Martin Hengst - The Last Swordmage

Whatever had happened here had happened quickly and with the element of surprise. Torus drew his sword, prompting the others to ready their weapons. Two archers and two swordsmen suddenly seemed like long odds. It didn’t help, Torus thought, that these boys were as green as spring grass. None of them had been in combat and spilled blood. Shooting an arrow at a training target was one thing. Shooting one at something that shot back was something else entirely.

He motioned silently to the archers, who nodded and spread out on the ridge. Another gesture and the boy with the sword fell into step beside him. Their approach to the camp was agonizingly slow, eye and ear alert for the slightest warning or indication of danger. As they neared the closest tent, Torus knew they would find no survivors here. The wind brought the smell of sewer sludge, tinged with the thick coppery smell of spilled blood. It was the smell of death. Torus had smelled it on enough battlefields to know that whatever had happened here had been a massacre. He didn’t look forward to what they would find.

Torus nodded to the boy, urging him into position across from him, outside the flap of the nearest tent. The lieutenant flipped the flap open with the tip of his sword. The boy beside him dropped his blade and promptly vomited into the grass by his feet. As a soldier, Torus judged him harshly, but as a human being, he couldn’t fault the boy. Inside the tent, a scattered mass of flesh, tissue, and bone that had once been one of their brothers-in-arms. Whatever had torn him apart had done so some hours ago. The offal was already beginning to blacken with decay. The stench was nearly overwhelming.

A shout went up from the ridge, and Torus whirled, his blade at the ready. A man stood at the edge of the tree line. He was naked from the waist up, his muscular arms held high above his head. In one he grasped an ornate bow. In the other, a bunch of arrows. He wore breeches of forest green and brown boots that seemed to blend into the ground where he stood.

He walked forward in measured steps, never dropping his eyes from Torus’ face. Torus sheathed his sword. He knew an armistice when he saw one. Besides, the look on the elf’s face was raw enough that Torus could recognize it even at this distance. He was terrified.

“You may call me Dendrel,” the elf said as they came within speaking distance. “My people are not responsible for this, certainly you see that?”

“Torus,” the lieutenant replied, gesturing over his shoulder. “I’m not certain of anything, but I’ve never heard of that kind of brutality from your kind.”

The elf shook his head, sadness reflected in his oval, deep blue eyes.

“Our people aren’t so different,” he said slowly. “This, I think, is a common enemy, if an old one.”

“Then you saw who did this?” Torus was growing impatient. If the elf or his kin had seen who the attackers were, they could pursue them immediately and call up reinforcements from elsewhere along the line. Even to Dragonfell and Blackbeach if need be.

“Yes. Your men were slaughtered by the Xarundi.”

It took a moment for that thought to register. For a moment, Torus was certain the elf was mocking him and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. The elf dropped his bow and arrows in the grass at Torus’ feet, looking up at him with those sad eyes.

“You’re mad.” Torus’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.

“If only I were.”

The elf moved to the side, slowly lifting the flap to the tent that was sagging there. Deep score marks marred the tent post. A footprint in the soft dirt was reminiscent of a dire-wolf, but far larger.

“A wild animal,” Torus said, half-heartedly. The answering look the elf gave him was no longer sad, but disdainful.

“What animal do you know of that walks on two legs, like man, and has such deadly claws?”

Torus didn’t answer. He had nothing to say.

* * *

A mass of black shapes moved along the road toward the village. The pack was silent and only stood out from the night's blackness when the moonlight fell on sleek fur or reflected in luminescent blue eyes. They loped along easily, covering the distance between Aldstock and the sleeping town as fast as a man on horseback.

The leader stood eight feet high, a full foot or so taller than the tallest of his closest kin. He loped along on powerful hind legs, thickly roped with muscle and designed for springing with terrible speed on unsuspecting prey. His arms were equally powerful, with huge hands and fingers tipped by razor sharp claws that slipped in and out of their sheaths with unconscious agitation.

Glowing blue eyes were set above a narrow muzzle and strong jaw. The Xarundi's ears were erect and swiveled two and fro, alert for any sound that might indicate danger or detection. He smelled the stench of man and his nose twitched in hunger and anticipation.

“Where?” growled one of the pack in the guttural tongue of the Xarundi. The language was harsh and sounded very similar to the dialect of their simpler lupine cousins. A series of growls, yips, and snarls served to convey the basics of language.

“Close. Can't you can smell the reek of them?” Zarfensis wrinkled his nose in distaste. The settlements of man were growing entirely too close to the ancient forest. They would need to be shown their proper place and made to respect their rightful masters. Snarling quietly, the High Priest called the clerics up from the rear ranks. Their magic would be needed. First to confuse and cause panic among the prey. Second to heal any of the Chosen who might be injured in the struggle against the pink-skinned, hairless, vermin. The infestation spreading across the land like wildfire.

They were near enough the settlement now to make out the sentries as they patrolled on the high wooden wall that surrounded the little village. Zarfensis called the darters forward and snarled an order. Four Xarundi raised long, hollow tubes and, as one, fitted darts into the near end. Each feathered dart was tipped in a poison so potent that a mere drop would cause a sleep that lasted for days and might never end. The amount of poison on each dart was enough to kill a fully grown Xarundi. A human would have little protection against its effects.

“Fire,” Zarfensis growled.

There were muted thumps as each darter fired his weapon. Up on the wall, the human guards slumped over at their posts. One fell over the outer wall, hitting the ground below like a sack of vegetables collapsing in on itself.

“Now,” the High Priest growled, dropping his jaw in a grin. “We eat well tonight.”

The Xarundi closed the distance to the heavy wooden gates with a speed and ferocity that would have terrorized the people of the village, had they had any warning. Without the guards at the top of the wall, the only alert the village would have would be the splintering wood of the Xarundi pulling the gate apart. A feat which they performed with little resistance, as their sharp claws tore easily through wood and pitch.

The gate fell, and the Xarundi poured into the village, pulling down lanterns and torches as they went, plunging the village into darkness. They crashed into doors, knocking them off their hinges and filling the night with the screams of the panicking villagers. As others began to awaken and run, the powerful wolf-men ran down their quarry, tearing out their throats and gorging themselves on the blood and flesh of their prey.

A few of the humans tried to put up a fight, but the clerics made short work of them with spell and staff. The entire attack was over in less than an hour. Every living thing in the village lay dead or dying, except the Xarundi. Slowly, the pack began to reform around the High Priest.

“Orders, Your Holiness?”