The Price of Freedom

3: BLOODSTONES

Aefion sauntered nonchalantly into the satyrs' lair and seated himself at one of the tables. The single satyr already sitting at the table ignored him, his eyes fixed on the challenge being fought.  

The two combatants were fairly equally matched in terms of size and build. However, one of them was clearly older, and Aefion assumed this was the current chief. A shaggy mane of dark grey hair hung down around the creature's shoulders and his movements were slightly slower. He wore crude armour of leather and bronze, a riot of talismans and amulets fastened on a string around his neck. Amongst them Aefion spotted a miniature drinking horn: the symbol of the satyr chief.  

The young challenger had sharper eyes and quicker reactions. Like most of the satyrs his torso was bare, but rippled with lean strength his superior lacked. A strange, flickering white rune had been carved into each of his horns.  

It wasn't long before the youth began to gain the upper hand. Exchanging blows with the hafts of their wooden spears, they battled furiously across the cavern. Tables and chairs were knocked over, food was scattered and wine was spilled but the satyrs were too caught up in the excitement to really notice.  

Suddenly the two satyrs leapt atop a nearby table. A goblet was knocked to the floor as the younger satyr slammed his spear haft into his opponent's face. Stunned momentarily, the elder staggered back. But in his moment of pause his eyes alighted on the elf. He hesitated; spear frozen and that gave the youth a chance to strike. Reversing the spear with a flourish, he plunged its bronze head into his foe's chest. With a grunt of pain, the former chief was thrown backwards to land with a back-breaking crunch on the rocky floor. Then, spinning to face Aefion, the challenger pointed his spear at the elf, an eyebrow raised questioningly.  

'And what would an elfling be doing in the Great Hall of the Shadow Spurs?'  

Silence descended like a death shroud and all the satyrs turned their attention towards Aefion. Calmly, Aefion stood, pushing the spear away and ascending onto the table to face the young satyr. When the challenger tried to bring the spear point back to Aefion's chest he grabbed the haft, twisted the weapon out of the satyr's grasp and turned it on its owner.  

'I am Aefion Bloodclaw, of the Beltharin. And let it be clear that I am not here to disturb your customs. I am looking to pass through your caves. I believe you have kidnapped the princess Cassandra.'  

'And what if we have?' The young satyr sneered. 'What are you going to do about it?'  

In one fluid motion, Aefion spun and kicked the legs out from beneath the satyr, bringing him crashing down. He twirled the spear and touched its razor sharp tip to the satyr's throat.  

'If my assumptions are correct, you have just won a challenge against the chief of your tribe. That makes you the new chief. I'd say lying on your back at the mercy of a stranger isn't a very good start to your reign.'  

The atmosphere was tense, and all eyes turned to the new satyr chief. He snarled; his eyes like pools of ice. But after a moment he raised a hand in submission.  

'Very well, elfling. We, the Shadow Spurs, did kidnap Cassandra. But we were well paid. You should know of the Black Satyr way.'  

Aefion reflected on the origins of the Black Satyrs. Recently, in the final stages of the Fifth Age, a group of satyrs had drunk wine made from grapes tainted with demonic energy. Over many weeks their appearance had darkened, their eyes changing to an icy blue and their horns became gnarled and twisted. Also, they soon developed an unhealthy bloodlust as the darker side of their natures warred for control. Realizing what had happened to them, the satyrs departed into self-imposed exile. Some chose to fight against the Tainted in vengeance whilst others chose the life of wandering mercenaries. It seemed that these Shadow Spur satyrs had chosen the latter.