The Tattooed Woman Pt 52

THE TATTOOED WOMAN - Chapter 52

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 52: Challenge Accepted

The creature that strode towards her was an entity of the old world, an avatar of the Hunt, primal, ancient and mighty, and it towered over her. But Azure was no weakling, and she was dark elven through and through. So, if perchance her heart beat all the faster at his approach, or her blood run colder, then her face showed none of it. For Brigid's Eternal Flame would burn itself out before she lowered herself to cower before anyone or anything, be they God or beast. So instead, she raised her chin and stood her ground.

And she did not stand alone, for figures slipped from the armed throng to stand at her side; slender, whip-like, silver-haired and keen.

One of the impudent creatures stepped forth and pointed her sword, "Here, longshanks! Why not pick on someone your own size?"

The two hounds that lurked and followed in his wake like shadows snarled and slinked forward, only for one to halt abruptly as the gleaming tip of a burning spear came up under its chin. The other found pause as Ellén stepped into its path, her golden eyes glowing and slitted, talons extended, and lips curling back as she emitted a sibilant, menacing hiss.

Looking about he saw that the orcs had not given ground, and even now were edging closer, spears at the ready. Even the humans, that most craven and yet sometimes oddly courageous of folk had chosen to stand, sword and spell in hand. It was most...

gratifying

.

Ashunara watched as the creature halted a moment to regard her Company, and then, with a toothsome grin it resumed its approach, advancing with obvious purpose, and yet, with each long stride its towering height seemed to diminish. It did not shrink, so much as

condense,

drawing its shadow in on itself, becoming all the more solid, all the more potent, until it stood before her no taller than a tall man. She could see the well-defined muscles of his torso, smell his scent, and all but feel the heat emanating from his body as he stood there, proudly tolerating her gaze, with that arrogant smirk written in bold upon his face.

"Does this suit you better, she-elf?"

She sniffed dismissively, "It'll do, I suppose. Now, what are your intentions?"

With a laugh, the creature gave her a mocking bow before turning his eyes on Azure, lips curling in a sardonic smile that revealed white fangs, "My intentions are my own, good Captain, but for now I will be content to have words with this one," he glanced at her sword, still pointed at his breast, "Is it your intent to obstruct me? I warn you, that might prove a most perilous cause."

Ashunara grunted, but her sword did not waver, "Words you can have, all else will be paid for in kind."

It gave a curt nod, "As you say."

Turning to Azure, it pointed, "How came you by that horn, child? Did you filch it from the one who had it before you?"

The dark elf met his gaze. She knew who this was that stood before her. Yearly, as a child, her mother had led her into the Mist at the time of the sanguine moon, to make offerings and sacrifice at the small simple shrine dedicated to the Huntsman. There they, and those few others who came; forest folk, hermits and the like, would gather, to sing the old songs. All races had their legends of this umbral being. To the Dwarves, he was "The Prowler in the Dark", who lurked in the deepest caves and caverns hidden in the roots of the world. The Orcs had no Gods, but they had monsters aplenty, and to them he was "Fiadhaich the Blood Drinker", a hungry ghost that haunted the darkest of the woods and nightmares to be found in the wild and savage places where they set their lodges. Though, to that hardiest of folk he was a thing to be honoured more than feared, for he culled the weak and favoured the strong. And as for the Drow? Who knew, or cared, what those fiends thought.

She raised her chin, "I'm not your fucking child, nor am I a thief. I bargained for it."

"And the sword?"

Her hand drifted to the hilt of the blade she now wore, "That was a gift."

The Huntsman took a step closer, looming over her, his unblinking blood-red eyes boring into her, as if seeking to read the very tracks upon her soul, and his voice was a low sinister murmur, "A gift you say? I wonder what fair enticements you offered Maeve for her to be so giving? What delicious promises did you whisper in her ear to render her so malleable?"

Azure snarled back at him, "I did no such thing! It is not my fault she is lonely; who in her shoes would not be? Besides," she swallowed, "my heart belongs to another."

With a grin his eyes slid sideways to Lashelle, who stood near to hand, and he did not miss how Elsadore held her in place with an iron grip upon her arm. His eyes flicked back, "That one? I can see how she looks at you, and I heard how her heart went pitter-patter at my approach. Her scent is on you," he sniffed, "a subtle musk, but not displeasing."

Eyes blazing, Azure all but spat back at him, "That is none of your damned business, wretch! Here! "

The horn bounced from his chest as she flung it at him, and around her the Company stirred, "Take back your miserable trinket if it means so much to you. I'd not touch it."

He glanced down at the thing and then back at her, "Not my business? It is

all

my business. Not the wooing," he made a dismissive gesture, "that I leave to bards and poets. But the

chase!

The one that sets hearts to pounding and hottest blood to pumping; the wild dance of stag and hind. Is that not the greatest hunt of all?"

With fluid grace he bent and recovered the horn, gently brushing the dirt from the engraved silver and ivory, before pushing it back into her grasp.

With a chuckle he winked, "A hunt in which only the sweetest bait can be used?"

Straightening, he took a step back and breathed deep, "Very well, I am content."

Azure gave him a perplexed and irritated frown, "Content?"

The creature gave a snort of derision, "I am not bound to obey the bearer of some magical bauble like some witless djinn. Still, I can see well enough that you came by my token honestly, or at least not by treachery. For though you have shed your fair share of blood, and more, you do not have the scent of deceit or murder about you. And you are brave, and sometimes that is enough."

He drew himself up, his cloak billowing about him and antlers tilted proudly towards the heavens. Powerful he looked, strong and lordly, and when he spoke all who heard him knew he was master of his domain, and that those who strayed into his sights did so at their peril. Yet, strangely, his voice was not cruel, or even scornful, for those were petty things, and he had no taste for them.

"Know that ages ago, I made promises to aid the one who sounded that horn, and I'll not be forsworn. So, tell me, Azure, Huntress of the Dark Elves. What would you have of me?"

...

He stirred, he fidgeted, he stalked back and forth with his face set in a grimace, and a feverish heat emanating from his form. Every so often he would pause to stare up at the crows circling high overhead in mocking formation, or perched on the skeletal branches of charred trees. He had scorched more than a few of those things to ash, scattering the survivors like chaff, but the bastards would only return, disturbing his peace with their insolent cawing.

Nearby, his creature sat, watching him, with claws flexing, tail flicking from side to side and cold, unblinking eyes fixed on his throat. And that was another thing that had begun to vex him. Ever since he had had his daemons offer their gentle corrections to that insipid wyrmling, his mount had been behaving most strangely. That she was his bastard offspring should have no bearing on matters, for with blackest magic and foulest sorcery he had long since expunged any such feelings of familial loyalty from its mind, even as those same incantations had strengthened and hardened the beast beyond all reckoning.

The furious savagery with which the thing had utterly destroyed its own brother was case in point. At command it had torn and mauled the whimpering wretch without the slightest hesitation, ripping, and then devouring its victim in a gruesomely devastating display of truly satisfying violence.

But still...

The giant at his side stirred, turning his head towards him, "Your fretting becomes off-putting. What ails thee?"

There was a moment's pause before the thing replied, "I cannot see her."

"See who?"

The grinding of the creatures' teeth and the smoldering glow that lit its eyes were distinct signs of its vexed frustration. He spat a sizzling gobbet of vitriol, "She is gone from my sight. The thing that has pestered and distracted me almost since the start of this affair. This gnawing, quarrelsome spirit that I now know is the scion of that most treacherous of hags. Until now I had always sensed her presence, even though her mother took pains to hide her exact nature from me. But now?"

"What?"

With a bitter curse, the thing gestured emphatically off towards the hills, "She was close, and drawing ever closer, I could feel it. But now? Nothing. I have dispatched my demons as bloodhounds, but so far none have returned with even a whisper."

The giant grunted, "Does the mother conceal her again?"

Glancing at the crows circling above he shook his head, "I think not. Even before, when she did so, I could still sense...

something

. I could not pierce her cloak, but neither could they render the creature entirely invisible to my gaze."

"But not now?"

"No. 'Tis as if she has passed from this world," he sniffed, "mayhap she has taken to the Mist. That was ever her mother's creation. She could be hiding there, waiting for opportunity to strike."

Looking away, the giant's deep voice had something of a gloating quality as it seemed to idly muse to itself, "Mayhap your powers are not quite so great as your boasts?"

With a hiss so furious that it near enough set the air about it to flame, the thing spun, "Careful how you speak to me, Balor! Or..."

There was a snort, "Or what? Do not forget, little Godling, that it was my magicks that brought you back into this world, and it is by my magicks that you remain. We are bound together, you and I. But if you think you now have strength enough to stand on your own and defy all consequence, then you had best take your swing and slay me."

The creature stared at the one-eyed giant for a sulphureous moment, before closing his fist with a snarl of rage. With a sudden cry of anguish, the towering figure immediately crumpled, dragged to one knee by the pressure squeezing his heart. Agony burned in its chest as the blood boiled in its veins, but even over this shrieking thumping torment it could still hear the sibilant whisper of the entity it had brought back from the grave, "I do not have to kill you, giant, not when presented with so many more entertaining...

alternatives."

Around the Fomorian, his hulking bodyguards drew their massive glaives and halberds. Their eyes burned, and a smoky haze emanated from those mighty weapons as they readied themselves for battle.

Growling in vexed exasperation, the creature turned away, releasing the giant. With a grunt of relief, the Fomorian held up a hand, staying his wardens from their murderous purpose even as he lumbered painfully back to his feet.

Before him, his wicked assailant made a disgruntled noise, "Why do you vex me so, Balor? One day you will push too far, and then where will be?"

The giant took a rasping breath, "Cast into the Abyss, where we both belong no doubt."

Shaking his head, the dark entity turned to regard his towering companion, "No doubt. Now giant, turn your eye towards the siege and tell me how fares the battle?"

The monster did as he was bid and his one burning eye flickered with gibbous light for a moment before he answered, "It goes well enough, the enemy has retired behind their inner wall. Their rearguard slows our attack, but even now it crumbles before us, doubtless we shall be finished with them presently."

"Good, and your own host?"

The giant's growl was a sound of impatient hatred, "My army advance under shadow towards Emain and should be there in a matter of days. With the bulk of their forces drawn off, and their battlemages now fighting in yonder mousetrap they have nothing left to throw against us. The magical wardings protecting the Capital are potent, but not impervious. Once they are breached then we will have our way with them and be done."

The creature nodded, "Good," he pursed his lips a moment, "and our

other

business?"

With a malign shrug the huge creature turned away, "It progresses. Sacrifices in quantity have been made already, but many more will be required. Their arrival was slowed by the partisan actions of the dark elves and their mercenaries, but there is no shortage of lambs to the slaughter, so we have lost naught but time. Still," he leered, "the delay necessitates a further transfusion."

The Dark One glowered at the thing, "Again? Such repeated sanguine offerings may weaken me, and I can ill afford to be so diminished, even if only temporarily, should it come to pass that I be forced to contest directly with HER."

The Fomorian but shrugged again, "Nevertheless..."

With a hiss the thing spat, "Very well! Let's be quick about it. But I warn you, Balor. This ploy of yours is proving expensive. It had best work, or you will have courted my most extreme displeasure."

Turning, he strode off, dark shadows gathering and following in his wake like a cloak, while behind him the Fomorian watched him go, his one burning eye glittering with malign fervor even as his lips curled in an awful parody of a smile, "Oh, it'll work..."

...

Hildegard was rapidly losing the will to live, and all things considered, she was reasonably certain that if compelled to sit and feign politeness through so much as another five minutes of this petulant horseshit she was either going to scream bloody murder, or more likely, slam someone's face clean through the tabletop in a furious fit of exasperation.

The meeting comprised a congress of Matriarchs from the many dark elven Houses, some clearly having been recently elevated to post, supposedly having gathered to plan and scheme much needed strategies for their combined defence, yet all that seemed to be accomplished was endless argument and dissimulation. Given recent events, this course smacked of being nothing short of utterly fruitless.

Behind her, as if somehow reading her mind, Garrow shifted from her post of attention and the human felt the half-orc's strong hand giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze. The dark elves at the conference table may have noticed this slip of etiquette, it was a damned certainty Lady Aventine did, for the eyes of that woman missed nothing. But as she chose to make no mention of it, so the others were compelled to either emulate her display of ignorance, or risk insulting their host by making comment. Wisely, they chose the former.

It was just so bloody...

galling.

Utter bloody disaster was looming large on the horizon, yet all these witches did was argue and posture, making snide comments and sniping at one another with vicious, pointless, glee.

As for Cassie and Shalidar, who sat side by side across the table from her? They seemed entirely lost in their own thoughts. Cassie could be excused, for she was little more than a child, and for now appeared fascinated by a small crystal that had somehow come into her possession. Occasionally she would gently blow on the thing or polish it with the sleeve of her dress, causing it to glow and flicker, almost like a candleflame. Again, Aventine made no mention of this strange distraction.

Meanwhile, Shalidar looked positively lost, which given what she knew of the woman, did not bode particularly well at all. She sat there, deep in thought and still as stone, staring at the tabletop, but clearly seeing something entirely other than the gleaming polish of its wooden surface.

Lady Aventine, of course, radiated nothing but a serene and wicked calm. She neither raised her voice nor appeared in any way disconcerted by these circumstances, which, given Hildegard had witnessed how she had personally cut the throat of one of her foes from ear to ear not but hours earlier was rather terrifying. But of course, Lady Aventine was a dark elven noblewoman, and while she was not the kind to fly into an unruly rage or lash out without provocation, she would almost certainly massacre everyone at the table without batting an eye if it was to her advantage or otherwise suited her purpose.

Gazing along the table at the gathered Matriarchs and their respective attendants and bodyguards, of which there were more than a few, Aventine stilled their quarreling by lowering her goblet of wine and politely clearing her throat. With a smile that fooled absolutely no one she drew a quiet breath, "Noble ladies, I understand your concerns, but these are exceptional times and so require exceptional measures. Currently, the only two organised military formations in the city are the watchmen, which comprise no more than a few score inexperienced bravoes without the skill to be accepted into a Free Company, or the familial connections to obtain position in one of the Houses. The other is the Matriarch's Guard, a ceremonial position generally filled by those honoured warriors who are certainly skilled, but are, shall we say, no longer in the Summer of their lives. And even if they were, the Matriarch's Guard has just taken grievous losses, and less than half of them survive."

She pursed her lips, "Other than that, there are the Dark Sisters. But deadly as the assassin's guild may be, and useful as they certainly are, they are hardly numerous. Then there are the sorcerers and magi of the House of Magick, but many of those are but fledglings, and again, they are few in number. Outwith that there are a few score mercenaries still haunting the taverns, a similar number of cutthroats and ruffians lurking in the alleys, and a handful of gladiators we can press into service, and that's it."

She looked up, "In short, the city is all but defenceless."

One of the gathered Matriarchs snarled back, "We are dark elves! My House does not fear..."

Aventine raised a hand in interruption, "Base pride will not be enough, something more substantive is required, so attend, and hear my decree. Each of the Great Houses shall provide a hundred men at arms, and each Minor House shall contribute half that. Along with those sellswords we can entice with pay, and any gladiator or scoundrel who will fight for freedom, pardon or booty. They will form the core of our city garrison, along with whoever else is foolish enough to volunteer. I shall also expect suitable similar sacrifices to be made by the assassins and magi alike..."

There was uproar, as many of the Matriarch's bellowed and shouted their opposition.

One literally spat on the tabletop, "Damn you! We are not slaves to be so commanded. You have no mandate to issue such demands, and my House shall have no part in them."

Aventine did not so much as blink, "You are wrong, Lady Carmilla. In times of war the Grand Matriarch has authority to issue directives to any House, providing it is in defence of the city. But more importantly," she leaned forward, "I have the

power

to do it. Any Matriarch who defies my edict shall be declared traitor. They will be publicly executed and, if necessary, their House disbanded."

"You can't!"

The hard reply was flat and resolute, "I can, and I will. Test me at your peril."

"Gods, this petty bickering is so pointless..."