Paul Thompson - Firstborn

Now, ten days from Silvanost, sitting around the blazing campfire, warriors asked Kith-Kanan why he was making such a show of helping the farmers and herders they met.

“Well,” he explained, stirring his soup with a wooden spoon, “if this militia idea is to succeed, the people must see us as their friends and not just their protectors. You see, our ranks will be filled by the same farmers, woodcutters, and herders we help along the way. They will be the troops, and all of you will be their leaders.”

“Is it true we’re to take in humans and dwarves in the ranks?” asked a captain with some distaste.

“It is,” said Kith-Kanan.

“Can we rely on such fighters? I mean, we all know humans can fight, and the dwarves are stout fellows, but will they obey orders to attack and slay fellow humans or dwarves if those orders come from an elf?” asked one of the older sergeants.

“They will, or they’ll be expelled from the militia and lose its protection,” Kith-Kanan responded. “You ask if humans will serve us by fighting humans. Some will, some won’t. We’ll be fighting elves, too, I expect. I’ve heard tales of robber bands made up of humans, Kagonesti, and even mixed-bloods. If they rob, if they kill, then we will bring them to justice. We make no distinctions out here.”

Sleep followed dinner, and guards were posted. The horses were corralled in the center of the camp, and one by one the lamps went out in the Wildrunners’ tents.

Mackeli usually slept at Kith-Kanan’s side, and that night was no exception. Though the boy often slept soundly, the months he’d spent out of the old forest hadn’t completely dulled his senses; he was the first one to sense something amiss. He sat up in the dark tent and rubbed his eyes, unsure of what had roused him. He heard nothing, but he saw something very odd.

Pink shadows wavered inside the tent. Mackeli saw his own hand, washed pink by an unknown light. He slowly raised his head and saw that a red circle of light showed through the tent’s canvas roof. A glare of heat on his face, Mackeli had no idea what the red glow portended, but he was sure it wasn’t friendly. He shook Kith-Kanan awake.

“Wha—What is it?” mumbled the prince.

“Look!” hissed Mackeli.

Kith-Kanan blinked at the red glow. He brushed the long hair from his eyes and threw back his blanket. In lieu of the sword he’d broken in the wildwood, he’d brought along a fine new weapon. Mackeli drew his own sword from its scabbard as, warily, Kith-Kanan lifted the flap on the tent with the tip of his blade.

Hovering over the camp, about twenty feet in the air, was a ball of red fire the size of a cart wheel. The crackling red light covered the camp. Kith-Kanan immediately felt a prickling sensation on his skin when the red glow touched him.

“What is it?” asked Mackeli wonderingly.

“I don’t know…”

The elf prince looked across the camp. The sentries were frozen, one foot raised in midstep, mouths open in the act of giving the alarm. Their eyes stared ahead, unblinking. Even the horses were rooted in place, some with hooves raised and necks arched in odd angles.

“They’re all paralyzed somehow,” Kith-Kanan said in awe. “This is evil magic!”

“Why aren’t we paralyzed?” Mackeli asked, but Kith-Kanan had no answer to that.

Through the line of tents shadowy figures moved. Bloodcolored light sparkled on naked sword blades. Kith-Kanan and Mackeli ducked down behind a tent. The shadow figures came on. There were five of them. By their clothing, features, and coloring, Kith-Kanan saw they were raffish Kagonesti. He held a finger to his lips, warning Mackeli to remain silent.

The Kagonesti approached the tent Kith-Kanan and Mackeli had been sleeping in minutes before. “Is this the tent?” hissed one of them.

“Yeah,” replied the leading elf. His face was heavily scarred, and instead of a left hand, he had a cruel-looking metal hook.

“Let’s be done with it an’ get outta here,” said a third Kagonesti. Hook-Hand made a snarling sound in his throat.

“Don’t be so hasty,” he advised. “There’s plenty of time for the kill and to fill our pockets besides.”

With sign language, Kith-Kanan indicated to Mackeli that he should circle around behind the band of magic-wielding killers. The boy vanished like a ghost, barefoot and wearing only his trousers. Kith-Kanan rose to his feet.

Hook-Hand had just ordered his men to surround the prince’s tent. The killers slashed the ropes holding the tent up. As the canvas cone collapsed, the five killers waded in, hacking and stabbing through the tent cloth.

Suddenly, with a shout, Mackeli burst from concealment and bravely attacked the gang. He ran the first one through, even as that elf was turning to face him. Kith-Kanan gritted his teeth. Mackeli had attacked too rashly, so the prince had to rush his own attack. With a shout, Kith-Kanan entered the fray; he felled a mace-wielding killer with his first stroke. Hook-Hand kicked through the slashed canvas of the fallen tent to get clear. “That’s him, boys!” he shouted as he retreated. “Finish ’em!”

From five, the villains were now down to three. Two of the Kagonesti went for Mackeli, leaving Hook-Hand and Kith-Kanan to duel. The scar-faced elf cut and thrust with deadly efficiency Snatching up a cut length of rope with his hook, he lashed at Kith-Kanan. The knotted end stung hard against the prince’s cheek.

Mackeli was not doing well against the other two. Already they had cut him on his left knee and right arm. Sweat sheened his body in the weird crimson glow. When the killer on his left thrust straight at him, Mackeli beat his blade and counterthrust into his opponent’s chest. This moment of triumph was shortlived. The other attacker stabbed Mackeli before the boy could free his blade. Cold iron touched his heart, and he fell to the ground.

“I got ’im!” shouted the victorious killer.

“Ya fool, that ain’t the prince—this is! Help me get ’im!” Hook-Hand shouted back, out of breath.

But Mackeli managed to heave himself up with great effort and stab his foe in the leg. With a scream, the Kagonesti went down. He fell against Hook-Hand’s back, throwing his chief off balance. That was all Kith-Kanan needed. Ignoring the flailing rope, he closed in and rammed his blade through the assassin. Hook-Hand let out a slow, rattling gasp and died as he fell.

Mackeli lay face-down in the dirt. His right arm was outstretched, still clutching his sword. Kith-Kanan threw himself down by the boy. He gently turned him over and then felt his own heart constrict. Mackeli’s bare chest was covered with blood.

“Say something, Keli!” he begged. “Don’t die!”

Mackeli’s eyes were open. He looked at Kith-Kanan, and a frown tugged one corner of his mouth.

“This time…I can’t obey, Kith,” he said weakly. The life left his body with a shuddering sigh. Sightlessly his green eyes continued to gaze up at his friend.

An anguished sob wracked Kith-Kanan. He clutched Mackeli to him and wept. What curse was he under? How had he offended the gods? Now all of his family from the wildwood was gone. All gone. His tears mingled with Mackeli’s blood.

A sound penetrated Kith-Kanan’s grief; the brute that Mackeli had stabbed in the leg groaned. Kith-Kanan lowered the boy’s body to the ground and gently closed his eyes. Then, with a growl, he grabbed the wounded mercenary by the tunic and dragged him to his feet.

“Who sent you?” he snarled. “Who sent you to kill me?”

“I don’t know,” gasped the elf. He trembled on his injured leg. “Mercy, great lord! I’m just a hireling!”

Kith-Kanan shook him by the shirt front, his face twisted into a hideous mask of rage. “You want mercy? Here’s mercy: tell me who hired you, and I’ll cut your throat. Don’t tell me, and it will take far longer for you to die!”