Chapter 9: The Death Waltz

Ayla Rúth Harya

It takes us three days before we finally stop to make our stand. The breakneck pace to keep ahead of the Reavers’ tireless pursuit left us little time for rest.

We reach the Valley of the Damned, the location Jace and the other humans determined is our best chance to lay an ambush. The valley is much narrower than I expected. A sandy gust of hot wind echoes through the valley, sounding almost like wind chimes. The remnants of an elevated train system lay scattered across the valley floor, with train cars and tracks jutting out at odd angles, and broken pillars half-buried in the rubble.

I hoist my rifle and prepare to climb to the position Jace points out for me.

“Don’t worry yourself, or your pretty red head,” Sapp says, revealing all the missing teeth on his right side. His job is something the others called essential, but which I’m not sure I understand. For hours, he did nothing but walk up and down the sides of the valley, stare at pillars, and take notes on a small pad. Whatever he was looking for, it was he who picked the exact point of ambush. “That there rifle is gon’ be useless thanks to me. I’ll kill all them sons a bitches single-handedly.”

The human has an odd greasy smell I don’t recognize. His melted right ear and missing fingers don’t give me much confidence that he’ll be doing anything useful, much less wiping out a legion of Reavers single handedly. But I hold my tongue.

Jace also tries to calm my nerves. “You’ve gotten pretty good with that,” he says, pointing at the rifle. “Remember to breathe, and hold your fire until the signal.”

I climb the steep valley wall—avoiding the sharp rusted metal that were once the rails of the train—until I reach the ledge where a fallen pillar rests, the one I’ll be using for cover.

Jace says I’ve gotten good with the rifle. I feel that emptying the box of bullets he gave me to practice was a waste. I only hit one out of every three bottles at two hundred meters. What dent can I make against the horde against us?

Yesterday, when our vantage was higher than the enemy, Jace asked Bolton—the blonde human who wielded a rifle with a barrel nearly twice as long as mine—to lend me his spyglass so I could see what we were up against. To prepare myself mentally, he said.

The horde was between fifty and seventy members strong, with about half of them mounted on Striders. Though it was hard to believe, these numbers caused the humans to become relieved rather than more concerned. Even now, I am not sure what to make of that.

I do not care. So long as I can kill their chieftain. He is the one who ordered the raid on my Verdanveil. He is the one who must die even if it kills me.

Below, I watch Callum help Bolton remove a wagon wheel and lower the wagon gently on its side. Then Callum unhitches the Striders and leads them away, where he will secure them further up the valley along with the essential supplies to keep them safely away from the coming battle. Sapp, Marcus, and Lars play cards in the back of the wagon, carefree despite the impending danger.

For a moment, my heart skips a beat when I cannot see Jace. Then I spot him practicing reloading one-handed while leaning against an upturned train car some six hundred meters away. He is so far from the rest of the ambush team, my worry does not wane.

My need for vengeance against the Reaver chieftain burns like a brand, but so does my growing reliance on these humans. Can I trust them? Do I have a choice? The questions haunt the back of my mind like ghosts.

I rest my head on the pillar beside me. Why did my heart do that just now? Am I worried on his behalf, or for my own? I shake the uncertainty away. No, the simple truth is that I need him. No matter how reliant I have become, it is for no other reason than because ours is a partnership of convenience, nothing more. And right now, he and the other humans are helping me accomplish my goal.

Memories of Verdanveil are still fresh—my younger sister’s smile, the serenity of our enclave… all torn apart by the Reavers. I tell myself this isn’t just about revenge. It’s about justice for my people and for myself.

Callum returns from securing the Striders and moves to the opposite side of the valley from Jace, blending into the twisted wreckage and jagged rocks

Then there is waiting.

Once upon a time, many, many years ago, I might have considered myself patient. My experiences over the last three decades have worn that part of me down to grit. I have never felt so impatient to spill blood.

The first sign of the approaching Reaver horde is the noise. Voices, raw and guttural, bark orders or break into unsettling laughter. Ragged breathing and scraping howls fill the air. Armor clinks and scrapes. Feet drag and crunch.

The second is the stench.

Marcus and the others put away the cards. Sapp retreats in the direction of the Striders—so much for killing the horde single-handedly. Lars retrieves a big gun with multiple barrels in a cylinder, which they call a “repeater,” and takes his position inside one of the only intact train cars—albeit turned on its side—behind the wagon. Marcus stays seated on the back of the wagon, legs swinging and looking carefree as ever as he prepares to make contact with the enemy.

It isn’t long before the head of the horde rounds a jagged wall that juts out from the valley, narrowing the path ahead. As they move past this natural barrier, Marcus and the wagon come into sight, and the raucous, stinking horde falls eerily silent. For an instant, they all move in exactly the same jerking manner, as if controlled by a single mind. Then they become still.

A squad of five Reavers, all of them on haggard-looking Striders, ride forward from the rest of the group. In the lead, a towering, muscular Reaver, less dead-looking than the others and wearing a burnished breastplate, stops several meters in front of Marcus and the staged broken wagon.

The quiet of the valley allows the sound of their voices to carry.

“Well met!” Marcus jumps off the back of the wagon and takes a few easy steps toward the mounted men. He sounds as glib as ever, completely unconcerned. “You’ve gone and come timely.” He points behind him at the “broken” wagon. As you can see, I’ve wrecked my wagon. Any chance y’all can spare a wheel? Maybe a Strider or two?”

The words tickle Ayla’s memory. The Reavers said something similar the day Jace rescued me.

The leader grins wide, seemingly unswayed by Marcus’s charm. “Where is the gunslinger with the golden eyes; and the property which he stole from me?”

I recognize his deep, smooth lilt, and my bile rises. Anger. Hate. This is the chieftain of the Reavers. I line my sights, aiming for the monster’s center mass. It is all I can do not to squeeze the trigger. “Wait for the signal”—that is what I have been asked to do. That is what will guarantee his death, along with the rest.

Marcus feigns indignance, but there’s an edge to his tone. Jace never told him the reason the Reavers targeted us, and now there is no doubt. “No shit! That sonofabich and his elf bitch were yours? Pixie’s tits. If I’d only known. It’s too bad they stole my Striders and took off as soon as our wagon went lame.”

I don’t know what the rest of the plan is. I don’t know what is supposed to happen, or when the signal is meant to come. When the Reaver chieftain lays a hand on his belt, I notice that hanging from it—what I thought were some kind of ugly pouches—are a set of severed elven trophy heads. Among them, my sister’s.

I squeeze the trigger, and the Reaver’s torso bursts into a spray of blood and metal shrapnel, knocking over two Reavers beside him.

“Fuck!” Marcus shouts, and does not hesitate to sprint backward toward cover.

A moment after, I realize my mistake. A voice from within the horde of Reavers calls out “Sniper! Top left! Find them and kill them!” It is the same deep, smooth lilt of the chieftain.

I have only succeeded in killing a puppet, and ruined whatever Marcus plan had been.

“Sapp, now!” Marcus shouts as he dives for cover behind the wagon and a cacophony of gunfire erupts through the valley behind him.

A cacophony which is suddenly drowned by the deafening and earth shattering explosion that follows Marcus’s signal.

I am thrown back by the force of the blast and hit the ground hard—which continues to rumble like an earthquake. Dust and debris rain down on me as I stumble to my feet, my ears still ringing. When I look over the cover of my fallen pillar, I am greeted by a disorienting sight. The cliff wall that had served to create the choke point is gone. Rock and pieces of metal still roll down a newly created mound, under which…over a quarter of the horde has been crushed.

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My mouth falls agape. I am reminded of Sapp’s words bragging he’d take them all out single handedly. It was less of a boast than I’d thought.

The scene below is pure chaos. The mounted units have been neutralized. Those that haven’t bucked their riders and fled in every direction, stand frozen—paralyzed with fear—their riders kicking at their Strider to no avail.

As my hearing begins to return, my mind becomes less addled. I realize that the battle is far from over. Bolton is taking out Reaver’s left and right who have failed to find cover in time.

I watch as Callum descends the fresh mountain of rubble now that it finished settling and weaves in and out between pillars, rails and train cars, eliminating Reavers—he wields a short barreled repeater that fires in short bursts. The Reavers die with a terrifying speed.

I see Jace—slower than Callum but no less deadly, alternate between firing his black revolver, and taking a killed enemy’s weapon then emptying it on their fellows.

Lars and Marcus lay down a hail of bullets with their big ‘repeaters’ from behind their positions.

Then the initial surprise wears off, and the remaining enemies gain composure.

Many of the red and black forms twitch in unison and begin to take cover and coordinate their counter attack.

I can’t remain paralyzed. It is embarrassing how long I have so far. Setting my sights on an exposed target, I squeeze the trigger and miss. The explosive round strikes close enough. Part of an arm and half the Reaver’s neck become bloody ribbons.

“Stop!” Marcus’s voice cuts through the mayhem and I reposition on the other side of the pillar to get a better view.

I hesitate. Five Reavers surround Marcus’s position. In another instant, they will swarm him and there is little that I can do in time. I need him alive!

So I take aim, hoping my explosive rounds won’t accidentally hit Marcus as well. Then I find myself hesitating again. The Reavers aren’t moving, rather they’re twitching in place. Marcus roars in a way that’s half elation and half effort. Despite the distance, I can see his eyes shine bright purple.

“Dammit.” Marcus raises both hands like he’s clawing at an invisible veil. The Reavers twitch wildly in response. “If you won’t surrender control fucker… shoot yourselves in the face!” The five Reavers turn their weapons as one, and do precisely that.

Lars resumes covering fire while Marcus climbs up the valley, weaving between broken rails jutting along the valley floor to find cover behind a large boulder.

These humans are…terrifying. As I watch them fight, I realize they embody a resilience and adaptability that we elves never had. Suddenly, I understand better why my people failed to halt the Dominion’s relentless advance. We are a straightforward people, bound to our traditions, ideologies, and sense of honor. Slow to evolve and change.

And here are six humans before me. Against a vastly superior force, they aren’t throwing away their lives in some ill-fated valiant last stand. Rather, they are winning.

It is astounding.

Crossing back to my position, I try to put aside all stray thoughts and resume my grisly work. I take out four more enemies, reloading three times when I’ve exhausted my clips. Rather than improving, my accuracy seems to worsen as the battle wears on, and soon, I have exhausted the explosive rounds and must use the vastly inferior bullets procured at the goblin waystation.

Part of the reason my aim is suffering has to do with the fact that bullets are being aimed in my direction more often now.

Another reason is my growing frustration at having no idea which of the Reavers could be the chieftain.

The leader of the horde must be found. Briefly, I consider the possibility that the chieftain isn’t among this horde; but the humans were certain he was. The telling sign was a prevalence of the extremely coordinated and identical movements of the Reavers. It meant the chief had line of sight to control his pawns; chieftains’ abilities to control their thralls improved dramatically the closer they were in proximity.

From the look of it, the Reavers are steadily increasing their pressure on Jace and Callum, who aren’t so swift in their hit and run tactics anymore, and rather spend more and more time repositioning rather than fighting.

Lars and Marcus have moved up to box-in the remaining Reavers in the maze of debris and broken train cars. But even their rain of bullets are steadily decreasing in volume.

Another thing that makes the fight increasingly difficult is that several Reavers have taken to attacking without regard to their own lives—to my eyes, they are all possessed at the time.

I try to take those out first if I can. Still, more Reavers seem to come into the battlefield from behind the mound created by the landslide. I am afraid their numbers are endless. How many have we killed? How many remain alive?

Then something occurs to me and I curse myself for being a fool. From my vantage point, I have a spectacular overhead view of the entire battlefield, the exception being when friend or foe take cover on the western side of an obstacle.

From the moment the Reavers started becoming more coordinated, they have been getting possessed more and more, and launching their attacks from my side.

They keep exposing themselves to me for easy shooting. If only I had better aim from this distance, I may have killed twice as many.

But what matters is why. I should have asked why. Because the chieftain and I are progressively sharing a more similar vantage.

I turn to look behind me just in time to dodge a sword slash that draws sparks across the stone pillar where my head had been.

The wielder darts backward and makes a tsking sound, flourishing a folded steel blade with a slight curve. Instantly, even before he speaks, I know he is the chieftain.

The man before me wears a black cloak, and, despite the impracticality of doing so in the desert, he is otherwise bare chested. His skin is ivory pale and pristine; his platinum blonde hair is tied in a neat braid that hangs over one shoulder—accentuating his gorgeous facial features…and pointy long ears. The only indication that he is anything other than among the most beautiful elves ever to walk the earth, are his black eyes and sclera, which stare at me lifelessly.

He is a darkling. And suddenly many of the things I’d learned about Reavers over the years make sense. Darkling’s powers are as varied as they are corrupt, but so many involve some form of necromancy.

They are elves who turned to dark magic through bargaining with creatures beyond the veil known as the Fell. Even among my kind, little is widely known about the process, and even less about the Fell—besides their great power and great evil. I remember a time before the war when “darkling” was just a word mothers used to scare the little ones. They were legends. Fables. Myths.

Until they weren’t.

Desperation drives some to seek power anywhere they can find it. Except that, whatever the bargain a darkling made with the monsters beyond the veil, they inevitably became worse than the evil they meant to destroy.

“Nimble shee. Well done.” The darkling paced languidly. “I didn’t think you’d sensed my presence.” He pointed his sword at me. “I see you’ve a blade of your own. Care for a bit of dancing before you die?”

“Vile abomination.” I growl. My eyes don’t leave the darkling’s. My rifle is on the ground where I dropped it. I’m not confident I can reach for it before he can strike me down, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in fighting him with a rifle.

I unsheath the heavy black knife I got from Jace and twirl it once, reacquainting myself with its weight and balance.

The darkling smiles. It is as beautiful as it is hideous. “Don’t fret, little acolyte of Danu. We’ll have plenty of fun together, even as I play with your corpse to cleanse the stench of that false god from your flesh.”

All elves learn to dance. It is a staple of our culture, one of the first things we are taught after learning to walk. Chief among these is the dance of blades. The relatively even terrain of the shelf we find ourselves in makes for the perfect stage.

We move almost in tandem like partners at a ball: He steps forward. I step back. He pivots left. I cross right. Dodge, stab, slash. Block, parry, riposte. Duck, fleche, volte.

It is a waltz of death—a minuet punctuated by percussive gunfire and chiming blades.

As sword dancers, perhaps we are evenly matched—yet he has a much longer blade—giving him a significant advantage. When he goes on the offensive, he keeps me on the back foot until I can time a quickstep to create distance.

Even now, the strain from the shield spell I cast for an entire night weeks ago still makes casting magic difficult. I have just enough to strengthen my bones, to push myself to move faster than I would otherwise, and perhaps, for one explosive burst of speed.

“Are you having fun yet, shee?” The darkling taunts. “Should I wait for that irritating gunslinger hero of yours, or end your life post haste? What do you say?”

I will not let him win. This I know, for this I have vowed. What I need to do is get under his guard and disarm him. Even if he goes for the gun tucked in his belt—I caught a glimpse of it during one of his fanciful flourishes, of which there are many—he won’t have time to use it before I kill him.

“You are a traitor to all elf kind. Even more vile than the filthy humans who brought war to our doorstep and burned down our lands.” My words come out in a snarl. “Your kind corrupted the High King. Your kind caused the Shattering!”

The darkling chuckles. “I like you, shee. I’ll bargain with you. If you renounce your false god, I shall make you kin.”

I refuse to speak. Though I do not know if it is true, it is said that darklings use trickery to bind you to an agreement you never meant to make, and can take your soul just for speaking to them. Whether that is just another story to frighten children, I do not wish to find out.

The darkling realizes I do not intend to indulge him in any more talk and smiles like he finds it amusing. Despite his smile, he feigns boredom. “Fine. Be that way.” Then he lifts his blade high.

I decide it is my moment. So far, I have been underselling the force of my strikes and my speed, occasionally telegraphing my attacks to undersell my skill. Without warning, I sprint forward exhausting what little mana I have in me to move with an explosive burst of speed.

His eyes widen as I sacrifice a graze on my shoulder to move to get under his guard. He backs away trying to raise his blade between us, and I shout and bat away his sword with all my strength.

His eyes widen at my sudden burst of speed, and for the first time since he appeared, he is not smiling. He bares pearly white teeth and sharpened canines and opens his mouth to speak. I feel the electric tang of magic gathering within him. Whatever he means to say, however he means to cast, I do not give him the chance.

My strikes are quick, hard, and brutal. First, I target the wrist to disarm him. Then, I strike the throat to prevent any surprise incantations. Even as he falls backward, hand reaching for his savaged neck, I slide the blade between his ribs, aiming for his heart. It is easy to do, given that the darkling was generous enough to attack me shirtless.

I lose count of how many times I stab and chop at the darkling. I don’t know at what point he stops moving, nor do I notice the black blood that soaks me while I work.

When the others finally find me, I am howling at the skies and under me is the darkling’s corpse in so many pieces it is difficult to count them. Only his lightless eyes remain intact, still wide with disbelief.