The Loner's Blade
an excerpt

Elothir’s keen eyes surveyed the surrounding area. The sky was grey above, casting its shadow over the mountains. To his right was a small plateau of forestation, the last spot of life before the steep gray slope became too treacherous for anything to live on. To his left the slope continued downwards, hundreds of feet of inhospitable rock to the ground. It was treacherous ground for him, but not because of the mountain. He was on a well-traveled road, which for him was the most dangerous of all. Most travelers wouldn’t take kindly to an elf going by, and while he could handle himself, any killings, even in self defense, would immediately be blamed on him. The reputation of his mysterious and reclusive race preceded him. The ways of Elves were not to be understood by humans, and that which humans did not understand, they feared and hated.
He stopped short suddenly, his hands flying to his swords. A rock rolled down the lifeless slope to his left. His senses went on full alert. He could hear wooden wheels tumbling over the dirt road; the vague sound of chatter. Men were coming this way, and clearly more than one. Elothir turned to the forest, his best chance of concealment. He found a tree near the edge, with thick foliage that would offer him visibility of the road but allow little in return. He scaled the tree effortlessly, his inhuman dexterity making it like child’s play. The caravan broke out into view as it rounded a bend; a single covered wagon, pulled by two grey mares. A scruffy-looking man of medium height sat in the driver’s seat, pulling his tattered brown coat tightly over himself against a slight wind. Flanking him was a slightly taller man, clean-cut but dressed in similarly disheveled clothing. Elothir breathed out a sigh of relief. These men were probably adventurers, looking for wealth in the feuding lands to the south. A skilled or experienced pair of such men may have posed a threat, but judging by the state of their clothing they were neither.
But the elf’s grin disappeared as quickly as it had come. Just barely audible over the wagon’s rocking wheels, he heard a slight, padded noise, so faint that only his superhuman senses could pick it up. He strained his ears, trying to discern it. It took him a long moment to discover it for what it was: footsteps. A moment was too long. His heart pounding in his chest, he hastily attempted to throw his cloak over his whole body, but it was too late. The footsteps slowed behind the wagon, and their source came into full view.
She was a beautiful and shapely woman by all accounts, her feminine charms only enhanced by her brown leather armor and woodsman’s cloak. Her long tresses of red hair contrasted starkly against her piercing blue eyes, eyes that seemed constantly alert as she scanned the area hawkishly. She turned her gaze upon the trees, searching them over carefully for any signs of danger. At first her eyes passed over Elothir’s perch, but before he could so much as breathe she stopped dead in her tracks. A quick double-take came Elothir’s way; his concealment was lost. She clearly had to fight to keep her composure as she saw the elf’s pointed ears. It was an expression he knew all too well, one full of dangerous fear. His suspicions were only confirmed as the woman reached for the bow strapped across her back.
He reacted quickly, leaping towards the back end of the tree and catching hold of a thick branch as an arrow thudded into the trunk. He released his grip, falling eight feet to the ground with scarcely a sound. In the wagon, the two men had thrown back their falsely ragged cloaks to reveal shining steel armor. The shorter one gripped a war axe and a small buckler, while the taller man wielded a broadsword. Assuming the taller one to be a greater threat, Elothir let fly with a pair of bolts at him. The finely made Elven quarrels shredded the steel shoulder pauldrons like paper, leaving the man pinned to the floor. The other man slowed up for just a moment, slightly cowed by the sheer display of marksmanship the elf had shown, before continuing in his charge. Elothir, however, had bigger problems. The woman, a ranger as far as he could tell, was running towards him, nocking another arrow to her bow. The elf reached for the sword at his right, a powerful blade enchanted with the ancient magic of the Elven god of stealth, Reclusah. He felt himself let the pent-up energy of the blade loose as he drew it. The shining blade filled with blackness. Elothir swung it out behind him, and the blackness drained from the sword out into the air, leaving an impenetrably dark wall behind it as he rolled into cover behind a tree. Neither the man nor the woman faltered in their run, though they both felt the same chill go down their spine at the sight of the Elven magic.
Elothir walked straight through the wall of blackness as the short man neared it, causing the adventurer to let out a yell of surprise and fear. Both of the elf’s swords came forward in a dizzying routine, slapping left and right with impossible speed. The man had to work desperately to keep the swords at bay, his buckler and axe only barely deflecting each blow. Elothir was only half trying, though. He could have killed the man a dozen times at least, but the last thing he wanted was a bounty on his head, and more importantly, the woman couldn’t get a clear shot at him without endangering her companion. He knew he couldn’t keep the fight going forever; the longer it went on, the more tired he would be to face the formidable woman. Finally he made his move.
Elothir came forward with blinding speed, feinting with high with one sword while the other knocked a defending axe to the side. The feinting sword followed its companion, slamming into the axe and pushing it further away. He pulled back the other direction so that the hilt of his blade crashed into the man’s temple. The elf slapped the flats of both blades against the side of the outmatched man’s head. Even as the adventurer fell into unconsciousness, Elothir pierced the man’s buckler with his left sword. He lifted the small shield into the air in front of him just as the woman let fly with an arrow. The second the missile thudded into the buckler he was up and running, knocking the shield against the rocky ground to dislodge it from the tip of his blade.
The ranger dropped her bow, realizing she would have no time to shoot again. She took a step forward to meet the running elf, drawing a pair of dirks from her back. She met the first flurry of blows with dazzling speed. Every swing of the elf’s sword found its counterpart in the parry of the human’s dirk. Each blade worked on its own, as though two different fights continued at once, each its own intricate dance of death. Every now and again an opening appeared in the elf’s apparently seamless defenses, but as the woman moved to exploit it the elf’s speed allowed him to perform nearly impossible parries. Elothir came in, swinging both blades in wide arcs at the woman’s head. Two dirks came up high to block. And suddenly the elf found himself completely defenseless, for both of his blades were off to the side. The ranger had a clear shot. She took it. Both dirks shot forward at the elf’s exposed chest. Unfortunately for the woman, that was exactly what Elothir wanted. As she stabbed at him, the elf twisted his wrists, causing his blades to gash the back of her forearms. With a yell of pain she dropped her weapons. Before they ever hit the ground, she found a sword at her throat.
Within himself, so far internally that nobody could see it, Elothir trembled. In his mind’s eye, short, raven-dark hair and pointed ears flashed onto the woman’s face, and he recoiled from the memory. He had to kill this ranger now, he knew. She would keep coming for him, and with the Zilustrians on his tail he did not need another enemy. She would probably raise just as much of a hunt for him by living as she would by dying. But Elothir couldn’t push the blade forward, couldn’t tense his muscles to cause it to move that one inch. Califaen, he thought. He pulled the blade back from the ranger’s neck. Her sigh of relief was cut short as the hilt of Elothir’s blade crashed into her vein, causing her to spiral into unconsciousness.
He sheathed his swords and turned away before she hit the ground. He didn’t even hear the thud. His mind was far elsewhere; on thoughts of Eirlos, the grand forested kingdom of the Elves, and of Califaen, of his beloved, of his exile and everything that had led him up to this far –off point. He walked along the road slowly, lost in his memories.

Light filtered in through the overhanging trees, filling the small clearing with a surreal glow. On every level of the massive trees were platforms and long suspension bridges, covered in Elven merchants and potential consumers, all haggling in their own ways. For a marketplace it was strangely quiet, for elves were oft silent even in bargaining. Elothir stared around in amazement. He had never been to the grand vertical bazaar of Camilshan; where everything from the nobles dressed in their airy silks to the jewels and pottery on display left the young elf in constant awe.
His mother grabbed him by the hand, steering him through the crowd. The finely-garbed rich folk, with their angular features and cross-looking eyebrows, stared down haughtily at the mere commoner that passed through their midst. Though his mother seemed impassive, she too was sweating nervously from her palms. Her eyes never left the large, purple tent that stood to the far back of the ground level. Only when her destination became clear did the nobles relent in their angry glares. They would not pick trouble with someone who would dare deal with the Aerlindoth, commoner or no.
The two out-of-place elves pushed through the gold trimmed tent flaps, and found themselves in a different world. The air was heavily perfumed, a scent both intoxicating and repulsive all at once. Scantily clad harlots lined the side, shying back from the newcomers. There were large, burly elves all along the edges of the tent, wielding various weapons that they clearly knew how to use. Most noticeable of all, though, was the tall, skinny elf that lounged himself in the back of the room. He was dressed in striking robes of purple with golden trim, much like the colors of his tent. The intricate designs along the outer edges seemed to play and whirl within each other as if alive. A pair of the most vivacious women sat to his side, staring at him with adoration. Indeed, despite his frail form he seemed to emanate power unmatched by anyone Elothir had seen.
The Aerlindoth leaned forwards in his chair as the two commoners stepped through. His features narrowed as he looked upon the young elf.
“This is the boy?” he asked. Elothir’s mother, tongue tied by the strange atmosphere around her, just shuffled forward and turned Elothir around, pulling open a fold in his tunic. There, on the bared skin of his right shoulder-blade, was a jet black impression of a half crescent moon. The black symbol showed in stark contrast to the young elf’s pale skin. The Aerlindoth nodded his approval, though his eyebrows remained furrowed
“Your son indeed carries the mark,” he said. Elothir’s mother perked up at this. He smacked Elothir’s arms and legs experimentally, before turning the young elf back around and feeling his cheeks and stomach. “But he appears… scrawny.” “Please, sir,” his mother burst out. “We have never had food aplenty. He will grow strong if he is fed well, I swear!”
The Aerlindoth nodded thoughtfully at this. He motioned with a bony hand to one of his bodyguards. The burly elf stepped forward, brandishing a club. At a nod from his master, the bodyguard slammed it into Elothir’s shoulder. The poor young elf screamed in pain. His mother cried out in horror. Unmoved, the Aerlindoth nodded to the bodyguard again. A second blow from the club sent Elothir into the floor. His mother began to sob openly, attempting to rush to her son’s aid, but the Aerlindoth held her back effortlessly. “Again,” he said.
The bodyguard swung an overhead blow at Elothir’s head. Something inexplicable happened then, a noticeable change in the elf’s face; a confidence, a surety, a ruthlessness. And Elothir knew beyond a doubt that the bodyguard was dead. His emerald eyes flashed; the bodyguard’s club smacked into his waiting hand. A slight twitch of the wrist snapped it in two. Amazed, the bodyguard looked over at his master for direction. None came. Elothir leapt to his feet, driving two fists into his attacker’s stomach. The larger elf keeled over, but Elothir was far from done. He slammed the side of his hand into the bodyguard’s neck, who fell into the ground. He stepped over his fallen opponent and lifted the bodyguard’s head with both hands. His arms twisted to the side. A crack sounded through the tent, and the burly elf fell dead.
A smile creased the Aerlindoth’s face. He gave a slow clap of applause for Elothir, but the young elf took no heed. He just stumbled back from the man he had just killed, horror spreading across his face. He fell to his knees, the fire in his eyes extinguished. His mother stepped forward, raising her arms to embrace him. “No!” the Aerlindoth said harshly. “He is our property now. You are no longer his mother.” He drew forth a small, drab grey box studded with lusterless rubies and proffered it to the grieving woman. “This will turn anything within it into gold. You will be rich, as promised. Now go.”
She looked down at the small box, surveying it carefully. She could see riches in its depths, could see herself in one of the finest palaces ever known, dressed in fine Elven silk and wearing the most expensive of jewelry. Servants waited on her hand and foot; the whole kingdom looked to be her. But she couldn’t take solace in the vision. For in its depths, she was alone, and Elothir was at this evil man’s mercy. The full entirety of what she had done showed on her face. She had just sold her son.
“Please,” she sobbed. “Please, take it back! Take the box, take all the money in the world, just let me hold my son one last time!” She took a step towards him, and the air itself crackled. A flash exploded the air in front of her. She flew across the room to land smoking on the floor. Blue lightning crackled between the Aerlindoth’s fingertips.
“You are no longer his mother,” he repeated calmly. A pair of bodyguards stepped forward and grabbed the sobbing woman by the shoulders, dragging her unceremoniously from the tent. Elothir was too traumatized to cry out her name, to do anything but stare in blank horror at the dead elf’s body.
“He attacked you, boy,” the Aerlindoth spoke soothingly. “He was an enemy. He would have killed you, had you allowed it. He had to die.”
“What… what was I?” Elothir turned his wide, pleading eyes upon the Aerlindoth.
“What happened to me?”
“That was your warrior state,” the powerful old elf said. “Something you will learn to control under my training. You will learn to control everything within you, everything around you; you will become something of precision and balance, something that can manipulate its world with but a thought, should you come with me. Will you come with me boy?”
After a long moment, Elothir nodded. The Aerlindoth smiled wickedly.
“From this moment forwards, you are a royal assassin of Eirlos. You will be the finest killer that ever lived!”