The Cursed Blood, стр. 42
Manx who had nimbly leapt down from the truck bed was sniffing the air and growling, staying right at my side as I closed the door shut and gazed about wearily, the by now all too familiar chill dancing unpleasantly through my veins.
White Owl brought Gramps to a stop with a gentle hand on his chest and shook his head. “You saw the Elf mounts?” he asked softly, to which Gramps only nodded as I wandered up to his side. It was a terrible reminder of my parents’ home.
“Why are they here?” Gramps asked uneasily.
“Why do you think?” White Owl chuckled darkly.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Gramps peered from the unicorn mounts to the door of his home and shook his head. “After all these years…”
“I cannot go in,” White Owl advised sadly, as he nodded his understanding and gave the lodge door a deeply dirty look as if the Elf’s touching it had somehow left it befouled. “Will you be civil?” he finally asked and Gramps took a deep breath as he peered at the grass at his feet and slowly exhaled.
“We’ll be fine,” Gramps assured. “Manx, stay,” he commanded, the Witchound giving him a troubled sounding whine of understanding, staring up at his companion with obvious misgivings as he plopped down obediently at White Owl’s feet.
Releasing a long unhappy breath, Gramps took my arm in a vice grip and together, we headed for the porch. Smashed glass had been carefully swept up, ruined outdoor furniture piled up in the yard, smoking and blackened.
The closer we got I realized that it actually didn’t look too bad, but the smell that lingered anywhere that had been burned was more than foul. Obviously, whatever the Clampetts had packed into their arsonist cocktails had an awful throat inchingly rank odor to it.
The house door was opened for us by what was unmistakably a full-blooded Elf, wearing the hooded and silver tree crested supple leather armor of a Royal Hunter, the famous guardians of the Elvish High Kings. An almost cultish regiment of noble born veteran trackers and killers only outstripped in celebrity and infamy by the secretive sect of midnight cloaked elven warriors of the Black Watch, who were said to protect the hidden gates to the Elvish homeland.
As to Elves, there is a great deal of Human lore on these mythical beings. So, let’s dissuade any invasion of human literature in this. Yes, they are forest dwelling. Yes, they have immensely powerful magic. Yes, they are ancient and deeply protective of nature. Other than that, Humanity is spotty at best on them. No, they don’t make toys for Santa Clause and definitely don’t make cookies in a tree kitchen or any other such nonsense.
In reality, Elves tend to be tall and lean and almost always have long hair (don’t ask me why, it’s just their thing) which is always black and straightened. As a race they have large, almond shaped deep green eyes, like polished emeralds, dark skin, and pointed ears.
As a species, they also possess the disturbing and unique ability to settle into a likely magical stillness (they will never admit its magic as they smugly like to brag that it’s a learned skill the other races are too impatient and unevolved to learn) that renders them almost invisible (almost like chameleons but more stabby), which make them formidable hunters, of animals and when necessary, nightmarish assassins of the races.
They are the third longest living of the Races, which due to their problematically photographic memory and at times, obstinate nature, can make them a bit unpleasant to deal with. As they also tend to be extremely dangerous if offended—even holding whole families and blood lines accountable for an affront, even when the actual offender is centuries dead.
The young hunter holding the door for us was the very picture of this. He had a neatly trimmed short beard and hawk like features and rested his sword arm on an exquisitely jeweled hilt belted at his waist. A great yew longbow and quiver of goose feather arrows was slung over his back.
I know, bow and arrows. How primitive, right? Wrong. Each and every one of those arrows is enchanted and every bit as deadly in the hands of an Elf as the best of Humanity’s firearms. More so if I have to be honest.
Inside waiting were two more with their worn brown leather hoods up peering out the windows with their hands clasped behind their backs. Another sat with his feet up on Gramps’ coffee table on the sofa by the fire flicking though one of his books.
This Elf however was no mere hunter, with hair pleated and decorated with crystals, carved jade beads and wearing robes of rich green under his richly embossed, jeweled, and engraved armor. The golden eternal tree on his lacquered red breastplate shone to a mirrored polish amid gold inlayed swirls, the red rubies shaped to apples hanging from its branches inevitably drew one’s gaze as if they had a power over the eye all their own.
“High King Rain.” Gramps froze and bowed almost automatically in a very courtly way. Even though he had known the Elf was there just seeing him seemed to have an effect akin to him being slapped in the face. The Elf set aside the book he had been reading and fixed us both with a startlingly pupiless silver eyed stare, a small smile on his deceptively youthful face as he stood to greet us.
“It’s been a long time, Artur Bright,” the Wizard King admitted, a note of sadness in his melodic, accented voice that was felt more than heard. “Time has been far kinder to me, I think.”
At this Gramps snorted. “Privilege of being the most powerful Wizard on the planet and an