The forest was chilly here, so near the coast. The wind gusted
through the boughs, shaking them like daemons in the throes of ecstasy. It
was like a screaming banshee, with talons of ice that swept through furs
and skin and bone.
But a huge bonfire kept that bitter frost at bay. Its flames leapt and danced, as sinuous and graceful as the party of wild elves that ringed it. Laughter and merriment was the order for the night, never mind the hostile elements. For this night, Lorenthya, daughter of proud Melyssia and Endrolain, came of age. The entire tribe had come out in force to share the happiness of the family, and music from skilled flautists and harpers filled the air, drowning out even the protesting wind.
A fire of such proportions is well visible in the night, though, and as the elves danced and sang, unfriendly eyes watched them from not so far away.
Shamorath smiled grimly to himself. His fair kin were careless, not even bothering to post sentries. And, indeed, why should they? Naggaroth was far away, and none of the Forsaken had ever been seen here.
But times change.
The band of twelve were determined to bring this fact home to the dancing elves. The trip had been long, and Shamorath had already lost three of his warriors to the beasts in the wilderness, but tonight, it would pay off handsomely.
Khaine, the God of Murder, would be honoured by many sacrifices tonight. Not the weak, diluted blood of the decadent Empire, and Bretonnia, but the rich, earthly fluids of the Chosen Folk.
Forming a fist, Shamorath waved his silent, deadly killers forward. The dark elf licked the slender blade of his stiletto, savouring the iron tang of the metal and its chill upon his tongue.
The slaughter tonight would be fearful, indeed.
The first inkling Melyssia had that something had gone horribly wrong was when a pair of knives suddenly buried themselves in Therion's chest. The elf stopped dancing abruptly, an uncertain hand clutching a wavering tankard as he gazed in shocked astonishment at the brass hilts protruding from his body.
Even as Therion finally realized that he was dead and toppled over, the dark elves whirled into the elven encampment, blades flashing. Three dark elves cut into the wild elf musicians, ending their lives and the melodies they had been playing. Eight more elves were slain before harsh reality set in and a proper response mounted.
Unarmed for the most part, except for daggers, the elven party nonetheless tried to retaliate. These were the druchii, the Forsaken, elves who had forsworn the light and turned to darkness and evil, and the old hatreds ran deep.
Screaming his defiance, Jander leapt into the midst of a trio of the foe, his dagger in one hand, and his tankard in the other. A raider lost an eye to a clever thrust, and another stumbled away, temporarily blinded, as Jander dashed the contents of his tankard into his eyes. The elf managed one last, futile swing with his knife before the last dark elf opened his throat with a cross-wise slash.
Nearby, two dark elves were taking their time carving Yestil up. Their swords lending them the advantage of reach, they took turns darting in, careful to inflict painful but non-lethal wounds. Yestil spun around in vain trying to parry their blows, but the dark elves were too quick, too used to working with each other. Finally tiring of their sport, one dark elf buried his sword up to the hilt in Yestil's chest, and the other removed her head just as swiftly. They laughed as they went in search of new prey.
Melyssia was terrified; her daughter and husband were lost in the crowd of screaming combatants. But she was an elf, and her revulsion at the dark elves was all-consuming. A dark elf passed her by, mistaking the cowering maiden as poor sport, and paid the price as she moved into action.
Seizing a burning log from the bonfire, Melyssia brained the dark elf with a single, powerful blow. As the druchii collapsed, she grabbed his sword and ran another dark elf through. His companion was more alert, though, and turned away the blade as Melyssia tried to skewer him as well.
Shamorath saw this, and began making his way to the elf maiden. How could this be? A pair of the finest dark elf swordsmen, slain by this whelp of an elf? As he closed the distance to Melyssia, she defeated a series of four slashes from her foe, and a swift riposte cut a line across his chest. The dark elf reeled, only for a moment, but enough for Melyssia to beat down his blade and thrust her borrowed blade clean through his skull.
Her skill with the weapon was tremendous, Shamorath had to acknowledge. But now she faced him. With stiletto in one hand and sickle- blade in the other, Shamorath came up before the elven maiden and saluted her.
"I am Shamorath," he declared in Elven. "And now, you die."
Making no reply, Melyssia raised her own sword in answer.
The girl was good.
She had turned away at least seventeen attacks that would have felled even an experienced swordsman, and her counters were as good as any Shamorath had seen in his long life. Several had even pierced his own defenses, inflicting painfully burning lines across his face, arms, and chest.
"I am Melyssia," she spat after their latest clash, leaving a deep gash in Shamorath's leg. "Blade maiden. And you, druchii, will soon join your dark kin in death."
A blade maiden. That explained plenty.
The sword came slashing in a lightning-fast one-two strike. The dark elf put a backhand block on one and dodged the other, all the time angling his stiletto for a killing thrust.
Spotting an opening, his slender blade leapt out .
. except the accursed elf maiden was not there.
Expertly anticipating the blow, she twirled aside, and his lunge left him over-extended.
Or so she thought.
Shamorath accepted a stinging cut to a shoulder even as he reversed his stiletto and slammed it into her kidney. As her eyes widened in shock and pain, the sickle-blade swept in and hooked into the flesh of her collarbone.
"Blade maiden or not, you are no match for the Chosen of Khaine," Shamorath hissed into her dying gaze.
The slaughter was ending.
The elves were no match for the savage fury of the dark elf raiding party. Shamorath counted five slain, and grimaced. If not for the blade maiden, they would have suffered far less casualties.
The remaining warriors were moving through the fallen bodies, harvesting the organs for proper sacrifice to Khaine, the Lord of Murder. Surely, he would be pleased at the offerings of so many of the accursed Fair Folk.
"This one is still alive!"
The amazed shout rang across the clearing.
Idiot, Shamorath groaned to himself. "Then put her out of her misery!"
A sword was raised, but never fell.
Something blindingly fast and glimmering silver slashed through the air.
"What was that?"
The dark elves looked around in confusion. The one with the sword raised tried to say something, but the effort sent arterial red arcing into the air. The blade fell unnoticed to the ground as he tried futilely to stem the gushing tide with his hands. Choking on his own blood, the dark elf collapsed to the ground.
"Who dares .!" Another warrior thundered.
"I do," a quiet, authoritative voice echoed.
The gathered warriors all glanced up as a tall, emancipated figure strode into the clearing. Cloaked in an imperial purple so dark it seemed black, the intruder's gaze was steady. A strange, double-handed shortsword was held loosely in one hand.
"You are . one of us." A dark elf warrior gaped in amazement.
"Yes," the apparition agreed. "And no."
He snapped the shortsword out with one swift motion. The hilt telescoped out to a full eight feet in length, locking into place with an audible click. The business end buried itself in the groin of the dark elf who had spoken.
As the victim screamed in agony, his fellows responded as they were trained. Swords raised, they began encircling the intruder. The foremost pair charged the lone fighter.
A flick of the wrist, and the sword-spear was retracted. Once again holding a shortsword, the intruder went forward to meet the dark elves. The gleaming dark elven blades got nowhere close to the interloper, and two precise, controlled cuts later, Shamorath lost another two of his soldiers.
In the space of the next ten seconds, Shamorath was left staring blankly at another five heads rolling on the ground. The intruder disdainfully flicked the blood and gore from his shining weapon, then walked forward calmly to stand before Shamorath.
"The assassin Shamorath," he intoned formally. "Also known as the Silent Slasher. You have been judged, and the demands of justice will be met. Your bones will be splintered, and your heart pierced, and you shall be condemned for all eternity."
So saying, the intruder leapt to the attack.
Never had Shamorath seen such skill, never had he seen such speed.
Never had he ever imagined that one day, in a forest somewhere, he would meet his match.
Shamorath tried every trick in the book, every defense and offense he knew. He had never fought so brilliantly in his life, never pushing himself beyond the limits.
And it simply just was not enough.
The stranger went over, under, and through everything Shamorath threw at him. There were times when the Silent Slasher thought that he had scored a telling strike - indeed, the stranger had taken many minor cuts - but the enemy always came back, faster than before, deadlier than ever.
The sword-spear telescoped out once more, the intruder spinning it around and about and shifting his grip to the middle of its eight-foot length. The first twirl sent Shamorath's sword flying, then the butt end was firmly planted in his ribs. The impact knocked Shamorath to the ground, and he howled as he felt something snap in his chest.
Unable to do anything except gasp with the pain, Shamorath found himself looking up at the stars. Amazing, he thought. They are like pinholes in the curtain of night .
Shamorath felt the sharp tip of the sword-spear resting against his chin then, and knew his time had come. He stared up into the eyes of his killer.
"Who are you? What are you?"
A single tear fell from the stranger's eyes. He smiled sadly, and replied. "I am the Kinslayer."
The sword-spear slid home.
"Who ."
Knocked senseless at the beginning of the battle, Lorenthya had only just awoken and watched the whole episode, and confusion reigned in her soul, alongside grief and anger. A dark elf who slew dark elves? Unthinkable .
The Kinslayer looked up at her, and managed a small smile. "You are not badly hurt, I see. I am sorry about your kin."
He retracted his sword-spear, and replaced the weapon in a scabbard at his side. Walking over to Lorenthya, he extended a hand and helped her to her feet.
"I must go now."
Before he had taken two steps, Lorenthya called out. "Wait! You are a dark elf!"
Head bowed, the Kinslayer nodded. "Aye."
"Then why .?"
"To repay the debt that cannot be repaid."
With that, he walked off into the darkness.
But a huge bonfire kept that bitter frost at bay. Its flames leapt and danced, as sinuous and graceful as the party of wild elves that ringed it. Laughter and merriment was the order for the night, never mind the hostile elements. For this night, Lorenthya, daughter of proud Melyssia and Endrolain, came of age. The entire tribe had come out in force to share the happiness of the family, and music from skilled flautists and harpers filled the air, drowning out even the protesting wind.
A fire of such proportions is well visible in the night, though, and as the elves danced and sang, unfriendly eyes watched them from not so far away.
Shamorath smiled grimly to himself. His fair kin were careless, not even bothering to post sentries. And, indeed, why should they? Naggaroth was far away, and none of the Forsaken had ever been seen here.
But times change.
The band of twelve were determined to bring this fact home to the dancing elves. The trip had been long, and Shamorath had already lost three of his warriors to the beasts in the wilderness, but tonight, it would pay off handsomely.
Khaine, the God of Murder, would be honoured by many sacrifices tonight. Not the weak, diluted blood of the decadent Empire, and Bretonnia, but the rich, earthly fluids of the Chosen Folk.
Forming a fist, Shamorath waved his silent, deadly killers forward. The dark elf licked the slender blade of his stiletto, savouring the iron tang of the metal and its chill upon his tongue.
The slaughter tonight would be fearful, indeed.
The first inkling Melyssia had that something had gone horribly wrong was when a pair of knives suddenly buried themselves in Therion's chest. The elf stopped dancing abruptly, an uncertain hand clutching a wavering tankard as he gazed in shocked astonishment at the brass hilts protruding from his body.
Even as Therion finally realized that he was dead and toppled over, the dark elves whirled into the elven encampment, blades flashing. Three dark elves cut into the wild elf musicians, ending their lives and the melodies they had been playing. Eight more elves were slain before harsh reality set in and a proper response mounted.
Unarmed for the most part, except for daggers, the elven party nonetheless tried to retaliate. These were the druchii, the Forsaken, elves who had forsworn the light and turned to darkness and evil, and the old hatreds ran deep.
Screaming his defiance, Jander leapt into the midst of a trio of the foe, his dagger in one hand, and his tankard in the other. A raider lost an eye to a clever thrust, and another stumbled away, temporarily blinded, as Jander dashed the contents of his tankard into his eyes. The elf managed one last, futile swing with his knife before the last dark elf opened his throat with a cross-wise slash.
Nearby, two dark elves were taking their time carving Yestil up. Their swords lending them the advantage of reach, they took turns darting in, careful to inflict painful but non-lethal wounds. Yestil spun around in vain trying to parry their blows, but the dark elves were too quick, too used to working with each other. Finally tiring of their sport, one dark elf buried his sword up to the hilt in Yestil's chest, and the other removed her head just as swiftly. They laughed as they went in search of new prey.
Melyssia was terrified; her daughter and husband were lost in the crowd of screaming combatants. But she was an elf, and her revulsion at the dark elves was all-consuming. A dark elf passed her by, mistaking the cowering maiden as poor sport, and paid the price as she moved into action.
Seizing a burning log from the bonfire, Melyssia brained the dark elf with a single, powerful blow. As the druchii collapsed, she grabbed his sword and ran another dark elf through. His companion was more alert, though, and turned away the blade as Melyssia tried to skewer him as well.
Shamorath saw this, and began making his way to the elf maiden. How could this be? A pair of the finest dark elf swordsmen, slain by this whelp of an elf? As he closed the distance to Melyssia, she defeated a series of four slashes from her foe, and a swift riposte cut a line across his chest. The dark elf reeled, only for a moment, but enough for Melyssia to beat down his blade and thrust her borrowed blade clean through his skull.
Her skill with the weapon was tremendous, Shamorath had to acknowledge. But now she faced him. With stiletto in one hand and sickle- blade in the other, Shamorath came up before the elven maiden and saluted her.
"I am Shamorath," he declared in Elven. "And now, you die."
Making no reply, Melyssia raised her own sword in answer.
The girl was good.
She had turned away at least seventeen attacks that would have felled even an experienced swordsman, and her counters were as good as any Shamorath had seen in his long life. Several had even pierced his own defenses, inflicting painfully burning lines across his face, arms, and chest.
"I am Melyssia," she spat after their latest clash, leaving a deep gash in Shamorath's leg. "Blade maiden. And you, druchii, will soon join your dark kin in death."
A blade maiden. That explained plenty.
The sword came slashing in a lightning-fast one-two strike. The dark elf put a backhand block on one and dodged the other, all the time angling his stiletto for a killing thrust.
Spotting an opening, his slender blade leapt out .
. except the accursed elf maiden was not there.
Expertly anticipating the blow, she twirled aside, and his lunge left him over-extended.
Or so she thought.
Shamorath accepted a stinging cut to a shoulder even as he reversed his stiletto and slammed it into her kidney. As her eyes widened in shock and pain, the sickle-blade swept in and hooked into the flesh of her collarbone.
"Blade maiden or not, you are no match for the Chosen of Khaine," Shamorath hissed into her dying gaze.
The slaughter was ending.
The elves were no match for the savage fury of the dark elf raiding party. Shamorath counted five slain, and grimaced. If not for the blade maiden, they would have suffered far less casualties.
The remaining warriors were moving through the fallen bodies, harvesting the organs for proper sacrifice to Khaine, the Lord of Murder. Surely, he would be pleased at the offerings of so many of the accursed Fair Folk.
"This one is still alive!"
The amazed shout rang across the clearing.
Idiot, Shamorath groaned to himself. "Then put her out of her misery!"
A sword was raised, but never fell.
Something blindingly fast and glimmering silver slashed through the air.
"What was that?"
The dark elves looked around in confusion. The one with the sword raised tried to say something, but the effort sent arterial red arcing into the air. The blade fell unnoticed to the ground as he tried futilely to stem the gushing tide with his hands. Choking on his own blood, the dark elf collapsed to the ground.
"Who dares .!" Another warrior thundered.
"I do," a quiet, authoritative voice echoed.
The gathered warriors all glanced up as a tall, emancipated figure strode into the clearing. Cloaked in an imperial purple so dark it seemed black, the intruder's gaze was steady. A strange, double-handed shortsword was held loosely in one hand.
"You are . one of us." A dark elf warrior gaped in amazement.
"Yes," the apparition agreed. "And no."
He snapped the shortsword out with one swift motion. The hilt telescoped out to a full eight feet in length, locking into place with an audible click. The business end buried itself in the groin of the dark elf who had spoken.
As the victim screamed in agony, his fellows responded as they were trained. Swords raised, they began encircling the intruder. The foremost pair charged the lone fighter.
A flick of the wrist, and the sword-spear was retracted. Once again holding a shortsword, the intruder went forward to meet the dark elves. The gleaming dark elven blades got nowhere close to the interloper, and two precise, controlled cuts later, Shamorath lost another two of his soldiers.
In the space of the next ten seconds, Shamorath was left staring blankly at another five heads rolling on the ground. The intruder disdainfully flicked the blood and gore from his shining weapon, then walked forward calmly to stand before Shamorath.
"The assassin Shamorath," he intoned formally. "Also known as the Silent Slasher. You have been judged, and the demands of justice will be met. Your bones will be splintered, and your heart pierced, and you shall be condemned for all eternity."
So saying, the intruder leapt to the attack.
Never had Shamorath seen such skill, never had he seen such speed.
Never had he ever imagined that one day, in a forest somewhere, he would meet his match.
Shamorath tried every trick in the book, every defense and offense he knew. He had never fought so brilliantly in his life, never pushing himself beyond the limits.
And it simply just was not enough.
The stranger went over, under, and through everything Shamorath threw at him. There were times when the Silent Slasher thought that he had scored a telling strike - indeed, the stranger had taken many minor cuts - but the enemy always came back, faster than before, deadlier than ever.
The sword-spear telescoped out once more, the intruder spinning it around and about and shifting his grip to the middle of its eight-foot length. The first twirl sent Shamorath's sword flying, then the butt end was firmly planted in his ribs. The impact knocked Shamorath to the ground, and he howled as he felt something snap in his chest.
Unable to do anything except gasp with the pain, Shamorath found himself looking up at the stars. Amazing, he thought. They are like pinholes in the curtain of night .
Shamorath felt the sharp tip of the sword-spear resting against his chin then, and knew his time had come. He stared up into the eyes of his killer.
"Who are you? What are you?"
A single tear fell from the stranger's eyes. He smiled sadly, and replied. "I am the Kinslayer."
The sword-spear slid home.
"Who ."
Knocked senseless at the beginning of the battle, Lorenthya had only just awoken and watched the whole episode, and confusion reigned in her soul, alongside grief and anger. A dark elf who slew dark elves? Unthinkable .
The Kinslayer looked up at her, and managed a small smile. "You are not badly hurt, I see. I am sorry about your kin."
He retracted his sword-spear, and replaced the weapon in a scabbard at his side. Walking over to Lorenthya, he extended a hand and helped her to her feet.
"I must go now."
Before he had taken two steps, Lorenthya called out. "Wait! You are a dark elf!"
Head bowed, the Kinslayer nodded. "Aye."
"Then why .?"
"To repay the debt that cannot be repaid."
With that, he walked off into the darkness.