The Archer's Corruption

Natya couldn’t believe she’d done it. The red headed wood elf watched as the hulking mass of armour and rotten flesh formerly known as the Undead Warlock King fell to the ground dead. His sword, that he’d plunged into the soft earth of the overgrown arena, stayed upright. It’s blade sharp and cruel, with painful barbs making up a serrated edge of the heavy sword.

The elf took a few steps forward, an arrow still ready to fire. She’d seen too many fake-outs to lower her guard just yet. She could’ve sworn she saw some kind of magic rush down his sword arm as he’d fallen. After a few more minutes of watching the totally motionless body, she finally started to trust that the vial tyrant was finally slain. She’d avenged her sister’s killer at long last.

It had taken nearly ten years. Ten years of preparation, tracking and training. Ten years since he descended upon the peaceful forest village of Tariella with his horde of undead. They’d butchered what guards could rally themselves, gathered the civilians up together and then burnt the forest down, watching as they tried to flee only to be met by bolts from waiting crossbows.

Natya was lucky enough to be out hunting at the time and was spared the horror of what would become known across the lands, from the Great Western Ocean to the Corriban Mountains, as the Massacre of the Burned Hills.

Now Natya, once a young and defenceless archer in training, had now grown. Now she was a beautiful young woman who was a gifted and famous Bowmaster. Who was renowned for being a part of the Order of Tyrellia and the Master of Archery of the College of Boreas. But all of that seemed meaningless compared to her main goal: to slay the one who ruined her life. She’d rejected many offers from her party to come with her, only allowing them as far as the gates of the Undead Warlock King’s domain before insisting they leave her to either be triumphant or die trying.

As she looked down at the dead King, she thought of her family and wondered if they’d be proud of her. Her father had always told her to never seek revenge and to believe in forgiveness, but if no-one rose up to challenge the despot then how would they be stopped?

The she felt something.

A gnawing on her mind.

A calling.

She turned to look at the blade, the memory of it nearly cleaving her in two still fresh. She could feel it, just like she could feel the trees and the plants and the earth. It felt sad. Not sad for its prior owner demise but sad that it was no longer being wielded. It was asking to be taken.

Even though Natya was an archer by class she knew Josia the Golden, the Paladin of the party, would be outraged at her if she failed to secure such a powerful and dangerous magical artefact. She put her bow on her back, the weight of it leaving her hands made her a little nervous but she powered through. With both hands, she grabbed the bloodstained leather grip of the twisted ebony blade and pulled.

It slid out of the soft earth with ease, its low weight shocking her. It had barely strained her to draw it even though she lacked much muscle in her arms. The blade was about seven feet in length; its thick blade was double edged with vicious barbs on one and a devilishly sharp edge on the other. Along the flat blade, on the barbed side of the fuller, it had an inscription that seemed to be in some ancient language, unknown to the new wielder.

Then she felt it. A sudden rush of evil down her right arm. She looked at the soft, tanned flesh and saw it growing paler and paler until it was a ghostly white. As it did this, the corruption spread through her arm and into the rest of her body. All the vitality and life in her small frame was being sucked dry, poured into the blade as it hungered for it all and more.

“N-no… Please… D-don’t…” Natya fell to her knees as tears poured from her wide, scared green eyes as they rolled back in her head. After a few more seconds of hoarse attempts to cry out to someone who wasn’t there for help, she fell to the dirt, her heart no longer beating.

Unlike the Undead Warlock King, she kept a hold of the sword and brought it down with her. Then the sword started to return something to her in exchange for her life. Her veins turned black, the muck that replaced her blood starting to move through her body, not by her heart but by the sword itself. Slowly, she rose from the ground, her movements were sharp and unnatural, with muscles moving in short, sharp jerks and not the long and smooth movements an elf was prone to.

Her eyes, still wide and wild with the fear of her dying breath seemed glassy and lifeless. No vitality returned to them, instead the muscles simply started to move, rolling her eyes back and revealing that the vibrant green was now trapped behind a thin pane of translucent white, not focusing on anything.

The body of Natya, now upright in a loose and weak stand, was consumed in a flurry of black particles from the corpse of the fallen Warlock King as his armour migrated to her body. First came a heavy set of black greaves, with silver inlays on ancient carvings on them, next was the chest-plate in a matching design and soon her whole body accept the head was covered in a smaller, lighter version of the very same armour of her sworn enemy. She sheathed the sword that now used her body like a meat puppet, just like it had used the orc warrior who’d been the previous host, to reach down and pluck the helmet from the ground, sliding it down over her blonde head as it changed to fit the smaller, elfish head of its new owner.

The new Undead Warlock Queen then strode forward and back into her castle before marching to the balcony and drawing her sword once more. As she did, it seemed to crack and change, turning into a twisted yet expertly made ebony bow, only the incantations on the side of it showing it was the same weapon.

Natya had slaughtered her entire army on her way through the corrupted lands and that setback had to be rightened. Raising the blade over hear head with no effort at all, she let loose a haunting screech that echoed across her lands and to Natya’s former party who quickly rallied, with heavy hearts knowing their friend had fallen, and marched into the lands of the tyrant. None would return. They’d expected a battle with a heavy and brutish fighter, but were met by a fast, stealthy archer who killed them off one by one as they travelled only to disappear when they attempted to pursue. Only Josia the Golden made it to the bastion of evil known as the Undead Palace to face the new Queen head-on. He was slaughtered in seconds. The last words he heard were in his friend’s voice, filling him with fear as he finally knew what had happened to his friend and leader…

“The King is dead, long live the Queen…”