Dark Brother

I emerged from the pine forest into a clearing, and ahead of me was the sight I dreaded. Though, I had been anticipating it ever since I caught the scent of smoke on the morning wind.

There is a certain scent to the smoke of a campfire, which I find pleasant, even meditative. But there is a different smell when wood that has been dried and milled into boards catches fire, and this was the type of smoke that the morning wind carried.

Ahead of me were the smoldering remains of what had been the Human village of Lanjarden. Old Human, I understood, for Village by the Pines, or Pine Village. I was reasonably adept at speaking the contemporary Human tongue, but had paid little attention when my elders were lecturing about the history of the Human languages.

Like many an Elf, in my youth I had found the mere existence of the Humans irrelevant. After all, I had been raised in an Elven village deep in the Ragat Mountains, the range that divided the world from east and west. The Humans populating the flatlands west of the Ragats, living out their short lives, tilling the land and waging their wars, seemed to be of little consequence.

Now, as I roamed the forests of these flatlands, conducting my search, I found myself wishing that I had taken the lectures of my elders more seriously.

I emerged into the clearing, and stood, taking in the full view of the devastation ahead of me.

Buildings were crushed, reduced to splintered wood, as though the Great Father from on high had taken His mighty fist and simply crunched them. More than one was smoldering. Here and there a chimney stood in a sort of solitary vigil over the remains of Lanjarden. Humans, mostly men, moved about the debris, lifting broken timbers.

I began forward, my soft deerskin boots making no sound on the grass. I did not so much drop each foot as I walked, but placed it down. Eloquently. Moving more than simply walking. The result of many years of training in the Elven art of Shan Shi, which was much dance as it was martial.

My hair was the color of corn silk, and fell along my back in an ocean of tight curls. Combs made of pine pulled the hair back and away from my face. Each ear rose to a gentle point – nothing I thought much about except when I faced a Human, and saw their comically rounded ears.

I wore a green tunic made of the Elven fabric known as Chandra, a sort of combination of silk and flannel, which Humans from the flatlands marveled at. It was warming when worn in cold weather, but cooling in the heat of summer. Over my tunic was a leather vest. My trousers were made of deerskin, as were my boots.

Strapped to my back was a sword, Elven in design, with a blade that curved gently. What the Humans would call a long saber, but which was intended to be wielded with both hands. At my side was a long knife.

One Human man looked up, maybe my motion catching the corner of his vision. The man’s hair was dark, much thinner and flatter than that of an Elf. He stood, a white shirt now darkened from the charred remains of a building. He then shouted a word, and other Humans looked up.

One man grabbed a sword, and began forward, to meet me.
I saw quickly that the man was young. And I also saw, by the look of determination on his face, that the old animosity between Humans and the Elven were still alive and thriving.
We stopped when about twenty feet from each other. The Human gripped his sword, a straight double-bladed weapon, with both hands. “You come back to finish the monster’s handiwork, did you, Elf?”

He spoke the word as though it tasted badly in his mouth. I did not mind. Many a time in my youth, my friends and I had used the term human derogatorily. Though I appeared to be no older than this Human, I was actually much older, too much so to be allowed youth as an excuse for ignorance.
I said, “I pursue the one that caused this.”

“Prepare to defend yourself.” He was clearly ignoring me. “Draw your weapon.”

I felt a little ire beginning to rise. After all, it was clear by the young man’s stance that he had little formal training in how to use his weapon. I had trained at the Academy – ten years of spending nearly every waking hour with a sword in my hand, or a battle staff. And then I had gone to train with the great Kaniniander, the Rogue Elf, at his training facility hidden deep in the Ragats. With full humility, I can state that I can catch an arrow in mid-flight with one hand.

To fight this man would simply have been an act of dishonor to me.

“I have no intention of fighting you,” said I. “Stand aside. I need to speak to your village elders.”

“Then, if you will not draw your weapon, die where you stand!”
He fully intended to raise his weapon and charge at me, but I burst toward him first. With a sudden kick of one foot, moving too quickly for him to react to, with anything other than a startled blink of his eyes, I sent the sword flying from his grip.
I then reached out and caught it with one hand in mid air by the hilt. “As I said, I have no intention of fighting you. Now, stand aside.”

The young man simply stared a moment, his mouth hanging open, and he then did as commanded.

As I walked past, I handed him his blade. He took it sheepishly, and slid it into its sheath at his belt.

“I come seeking the one who did this,” I said, addressing the crowd that was forming about me.

A man stepped forward. I am no judge of Human years, but he appeared much older than the first. His hair, falling to his shoulders, was streaked with white, and thinning at the edges. “You have knowledge of the creature that did this?

One woman spoke from behind him. Older, also, but not so much as he. A matronly figure, an apron streaked with ash tied about her middle. “It was a creature of evil. Like something out of the deepest underworld.”

The boy with the sword was now standing to my side, a few paces away. “Aye. I saw it. I thought to possibly engage it, but I was stopped by my father.”

The older man said, “It would have killed you, Martin.”

I looked at the boy. I could not help but be moved by his stout heart, by his courage. I did not know that such things were to be found in abundance among Humans.

Maybe they were not. Maybe this boy was the exception.

I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Be not ashamed, Martin. Indeed, you would not have survived.”

“But, you follow it. Do you not wish to kill it?”

I nodded. “But, I have had many years of training, and even then there is no guarantee that I shall succeed.”

“It was huge,” the older man, presumably Martin’s father, said. “Standing half again as tall as a man. Covered with fur, like an animal.”

“Eighteen dead,” another man said.

Still another added, “And our entire village leveled, reduced to waste.”

“It is no animal,” said I, with sadness rising within me. “It is my brother.”

This brought a round of gasps from the crowd, and a couple exclamations I had not heard before. “Saints preserve us,” and, “By the gods!”

The older man said, “Did I hear you right?”

I nodded. “It is with regret and much sorrow for you and your village that I was not able to catch up to him before now. I might have been able to prevent this.”

“May the gods help you when you do catch up to him.”

“How long ago was he here? By the looks of things, not long ago.”

“This creature – your brother, you say – descended upon our village in the wee hours, before the morning sun. He was not here long. Maybe ten minutes, growling and howling like a rabid wolf, tearing buildings apart. He lifted a horse clean over his head and threw it like it weighed no more than a chunk of firewood. And then, he was gone.”

“In which direction?”

The old man pointed toward the northeast.

Another man said, “How could it be, that such a creature is your brother?”

I sighed wearily, more so than I had intended. “It is a long story. For another time.”

Martin said, “I am going with you.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are needed here. To help your father and the other men.”

He reluctantly nodded.

Martin seemed to have a warrior’s heart. Indeed, it seemed that the Great Father might have placed this boy in the wrong place. To think – to have the heart of a warrior but to live in the seclusion of a remote farming village. Such a thing could be maddening.

Should I live through my encounter with my brother, I made a point to myself that I would return to the Ragats by way of this village, and perhaps pay Martin another visit.

He needed training. Much training. More than I was qualified to give him. But, if he had the courage and honor that I thought he might have, then I knew of a great teacher deep in the Ragats who had trained me, and who might be willing to take on a new student.

“I take my leave of you all, then,” and stepped through the crowd and off toward the forest, northeast of the village.

The matronly woman called after me, “Wouldn’t you like some’at to eat before you leave?”

“My thanks, kindly woman, but I do not wish him to gain any more distance ahead of me than he already has.”

At the edge of the clearing, the trail left by my brother was obvious. He made no attempt to hide the evidence of his passing, not that he would have been able to. He was strong, pushing over or breaking off small trees that were in his ways, but he was lumbering. Heavy footed.

I moved quickly, sometimes running, other times walking lightly but quickly.

At the edge of a small stream, he left a print deep in the mud. A foot twice the size of mine, and sharply clawed where there should be toes. Another time, I found a patch of deep brown fur on the edge of a briar, where he had pushed through.

I descended a low hill, pushed through a grove of birch, with trunks standing tall and white, and then, emerged into a small meadow. And, there before me, stood he who was my brother.
I called out to him. “Katsu!”

An Elven tradition is that we carry many names over the course of a lifetime. Names are given by friends or family, based on traits observed. When my brother and I were but children, a teacher had called him, Katsuiander, which is to say, Mirthful One, or more properly, He Who Is Mirthful, as my brother was often quick to laugh. I had shortened it to Katsu, and soon most of our friends addressed him as such.

The creature that he now was stopped in its lumbering stride, and turned to face me.

It wore no clothing, and was covered from head to its large feet with thick, brown fur. The scent emanating from it was something similar to that of a dog after a rain. Its ears were pointed – as ears should be – but now rose clearly above the crest of its head. Its eyes were dark, its snout something like that of a boar.

“Katsu,” said I, again. “It is I. Do you remember?”

It let out a low, deep throated growl, and bared yellow fangs at me.

It did not want to kill this creature. This creature which had once been my brother. If there was still some trace of Katsu remaining within its fevered brain, maybe I could make it understand. Make it end its rampage.

Then, what? My old teacher deep in the mountains, I thought. The one I considered taking the Human boy Martin to. The Rogue Elf. It was said that he knew a wizard. Perhaps there would be an avenue of help. I could think of no other.

And yet, the creature who had been Katsu faced me, its teeth still bared. It was preparing to fight.

“Katsu,” I said, “by the Great Father, you have to remember. It is I, your brother.”

It crouched. Teeth bared, and let out a roar that almost shook me where I stood, echoing into the distance.

This creature was challenging me to a fight, like an animal of the forest would to another. Like a wolf, or a mountain lion.

This creature had once been Katsu, but was no more. There was, I had to reluctantly accept, nothing left of my brother. Katsu was, in essence, dead. And, I was facing a monstrosity, conjured by magic. A killing force that would simply go on killing unless someone stopped it.

“I am sorry, Katsu,” I said. “But, it ends now.”

I pulled my saber from its sheath strapped to my back. I stepped backward into what the Rogue Elf called a rear leaning back stance, crouched deeply, my blade held in one hand over my head, horizontally. My left hand was stretched out before me, in what was called a standing palm.

“You have killed for the last time,” I said. “And the responsibility is mine, because, in a way, this is all my fault.”

The creature that had once been my brother roared one more time, and then charged fully at me, and I braced, sword in hand, to meet its attack.