David Dalglish: A Dance Of Death

He stormed for the door, stopping only when Haern called out for him.

“Miss you too, Brug.”

“Whatever,” Brug grumbled, but he hesitated before leaving. Once he was gone, Haern dressed, put on his soft leather armor, and prepared to leave. Delysia was waiting for him on the bottom floor, just beside the stairs.

“Stay safe,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Is that all you’re bringing?”

Haern glanced at his single outfit, his sabers, and the cloaks he carried in his hands.

“Yes?” he said.

The priestess laughed.

“Ever the poor boy,” she said. “Good luck, and make sure you come back.”

He bowed low.

“I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise,” he said. “Keep Tarlak in line for me while I’m gone.”

Feeling uncomfortably exposed in the daylight, Haern traveled south to where Alyssa’s caravan waited. It was only three wagons, far smaller than he expected. Alyssa had told him she wished to leave with little fanfare in hopes the thief guilds would not find out. Turned out she wasn’t kidding. He found her sitting in the first wagon, with Zusa beside her. They both tilted their heads as he approached, and he realized without his hood, and under the bright sun, they could clearly see his face.

“Watcher?” Alyssa asked, as if to confirm just in case.

“Haern,” he said, standing before them. “That’ll do for now.”

Zusa offered her hand, and he took it.

“To Angelport?” he asked as he sat across from them.

“Indeed,” Alyssa said before calling out the order for their driver to begin.

Eravon used the cover of night to hide his exit as he put the walls of Angelport far behind him. Spring had officially come, but the air still had a bite to it, and he kept a thin cloak wrapped tight about him as he followed the path north. Though he’d lived for centuries, for the first time ever he was experiencing the sensation humans called ‘feeling old’. His joints throbbed in the cold, and the days seemed to pass ever faster. Though the elf’s skin was smooth, he knew that in another hundred years or so he’d start to add a few wrinkles to his face, and his time among the humans would be at an end.

Not that he’d miss them.

The signal was subtle, just a few leaves placed in a specific way, with pebbles atop them to ensure they did not scatter in the wind. Eravon left the path, climbing up a nearby hill. On the other side was a tent, without a single torch or fire to give away its location. Eravon tightened his cloak, then approached. The tent was large, the front flap open. When he stepped inside, he bowed to the two elves waiting for him.

“It is good to see you again,” said the first, a young elf barely a hundred years old. His hair was short and golden, his eyes a vibrant green. Eravon accepted his embrace.

“You as well, Maradun,” he said before turning to the other, who remained seated. “Does your leg trouble you so much that you cannot stand, Sildur?”

The silver-haired elf waved a cane, the only sign that he walked with a limp, and that he was even older than Eravon.

“We have much to discuss, and little time to do it,” Sildur said, motioning to an empty seat before them. “Sit, and tell us what the spoiled children of the brother gods have to say.”

Eravon sat, and he accepted an offered cup and pitcher from Maradun. He drank, purposefully delaying his report. Sildur might have outranked him back in Quellassar, but they were in human lands now, and Eravon was their ambassador. His importance could not be denied. That, and Sildur was always a dour one, as if Celestia had made him with mud in his veins instead of blood.

“Talks are yet to officially begin,” Eravon said, setting down his cup. “What I know is only bluster and promises, which humans possess an infinite capacity for. But in this, I do not feel they will back down. Either we grant them access to the forest, or prepare for bloodshed.”

“Blood has already been shed,” said Sildur.

“More blood, then.”

“Can we not come to some sort of compromise?” asked Maradun. He glanced at the two of them. “Surely they do not desire war.”

“You know what they did to our Dezren brothers,” Sildur said, fire in his voice. “Chased them halfway across the continent, and burned Dezerea to ash. Their desire for war runs deep in their veins. All our talks are nothing but a waste of time. You know what they want from our forests. Humans are weak, their minds fragile. Anything to escape their short lives, to forget their coming deaths, is something they’ll spend every scrap of wealth to obtain.”

Eravon sighed. Sildur spoke the truth, no matter how harshly. He only echoed what they all knew.

“I see little choice,” Eravon said. “We must cede parts of the forest to them. It should be enough to sate their appetites, as well as calm their lord.”

“Ingram is a fool who pales at the very sight of us,” said Sildur. “He will not be calmed until we are dead and gone from all of Dezrel.”

“But what else can we do?” Maradun asked. “I myself have slain several who came to our forests with axes, yet every week their numbers increase. What do I tell my masters in Quellassar? We continue to overlook many excursions, all seeking to prevent escalation, but we must come to an understanding soon.”

“There is another way.” Sildur’s eyes sparkled. “We seek war instead of running from it like a frightened beast. We embrace it, and turn our bows and our blades toward their cities. The humans are like animals, and will learn only when struck.”

The three fell silent. Eravon put his hands upon the table and forced himself to keep calm. Sildur said nothing he had not heard a thousand times before over the last decade. Against that, he had the same tired argument, but no matter how tired, it remained truth.

“We might slay ten to our one,” he said. “But our numbers dwindle, while the humans spread like insects. We must not forget the lesson of the Bloodbrick, where our greatest died. Despite the thousands our casters killed, the humans have recovered, while we will never see those ten replaced in our lifetimes. No matter our skill, there is little we can do when they come with fire and pitch, outnumbering us over a hundred to one. You cannot stop a swarm of ants with an arrow or a blade. If we come as the aggressor, the King will send troops from every corner of Neldar.”

Sildur’s eyes flared wide, and he opened his mouth to argue, but then stopped. Eravon felt a chill pass over him, and he turned, following his companion’s gaze. A man was hunched at the door, his body covered with dark clothing and a long cape. A sword hung from his belt. Despite Eravon’s excellent vision at night, his eyes could not penetrate the deep shadow across the intruder’s face. Only his mouth and chin remained visible. He was smiling.

“Who are you?” Sildur asked, his hand subtly drifting to the long dagger at his hip. “Speak your name!”

The intruder let out a chuckle.

“I’ve heard many amusing names given to me, but if you insist, I will choose one of them for you. I am the Wraith.”

“Wraith,” said Sildur, hardly impressed. “What brings you here with your face masked and your identity hidden?”

The Wraith leapt from where he stood, landing atop the table with a clatter of cups and silverware. A hand on the hilt of his sword, he grinned at them all.

“Why do you discuss in secret?” he asked. His voice was strangely soft, and would have seemed charming if not for how coldly amused he sounded. “Do you fear the ears of man? Do you plot his downfall, or wonder for a way you might go crawling to lick their boots while somehow maintaining your dignity?”