Turim woke more refreshed than he’d been in weeks. He’d dreamt, but now he couldn’t remember anything more about it than starlight. Thoughts of the assault the prior night entered his mind for a moment, but under the morning sky, the fear of it no longer seemed so strong. Still, he resolved to wear his full set of armor.
He strapped on the belt that held his scabbard and swung his royal blue cloak around his shoulders, pinning it to his shoulder plate hinges. His heavy steel gauntlets, designed more for dragonriding, he did decide to leave behind though.
He thought about how little he’d come across in his search of the cupboards, and rubbed his stomach—it was time to look about for some natives familiar with the island, and see if he could hunt down some food. He also hoped to see what high ground he could take for a better look and get his general bearings. There should be various villages around, and he recalled Centerland’s appropriate position near the middle of the island.
He stepped into the morning, taking in the pleasant smell of fresh air and damp wood. Sparkling dew dappled the grass, and a thin, misty fog hung over it. The low sun peeked through the trees. He looked across the wood surrounding the cabin, and decided on a path leading into a grove of young saplings, perfect for hunting spears.
The ground underfoot snapped and popped. Fallen leaves and twigs scattered across what resembled a trail. Turim found a properly sized tree, bent down, and withdrew a small knife from his leather bag, cutting the thin trees to length. He did this again several times as he walked, until soon he’d collected eight spears.
“That should be enough,” he observed.
He kept on, sharpening each one, careful to mind his footing and fingers. Soon the sun reached the skies, a brilliant ball of fire, and yet, there were still small wisps of fog in the lowest parts of the land.
Turim had just began making his way towards higher ground when he saw a springing doe at the edge of a grove of beech trees. She pranced swiftly. Her soft pelt was golden and her eyes deep brown—a queen among her folk. She stopped as if to bid Turim a good day.
“What is this?” she might have said. “A stranger in our woods? Curious to be sure.” Or perhaps, “Hello friend. Have you the leave of our great deer prince of the forest to wander this glade? Or do you do so by your own will and against his great wisdom?” His eyes caught hers for a moment, and then she darted into the trees nearby.
Turim sighed, giving no thought to chase her. She was far too swift for his liking. Her beauty had captured him for those few moments, and now he couldn’t think of hunting her.
As he continued heading northward, his heart was light and he felt warmth under the sun that broke past the cool air. A handful of berries here and there kept his appetite at bay. Then, he heard something unclear, almost inaudible.
He paused, listening carefully. There was nothing more for several minutes while he remained still. Maybe this is going to be harder than I thought. Still, it hadn’t been more than an hour or so. He wasn’t discouraged yet. He didn’t hear the sound again.
He made his way through the tall, fading grass, leaving the canopy of leaves that had shaded him. He could still see their line wind along northward, and march eastward. These two met at the dim horizon many leagues off beneath the crown of mist-covered mountains behind them.
He was sure he’d heard the sound once more, but now it was louder and more discordant. He gripped a spear in one hand, holding the rest with the other. He listened again.
The noise didn’t belong to a grizziak, wild boar, jaguar or any other untamed creature that might’ve dwelt there. He would’ve certainly welcomed those cries. He was growing hungrier with each passing moment. But he put thoughts of meat aside. Picking up his feet, he hastened in the direction of the sound.
Ahead, a small cliff looked out. Below lay many scattered trees, oaks and beeches, dappling the grassland until they melded again into the thicker forest in the distance. He couldn’t see what was directly beneath the bluff of the cliff. But the noise continued to grow as he approached.
Then it hit him. The sound of crossed swords! he said to himself, at last recognizing the noises—out of place as they were. He broke into run.
Dropping the wooden spears held in his left hand, he moved briskly through the grass. Why did this island seem so full of battle and strife? What had Grandmaster Strongthorn put him in the middle of? Or better yet, why had the Council of Races asked for it?
He could definitely hear the clamor of blades. The blows grew more frequent. He knelt as he reached the edge of the bluff, then pushed aside the taller grass blocking his view.
Not far below his position was a small fellow, encircled by several dark clad assailants. Some of the figures lay lifeless or bleeding on the ground. Those that still stood around the little one all breathed heavily, as though they were already weary from battle.
Almost immediately, he recognized the clothing of the attackers as dark elves. They wore black and violet cloaks and cloth that draped down across their bodies. Some of them had skull-shaped greaves, shoulderplates, or gauntlets. And upon their light armoring were grinning-skull tokens like those he’d seen the night before.
The shorter creature, who appeared to be alone amidst the dark elves, had a topknot of long, brown hair, and short, pointed ears. His black hood covered his face like that of a ninja. Turim had seen depictions of ninja before but he’d never encountered one.
The ninja existed in small clans throughout Caball, but more heavily on the western island continent of Wurai. There’d been many clans long ago, but in recent centuries, their numbers had dwindled. Their ancient arts had become lost to knowledge by the dispersal of their people, and their lack of writings on the subject.
Turim also noticed that this fellow was a kithkin.
No taller than four feet in height, they were similar in size to the furry-footed halflings that lived at the keep. Their bones were thinner. And their ears pointed a bit, though not as much as those of elvenkind.
He hesitated only a moment. The protection of others, upholding justice, these were principals of his very fiber as a knight. And yet, there was the matter of the ninja’s honor at his interference. On the other hand, what could he do? He couldn’t just walk away.
Leaping forward, one of the dark elves struck with a chainlike weapon. The links clanked through the air, and the kithkin leapt aside, trapping it with his foot against the ground. He sprang forward, blade extended. Turim cringed as the kithkin rent the head from his first attacker’s body. The chain fell to the ground with a rattling jingle of its heavy links.
Undeterred by the falling of their companion, two more dark elves came at the kithkin from behind, throwing small shuriken, and wielding their own blades. Taken off-guard, the little ninja was struck in the shoulder by one of the shuriken. The kithkin bent slightly, but let out no cry of pain.
Turim unconsciously traced small scratches in the dirt, marking the position and number of dark elves below. Odds were not in the ninja’s favor, no matter how skilled in battle the warrior might be. He took a last weighing of his knightly duties against his own self-preservation, and the thought of what the honor-bound ninja might feel at his intervention, then slid down the short bluff.
“Thirteen,” he whispered to himself. “There is no honor here. If my life comes out on the other side of this, I won’t be unthankful.”
Turim landed with a loud clank of armor, and stood. His sword rang out harmoniously as it was drawn from its scabbard in the same swift action. Distracted by the noise, the dark elves turned.
The kithkin rolled across the ground, springing to his feet. He avoided another thrown knife, but let fly with a handful of his own sharp, star weapons. The dark elf who’d struck him fell.
Turim blinked. The ninja had nearly hit him with several of the throwing stars, but was not apologetic. He couldn’t focus on it long though, several pale ones were already rushing him.
As the kithkin caught sight of Turim, he grabbed his shoulder again. “Leave me be!” he shouted to Turim. “I’ll finish them alone!” He slashed out at the nearest dark elf.
Turim paid little attention to the warning, though he was surprised. His mind was made up though. No turning back. He lunged at the first dark elf to reach striking distance, but his sword was parried aside. He ducked, spinning around as a dark elven blade rang against the talons of his helm. It struck with such force that it was knocked from his head. Nevertheless, Turim’s sword continued its course and cut deep, burying itself into one of the dark elven enemies, sending it slumping to the grass.
The dark elves were now screaming to each other in their foul tongue. One pointed to Turim, and several more ran toward him. When the next dark elf approached, he spat at Turim, shouting in a voice cruel and filled with anger. “Phek-ai!”
Turim cleaved the enraged dark elf’s arm from his body, kicking him aside. He recognized the convoluted words. It was a different form of elven than the language he knew, a twisted and darkened dialect, but he’d heard similar words before: half-elf.
Turim saw the rage and anger in the dark elves’ eyes as they continued their mad rush against him. They looked at him as though they’d met before, and hated him. It was strange and almost unnatural.
Swords clashed again and again. Every few moments another dark elf fell to Turim’s blade. He took several blows himself, but his armor turned each strike, bidding him to give thanks to The God for donning it that morning.
Briefly, Turim glanced sidelong to witness how the ninja fared and saw the kithkin cleave another foe. The two were fighting toward each other now. Few dark elves remained standing between them. Bodies lay scattered about their feet, and the grasses were stained with the blood of their squalid enemies. Turim’s hope, which had been minimal as he leapt from the cliff side, began to grow now as their enemy’s number diminished.
Then all at once, a smoky dust bellowed out, obscuring the battle scene around. He felt the rattle of a dark elven shuriken against his armored plates. He stood still, his blade held straight before him, coughing. His blood pumped fast and his mind went on alert. Were the dark elves still around? Where would the next attack come from? His eyes shifted from left to right, but he couldn’t see. He coughed, and then he spluttered again. The air was thick as porridge.
In time the dust cleared and Turim and the kithkin stood poised, facing each other, with no standing assailants to be seen or heard.
The ninja’s shoulders relaxed. “I told you not to interfere! I was fine. My entourage of ninja need not have fallen only for their enemies to be slain by one such as you. It’s a dishonor to me! You didn’t need to come to my aid!” He stopped ranting to catch his breath and was once again holding his shoulder. Blood wet the black cloth.
After a few more moments of locked eye contact, the kithkin spoke again, now seeming to have cooled a bit. “But I suppose that you should still have my gratitude.”
Turim lowered his sword. “It’s of no consequence. You were far outnumbered.” He knew that kithkin often bit off more than they could chew. He’d heard they had no ability to fear, and without that, how would one know if he was overmatched? He knelt down, wiping his blade on the grass. Then he looked at the face of one of the slain dark elves.
“They hated you. You’re of elven blood. Your ears gave you away,” said the kithkin. He pointed as Turim inspected the pale elf.
Turim brushed his finger against the slight point of his ear. “What?”
The kithkin winced and sat down slowly on the grass. “They won’t return until they can gather more of their kind,” he said. “But they’ll attack again. They were assassins—I’m sure of that much.”
Still breathing heavily, Turim put his sword back in his scabbard and clanked down on the grass beside the ninja. The kithkin’s eyes never left him while he tended his wound. Turim wasn’t sure what else the kithkin would do either. He’d just killed a handful of dark elves.
“Forgive my questions,” Turim started. “But you seem to know something about these foes. Aren’t they elves themselves? Why do they hate their own kind? Besides that, why were they trying to kill you?”
“The Thaluí don’t consider themselves common elves anymore,” replied the kithkin. “Their hatred runs deep.” He shook his head, holding a bandage over the shuriken wound—a narrow graze.
Suddenly rising to his feet and brushing himself off, the kithkin returned his blade to the scabbard across his back. Turim noted it was a fine sword, the hilt wound with purple leather, the blade slender and slightly curved. A katana, he thought this type of sword was called. Even some of the knights at the keep used them. They’d been brought to Genova by the folk who now dwelt in the city of Tusokan. But so far, the mastery of their making hadn’t passed far beyond those walls. Most of those knights who bore them had purchased them in Tusokan. Turim wondered where this little ninja came from.
The kithkin narrowed his eyes at his other questions. “Before I can answer any more—if we even have time for that—I must first ask: Who are you?”
Turim stood slowly, extending his hand. “I’m Turim Gliderlance, a Wing Commander and Knight of the Hawk of the lands of Genova.”
The kithkin removed his black hood, turning his eyes upward. Turim caught an indistinguishable look in them as he examined the golden hawk emblazoning his left breastplate.
“So you are,” the ninja said. “I am Meineken Shadowstar, a Master of the Black Talon ninja clan. Yet, despite my station, it appears I now owe you a lifedebt.” He gave a low bow.
Turim had seen this old custom before in his travels, and he returned his own bow. He wasn’t sure how to answer that claim. A lifedebt?
Before he could, Meineken spoke again, his voice disheartened. “This is definitely going to slow me down.”
“Well, don’t mind me.” Turim tried to be cordial. “You owe me nothing.”
Meineken’s sight strayed southward, back into the wood, past Turim, disregarding the comment. His eyes seemed sad. “It’s fine. If you’ll come with me to give a swift blessing to my fallen companions, I’ll tell you what I know. In exchange, perhaps I can use some of your own knowledge. This has been a day filled with death for me. One that I don’t wish to keep in my memories, except for the purpose of honoring the Black Talon ninja who fell.”
“We should probably do something with these dark elven bodies as well. Even if it’s no more than piling them together,” suggested Turim. “A burning perhaps?”
“For removing proof, sure,” said Meineken. “But the smoke and smell would alert more of their assassins to our whereabouts prematurely. Those who fled still might alert any others, or return themselves for an ambush. I suggest we leave them to the maggots.”
It sounded a bit cruel, even for their enemies, but Turim couldn’t think of another way to get rid of them. With a nod, he conceded to the kithkin’s suggestion.
“So what do you say, Commander Gliderlance, will you help me with my companions?” Meineken’s eyes returned his gaze once more.
Turim pondered a moment, looking around the area, surveying for imminent danger, and doing his best to gather his thoughts as quickly as possible. He had to do something with this kithkin, but he wasn’t entirely sure what. Why had they wanted to assassinate him? The amount of danger he’d seen on the island in the single day and a half he’d been there was overwhelming.
“If you’ll take my counsel, I’ll give it,” said Turim at last.
“I shall consider it.”
“You should come with me now. Leave what rituals you want to perform for a safer time. We were fortunate to turn the assassins aside, but it seems unlikely our luck will continue.”
Meineken shook his head in disagreement. “I can’t do that and feel any honor in my actions. I must go now, whether you come or not.”
Turim watched Meineken as he took several steps past him, heading southward. “I advise that you don’t!” he called. No response came.
Turim took one last look at one of the dark elven bodies. Even in death, their brows were twisted in anger, and their teeth clenched with hatred. So it seems that Sand’s tales were true, he thought to himself. The island’s littered with them.
Grabbing his helm from the ground, he turned with haste, following Meineken. Though his words went unhearkened, he wasn’t going to abandon the lone ninja—not yet at any rate.
“If you were one of my own knights, I’d be ordering you away from here right now,” said Turim. “It’s foolhardy to stay. But since you’re not, I suppose I’d best stay with you to keep you safe. How far are your fallen from this spot?” he asked, as they began moving faster with each step.
“Not far,” said Meineken keeping his eyes forward. “I am aware of our need for haste. My clan has had dealings with the dark elves before. They’ll likely return soon, faster now that I’m in the company of an elf. Think of that when you consider who is protecting whom.”
The sun had risen to high day’s time, but now the thickness of the canopy kept its rays out. As they went, Meineken followed the tracks left behind. There were various faint, booted patterns, as well as smaller footprints in the moister earth. Meineken himself seemed to own the latter.
Turim watched the wood around him carefully, remembering the speed with which the dark elves had attacked the night before. He also watched for traps. He wasn’t going allow himself to blunder into a pit again, and he could only imagine what else the dark elves could do with them. Probably fill them with spikes and wild beasts, he said privately.
Meineken showed no signs of wariness or fear of approach. This would’ve been a comfort to Turim, if the kithkin had been capable of even a hint of panic in the first place.
They jogged slowly now, remaining as quiet as possible, careful of the tracks they were leaving.
At last, following Meineken down a short decline and into a wide ditch, Turim saw a dark figure. He was clad like Meineken and lay on the forest floor, unmoving. It was clear he was dead. He lay face down with his blade beneath him.
“This was the last of my companions to fall.” Meineken stood still and solemn. “Ginung Ironcoat was his name. He was swift and silent, a keen swordsman. The others are further south. Him Yee, Wongae, Ikang, Srio, and Pao. They all deserve my thanks. If they were alive, I would owe them all a lifedebt, for each exchanged his life for my own.”
“I’m sorry.” Turim lowered his gaze, and felt a pang of his own guilt. In slight for these ninja, but also for losing Warran, himself. It was hard to lose lives you feel responsible for.
“Thank you, Commander Gliderlance. But come now.” Meineken knelt to grasp the feet of the body closest to them. “Careful with the shoulders then, and help me roll him over if you could.”
Turim did likewise and grabbed beneath the arms. “He’s a man?”
“Yes.” Meineken looked up at Turim. “Do you find that odd?”
“Well,” he returned, now wondering why he’d even mentioned it. “No, I suppose not. Then again, I wasn’t aware of any ninja clans on this island either. Especially kithkin clans.”
“That’s because this is not our home,” said Meineken, crossing the dead man’s arms upon his chest. Then he placed the man’s sword under them.
Before Turim could ask him any more questions, Meineken closed his eyes within his dark hood. Soft then, a low whisper, he said a short prayer of sorts. The bit Turim caught sounded like this:
The God take thee into cool shadow,
that which is held by Shroud.
The Creator turn all evil to good,
Shroud turn foul darkness to kind shadow.
Honor to thy family.
Honor to thy blood.
May The God turn all ends to beginnings.
May Shroud give all honors to thy family.
Peace in thy endless sleep.
By the time they’d backtracked through the wood and Meineken had given these prayers to each of his fallen entourage, the day had begun to fade.
They were now under the canopy of trees a short way northeast of Dwellinghearth. Turim stood looking around while Meineken crouched over his last companion. The shadows had grown deeper and longer, and the sounds of the forest had shifted. The music of morning birds had become those of the evening, their songs both slower and less frequent.
Turim broke their silence. “You said they were assassins. Why would they want to kill you?”
Meineken gazed up at him again. Then, as though he’d made up his mind to trust Turim, he spoke. “We’re still not safe here. As I said I would, I’ll tell you what I can. But not here in the open wood.”
Turim looked around, hoping Master Shadowstar hadn’t seen anything evil. Then he remembered again that he hadn’t finished his hunt. He’d eaten almost nothing all day and his stomach was roaring. And he had questions he wanted to ask Meineken before they parted ways. He didn’t think Meineken would be leaving his side any time soon, no matter what the outcome of the day’s events though. Turim still wasn’t entirely sure what owing him a ‘lifedebt’ entailed.
“Then maybe you’d like to join me for a meal this afternoon,” Turim replied. “I have things to ask you as well. And without your other ninja, I fear the danger that one alone might face in these woods. Twice I’ve seen these dark elves in as many days.”
Meineken folded his arms in front of him. “A short way back, my companions and I saw a boar’s den. It didn’t look as though it housed too large of one. We were planning to take it for our meal before we were attacked. Perhaps we might still, you and I?”
Turim cracked a slight smile. “That’s good,” he said. “I was hunting too—well, and looking for someone who might know the island—when I came across you. If we’re fast, I’m sure we can manage it. And at Dwellinghearth, the cabin where I’m staying, we can cook it up there. We should be safe—or at least, safer than we are here.”
Meineken looked over his shoulder. “Evil deeds have befallen my clan and myself today. Yours are the best tidings I’ve heard. Yes. As promised, I’ll accompany you until I’ve repaid you my debt. Let’s get that boar.”