to reveal a medallion.
"What is that?" asked Metaspurr.
"It is a Talisman of Passage, given to me long ago. It will part the
Mists for us. You heard Lord Falgar. We can not return with out this
Elf's head. So if we do not catch him we shall follow him", Viper added.
"You must be joking. We can not go into the Land of Promise", gasped
Nightblade.
"Sometimes it is better to face what you do not know, than to face a
certainty", Viper replied.
*********
Greywolf had reached a spot in the rocks where he could overlook the
trail leading into the canyon below him. He had thought about napping
but could not seem to quiet his mind enough to sleep. No, he would wait
awake, for Moonshadow, for the assassins, for destiny. Kicking back on
the ledge to get comfortable he gazed up at the moon. It was full and it
bathed the mountain peaks with an eerie, eldritch light. Though humans
had many silly superstitions as to the evils of moonlight Greywolf
shared none of these. To the contrary moonlight brought him peace, a
feeling that he knew precious little of. For he had been at war with
somebody or other for most of his entire life. There was a time when war
had ceased for him. He had a brief hand-fasting with a Faerie that had
resulted in a beautiful daughter, but the union had not lasted. There
had been others but there was always some obstacle that had prevented
his total happiness. Now he lived his life alone. But his daughter
visited him regularly. It was one of the few bright spots in his life
now. She meant the world to him and he missed her tonight. He hoped that
he would live to see her again.
Many hours passed with no incident. Then his second sight
compelled him to look down into the canyon below. A lone figure on
horseback was slowly working his way up to the canyon entrance. He was
moving cautiously and wearing a dark cloak. Carefully getting up,
Greywolf sighed. So it begins, he thought.
Drawing his sword, he worked his way slowly down to the canyon floor.
*********
Metaspurr reigned in his mount and listened intently. The wind moaned
through the canyon with the sounds of a thousand damned souls. The
eerily lit landscape around him made him feel as if he had already
entered some alien world. He looked up at the moon in its fullness, and
shuddered at the thought of spirits that roam the nights of the full
moon. Scanning the ridge above him he thought for a moment that he saw a
flicker of movement, but when he fixed his stare on the spot he saw
nothing. Drawing his sword, he slowly eased his horse further up the
canyon. He rode for a few minutes until a sudden unearthly feeling of
unease came upon him. It was as if he was being watched. Halting his
horse he dismounted quietly. Turning around he saw a lone figure,
glowing sword drawn, standing motionless in the center of the canyon not
ten yards away from him.
"Greetings…. Assassin!" the figure growled. "I am the one that you seek.
Are you going to hug that blade all night…. or are we going to dance?"
Metaspurr charged, sword swinging. Greywolf side-stepped the attack,
swinging back-hand across the rear of the charging mans thighs,
ham-stringing him. Screaming in pain the assassin known as Metaspurr
fell to his knees.
"You seem a bit unsteady, assassin. Maybe you should use that sword of
yours as a cane," Greywolf chided.
Screaming furiously, Metaspurr swung at Greywolf's knees. Leaping above
the arc of the sword Greywolf kicked the man square in the face. Falling
back on to his now useless legs, Metaspurr cursed.
"Yield!" growled the Wolf that is Grey, as he centered the glowing sword
that he held point first, against the assassin's chest.
"Never!" screamed Metaspurr, as he tried to lift his sword.
Greywolf leaned forward on his sword until the thrashing stopped.
"One down", he muttered to himself, as he headed for the dead assassin's
horse.
*********
Bloodpick cursed. Another dead end. These accursed mountains
and their hellish canyons added to this devil's moon, was sure to drive
him mad! He was going to have to double back again, back to the last
fork. He wished that he and his accomplices had not split up. He was an
assassin dammit, not a Ranger for Enlil's sake! He feared that he might
wander aimlessly in these mountains until he either starved to death or
went hopelessly insane. He did not like killing Elves either. It was bad
juju to kill an Elf where he was from. The Druids revered the Elves and
an Elf-slayer was usually rewarded by being sacrificed to some oak tree
or something. He shuddered.
He turned his horse and spurred tiredly back the way he had
come. Taking his time he followed the canyon back to the fork. As he
approached he saw a rider and a horse, which made him instinctually
reach for his sword. Moments later he breathed a sigh of relief. It was
Metaspurr. Sheathing his sword he called out to his companion.
"Metaspurr! What are you doing here? You nearly frightened me to death!
You were supposed to take the West Pass. Was it a dead end? Hell, I've
been riding into dead ends all night. Just as well, though. We can ride
together."
"I think not", answered the great wolf of the Mists, as he drew a
glowing sword.
"You........you are not Metaspurr! You are the Elf! But how?....."
Bloodpick gasped.
"You are quite intuitive for a human. Your buddy Metaspurr… well.. he
died from poisoning. Steel poisoning. Too bad that one of us must die.
Of course I would prefer that it be you who departs this realm, and not
I. But then you chose death when you chose your profession", Greywolf
offered by way of answer. He spurred his borrowed mount forward.
Bloodpick hurriedly drew his own steel, and swiftly kicked his horse.
They met with a crashing of blades and a showering of sparks.
Greywolf swung and parried as did Bloodpick, who had still not fully
recovered from his surprise encounter with the Elf. Back and forth they
rode, hammering away at each other's resolve. For a brief time it looked
as if the fight could go either way, for Bloodpick was very good with a
sword. Greywolf however, was better. Much better. After many more years
of experience he had learned one thing that Bloodpick had not; patience.
It was not long before a well placed blow knocked Bloodpick off balance
and de-horsed him.
Greywolf rolled backwards off of his horse, spinning a lazy
circle as he flipped over in the air to land gracefully on his feet.
Twirling like an exotic dancer, his sword sliced Bloodpick across the
stomach, spilling the screaming assassin's entrails out in a seemingly
endless stream of gore. But Bloodpick went down slashing as well,
causing Greywolf to spin away. Still, the Elf caught a grazing blow
across his back. It was not deep but it drew blood. Cursing, Greywolf
brought his sword point up under the chin of the critically wounded
assassin.
"How many men have you killed, assassin!" he growled.
"How many…. have you killed… Elf?" came the choked reply.
For the first time in a long while, Greywolf hesitated.
To the Main Page
To the Previous Part of Dark Lord
To the next continued story
LE FastCounter