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Dearest Readers, here be where we reveal the identity of the Mysterious Assailant, and where you must go forth and spot the M.C. Hammer reference. ;D
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﴾ THE HIDDEN SWORD ﴿
Book Three: Meeting of Fires | Chapter 67: Fires Beneath the Leaves
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He was met with branches nearly smacking him in the face. A hand, his hand, reached out to sweep them away. A hand far smaller than his own now, a child's, yet certainly his. This must be a reverie or a dream of his own youth. Perhaps, even another nightmare. Yet all he could think of was the need to climb higher.
Xan pushed through the heavy canopy of leaves and hauled his lighter frame up the thick boughs of the tree. Soon he reached the very top, heaving from the effort and exhilaration. But the familiar sight that greeted him instead served to pull down at his spirit.
Not here, again. Not here in the prairie of Pelleor where he and Mother once stopped to rest on their way to the Halfway Inn for talk of trade with outsiders. Not here where the unending expanse of grass and weeds and wildflowers harmlessly swayed in the brisk northern breeze, only to lull the unwary traveler into a false sense of peace. Familiar terror gripped his heart, the same felt by the child he had been so very long ago.
He remembered the warnings given by the vale patrol to Mother before they set out from the City. A lava ankheg spotted moving northwest, perhaps exploring new feeding grounds from their usual haunt by the Hill of Lost Souls. A pair of rocs seen from the direction of the Sunset Mountains come to seek prey in this vast prairie. How tightly did Xan cling to Mother's cloak, wondering why she would brave this perilous trek, all for some barrels of wine to be sold to N'Tel'Quess.
And even bring him, tiny and frail and sickly and brittle, along for the harrowing journey. But Mother had scoffed at their words as they rode past the guards, then kissed the top of the elven child's head while whispering one of her favorite sayings – Fortune makes exceptions for the brazen.
A maxim that Xan had never, and never will agree with for as long as doom is yet to cut his years short.
Except for that one moment when the child thought it a curiosity worth satisfying to climb the tree where Mother had tied their horse while she examined a patch of diamond cure growing beneath its shade. That one moment where he thought he might dare to reach for the topmost branches and see for himself where the fields ended and the sky began. That one moment when the child ignored his mother's warnings not to go too high lest the rocs spot him and spirit him away – her voice sounded a mite too cheerful – and bring him to their nest where they will raise him like one of their own hatchlings on raw horsemeat for the rest of his days.
And then that one moment when a mighty wind rushed through the plain and swept through the trees. That one moment when the elven boy, startled and confused, lost his grip, and fell.
It happened again, but Xan knew that naught could be done, and allowed himself to be carried along the drop. Even now, having grown much older and more knowing, even assuring himself that the thick branches and leaves had somehow slowed his descent and left him with nothing more than sprains and cuts and bruises and a desire to never leave the safety of his home. But Xan still remembered how the plunge seemed endless, how it all stretched and slowed enough to give him space for regret and dreaded anticipation.
But this time, he never reached the earth.
Xan opened his eyes with a jerk of his neck.
Morning light harsh and sudden blinded him. Still dazed, he squinted and blinked furiously until the sight of the earth a few good feet from his face succeeded in snapping him back to alertness.
For right now, he was suspended above the forest floor, bobbing stiffly while slung over the shoulders of someone else – his head dangling over the bearer's right side whose own arm grasped his wrists already manacled, his torso balanced behind their neck, their other arm clamping down on his leg.
Someone has been carrying him this whole time. Memory and alarm flashed through him. The Assailant!
But wait, where is the teu'kerym? Had it been left behind for certainly none but him may touch the hilt unharmed? Panic bubbled in his chest. And where is he being taken? Xan cast surreptitious glances as far as sight could afford. They seem to be alone.
Is the Assailant taking him back to the clearing? Perhaps for interrogation, then execution, finally to be buried alongside Tranzig's re-slain men whose state of defacement ought to be more advanced and horrific by this time. Oh, what a thrice-wretched fate surely awaited him!
Despairing, Xan squirmed and mumbled through his gag. The walking paused and he heard his captor sigh. The Assailant bent down to a near squat and lowered him. Upright again, a mixture of aching and numbness spread over his body, yet oddly, his right hand felt raw and abused, as if it had exerted some great and strenuous exercise. What had happened to his hand to feel thus?
Disoriented, Xan could only scrunch down upon his haunches, blinking and shaking his head until he could look at his captor. Still cowled but no less intimidating, masked up to the eyes, the Assailant seemed to be appraising him beneath their hood. They reached for him, but instinct sent him scrambling back in fear. The Assailant seemed to consider this, and oddly, raised their hands in a gesture of peace. They stood up and pulled back their cowl and tugged down at the mask to reveal their face.
Xan looked up even as his heart sank low.
For why, by the Seldarine's mercy and wisdom did he have to come across this creature here, of all places?
An elven woman.
The pointed helix of one ear extruded through hair tousled and wild, a vivid copper and fire of trees fading in Leaffall. Unmistakable refinement in the face of a Tel'Quessir, yet sculpted more strong and severe. No, not the dainty and delicate and slender forms of their species, with skin of the lucent paleness of the moon. But instead, possessing a height exceeding his by a head, of shoulders broad and a sturdy frame, and the tawny hue of a life lent to the elements.
Xan's stomach pitted with even heavier despair.
For before him now stood one of the People of Corellon.
Ar'Tel'Quessir.
A Sun Elf.
"There you are," the Assailant said brightly in Common, knuckles on her waist.
Xan furrowed his brow. A shade of knowing flickered in his consciousness. Where had he heard those words before?
"Thought you'd never wake up and I'd have to lug you all the way back," she said cheekily.
Belying the finesse in combat demonstrated the night prior, the Assailant awkwardly stretched and scratched the back of her neck. She reached for a waterskin, one of a pair dangling at her pack. "Thirsty?"
He bobbed his head, eager for the relief for his throat, so parched as it were the Anauroch itself.
"Now I'm going to ungag you but promise me you're not going to scream."
As if anyone else will hear in the middle of this godsforsaken wilderness.
"Because I don't want to forget myself and panic and then accidentally punch you in the mouth," she said with a chuckle while flexing her left fist and squatting down close to him. "Believe me - no one wants to be picking up teeth in the middle of the forest like mushrooms. And I've seen that happen once between a couple of village boys scuffling over some stupid thing, and the fellow never got to collect them all, poor idiot."
Xan nodded with overeager agreement, disturbed more by the prospect of having to choose between discomfiting ivory dentures for the rest of his doomed existence against the cost of going to the temple for teeth-regenerative magic. The thought of that blunderous Linu La'neral casting the spell on his face sent morbid shivers from his jaw down to the spine.
Roughly, the elven woman tugged down at his gag and all but shoved the waterskin to his lips from which he hungrily swallowed a generous draught.
"Hey," she said, pulling the waterskin away. "Can't let you drink it all up. We still have a long way to go."
Puzzled, he looked at her. Perhaps this elf is a ranger of the forest, a resident of Suldanessellar yet ranging so far from that elven city. Finding him in the company of a half-orc and kobolds easily led to the assumption that he had less than noble intentions. No wonder she attacked and took him captive. And why would she be speaking in Common to him? And then it struck Xan – this sun elf must have concluded that a moon elf like him has been gone for so long from the People that she presumed he could only speak in Draconic and the tongue of the lesser races. How embarrassing, oh a proud and haughty Ar'Tel'Quessir like her would certainly rub it in the face of a Teu'Tel'Quess like him.
A proper address should be in order, then.
"Adon ent Seldarine'ivae teague nehel," Xan greeted her by wishing peace and the light of the Seldarine upon her. "Ath tel'quiet lahr nha Xannonderim Cerlynradh, le Haer'n'velahrn ath Evereska," he added, giving his name and disclosing his affiliation with the Greycloaks of Evereska.
"I ask for your indulgence, Sister," he continued in elvish. "If you are a guardian of this part of the forest, then I beg your forgiveness for the intrusion in your lands. I know it appears I am in league with the half-orc and his associates, but in truth I have been pretending to be their ally only for the purpose of finding out why they have been sabotaging the iron in this region. If you release me, I promise to leave the woods and cause no further disturbance to you and your charges."
Having bared his name and purpose, Xan paused and waited expectantly. But the Assailant's eyes narrowed, suspicion still resting upon her face. She tilted her head like a befuddled fox cub, an eyebrow raised, then clicked her tongue.
"I swear I caught you before you fell after I knocked you out," she muttered, rubbing at her temple. "But did someone hit you first in the head? Because, I'm sorry- you're just talking gibberish to me."
Gibberish? Xan's mouth slacked in bewilderment. Gibberish!
But the Assailant's eyes lit up, and she clapped and rubbed her palms as if remembering something. "Oh, wait, it's elvish isn't it? Well, I think I can show you a little of it myself, hah!"
Baffled, Xan could only frown, broad-eyed. The elven woman cleared her throat and breathed in deeply, fanning herself in an obvious show of nervousness. And then she spoke.
"Sharti nha shesh ausa hoarth'tammin," she pronounced with pride, head slightly canted, one hand on her heart, the other extended towards him in a gesture of graciousness.
Xan took in the words, blinking in astonishment. Elvish indeed, perfectly expressed and delivered by this sun elf.
And so to her, he replied.
The only proper response-
"Why are you asking me for directions to the latrine?" Xan half-screamed, half-sputtered.
Startled at his outburst, the Assailant's eyes widened, then narrowed as she pointed an accusing finger at him. "Ah-hah! So you do speak Common after all!"
"Of course, I speak Common," Xan hissed, incredulous. "-as a Second Language!"
For a breath she appeared stunned, yet indignance dared to flash on her countenance. "But- but what I just said to you -that's what it really means? Maybe you heard it wrong?"
"I did not mishear, and yes, that is exactly what you said to me," Xan said, still in shock. "Are you unable to speak the tongue of our People? Merciful Seldarine, for what reason?"
As if having been asked the same question a thousand times before, the Assailant merely shrugged. "No, I can't. And it's a long tale and even I don't know how it even started at all."
Intriguing. Xan narrowed his eyes. And downright disturbing.
"And, besides," she continued sharply, poking at his chest. "You're my prisoner now, and therefore we're not on a friends-sharing-our-life-story basis here!"
"So we are not." And never will, Xan hoped. "But who taught you this flagrantly unlettered error?"
The Assailant grinned toothily at him. "Well, my former employer did. He said it translates to – "Hullo, friend elf, nice to meet you, fancy a frolic in the woods?"
Xan gasped, equal parts shocked, and equal parts offended.
She smacked a palm against the other hand and muttered to the side, "Darn you, Mister Kagain, you messed with me again! And to think that coal-fisted dwarf charged me a silver coin for that, telling me it's worth it just to learn the highest form of greeting among the elves."
For the second instance in this day, Xan's jaw slacked once more in astonishment.
"Why are you learning elvish from a dwarf?" he half-screamed, half-screeched. "And you even compensated him?"
"Well, pardon me, Sir," she snapped back. "Us simple folk don't have the means to go to those pricey finishing schools to learn uppity stuff like manners and languages. I must make do with what scraps anyone will throw at me. So pardon me twice if I can't understand prim and proper elvish like those kobolds with you."
Kobolds? Knowing elvish? Xan furrowed his brows, puzzled at first, then realized why. Evidently she had heard him give them the command to flee and must have mistaken it for elvish.
"It is not elvish I was communicating to them," he explained dryly. "It is draconic, the ancient language of the dragons, yet a vernacular in which I'm quite well-versed to be able to speak naturally. Then perhaps Common isn't my secondary language after all. More likely to be lower in the tier of my linguistic abilities - perhaps a tertiary language to me, or even a fourth or fifth –"
Or the last language you'll ever speak if you don't shut up and stop showing off, Xan read from the eyes of the woman now glaring daggers at him. Wisely he swallowed what should've been his next words and coughed instead.
"All right, Mister Fancy Highbrow Tongue," she drawled.
He flinched at the jibe. Trust a sun elf to come up with the most disparaging titles, and one that backhandedly praises and outright insults.
"You're going to tell me right now who you are-"
Of course, this one didn't understand that he already gave her his name and profession.
"- and why you're in this rendezvous point to meet with Tranzig's men who were too stupid to just cooperate completely instead of thinking they have a chance at killing me, and also had the nerve to not stay dead," she said, poking him stiffly in the chest, an edge to her tone.
So it was indeed her who had disposed of Tranzig's associates and only returned to the clearing to finish the gruesome work! But why and for what purpose? Mulahey's paranoid ramblings echoed in his mind – of Tazok likely sending someone to cut off loose ends. Could this have been her reason for attacking them?
He evaded her gaze, unsure of what to make of all this. Obviously growing impatient with the continued silence from her captive and the discomfort of the Mirtul heat, the Assailant snorted and roughly pulled back her hair to tie it up. The movement caught his attention, and it was then that Xan finally noticed –
Missing an ear.
Well, not all of it to be precise, but a substantial portion that it could be mistaken by anyone seeking the price on the head of the targeted elf.
Of course – it all finally came together. Of the mysterious motives of the murderous elf from the bounties – perhaps she might have even been dispatched secretly by Tazok to sow terror among his own men, weed out the weak, and secure their loyalty not just with gold but with fear.
Dismay suddenly filled his spirit at his now thrice awful plight. Xan pursed his lips in a tight line and instinctively but clumsily edged back on his haunches, pathetic as the self-preserving gesture may be. The Assailant evidently noted the change in his demeanor for she simply wagged her head, seemingly resigned to his refusal at cooperation as she got to her feet.
"Well now, since you're too stubborn to spit out the truth," she said, clicking her tongue. "Then I guess I'll just hang on to this fine sword of yours for a little while longer."
And with that, she casually flung aside her mantle to reveal the moonblade slung at her hip, swaddled tightly with his own fine cloak up to the hilt but the tip of the scabbard peeking through the bottom, enough for him to know it to be his.
Xan gasped. How could she have returned the teu'kerym to its sheath by herself?
Even if one shielded their hand against the hilt with cloth or magic, the integral warding in the moonblade will always force them to yield their hold through magically induced pain, ensuring the weapon is never used against its wielder.
And if an elf not of his blood or in conjugal union were to unworthily attempt, not only to draw but to even claim ownership of the teu'kerym for themselves? Xan shivered, recalling having witnessed an instance of a blade rite gone horrifically wrong. And the unfortunate one had been a sun elf who foolishly thought he was of adequate worth to finally draw his family's moonblade which had remained unclaimed since the first blade rite in Evermeet.
For so far, only moon elves have been able to claim the teu'kerym of their clans. As it was said by Ethlando, the very Seer who expended his life to bless and imbue these swords with power – it is mostly the Teu'Tel'Quessir who stand the surest chance of claiming a moonblade by virtue of their very character. Others were inherently disadvantaged – the Ar'Tel'Quess despite their uncompromising adherence to the ways of the People, even the Sy'Tel'Quess whose very being is of pure communion with nature.
And yet this anomalous sun elf, by some means, managed to touch his moonblade and remain unscathed? By the Seldarine, how?
How?
The Assailant seemed to have read his mind, for her lips crooked into a self-satisfied grin.
"I bet you're wondering how I re-sheathed your spiffy o'l blade if you're the only one who can handle it, hmm?" With a sidestep, she waved and gesticulated to demonstrate her solution.
"See, I was about to pick it up when the whole thing suddenly blazed all blue with fire and sparkles! Good thing I know swords, that's why I also understand swords. Obviously, yours was telling me – Sorry, You Can't Touch This! Guess I ought to thank it for warning me, huh?"
It outright warned her! Xan narrowed his eyes at the moonblade comfortably perched at the Assailant's hip.
Traitor, he mentally mouthed at the teu'kerym which remained smugly inert like an unrepentant pup.
"So instead- I grabbed your hand, used it to grasp the hilt and with a liiiittle bit of maneuvering and a few tries- I finally slipped it back in the scabbard. Genius, right?" she buzzed with pride, showing her clearly unburned palms to him.
"Is that why my hand feels acutely scratched and gravely violated?" Xan muttered, eyeing the conspicuous callouses on the Assailant's hand.
She glanced down at her own palms, then at him. Obviously remembering the unblemished softness and smoothness of his hand unlike hers.
"Show-off," she huffed, hastily hiding them behind her before roughly retrieving her pack. "Well, as much as I'd like to stay and chat about all things elvish, I'd rather we get moving and cover more ground before dark."
What options might he have other than being left to the mercies of the wild, though the manner with which she treated him certainly brooked no opposition. Sullenly, Xan rose to his feet on wobbling legs, surprised at the nonchalance with which the other suddenly seemed to disregard her prisoner, even now as she walked away, her back to him.
"Chop-chop, Lamb Chop," the Assailant said over her shoulder with a wink. "Let's not make me late for an early supper so I can have another one before moondark, hmmm?"
Xan furrowed his brows. Why did that term feel so familiar, even though none of his kinsmen nor even the N'Tel'Quess ever leveled such an unfilial monicker at him?
"That is not my name, you merciless, tyrannical captor," he muttered under his breath. Then he froze. Of course, she'd still be able to hear him regardless of the condition of her marred ear.
"Oh, how poetic," she said with equal mockery, halting to face him. "But neither is that mine."
With the same hand wherewith she had caused such frightful slaughter prior, the Assailant rubbed and pulled at her lower lip like a child in deep thought, eyes darting. "Though I suppose you need something to call me, just in case."
"Why would I even think about addressing you for any reason?"
She shrugged with teasingly feigned nonchalance. "Oh, I don't know. Just in case I get fed up with your stickling manners and decide to leave you to the wolves and then you'll remember I still have your shiny magical sword? You can shout 'Oh my, Captor! My Captor!' 'til you're blue, but that isn't going to ring my cowbell at all."
Xan glowered at her. "You- you wouldn't dare!" He sulked for a moment then exhaled. "Fine. Call me what you wish, and I shall endeavor to address you by whichever appellation you prefer."
The Assailant grinned wide and bobbed her head. "Good! Then you may just call me– Fox Head!"
Fox Head? He squinted at her. "You are aware that being called a fox is an insult to a Tel'Quessir because of the profile of our ears?"
"An insult?" A sudden pensiveness flickered in her face as she murmured, her eyes suddenly gazing far and beyond the clearing. "Not the way he says it to me. Why, I'd even give everything and all the realms just to hear him call me that ag- Oh, never mind," she cut herself off angrily, and abruptly turned away.
He furrowed his brows, curious. Who would have the audacity to use such a biting term as a form of endearment, and still be esteemed by an elf?
Fox Head glanced back at him. "What are you doing, gawking at the trees? I said- hurry up, Mister Glowy Sword!"
Bewildered, Xan let his head hang, resignedly dragging his feet to follow this dreadfully deranged soul into whatever new madness awaited him.
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Scribblings on the Sword Hilt:
"warned her" Oh c'mon Xan! The moonblade was just being a good wingman. Accidentally burning the hand of, or fatally scorching an elf chick with arcane fire? Don't you know- In elven culture that's considered a DROW move. XD
"...hoarth'tammin" A very useful phrase to know when you're visiting the Myth Drannor Theme Park and have to ask one of the baelnorn attendants for directions to the restrooms.
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