Troy Denning - The Sentinel

“Think nothing of it.” Given the sarcasm of a moment before, the woman sounded surprisingly sincere. “Your stand has been an inspiration to us all.”

As she spoke, the second rank of Shadovar began to rub their hands together, drawing wisps of darkness from their murky auras and packing them into pulsing balls of shadow. Unable to locate the steel-eyed leader, Kleef simply pointed at the middle of the second rank.

“That one. Second rank, center.”

“That one what ?” asked the archer.

“Kill him,” Kleef said. “ Now .”

The woman brought her bow up and loosed the arrow in the same smooth motion, and an eye blink later, her target went stumbling backward with an arrow sprouting from his chest. The ball of shadow seemed to melt in his grasp and began seeping through his fingers, dissolving everything it touched. By the time his body hit the bridge, his elbow was gone, and the rest of his arm was draining into the dark cracks between the cobblestones.

The warriors to either side of him raised their arms, preparing to hurl their balls of shadow. Kleef called for a charge and started forward, the archer and Duke Farnig’s men-at-arms running at his side.

The shadow orbs came flying.

The torsos of two guards melted into darkness as they took the hits full in the chest. Kleef brought Watcher around, Helm’s Eye flashing as he deflected two of the dark balls, sending them arcing over the canal. A third orb managed to slip past him, and he turned to see the archer trying to pivot away from it.

No time. Kleef kicked the back of her heels. Her feet flew out from beneath her-and her head dropped out of the shadow ball’s path half a heartbeat before it streaked past.

The woman landed on her backplate, and Kleef was glad to see she had the good training to tuck her chin to prevent her head from hitting. They had already fallen five paces behind the charge, so he grabbed her by her bow arm-and finally recalled where he had seen her face.

“I know you.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “Though I hardly-”

“You’re that minstrel who used to sing at The Old Oak,” Kleef interrupted, yanking her to her feet. “Elver … Elberta …”

“Elbertina.” The woman’s tone was irritated. “But that was my stage-”

A tremendous battle cheer sounded behind the Shadovar, and it was quickly answered by Duke Farnig’s men-at-arms. Kleef looked up to see nearly a dozen halberds swaying in the air behind the Shadovar lines. The Marsember Watch had arrived.

“Reinforcements!” Elbertina raced after Farnig’s guards. “ Now we have them!”

But the shades were in no mood to continue the fight. They broke toward both sides of the bridge, flinging lines of shadow around the balustrades. As their ranks parted, Kleef was surprised to see that the “reinforcements” were his own men, with Jang leading the troop.

The shades began to leap off the bridge, trailing their shadow lines behind them like ropes. As they hit the ends, they swung back and disappeared under the belly of the bridge. Kleef reached the balustrade half a step behind the last warrior, but by the time he leaned out to slash the dark line, the fellow was already dropping into the murk beneath the span. Kleef did not hear a splash.

Elbertina reached his side, leaning over the balustrade to peer into the empty waters. “Where did they go?”

“Good question,” Kleef said. He turned and looked back toward House Seasilver. “I have a feeling we won’t like the answer.”

Joelle Emmeline stood just inside a small carriage court, peering through a narrow gap between two barely open gates. She was looking back toward the bridge where the battle had been, studying the big watchman who had just saved her for the second time that day. With rugged features and dark hair curling out beneath his helm, he was as handsome as he was deadly, and she could not help thinking that the Lady had sent him to her. He certainly appeared capable of protecting her. And if he proved to be as talented in the gentler arts as he was in combat? Well, then-the long journey ahead might even become a pleasure.

“Have you gone mad ?” demanded a nasal voice beside her. “You will let in the … shadows!”

The gates banged shut, and Joelle looked over to find her companion with his hands pressed to the oaken planks. Dressed in a drab gray robe and exuding a foul odor that seemed impossible to scrub off, the little round-headed man looked more like a beggar than one of her fellow Chosen. For the hundredth time, she found herself questioning whether he had truly been sent by the gods to help her save Toril.

“Aren’t you curious about him, Malik?” Joelle asked. She helped him slide the heavy crossbar back into place. “Not the least little bit?”

Malik’s face grayed with irritation. “About a big oaf with a big sword and a big thirst for using it?” he asked. “His type is as common as vermin in this vile place. I could stand on any corner of the city and hire a hundred just like him.”

Joelle flashed her radiant smile. She smiled often-and when she did, it was always radiant.

“How sweet,” she said. “You’re jealous.”

A pained look came to the little man’s face. “Why should I be jealous? You will never belong to someone like me-and I am wise enough to know it.”

“Belong?” Joelle chuckled, her voice gentle but chastising. “Love isn’t a yoke, Malik. It’s a gift to be shared freely-or not at all.”

“And it is one you will never share with me.”

“You’re wrong about that, Malik.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I have already given you my love. And you would see that, if only you would give yours to me.”

“I’m here, am I not?” Malik’s tone was resentful. “If joining you in this madness isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

“You’re here because your god commands it,” Joelle reminded him. “That’s obedience, not love.”

Malik looked away, as he always did when he did not wish her to see into his heart, then picked up the small woolen satchel he had stolen off a cart soon after the Shadovar began chasing them.

“Enough blather,” he said. “We have to move on. It’s not safe here.”

Joelle turned toward the interior of the cobblestone courtyard, where dozens of other refugees who had pushed through the gate milled about. Many had begun peering into the windows of the carriage house and into the arched doorways of the great house itself, nervously murmuring to one another. If any guards had remained behind when the archer led her company out to join the fight on the bridge, they were nowhere to be seen.

Joelle allowed Malik to take her arm and lead the way around the courtyard’s center monument-a grotesque statue of a diving wyvern. On the far side, he stopped suddenly and clutched the small satchel to his chest.

Joelle followed his gaze and immediately spotted the source of his alarm: a pair of steel-blue eyes shining out of the murk beneath one of the arched doorways. In a single fluid motion, she snatched a trio of throwing darts off her belt and whipped them toward the eyes.

The enchanted darts blazed with the all-consuming heat of Sune’s passion, and a chorus of alarmed cries filled the courtyard as panicked refugees raced for cover. Joelle kept her gaze fixed on the doorway, where the dusky silhouette of her target became visible. Swaddled in a dark cloak that blurred into murkiness at the edges, he was tall and lanky, with a long chin, gaunt cheeks, and the glowing, metal-colored eyes of a Prince of Shade.

Yder Tanthul, of course. He was one of the Shadovar’s greatest living warriors-and the bane of Joelle’s existence.