01 - Empire in Chaos (7 page)

She had always prided herself on her physical fitness. She regularly did
fourteen-hour shifts at the Golden Wheatsheaf and was on her feet all day,
carrying trays of food back and forth from the kitchen and clearing up at the
day’s end, but she had never been more exhausted than over the past two days.
She knew the elf was frustrated at the pace they were travelling. His stamina
was astounding—she would not have been surprised if he was able to run for
days without slowing. He also moved with unnerving silence, and she had been
startled on several occasions by him appearing at her side while she thought she
had been alone.

She had no idea where the elf was leading her, but he was insistent, and
seemed to know exactly where he was going. It seemed that he could not, or would
not, speak a word of Reikspiel, and though she had questioned him as to their
destination, silence was his only response.

They were passing deeper into the Westenholz than Annaliese had ever
ventured, and in truth perhaps they were already beyond that wood and into
unknown territory. These woods were dangerous, a refuge for brigands, wild
beasts and worse.

She thought back to the words of the village warden, who had said that this
elf was one of the murderers of the family on the road. Was she his captive now?
He had not bound her arms, and indeed he had saved her from the mutant back in
the village. She shivered. Everything that had happened to her seemed unreal,
like a nightmare. But it was all too real.

For a night and a day they had been travelling together in silence, the elf’s
impatience clear on his inhuman face. Still, he allowed her to stop and rest
when she needed it, and he gave her food—strange, savoury flat cakes that
stemmed her hunger instantly.

Was she his slave now? Would he take advantage of her once he deemed them far
enough away from the village, and beyond pursuit? She had decided that she would
not sleep the previous night at all—she would wait until the elf was asleep,
and she would escape from him. That plan had come to nothing, for she had
dropped into a deep and fitful sleep. She had been plagued by horrible dreams—she saw her father’s face, twisted and grinning, burning blue orbs where his
eyes should have been. When she had finally woken, the elf was already up and
waiting for her. Tonight, she thought. Tonight I will escape from him. Having
caught her breath, she began clambering up the incline, slipping in the dark,
moist earth, the muscles of her legs burning. Drawing near the pale-skinned elf
she raised her gaze to meet his, her eyes defiant. His hard, cold, lavender eyes
held hers for a moment before he indicated for her to continue up the incline
with a quick nod of his pointed chin.

He was tall, taller even than her father had been, though he was inhumanly
slender. But not weak, she decided. No, he was far from weak. He was lean and
sinewy, like a rangy wolf, and his every move was perfectly balanced and
elegant. There was a harshness to him that made every movement he made seem
fuelled by bitterness, and she often jumped at his swift, sharp movements.

Dressed in soft, grey leather, he wore a pair of thin, empty scabbards
strapped to his thighs. Over his back were two empty quivers. The soldiers had
clearly taken his weapons away from him. Still, he did not seem any less
dangerous for being unarmed.

His eyes seemed to mock her, to speak of her frailty. Annaliese was
determined not to show weakness in front of him.

With her head held high, she moved past him and continued climbing the hill,
trying to ignore the pain in her legs.

She rose over the incline and began to move along the ridge. Lost in her own
misery, she walked for some time before she felt a hand upon her shoulder. She
gasped involuntarily.

It was the elf, of course, and Annaliese cursed herself for showing her fear.

He pointed into the undergrowth, but she couldn’t see anything. She shrugged,
furrowing her brow, and the elf gave a slight, disdainful shake of his head, and
indicated for her to follow him.

They moved some thirty yards through the ferns towards an ancient and
contorted oak tree, where the elf halted. He swept off his long grey cloak in a
quick movement and threw it over a low-hanging branch, fixing it there with
simple leather ties. He pinned the corners of the cloak into the ground, using
twigs a makeshift pegs. It had taken only seconds, but he had constructed a
basic, yet highly effective one-man shelter. He indicated for her to sit beneath
the cloak; but she stayed where she was standing, glaring at him, After a
moment, he shrugged his shoulders, and pulled the twig-pegs from the moist soil
and swung the cloak back over his shoulder. He pulled the hood over his head, so
that his face was all but hidden in it depths, his eyes glittering.

A moment later it began to sleet, icy rain coming down in sheets. The water
slipped off the elf’s hood like oil, and Annaliese pulled her coat around her
tighter. She thought she saw a hint of amusement in the eyes of the elf, and she
lifted her head high, her mouth set in a grim line.

The elf stabbed a finger towards her, then at the ground. He was telling her
to stay here. He repeated the action, and she nodded her head.

Then he was gone, slipping away into the trees like a shadow. In an instant
he had disappeared.

This was her chance to escape, she knew. But she had no idea where she was,
and if there were more of those monsters lurking nearby. These dense woods were
rife with outlaws and killers. There were even some who claimed to have seen
hulking creatures here with horns sprouting from their bestial heads and walking
like men, but upon cloven hooves. In stories she had heard as a child these
woods were haunted by the shades of the criminals hung on its outskirts, and
that they walked amongst the trees in the dead of night, seeking the living. Her
childhood fears rose within her.

If she died out here no one would mourn her.

She shivered again, and crouched down in the lee of the twisted oak tree,
trying to get out of the biting wind and relentless sleet. She pulled her hands
within the sleeves of her coat to warm them. She realised that she had nowhere
to run. Tears ran down her face, invisible against the icy sleet.

How had she come to be in this situation, she wondered? Her legs were stiff
and sore and she sat down on a twisted root, uncaring of the mud. She pushed
herself back against the tree and hugged herself tightly. Despite the wind, the
sleet lashing the tree and the uncomfortable position she was in, she fell
asleep within moments.

Annaliese woke to the delicious aroma of cooking meat. The wind and rain had
stopped, and dusk had fallen.

She sat up. She was aching from the awkward position she had slept in.
Standing, she stretched like a cat, loosening her cold, cramped muscles. She saw
the elf tending a small, smokeless fire-pit dug into the earth. He was cooking
what looked like a pair of spherical shaped green objects, but the smell coming
from them was divine.

Rolling them from the fire, the elf moved them skilfully onto a pair of flat
stones with sticks.

He gestured for her to approach, and she did so cautiously. He placed one of
the flat stones at Annaliese’s side, then sat himself back down across from her
on the other side of the small, glowing fire-pit.

She took a seat on a fallen log, and looked at her meal, intrigued. Glancing
over the glowing embers, she watched as the elf deftly prized the greenery away
with one hand and a stick. A whoosh of steam rose from within. Feeling her
looking at him, his almond-shaped eyes rose, and she hastily dropped her gaze to
the meal in front of her.

She saw the green ball was a series of leaves carefully woven together and
overlapped to form a spherical container. It was beautiful in its simplicity and
the obvious care that had gone into it. With her hand and a stick she opened it
up, trying to emulate the elf’s deft movements, and steam billowed from within.
It brought with it the aroma of rabbit and all manner of herbs, many that she
did not recognise.

Her stomach groaned loudly, but she hesitated. The elf was picking at his
food delicately, watching her. What if it was poisoned, she thought? Then you
will be dead, but at least you will die with warm food in your belly, she
answered herself.

She tried a piece of rabbit tentatively. It was exquisite, and she smiled
shyly to the elf before eating her meal hungrily. The elf regarded her coldly.
She didn’t care.

Afterwards she realised that she must have appeared like some ravenous
barbarian thanks to the speed that she devoured the delicious meal. As she
licked her fingers, she found herself staring over the glowing embers at the
elf.

Long and black, his hair was drawn over his head and pulled into a tight
ponytail, and there was a thin black tattoo upon his cheek. It showed an alien
symbol of curling lines and elegantly tapered flourishes. It was beautiful and
powerful, and she wondered what it signified. The elf ate his food slowly,
delicately picking at the pieces with his long, pale fingers that for some
reason reminded her of the legs of spiders—delicate, their movements measured,
concealing their deadly power.

Annaliese looked away quickly. There was something chilling about him. She
was fearful of him, of that there was no doubt; everything about him was just
so… inhuman.

Still, despite her fear, she was curious.

“I—” began Annaliese, realising that she had no idea what to say to him. “I
don’t think you can understand me,” she said. He stared at her blankly.

“Did you kill that family? Did you murder those poor little girls?” she said.
“And are you going to kill me as well?”

The elf shrugged his shoulders and stood, moving around the campfire towards
her. She recoiled back away from him. He squatted down in front of her, and held
out his hands. Looking down, she saw that he was offering her his meal—he had
not eaten it all. She felt foolish suddenly, and a blush rose over her lightly
freckled face. She shook her head. He offered her his meal again, his face
emotionless, and this time she accepted it. She touched his hands as she took it
from him—though they looked as cold and hard as the whitest marble, they were
warm and soft.

She blushed again, and began to eat as he moved away. After she had finished
this second meal, she tried talking to him again.

“Thank you for the meal,” she said. She felt somewhat foolish talking to this
silent, aloof figure—it was like talking to a blank stone wall. But she was
determined to attempt to communicate. His impassive, ghostly white face gave
away not a hint of what he was thinking.

She tapped herself on the chest. “Annaliese, Annaliese,” she repeated. Then
she pointed at him and raised her eyebrows questioningly. He made no movement,
merely continued staring at her with his lavender eyes.

“Annaliese,” she said once again, tapping herself on the chest. She pointed
at him again and made a questioning motion. He probably thinks I have lost my
mind, she thought. He stared at her for a moment longer, and began to turn away.

He turned back briefly, and tapped himself on the chest, “Eldanair Lathalos
ath Laralemenos lo Nagarythe,” he breathed in a carefully enunciated voice, the
words clipped and spoken quickly.

Annaliese stared at him. She didn’t catch any of what he had just said, and
it was clear on her face.

The elf blinked, then spoke more slowly, tapping his chest.

“Eldanair,” he said, then turned his back on her.

“Eldanair,” said Annaliese quietly to herself, listening to the sound of the
name as it rolled off her tongue. The way she said it didn’t sound quite how the
elf had spoken it, but at least she now knew his name. It was a start.

The darkened cellar was a bloodbath.

Men lay strewn upon the rough cobbled floor, moaning in agony as their
lifeblood leaked from fatal wounds. The stench of the dead and dying was
overpowering. There were shouts and curses, the ringing of steel upon steel, and
the sickening, wet, meaty sound of swords cleaving flesh.

A thunderous voice rose above the din.

“No clemency! Let none leave here alive!”

More soldiers pounded down the stairs, swords drawn. They wore the black,
slashed doublets of Nuln, and carried swords and bucklers—their more
traditional halberds would have been next to useless in the confined space.

The enemy were not hard to discern amongst the frantic melee, for they wore
long silken robes of blues, yellows and purples. They had drawn weapons of their
own, and once they realised that there was to be no escape, they fought with a
frenzy and lack of self-preservation that was off-putting, even to the
battle-hardened of the state soldiers—they fought rabid, cornered animals.

“Grunwald! To me!” came the booming voice.

The burly, unshaven sergeant loosed a shaft from his crossbow. It punched
through the forehead of one of the coven members who fell to his back, dead.

“You heard the man,” Udo Grunwald roared, hurling the crossbow to the side
and pulling his heavy, flanged mace from his belt. “Push forward! We end this
now!”

With a roar, he led a group of black-clad soldiers into the fray. He swatted
a blade away from him with his heavy weapon and smashed the mace-head into a
cultist’s face with his return blow, shattering his lower jaw in a spray of
blood and teeth.

Another fell, a sword piercing his stomach, and Grunwald kicked him savagely
in the head as he went down. A blade slashed across his shoulder and he grimaced
in pain, and brained his attacker, the ridge edges of his heavy mace shattering
the skull.

He heard a string of shouted words; phrases yelled in a language that
he didn’t know.

Hissing against the pain in his shoulder, Grunwald, saw the towering,
black-cloaked figure of the witch hunter Stoebar battling against a trio of
assailants, consummate swordsman, his sabre flashed out, slicing open the throat
of the first, and whipped back quickly enough to block a lethal cut from another
foe that would have disembowelled him.