A Ranger's Reckoning

Being one of the Chronicles of Cyron

The snow had just started to fall when the two elves reined their horses in on the outskirts of the abandoned hamlet. The white powder seemed to mute the sounds of the night and immerse the world in ethereal beauty. The serenity of the snowfall belied the truth that lurking somewhere among the dilapidated buildings was a powerful and dangerous witch.

The village was nestled in the shadow of the Frosthelm Mountains, the range which served as the border between the kingdom of Lochven and the Skjald lands to the north. Crumbling houses lined either side of the main road leading in and a decrepit stone chapel stood at the far end. One of the horses whickered nervously at the eerie scene and the rider, an elven Ranger by the name of Lukar, leaned forward to stroke its ears. His companion, a dark elf named Talios, ignored the movement and continued to survey the scene laid out before them, his eyes squinting against the falling snow and scanning for any sign of disturbance. 

“Is this it?” Lukar quietly broke the silence. 

“This is the village,” Talios responded decisively. “Just as Arlynson said. The witch has been a menace up here for a long time. I’m the third Hunter to come after her: the first two have disappeared. And she’s ravaged the local Crusader chapterhouse.”

“Is that why I’m here?” Lukar questioned his friend. 

“I was not about to go against her without a mighty ally,” Talios admitted. “You’re the finest archer and swordsman alive.”

Lukar truly was the most renowned swordsman throughout Cyron. For more than a thousand years kings, nobles, and soldiers the world over had sought out the elf to learn the ways of swordplay. Lukar had trained some of history’s greatest warriors.

“So they say. You’re the Hunter, though. Slaying monsters and evil creatures is your business.”

“Those exquisite swords of yours were made for slaying monsters.” Talios nodded to a pair of silver hilted rapiers belted around Lukar’s waist.

As if the mere mention of the enchanted rapiers was enough to inflict agony, a blood chilling shriek rent the air. Both elves snapped their attention back to the derelict town. 

They spurred their reluctant horses into a slow trot toward the main road. A hideously gleeful cackle erupted from somewhere within the village. Talios let the reins of his horse fall, guiding the animal with his knees, and grimly drew a brace of pistols as the elves passed the first few houses, entering the town proper. 

The oppressive silence emanating from the crumbling buildings was deafening. The only sounds either elf heard were the crunch of horse hooves on the gathering snow and the creak of leather as they shifted in their saddles. They reached the town square with the stone chapel rising ominously in front of them and a cross street extending out in either direction. 

The elves wordlessly dismounted their horses at the same time and the uneasy animals wasted no time trotting back down the main road and into the darkness. Neither elf moved to restrain them, knowing that the intelligent and loyal animals would reach safety to wait patiently for their masters. Lukar nocked an arrow to his bow as he sensed movement all around, hearing the faint sounds of shuffling feet and low, snarling voices. Though all was nearly crushing darkness around them, they were elves and they had the keen eyesight of their race.

“She’s undoubtedly made her lair in the chapel, but it seems we have other troubles to deal with first,” Talios whispered. Green eyes shown in the darkness, glowing with ghostly light, and the dark elf cursed as the shadowy shapes began to rush them. “Wights!”

Dozens of haggard looking men, women, and children came sprinting towards the duo. They were wights: victims of the witch that had been killed and brought back to life to serve her. Their ghoulishly decrepit appearances embodied the violence of their deaths. 

Lukar wasted no time in letting loose his arrows, rapidly pulling them from the quiver at his back and releasing with deadly aim. Behind him, Talios aimed down the sights of his pistols and squeezed the triggers. Fire erupted from the barrels, accompanied by a thunderous roar, and two wights were sent flying backwards like ragdolls from the impact of the metal balls slamming into their skulls. 

Talios thumbed the hammers all the way back and the three-round chamber on each pistol rotated, readying the firearms for their next discharge. The dark elf brought his sights to bear on the bloody, emaciated wight of a child and he hesitated briefly. He knew the child was long dead and what stood before him was an abomination, but that did not make what he had to do any more pleasant. 

“Jor forgive me,” he whispered with grim resolve as he fired one pistol. Nearby, Lukar had abandoned the use of his bow and now held a rapier in each hand, slashing and whirling through an almost overwhelming crowd of wights. The snarling creatures lashed out at the agile elf, trying to grab onto him and tear him apart, but Lukar danced nimbly out of harm’s way as the sharp blades of his enchanted swords cut his assailants down in his wake. 

Talios emptied his pistols into a pack of wights rushing towards him and dropped them to the snow-covered ground as he unhooked an axe that hung across his back. He sent the weapon twirling through the air with deadly grace, the half-moon blade neatly decapitating every wight in its path, before calling the axe to return to his hand. Blood and gore dripped from the blade, revealing Druidic runes inscribed into its surface. 

The dark elf hacked relentlessly at the wights closing in around him, occasionally letting fly with the axe to create space between himself and the undead. Lukar appeared at his friend’s back, seemingly materializing out of thin air through the snarling, writhing mass. His knee length overcoat was almost in shreds, revealing rectangular metal scales that had been sewn into the leather for protection, and the half cape draped over his shoulder now sported several large holes. 

With a sudden shudder and a sigh, every wight went completely still and then collapsed to the ground. Both elves stopped in mid-swing as their attackers ceased all movement and they considered this new development with mild astonishment. 

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Lukar’s question broke the haunting, eerie silence that had abruptly descended once again on the dilapidated village. Talios eyed his friend with a sardonic look.

“That you need a new coat?” 

Lukar rolled his eyes and was about to retort with a sarcastic quip of his own when a sibilant voice seemed to float through the air and wash over the elves. 

“Lukar…ever the magnificent warrior.”

There was something about the voice that tugged at Lukar’s memory. He tried to shake the odd sensation of familiarity and focus his mind on the situation at hand. The voice had come from the deteriorating chapel and it was in this direction the two elves now turned. They could make out a lithe, shadowy figure standing just inside the splintered remains of the doorway and, as they watched, the shadow moved down the chapel steps towards them and out into the hazy moonlight filtering through the clouds. 

She was exactly as Lukar remembered her: lean yet muscular, graceful, and exquisitely beautiful. Her golden hair hung loosely down to her waist and a tattered skirt fell to the knees of her long, shapely legs. Snow melted under her bare feet as she approached the pair. 

“It can’t be,” Lukar heard Talios murmur in disbelief. The witch regarded the dark elf with a raised eyebrow and a coy smirk.

“And yet, here I stand,” she turned to Lukar, who was staring incredulously. “Nothing to say, my love?”

“Saria…I…I thought…you were dead…all this time…” Lukar could only stammer as his words trailed off. He cast his grief-stricken gaze at Talios and pointed accusatorily with one rapier. “You told me she was dead!”

“She was. I watched it happen,” Talios whispered, his voice barely audible. 

“Then how…how is this possible?”

“I shall tell you, my darling,” Saria the witch smiled pleasantly, flashing perfectly white teeth. “Do you remember how you left me for your half-breed nephew?”

“I didn’t leave you,” Lukar protested weakly. “His father had been deposed and the nobles were going to murder him. As his uncle, I owed it to him to intervene.”

“And what about me?” Saria snapped back as her pleasant demeanor instantly evaporated, her elegant face twisting into an angry snarl. “What did you owe your lover? I told you not to go. I told you it would take the Rangers to defeat the Druid uprising. But you didn’t listen, and I paid the price for your obstinacy. You sent me off with a sorry handful of knights and a pitifully inexperienced dark elf.”

Talios stared miserably at the ground as Saria’s scathing words brought back long forgotten memories of blood and horrific slaughter. She was right: he had been a young warrior at the time, and woefully unprepared, while Saria had been a lieutenant in the Rangers: the elite elven soldiers of which Lukar was the captain. Saria had strongly advocated for their involvement, but, in a rare moment of poor judgment, Lukar had dismissed the need to employ his troops.

“I didn’t know the Druids had grown so strong. I thought it was no more than a small war band. I thought you would be well prepared for them.” Lukar’s voice was sorrowful. “I have mourned you for centuries.”

“And I’ve done nothing but hate you.”

“Where have you been all this time? Why did you not come to me?”

“Fool,” Saria hissed with contempt. “I didn’t just wake up from death the same as I was. The Druids raised me up as a witch...a corruption and perversion of the living things you elves hold so dear.”

“The…Druids resurrected you?” Lukar blinked in confusion. “When…how…why?”

“That’s not possible,” Talios broke in emphatically. “Elves cannot be raised up as creatures of death and pestilence. The connection of their souls with Jor is too deep and powerful. Unless…” the dark elf trailed off as understanding dawned on his face.

“Unless what?” Lukar demanded, his questioning gaze fixed on his friend.

“Unless I renounced Jor in my final moments and cursed you as the axe cleaved my head from my body,” Saria finished Talios’ thought, her voice dripping with malice and scorn. She studied the Hunter with a look of curiosity. “I see the dark elf turned out to be good for something after all. Lucky for him that he got to keep his life. How did you get free of the Druids anyhow? And with that axe?” Her gaze fell upon the weapon that Talios held cautiously in front of him.

“I don’t think I’ll tell you that story.”

“You wield the axe that he wielded…the axe that took my head…the axe that once belonged to Kelthan. I want to know how it is that an unremarkable dark elf came to possess this remarkable weapon.”

Talios gave no response, instead continuing to stare silently at her with grim resolve. Lukar, meanwhile, reluctantly slid into a fighting stance with the casual grace of a seasoned warrior, his twin rapiers at the ready.

“No matter,” Saria shrugged as her gaze snapped back and forth between the two elves. Her expression turned conniving. “I was hoping they’d send you, Talios. I even purposely chose villages here in the northern wilds of Lochven to prey upon knowing that you like to roam these lands. But never in my wildest fantasies did I imagine you’d bring Lukar back to me.” 

“Enough of this babbling,” Talios growled, brandishing his axe. “Let’s get on with it!” 

“As you wish,” the witch sighed and smiled, almost mournfully. She stretched out her arms and a glittering elven saber materialized in each hand, easily recognizable by the slight backwards curve of the blades. Saria sprang at Talios with lightning speed and he hurled his axe at her. She barely slowed as she easily deflected the projectile, but it was just long enough for Talios to draw the sword on his hip, an elegant falchion, as Saria reached him and lashed out with her sabers.

Talios was a formidable swordsman, having been trained by Lukar, yet Saria had him on his heels with the speed and ferocity of her attack. He could scarcely parry her strikes as she worked her blades up and down, probing for gaps in his desperate defense. Lukar charged in from behind, flourishing his rapiers and taking Saria’s focus off the dark elf. She whirled on Lukar and unleashed an elaborate series of attacks, which he parried with some effort before one of his own blades circled down and slipped past her defenses. 

The sword slid smoothly into Saria’s chest, the enchanted blade charring her bare skin, and she stood motionless, staring in disbelief. Lukar’s expression was a mixture of grief and grim determination as he let his sword linger momentarily in the witch’s body before pulling it free. Saria collapsed to the ground and Lukar fell to his knees beside her. Black blood trickled from the dying woman’s mouth and the vengeful fury disappeared from her eyes. 

“All…all these many years, I…I hoped I would see you again,” she gasped, gazing mournfully at Lukar. He could sense the powerful evil melting away deep within Saria’s spirit, as if the ancient magic infused in his blade had cleansed her very soul. 

“I’m here for you now,” he whispered soothingly. 

Saria smiled wistfully and closed her eyes, her body shuddering as she breathed the last breath of her wicked afterlife. Lukar kneeled next to her lifeless form for several minutes, muttering a prayer of redemption for his lover’s soul. The elf finally stood and walked slowly to where Talios was patiently waiting. The dark elf opened his mouth to offer his sympathetic condolences, but Lukar held up his hand to silence his friend. 

“I’m going to find a shroud or blanket or…something…to wrap her body in so I can take her back to the City where she belongs. Then we’re going to see if we can find what’s left of the tavern. I need a drink.”

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Author’s Note:

Brian Reindel

, who is one of the finest storytellers I’ve come across on this platform, was kind enough to offer his invaluable insight (found in the comments below) on how best to improve this story, and I have made most of the revisions he so generously suggested.