David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

“Perhaps we were wrong to seek a way to reason with men such as these,” Graeven said, and coming from him, it was a harsh condemnation. The ambassador seemed to be one of the few Quellan elves not eager for war. As they walked past a slumped guard, his face beaten into a pulp, she felt certain even Graeven’s hope for peace would reach its end.

The shouting grew louder, and then from another alley came a large gang. Only a few wielded weapons, the others lifting their fists or waving torches. Laryssa’s hand fell to the ornate dagger belted to her waist as all around her the rest reached for their weapons.

“Murderers!” one shouted, and many others took up the chant. “Heathens! Go home! Go home!”

There were about fifteen of them, not enough to inspire any real bravery. When the five elves neared, the humans gave way, splitting so they were on either side. They cursed and hollered, turning their faces red, but she ignored their threats. They were mere products of ignorance and poverty. What could they say that would possibly mean anything to her? The rest of the elves lifted their weapons, easily keeping them at bay.

“We’ve still a ways to go,” Graeven said as they made it past, the group still lingering like a shadow.

“Move, and show no fear,” Laryssa said.

Come the next block, they encountered the true mob, and for the first time, Laryssa felt fear. At least a hundred of them gathered together, the air above them thick with the smoke of torches. They cheered and shouted as seven or eight tore down the door to a home. She couldn’t begin to guess the reason why, though by what they cried, she worried one of her friends was hiding inside. Those near the edge first saw Laryssa and her escort, but word spread within seconds. The mob turned toward them, and they screamed for blood.

“No fear,” Laryssa repeated.

“Don’t stop moving, no matter what,” Sildur ordered.

The mob surrounded them, making way at first so they might reach its very center. Once totally enclosed, the elves lost in a cacophony of hate and screams, the first dared strike. He wielded no weapon, just a young man throwing a punch. Sildur ducked it with ease, then with practiced precision, cut off the man’s fingers. As the blood spilled, and the severed digits fell to the street, the rest howled with near mindless fury.

“Cut through!” Laryssa cried in elvish.

The surprise of their attack was the only thing that kept the elves alive. They lunged at the front group, tearing through them with ease, for they lacked weapons and armor. Her two bodyguards protected their rear, their long swords moving with dizzying speed. Laryssa ran, for as the bodies began to fall, and shrieks of pain filled the air, most of the mob fled in fear. There were many, however, who wanted blood, and they rushed on with mad abandon. Graeven cut a path through a group of five, slaughtering three of them, then turned back to Laryssa, ushering her on. Before she could follow, the gap closed, over thirty angry men rushing at her, thinking her helpless.

With her dagger, she could kill any lone human, but they were not alone. She stabbed anyway, killing the first to near, but the rest pressed on. Fists crashed against her face and chest. With no other recourse she fled the other direction. It, too, was blocked. Amid a pile of corpses, Sildur battled back to back with one of her bodyguards. The numbers seemed endless, and as she watched, a man impaled himself on Sildur’s blade. With his weapon immobilized, Sildur was helpless before the many others who leapt atop him.

Beside her she saw an alley, and she ran, wishing she could banish from her mind the sight of Sildur’s face crunching inward as a heavy human smashed it with his heel. Three men moved to stop her, but she twirled, her dress a startling display of emeralds and blood. With them unable to match her speed, she cut the throat of the one closest, slipped past the other two, and fled as fast as her legs could carry her.

The sound of the mob faded behind her, and if any chased, they could not keep up. Not caring which direction she ran, Laryssa continued on. More than anything, she wanted out of the city, to go home as the people of Angelport desired. The city was a sickbed of hatred, wrath, and ignorance. If she had her way, she’d burn it to the ground, and if Celestia was willing, the humans would accomplish that for her before the day’s end.

When the sound of chaos was in the distance, she slowed to catch her breath. Tears trickled down her cheeks, but she refused to let grief overcome her. Sildur, Graeven, her friends…all had lived for hundreds of years, and this was how it would end for them?

“Damn you, humans,” Laryssa whispered, wiping a tear from her face. “Damn you to the Abyss your gods created.”

Something hard struck the back of her head, and she let out a gasp as she fell. She caught herself, but then a hand grabbed her hair and rammed her forehead into the dirt. Her vision full of stars, she retched uncontrollably. Her limbs feeling numb, she tried to roll over, but a heavy weight pinned her to the ground. Something passed over her face, a cloth or bag of some sort. The air was hot in her lungs, and she could not see.

Fists rained down on her, and she tried to cry out against the abuse. Each time she did, her assailant struck harder. As if from a distant place, she struggled. She screamed.

“This is what happens when you turn on your friends,” her attacker whispered in her ear. Fierce pain pierced her side, and she felt warmth pooling beneath her as she bled. Her attacker left, and despite his weight no longer atop her, she could not move. Her arms and legs refused to cooperate. Her breathing grew shallow, whatever it was wrapped about her head suffocating her. Time passed, and she could only weep.

Someone touched her shoulder, and she screamed. But it was not her attacker returning as she’d feared. Off came the hood over her face, and squinting, she saw Graeven kneeling over her, his fine clothing covered with blood.

“Stay calm,” he said, pressing his hands over the wound in her side. “Breathe slow. I won’t let you die, now stay with me.”

She nodded as her whole body began to tremble. Her head lolled to one side, and there she saw it, drawn in her own blood. It meant nothing to her, but she would never forget it. Staring, mocking, the signature of her attacker: an open eye.

Rain fell upon the city of Angelport, and from the roof of the temple, Haern watched. The water soaked through his clothes, and it dripped from his hair. The thick clouds gave the appearance of night, and the darkness was a comfort. As thunder rumbled, he wondered if the rain might wash away the violence of the past three days. He’d watched the riots spread, but he’d done nothing to stop them. It’d filled him with disgust, sure, but against those masses, what was he to do? Slaughter them all?

The casualties to the elves had been catastrophic, at least ten dead from what he’d heard. Most damning were the rumors of what had befallen the elven princess, Laryssa. For a little while, many had believed her dead, soon switching to her being on her deathbed. Only yesterday had the talk of the taverns claimed she’d survived. It didn’t take much thought to know where it was all heading. The rioters justified their actions with the hundreds of deaths inflicted by elven arrows, but that wouldn’t matter. Unless something changed, drastically, war would befall the city, if not the entire Ramere. Lightning flashed, and as its brilliance lit up the port, Haern wondered if just perhaps the Wraith was right, that the world would be better if the rain swept them all into the ocean.

The loud ringing of a bell drew his attention south. The city guard had begun marching patrols with bronze bells to emphasize their presence, as well as draw attention to their proclamations. Half the time, it was to alert the city to new hangings. Lord Ingram had been filling the gallows night and day, both to subdue the city as well as show the elves his disapproval of the attacks. Neither seemed to be working.