Far to the north-west of the Channel Sea, deep in ancient woods are cities whose delicate, sky reaching towers testify to the fact that the builders, as well as having a highly developed aesthetic sensibility, have a lot of time on their hands. Living wood is coaxed out of trees huge enough to be towers in their own right and shaped into buttresses. These are joined without nail or peg, into hardened and varnished wood, which is in turn shaped with metal and stone. Looking at these structures, it is usually difficult to tell where the tree ends and the building begins. Simpler, and yet gracefully proportioned structures cluster around these duoliths.
The elves that live in these cities are long lived, subject to the same cycle of resurrection which rules all the races. Gracelessness and ignorance are the exception rather than the rule among these people, although gracefulness (in bodily dexterity, at least) and intelligence can be the attributes of monsters as well, as Oshayamora had seen.
Over the past six days, the creatures which had attacked her town, Woodhaven, had shown surprising cunning, and there was no doubt about their agility. They had scaled walls as if they were running over level ground, and they had outrun the elves that they chased down. They threw their bolas with exquisite skill. They were hideous, skin the color of ash and slime, fangs slightly protruding from their mouth. Their ears bore a resemblance to the pointed ears of her own race, which made Oshayamora shudder.
Oshayamora crouched in front of her young nephew. Her hands were bound behind her. She was an example of uncommon physical strength among her people, but she had tried the cords and knew she had no chance to break them. One of the monsters (who had said, “I am flayer,” indicating by gesture all of its kind, when it had been asked its name) had been brutally whipping the youth before Oshayamora had placed herself between the child and the whip.
“So, it does not like pain to the little one?” the flayer said with a sneer in its voice. (the fangs made it impossible to properly sneer with its face) “Perhaps it likes pain to itself more?” It brought the whip down in a wide sweep and the crack slashed a line from bare shoulder, across bare chest, to bare hip. Her clothes had been shredded over the past days by whip, knife, and sword. The flayers did not seem to notice clothing, they were naked themselves, but lacked any sexual characteristics, either primary or secondary. Another flayer approached with a whip, its tips were worked with tiny blades. One would bleed to death slowly under that whip.
“What about pain to the wrinkled one?” the second flayer said. It drew back the bladed whip, preparing to swing. At the last moment, Oshayamora threw herself into its path, protecting her grandfather. She twisted in the air, presenting her back and bound wrists. The whip tore wide gashes in her back, but missed the cords binding her wrists. Both of the flayers laughed as Oshayamora curled in pain, but she did not make a sound. For six days she had refused to cry out in pain. Unfortunately, this seemed to make her a challenge in the eyes of the flayers.
Laughing, dancing, one of the flayers said, “It likes the pain! It wants it! I gives, I gives!” slashing again with the whip.
From their omniscient vantage point, the gods looked down on Stone Harbor, they looked down on the Ophidian capitol, now under siege, and they especially looked down on Woodhaven and Oshayamora. They had come to a decision.
We cannot reverse our decree. Something hinders us.
We must fight this hideousness, but we dare not manifest ourselves, lest we unmake our creation.
Therefore let us raise Heroes from those most worthy.
This one is particularly enduring. We shall give her the endurance and strength of the ancient oaks, which her race esteems.
And remove her bonds.
Oshayamora felt a strength flow through her, and realized, as she lay bleeding, that her limbs were no longer tied. The flayers were still dancing, and the one with the bladed whip was preparing to swing again. She twisted, taking the whip-strike on her shoulder. It stung as it had before, but her new endurance kept her wits clear. She grabbed the end of the whip and lunged at the flayer, sinking the blades into its neck. It choked and fell back. The other flayer removed the bola from its belt and stepped back for a throw. Oshayamora’s fists, like pistons, tore into the face of the first flayer. She moved to position it between herself and the second flayer, who was beginning to twirl the bola. Having briefly rattled the first, she tore the crude but sharp short sword from the belt of her opponent.
Naked, but now armed, Oshayamora waded into her erstwhile captors. She sliced the bola cord in half as it flew, and approached the thrower. Blow and parry were exchanged. The injured one had run off as the other shouted, “Get more me, bigger me!” The flayer brought down his sword on Oshayamora’s left arm as she cut into the waist of the flayer. The wound oozed only a trickle of blood. The flayer seemed infuriated by this and pressed the attack harder, but pressing, left itself open to the slice and cut of the weapon wielded by Oshayamora. She cut several times deep into the belly of the flayer, without seeming to slow it. Hearing the shouts of approaching reinforcements, she ignored the hacking blows of the flayer and plunged her blade into the gash she had made and upward, twisting the blade in a stirring motion. The flayer grunted, fell, and finally was still.
Oshayamora turned to her grandfather and nephew, bound hand and foot and lying on the steps of the town shrine. For the past six days they had been repeatedly killed on these steps. “Thank you, granddaughter,” said Tathor, as Oshayamora cut his bonds, “we should leave now and move so as to be closer to a shrine in a city not taken by these beasts.” He struggled to his feet. His clothes still hung about him, although shredded from many cuts. His face was wrinkled with care and age, but in normal circumstances he was still hale and vigorous. He gathered up a discarded cloak that lay nearby and held it out to Oshayamora as she cut away her young nephew’s bonds. “Can you walk, Findecino?” she asked him as she fastened the robe about herself.
“Yes, I think so,” he said. He was young, slight and pale. There was a large hole in his shirt where the flayers had disemboweled him. He touched the frayed edge of the hole and winced at the memory. “We should get bows.”
“Then quickly,” said Tathor, taking the boy by the hand and running toward the nearest house in the opposite direction from the approaching sound of the flayers. Oshayamora stood outside the door while Tathor and Findecino searched the house. The flayers had just come into sight. She glanced in the door. Tathor came out, handing a beautifully wrought great sword to Oshayamora. He carried a longbow and a large quiver of arrows. Findecino followed him out, carrying a smaller bow. The three elves ran for the forest edge.
The flayers caught sight of them and followed swiftly. Twenty flayers made up the pursuit, and with them was a creature standing several feet taller. The larger creature lagged somewhat behind the swift pursuit of the flayers, but its sheer bulk of muscle and twisted face radiated menace. As the elves ran, Tathor and Findecino shot several arrows expertly into their pursuers.
“They are not stopped lightly,” Oshayamora said as they ran, “concentrate your fire.”
“Yes, fire. A good thought,” said Tathor. He swung the quiver around and searched through it, picking out a particularly fine arrow. “Kashtat-Kemetat,” he intoned. The arrow shone briefly with a fiery aura, which was absorbed into the arrow. Tathor stopped, turned, and fired. The arrow sunk into the nearest flayer, between the eyes, and burst into flame. The elves continued their run, not pausing to see the head of the flayer explode and the rest of the flayers pause briefly, puzzled, to examine the body. Several of the flayers ripped strips of flesh off the corpse just before it dissolved into a black, oily mass, and stuffed the strips into their mouths as they continued the pursuit.
Findecino glanced over his shoulder. “I believe that bought us some time,” he said, as the three entered the deeper woods at the outskirts of the town.
They plunged into the wood, running, trying to lose their pursuers in the thick foliage. “What were those things, great grandfather?” Findecino asked after some time, “I have never heard of anything like them.”
“I do not know,” Tathor said, levelly, “I have never heard of, read about, dreamed, nor imagined such viciousness. Our philosophers have speculated on the perfection of good and evil. I believe we may have just experienced the perfection of evil.” He looked back, troubled, as the three of them crested a hillock and started downward, towards a stream.
“I hope you are right, grandfather,” said Oshayamora.
“Why do you say that, child?” Tathor gripped young trees for balance as he half ran, half slipped down the steep, leafy slope. Ahead of them the forest spread, dense, trackless and green.
Oshayamora urged the others on to greater speed. “Because I wish never to meet worse.”
No comments:
Post a Comment