Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“I wish only peace,” was Zamiel’s reply, “and I am no priest.”

The elf nodded and pulled a long leather strap from his waist. He bound Zamiel’s hands behind his back and pushed him forward, directing him toward the camp. The prophet kept his eyes on the point of the guard’s sword, always nearby. It was a fine blade. He could smell the magic woven through the steel. The elves always made such wonderful things.

Zamiel cocked his head sadly as he entered the camp. As much as he had hoped the elves were merely curious scouts, such was not the case. Dozens of warriors had mustered here, gathered around their tents and mounts. There were twice as many of them as Cyran soldiers protecting the Moon . This was a war party, poised to wipe out his mortal allies.

“Rouse Captain Nelethar,” the elven guard commanded. “The marooned Cyrans have sent an ambassador.”

The junior soldiers hesitated, obviously surprised that their presence here was known. They rushed off to the largest tent. A light appeared within. Several minutes later a female elf emerged, dressed in fine silken robes. She studied Zamiel carefully, then shot the guard an irritated look.

“Could this not wait until morning?” she asked.

“Your servant clearly seeks only to do his duty,” Zamiel said in a soothing voice. “Such dedication should be rewarded. My appearance was unexpected, and I apologize for that, but I was forced to seize the opportunity to follow your trail when I could.”

“Trail?” she asked, sneering. “What trail?”

“It was faint,” he said. “Your warriors have gone to some lengths to remain undetected.”

Nelethar scowled. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“I am Brother Zamiel,” the prophet replied. “I serve Marth, the final champion of Cyre.”

“He said he wanted to negotiate,” the guard offered.

“Final champion?” Nelethar asked. “Tell your friend Marth to pick a better cause. Cyre is dead.”

“Marth prefers to think otherwise,” Zamiel said. “He intends to restore his homeland to its former glory.”

“Does he?” Nelethar asked. She was fully awake now, her tone faintly amused. She tilted her head, looking at the prophet curiously. “He sent you to negotiate with us?”

“No,” Zamiel said. “I came of my own accord. I wished to discern the reason behind your presence here. I do not intend to negotiate. I do not believe you would accept such an offer, except perhaps to humor me.”

Nelethar frowned. Zamiel noticed that, even in her night clothes, she wore a sword at her hip. The Valenar were an intriguing people. He regretted what would come next.

“I know the customs of your kind,” Zamiel said. “Valor is your greatest virtue. The glory of battle is your greatest ecstasy. Victory forgives all sins. The halflings on these plains offer little chance for you to truly test your mettle-but a crew of trained Cyran soldiers tending a ruined Zil’argo warship? What a discovery. Surely that would be a victory of worth, so long as you could guarantee your success through strength of numbers.”

Nelethar’s frown curled into a grin. “And what if you are right, Brother?” she asked. “What if we intend to kill your comrades and take their ship and her spoils for my warchief? What do you think you could possibly say that would convince me to turn our swords away?”

Zamiel looked around calmly. He could see that most of the soldiers had awakened and were watching with interest. Some exchanged quiet whispers and laughed quietly. Many of them had already drawn weapons.

“I fear there would be nothing I could say that would convince you to withdraw,” Zamiel said.

“Then beg, Cyran,” Nelethar said. “Grovel for Valenar mercy and I will give you water enough to run back to the human lands where you may spread tales of our glorious victory over your comrades.”

“No,” Zamiel said.

“No?” she said, eyes gleaming as she drew her sword. “You will not grovel?”

“No,” he said. “And I am not Cyran.”

“Then what land do you hail from?” she asked with a mocking laugh.

The prophet sighed and let the enchantments that bound him slip. Nelethar’s green eyes bulged in terror. The whispered mutterings ceased, eclipsed by fear. The shadow of Zamiel’s broad wings swallowed the moonlight. A claw as thick as an airship’s strut gouged the earth.

“Argonnessen,” Zamiel rumbled, taking a deep breath.

The dragon exhaled, and a cloud of roiling black acid washed over the Valenar warriors.