The Blight

[PepsiWhirda]

When Whirda reached the treeline, about a mile from the gate, she started noticing the signs. Voices like whispers, carried on the wind. Trills and caws too distinct, too measured, too joyless to have come from the throats of birds. Rustling in the trees overhead, faint, but faintly human—the creak of leather and swish of cloth. A cough, quickly stifled. Whirda took care not to let on that she knew, but she was being followed.

If this place was anything like Faerûn, it was elves. Passive observers, protectors of the forest—beautiful in their arrogance, hysterical in their elegance, unnerving in their skill with blade and bow. Ultimately, though, nonviolent.

At the gate and the edge of the forest, Whirda had used the Omnilium to conjure two small markers—flat rings of stone, etched with arrows pointing the way she had gone. If any of the others chose to follow—if they were even alive—, she could give them at least some clue how to find her.

Through the canopy, still far off, the plumes of smoke continued to rise. Whirda angled toward the source, knelt, and brought the Omnilium's power to bear. She focused on the image of another directional marker. The globule of swirling, varicolored light began its work.

This system could only work for so long. If she ran into trouble, or had to backtrack, the markers would effectively be leading newcomers right into the lion's den. Not to mention they could draw enemies to her doorstep.

The marker materialized, firmly embedded in the dirt. As if in answer to her concerns, as she turned to start walking, she heard the faint whistle of an approaching projectile. In one fluid movement she dove forward, tucked into a somersault, and spun 180 to her feet, facing the assailant with kukris in hand.

The path behind her was empty. She scanned the trees, saw nothing. Listened hard, heard nothing except her own shallow breathing.

Finely honed senses trained for any sign of attack, Whirda bent to pick up the projectile: a ring of gray extending from the dirt. She unearthed a throwing knife unlike any she'd ever seen: long, slender handle; three-inch blade, finely honed; and a sharp point so expertly crafted, it rivalled that of her swords.

"Who are you?"

Whirda spun to face the voice, skittering backwards and raising her blades for deflection. A man—not an elf—leaned against a tree ten feet behind her, smirking, and, in fulfillment of her prophecy, twirling another of the throwing knives around one finger. It was impossible, that he got so close without her noticing. It defied explanation.

Regaining her composure, she said, "What's it to you?" Disconcert masked by a thin veneer of petulance. Like a kid who thinks he can lie his way out of trouble.

The man laughed. He stood a head taller than Whirda, with a shock of black hair held back by a headband, cloth, inlaid with a plate of metal. The metal was etched with an unfamiliar insignia. He was all roped muscle and casual confidence, his green cloth uniform riddled with pouches and satchels.

"You mean, what's it to us?" Another voice, close behind her.

Panicked, Whirda leaped high, grasping a low hanging branch and vaulting onto it. Before she could even gain her footing, a throwing knife flashed past her and a sickening crack heralded the separation of trunk and limb. Off-balance, Whirda fell. She conjured a gust of wind, flipping her backward. She tucked and landed in a crouch, to face an empty clearing once again.

"Cool trick," the voice said from behind her. "Who are—"

Before he could finish, Whirda whirled and threw her kukri end over end. It caught the man low in the stomach and sunk to the hilt, doubling him over.

"How's that for a trick?" Whirda said, just in time for the attacker to vanish in a puff of smoke, replaced by a thick tree branch, her kukri embedded deep in the wood.

A whisper, right next to her ear: "Mine's cooler."

She spun again, twisting to the toe of her foot for leverage and pushing off, over the log, grabbing the handle of her embedded kukri and tugging it free with a spray of splinters.

"Granted," she said. "Now show yourself!"

"Who, the voice said, from right above her head.

"Are." Now below, as if between her feet, causing her to jump with surprise.

"You?" The man appeared as he spat that last word, showing her the palms of his hands. "Simple question, lady. The answer might make me spare your life."

"Ask one more time, and I sure as hell won't spare yours," Whirda growled, twirling her kukris to a reverse grip and advancing stubbornly. She froze when she felt the cold tip of a blade against the back of her neck.