Legends of Belariath
Twilight
The clearing was not, by any means, large or imposing, or dingy and dark. In fact it was rather bright and cheerful, and because of this face a few birds had decided to rest their tired wings in the shade of a tall, unmarred poplar. As one of them alighted on a particularly sturdy looking branch however, a short crossbow quarrel shot straight through its throat, sending it falling to earth with a pitiful croak of pain and surprise. Another bolt flew into the place where the bird's mate had been a split second earlier. From below, a gruff, ugly voice cursed as its source, a grim burly reloaded his crossbow.
"Goddamn sparrows" the orc muttered, walking over to the dying bird and picking it up, "Not a decent scrap of meat on them and not even a thick bone to gnaw." As he said this, he twisted the avian's neck, separating its nerves and immediately killing it with a sharp cracking of bone and cartilage.
"And I suppose that really matters to you?" came a quieter, more refined voice from the edge of the clearing.
"No, I suppose not" replied the orc, biting the recently twisted head off of the sparrow's body, crunching loudly.
"Why are you so barbaric, Gorag?" the refined voice said, "There are so many beautiful things in the world that needn't be destroyed so gratuitously." As this was said, the sound of a released crossbow string sounded, accompanied by the squeal of the surviving sparrow as it fell to the ground, a crossbow bolt embedded in its breast.
"Oh, and you're one to talk Jervis," Gorag muttered, chewing on his sparrow head, "just yesterday you burned down a village because someone wouldn't buy that sword of yours."
A sharp intake of breath was Jervis' response to to this statement along with the clicking of a crossbow string locking into place. "The man said it was contraband! That sword wasn't contraband, it was a work of art!"
Gorag grinned, swallowing the pulpy mass that remained of the sparrows head. "Well, it was certainly a work of art the way you disemboweled that one guard, right from the groin to the-"
"All right, all right!" Interrupted Jervis, "it was a moment of extreme rage, okay? Everyone needs a release now and then."
Gorag, who enjoyed baiting his ally in depravity, nodded sagely. "I see..." he said, chewing thoughtfully on an especially tough piece of skull, "So what do you call that last incident in Nerfeshia? I mean, you crucified the pigs, for Mork's sake!"
Jervis was about to explain his mindset in Nerfeshia with a barbed crossbow bolt when he paused, looking up sharply. "Do you hear that, Gorag? Someone's coming down the road."
Gorag snorted, loading his crossbow. "Of course I hear it, Jervis, these big ears aren't for decoration, you know."
"Fine. Usual plan?" asked Jervis, taking a glance from behind the road towards the road to get a glimpse of their target.
"And what else would we do?" muttered Gorag as he started for the road, holding his crossbow easily in one hand.
"I don't know...let them live?" asked Jervis, as he followed close behind.
The figure walking down the pathway towards the two brigands was not exactly the most common thing to be seen walking down a forest path, but in the country known as Belariath commonplace was extremely rare. It was obviously humanoid; either elvish or human as no obvious tail, ears or wings were showing out of the long brown cloak that more or less covered its entire body. No matter how the wind blew, or how the figure walked, no real sign of any shape underneath was visible, save for the leather boots that would pop out of the cloth barrier with each step.
To add to the mystery, a large hood cloaked the figure’s face in shadow, preventing Jervis or Gorag from getting a decent look at their potential victim’s face. This wasn’t too much of a problem, in their opinions, as they really didn’t care about seeing the whites of their eyes, they wanted the gold in their purse and, in Jervis’ case, the red of their veins.
The figure did not seem to be paying very much attention to the road ahead, save for the occasional cursory glance to make sure no rampaging horde of barbarians was charging down the dusty road onto another gleeful trek of violence and debauchery. For the two highwaymen, this was exactly the way they liked it. Without even a word, the two scrambled out of their hiding places on opposite sides of the track and leveled their crossbows at the traveler.
“All right, your money and your life, pal.” Shouted out Jervis, the brain of the pair, as Gorag, the brawn, waved his weapon menacingly.
The cloaked figure raised its hood slightly, and Jervis could swear he actually HEARD its eyebrow lifting up incredulously. “Excuse me?” came a voice from inside the hood; a quiet, scratchy voice that sounded like someone who hadn’t had a drink in a month.
“You heard me, mister.” Growled out Jervis, enjoying this small piece of repartee, “Your money and your life.”
A dry chuckle emanated from the hood, making Jervis feel slightly on edge. Usually when people heard his succinct honesty with that “and”, they started to beg. He LIKED the begging. He WANTED the begging, not this amused chuckle.
“Do you know how many poor excuses for highwaymen have said that line to me this week?” the figure asked, shifting its body slightly from underneath the cloak, as if to reach for something. Jervis, who knew the basic moves of reaching for a sword, tensed his finger on the trigger of his crossbow, his eyes narrowing. “Hey! Keep that hand away from the sword mister, and take them out of that rag you’ve got there. C’mon show me your hands.”
The figure shrugged, but slowly raised gloved hands out of the fold of the brown garment and held them at shoulder height, palms facing Jervis. “Fine, fine.” It said, the voice seeming to lose some of its grating tone and becoming slightly higher, but Jervis hadn’t noticed. What he had noticed what a flash of what appeared to be gold at the figures waist when it had raised its arms. Throwing off caution, certain that Gorag had his back, Jervis darted forward and yanked the cloak to the side and gasped in practically orgasmic delight.
“By the gods, mister, where’d you get that sword?” Jervis croaked out, marveling at the immaculate form of the hilt of the blade at the figures side, apparently made of solid gold. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” he said with a sneer, as he reached for it, “it’s mine now.”
The blow caught Jervis completely off guard, which was why he didn’t kill the figure right away. Sent sprawling to the ground, he spat out a mouthful of dry dirt and spun around to impale the bastard’s throat with a crossbow bolt, only to get a boot to the face. As he hit ground again, blood running down his chin and a black eye starting to form. He screamed at Gorag to kill the figure as he reached for the poisoned dagger at his belt.
The telltale twang of a crossbow being fired did not fill the air; and neither did the grunt that would tell Jervis that Gorag had scored a hit. Looking up to yell at his partner, Jervis was shocked to see the orc stumbling backwards, a dagger hilt embedded into his chest. The two looked at each other for a split second in complete shock, then Gorag collapsed forwards, blood starting to pool and spill out of his massive, ugly mouth.
Jervis scrambled to his feet, intent on slaughtering this person who’d just killed his partner. It wasn’t about the money or the homicidal bloodlust anymore, he just wanted to kill the son of a bitch and leave the rotting corpse for the rats. His dagger drawn, he leaped at the figure with a scream of fury on his lips, the naked blade dripping with an evil looking ochre jelly that the apothecary had promised him would kill slowly and painfully.
The sudden stop in his leap surprised him almost as much as the sword blade impaling his chest. One minute, he had been a flying angel of death, ready to inflict pain and suffering upon any who would oppose him, and now he was a shivering body, impaled on the sword that only seconds before he had been lusting over. However, these two shocks were nothing compared to what he saw when he dragged his eyes up to his killer’s face.
Instead of a hauntingly empty looking hood that might have given Jervis some sense of justification; a supernatural being perhaps, a strikingly attractive woman stared back at him, her gray eyes cold and heartless as she shoved the blade deeper into his chest. The high cheekbones and pale skin reminded him of someone he’d seen before, then the mane of silvery hair that ran down her head and over her shoulders solidified the memory in his brain. “De…de Lancie?” he croaked out, blood starting to drip out of his mouth onto the ground.
The woman smiled mirthlessly as she pulled up on her sword, letting it slice a few more internal organs and muscles. “No…” she snarled out, twisting the blade, “Jessica de Lancie died with her family. Now I’m simply the Twilight of your demonic master’s life.”
Jervis moaned in agony as she twisted the blade, the feeling of certain death terrifying him more than he’d ever expected it to. “Wh-what? The baron?” he croaked, gurgling out the last word as a new rush of blood filled his throat and mouth and spilled out.
The girl nodded, then tore the poisoned dagger out of Jervis’ twitching hand, looking at the jelly coating the blade. “You killed my brother with this…” she whispered, pushing the point against Jervis’ side, “He didn’t stop screaming for three hours after I found him.”
Jervis tried to defend his actions, but the blood was flowing too freely now, and all that came out was a pitiful gurgle. As he looked at his killer pleadingly, a dark glint flashed through her eyes as she rammed the deadly blade between Jervis’ ribs.
Jervis would have screamed at the fiery pain that ran through every vein and artery in his body as the poison took effect, but he could only gurgle pitifully as he thrashed on the ground where the girl had left him, his lifeblood spilling out of him onto the dusty, nondescript road.