User blog:Leea/The Tale of Voronwe, Chapter 16

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4th Era 100, 30th of First Seed, Summerset Isle
His hands had never felt stickier. And it wasn't just sugar sticky. This sticky stretched. Having taught Curwe to make the armor, she wanted to repay the favor with some lessons of her own. None of them had to do with armor, but rather with baking.

Standing to his side with her hands on her hips, she said sarcastically, "Well done on the flour."

Lifting an eyebrow at her, he glanced over and replied, "Yes, I can see that. Feel it, too. Give me a hand, will you? I don't want to leave dough on the flour sack."

Striding over to it, Curwe measured out more flour onto the kneading board, where the dough lay. Standing to his side again, she watched him knead the dough. "Okay, so keep working in the flour until the dough changes consistency. You'll know it. It will be stretchy, but not sticky."

"That can't come soon enough. I'm starting to feel like panicing."

"Never made anything like this before?" she enquired.

"No," he replied, kneading the dough, and the stickyness began to leave his hands, making him grateful. "Whenever I've cooked, its been with things that were already made, like the toast."

Looking over his shoulder, she stared at the smooth tan lump on the board. "Okay, see? That the dough is no longer sticky?"

He nodded, rubbing his hands together. "Yes, I see. Feel it, too. Thank the gods. I thought this moment would never come."

Chuckling at the look on his face, Curwe replied, "Now this stage is done. Take it over to the corner by the oven and set it there, so it can rise." She pointed. "Lay that cloth over the top, to protect it from dust."

Doing as he was told, he just set the board down when there was a yelp out the back door. His eyes stared and his face lost some of its color. Both jerked their heads in the direction. "Can't be." he whispered.

Alarm already in her heart, it now grew to panic at seeing the look on his face. "Who is it?"

"I know that voice," he whispered.

"You know...who..."

He turned to face her. "Markadil. He's Orgnum's chief assassin." He quickly reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her to the front door. "You need to go, now."

Outside, he swung her to the path by the stream, whispering, "Stay here, out of sight. I will try to hold him off. Don't come after me. If you hear the fighting stop, don't come inside; run. As fast as you can."

Curwe was about to protest when he waved his hands over himself and disappeared, though she saw his footprints appear, walking to the door. Disregarding his orders, she waited until he was inside before running out back to the shed, and searched frantically inside for something...anything...that could be used as a weapon. Catching sight of something under a burlap sack, she fished it out and ran back to the house.

* * *

Hiding in a corner of the living room, Balasian waited for Markadil to enter. Just as he thought that maybe Markadil had gone to a window or the other door, he saw foot impressions appearing on the carpet. He realized that Markadil, like himself, was invisible. He knew, at this point, that physical attacks could miss the intended body part, so he opted for magic, instead. He threw a thunderclap in the direction of the moving footprints, and they vanished, accompanied by a heavy thud and part of the carpet being pressed down in a body shape.

Invisibility snapping off as he cast the spell, Balasian quickly made for the fireplace and retrieved the poker. "Get up, Markadil. No use in hiding, I know you're right there."

Snapping his fingers, Markadil's body flashed into view. Getting up from the floor, he kept his eyes on his target as he stood at the edge of the carpet. "I see you're doing well for yourself. I fully expected to find you hiding out in a hovel or a hole in the ground, like the vermin you are, but you surprized me."

Balasian showed no emotion, and held the poker in a relaxed but ready position. "Life's full of surprizes," he flatly stated.

A hint of a smile crept across Markadil's face. "Indeed." Cracking his knuckles, he continued. "Finding you was a bit harder that I originally thought, but now that I'm here, I see no reason to sit and have tea. Best we get down to it. I expect you'll fight, but you will die in the attempt to save your sorry life. I've got a lot coming after I kill you."

Gritting his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bunched as Balasian raised his head defiantly, the glow of the fire in the hearth tinting his eyes a rich orange. "We shall see about that," he said, and raised the poker.

As Markadil charged forward, dagger in hand, Balasian swung to the side and jabbed hard into the other Elf's side with the sharp point of the iron poker. Crying out in pain, Markadil brought up his dagger, aiming for the stomach. Narrowly missing the tip of the dagger, Balasian grabbed Markadil's wrist and smacked it hard against the fireplace mantle, again and again until he dropped the weapon. Markadil kicked hard against Balasian's shin, the steel-toed boots he was wearing driving hard against the other's leg, injuring the bone underneath. As Balasian faltered from the pain, Markadil grabbed his other hand and violently pulled the fingers backwards, hearing a sharp pop as a finger dislocated. Crying out in agony, Balasian gritted his teeth and brought up his elbow, sharply connecting with Markadil's chin and nose.

As Markadil's head rocked back with the force of the blow, Balasian brought up his knee into the assassin's groin, and head butted the pinned Elf, his head making an audible crack, before taking his other uninjured hand and swinging him away from the fireplace and onto the carpet. Retreiving the poker, Balasian swung hard, trying for the assassin's knees. Rolling on the carpet, Markadil evaded the swings of the poker until he managed to kick Balasian in his injured shin. Bowing from the pain, his grip loosened on the poker, allowing Markadil to make a sucsessful grab for it. Grappling Balasian and the poker, he rammed him up against the wall, the poker pressed against his throat. Glancing over Markadil's shoulder, Balasian nodded solemnly. "Looks like it is the end--"

Markadil smiled wickedly. "I know it is. Did I not tell you this would come to pass?" His grin widened, showing his teeth. "I'm in for a lot after you die. I'll find where all of your delusional followers hide...and I will uproot them all. I'll say when I get back that I tortured you, and you spilled all the information about your fellow vermin like a crying little boy. They'll have no choice but to come out of hiding, thinking that I know where they are. I will finally get the prestige I deserve."

Balasian stared at him, unconcerned. "Quite the story, but I'm afraid it will not come to pass. You never let me finish my sentence. I was going to say, 'Looks like it is the end for you.' Goodbye, Markadil."

A frown growing on his face, Markadil was about to ask what Balasian meant when he felt a sharp pain and a swift, sliding motion in the back of his neck. He tried to cry out, but couldn't. He couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, couldn't even whisper. Letting go of the poker, he staggered back and hesitatingly lifted his hands to his throat. There was an alien sharpness there, protruding just under his chin.

Balasian retrieved the poker from where it dropped on the floor and stood over the assassin, glaring down at his slowly sinking form. "You forgot something quite important in your grand scheme of things, Markadil," he said, leaning over the dying Elf. "You thought I lived here by myself. You never thought to check if there was anyone else."

With unbearable self-loathing, Markadil did remember the female voice he had heard before he entered the house. He had forgotten all about it during the fight, being eager to kill his target and bring his plan to fruition. Despite all his planning, he still failed. All the cautions he went through, all the stealth. As he lay on his side on the floor, his vision darkened, his eyes fixed on Balasian's boots as he stood and watched the assassin die.

He tried to go back, redo his approach to the house. How he entered. "I should've killed all those damn goats when I had the chance," he thought bitterly. His sight telescoped to small pinpoints, still focused on Balasian's feet. Just as he was being taken from the realm of the living, his last thought came with startling clarity: "I should have heeded Orthendar's dream message. Then this might have never happened."

The pinpoints of his last moments of life died, and Orgnum's assassin's soul left his body.