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The Pale Glow

The Purple Glow



Mordred rushed forward—two daggers appearing in his hands from some hidden place in the sleeves. They were long and thin with a wavelike edge—made from some kind of dark, purplish metal I’d never seen before. But as ethereal as his weapons looked, there was no magic behind his attack. Just the graceful movement of a practiced killer.

He held his daggers in a reverse grip and bulled forward, slicing first with his right and then the left. I ducked his first strike, but the second came so quickly I had to parry awkwardly and then backpedal to keep some distance between us.

I wasn’t so good with the sword yet. Stupid to have tried to kill him with it.

He pressed hard, unleashing one vicious attack after the next. High, low, sideswipe, uppercut. It was all I could do to keep ahead of him—parrying what I couldn’t dodge. Attacking when I could, but never anything that would give the quick bastard trouble.

He fought like he spoke: Deliberate and precise. Not a  single wasted movement.

I could hear the Falmer gurgling and snarling on the lower level of the platform. I wondered why they weren’t attacking, then I heard the papery voice of the Master at the edges of my mind.

Leave them alone. Pull the Orb to its place.

Mordred kept attacking, pushing me from one side of the circular platform to the other.

He’s just killing time, I realized. He knows the poison won’t last forever.

I wasn’t good enough with the sword to finish him off. And once they could reach into that dark plain again, I’d be dead in about two heartbeats, I figured.

So I let one of his daggers slide off my blade and scrape along my ribcage.

“Guh,” I grunted, dropping to one knee and letting the sword fall from my hands.

He was a true killer—didn’t even hesitate. Just brought that second dagger around in a sweep that was level with my neck.

But I was ready.

I pulled one of my daggers free and jammed it into his wrist about an inch up from his hand—right where all the bones and blood vessels met like the delta of a river.

He grunted, letting the strange blade fall from his ruined hand. But to the evil bastard’s credit, he had the other dagger swinging almost immediately.

I rolled out of the way, leaving that dagger inside of him and reaching for another one that I’d lashed to my body. I scrambled to my feet and got a good grip—figuring he’d keep on coming hard—but when I turned around he hadn’t moved: one arm dead at his side and bleeding all over the platform.

Just looking at me.

“You’re quick,” he said. There wasn’t an ounce of pain in his voice. “And far better prepared than your predecessor.” He moved to the right, keeping an eye on me. “What was in that dart?” he asked calmly.

“Giant cum and pig shit,” I hissed, following his lead and trying to decide whether to come at him high or low.

Low, I figured.

“That’s an awfully ugly image coming from such a beautiful creature. Why don’t you drop that blade, elf? If you make this easy, I’ll promise not to rape your corpse.” He smiled—mouth full of perfect white teeth.

“Why don’t you drop your blade. I promise not to stuff your balls in your mouth before I kill you.”

Mordred flipped the blade over once in his good hand. “I think not.”

His smile faded a little, and I could tell he was trying to pull at the Netherworld again, but still not getting anything.

I sprinted forward, taking four fast steps and covering the space between us. He reacted just like I thought he would—shifting to the left and preparing a counterattack.

When I was two steps away, I hurled my dagger at his face and dropped to my knees—skin burning against the stone platform. The flying blade caught Mordred by surprise, and it was all he could do to twist away from the flying steel. I pulled the last dagger I had from the hidden spot in my hair and crashed into his legs, knocking him over.

Then I stabbed him in the chest five times, caving in both of his lunges and cutting through the ventricles of his heart.

I’d planned out a whole speech for him—dark, evil words. I wanted him to know whose soul I was revenging.

But I couldn’t much remember the words I’d planned out. And a promise is a promise.

Keeping one eye on the Master—whose face was stone—I sliced through Mordred’s pants, took his balls in my fist, and then cut them off. He started to make a terrible, animal sound of pain, but I put a stop to that by ramming his own manhood into his mouth and down his throat.

He choked to death on his balls before he bled out, and I smiled down at him while it happened.

“Try raping my corpse now, prick.”

I moved to my left, picked up Garland’s sword. The cut on my ribs was deep—I could feel the muscles pulling apart a little further each time I twisted or moved. Blood was pouring out of it—I could feel that liquid warmth dripping down my side and running along my pelvis, between my legs. Strange feeling.

It was the kind of wound that killed people.

“Dog of Sithis,” the Master said in his terrible voice. “I am going to pull your heart out of your cunt for that.”

He raised both hands, and I could tell he was trying to make good on that threat, but he still couldn’t get at his precious Netherworld. How much time did I have left? Ten minutes? One minute? No way to know.

Stay or run? Stay or run?

“Who are you?” I asked.

The Falmer almost had the Orb in position over the strange spire. They were all on one side, pushing it towards the edge. What would happen when the Orb fell onto the spire?

He twisted his pale face in an odd way—it might have been his version of smile. “Akavarin, the Lord of the Netherworld.”

Fuck it, I thought, I’ll never get to the surface alive anyway.

“Well, I’m going to kill you now.”

Covered in blood and sweat, weak and exhausted, I rushed towards Akavarin. He seemed surprised that I’d do it, as if the mere mention of his name should have made me piss myself. The Dark Lord’s eyes turned into two white saucers of horror, and he made the same stupid face every other bastard made when my blade came down for their life.

I swung Garland’s sword as hard I could—every last wisp of energy I had crushing down on him. The muscles along my ribs pulled apart more. Akavarin put a hand up, like some feeble old farmer might.

The sword cut through skin and muscle and bone. A spray of blood hit my face. His arm bent at an impossible angle and then fell off. The sword kept going—covering that last foot of air between his dismembered arm and his frightened face.

Then it stopped.

One inch from his eye, it stopped. Felt like I’d slammed the thing into the side of a castle.

And then my insides all went to shit and I pissed myself.

Because his eye was glowing a pale, impossible shade of purple. And he didn’t look afraid anymore.


5 comments on “The Pale Glow

  1. Pingback: Keep on Reaching | Bus Ride Fantasy

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This entry was posted on April 15, 2013 by in Skyrim Fiction, Tales of Narova Black Hair, Tales of the Necromancer.
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