said, ‘Me? Who are you?’
The smaller man pulled back his hood and said, ‘Locklear, I’m a squire to Prince Arutha.’
Owyn nodded. ‘Sir, I’m Owyn, son of Baron Belefote.’
‘From Timons, yes, I know who your father is,’ said Locklear. Squatting before the fire, opening his hands to warm them. He glanced up at Owyn. ‘You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?’
‘I was visiting my aunt in Yabon,’ said the blond youth. ‘I’m now on my way home.’
‘Long journey,’ said the muffled figure.
‘I’ll work my way down to Krondor, then see if I can travel with a caravan or someone else to Salador. From there I’ll catch a boat to Timons.’
‘Well, we could do worse than stick together until we reach LaMut,’ said Locklear, sitting down heavily on the ground. His cloak fell open and Owyn saw blood on the young man’s clothing.
‘You’re hurt,’ he said.
‘Just a bit,’ admitted Locklear.
‘What happened?’
‘We were jumped a few miles north of here,’ said Locklear.
Owyn started rummaging through his travel bag. ‘I have something in here for wounds,’ he said. ‘Strip off your tunic.’
Locklear removed his cloak and tunic while Owyn took bandages and powder from his bag. ‘My aunt insisted I take this just in case. I thought it an old lady’s foolishness, but apparently it wasn’t.’
Locklear endured the boy’s ministrations as he washed the wound – obviously a sword cut to the ribs – and winced when the powder was sprinkled upon it. Then as he bandaged the squire’s ribs, Owyn said, ‘Your friend doesn’t talk much, does he?’
‘I am not his friend,’ answered Gorath. He held out his manacles for inspection. ‘I am his prisoner.’
Trying to peer into the darkness of Gorath’s hood, Owyn said, ‘What did he do?’
‘Nothing, except be born on the wrong side of the mountains,’ offered Locklear.
Gorath pulled back his hood, and graced Owyn with the faintest of smiles.
‘Gods’ teeth!’ exclaimed Owyn. ‘He’s a Brother of the Dark Path!’
‘Moredhel,’ corrected Gorath, with a note of ironic bitterness. ‘“Dark elf”, in your tongue, human. At least our cousins in Elvandar would have you believe us so.’
Locklear winced as Owyn applied his aunt’s salve to the wounded ribs. ‘A couple of hundred years of war lets us form our own opinions, thank you, Gorath.’
Gorath said, ‘You understand so little, you humans.’
‘Well,’ said Locklear, ‘I’m not going anywhere at the moment, so educate me.’
Gorath looked at the young squire, as if trying to judge something, and was silent for a while. ‘Those you call “elves” and my people are one, by blood, but we live different lives. We were the first mortal race after the great dragons and the Ancient Ones.’
Owyn looked at Gorath in curiosity, while Locklear just gritted his teeth and said, ‘Hurry it up, would you, lad?’
‘Who are the Ancient Ones?’ asked Owyn in a whisper.
‘The Dragon Lords,’ said Locklear.
‘Lords of power, the Valheru,’ supplied Gorath. ‘When they departed this world, they placed our fate in our own hands, naming us a free people.’
Locklear said, ‘I’ve heard the story.’
‘It is more than a story, human, for to my people it gave over this world to our keeping. Then came you humans, and the dwarves, and others. This is our world and you seized it from us.’
Locklear said, ‘Well, I’m not a student of theology, and my knowledge of history is sadly lacking, but it seems to me that whatever the cause of our arrival on this world according to your lore, we’re here and we don’t have anywhere else to go. So if your kin, the elves, can make the best of it, why can’t you?’
Gorath studied the young man, but said nothing. Then he stood, moving with deadly purpose toward Locklear.
Owyn had just tied off the bandage and fell hard as Locklear pushed him aside while he attempted to rise and draw his sword as Gorath closed on him.
But rather than attack Locklear, he lunged past the pair of humans, lashing out above Locklear’s head with the chain that held his manacles. A ringing of steel caused Locklear to flinch aside as Gorath shouted, ‘Assassin in the camp!’ Then Gorath kicked hard at Owyn, shouting, ‘Get out from underfoot!’
Owyn didn’t know where the assassin came from; one moment there had been three of them in the small clearing, then the next Gorath was locked in a life-and-death struggle with another of his kind.
Two figures grappled by the light of the campfire, their features set in stark relief by the firelight and darkness of the woods. Gorath had knocked the other moredhel’s sword from his hand, and when the second dark elf attempted to pull a dagger, Gorath slipped behind him, wrapping his wrist chains around the attacker’s throat. He yanked hard and the attacker’s eyes bulged in shock as Gorath said, ‘Do not struggle so, Haseth. For old times’ sake I will make this quick.’ With a snap of his wrists, he crushed the other dark elf’s windpipe, and the creature went limp.
Gorath let him fall to the ground, saying, ‘May the Goddess of Darkness show you mercy.’
Locklear stood up. ‘I thought we had lost them.’
‘I knew we had not,’ said Gorath.
‘Why didn’t you say something?’ demanded Locklear as he retrieved his tunic and put it on over the new bandages.
‘We had to turn and face him some time,’ said Gorath, resuming his place. ‘We could do it now, or in a day or two when you were even weaker from loss of blood and no food.’ Gorath looked into the darkness from which the assassin had come. ‘Had he not been alone, you’d have had only my body to drag before your prince.’
‘You don’t get off that easily, moredhel. You don’t have my permission to die yet, after the trouble I’ve gone through to keep you alive so far,’ said Locklear. ‘Is he the last?’
‘Almost certainly not,’ said the dark elf. ‘But he is the last of this company. Others will come.’ He glanced in the opposite direction. ‘And others may already be ahead of us.’
Locklear reached into a small pouch at his side and produced a key. ‘Then I think you’d better get those chains off,’ he said. He unlocked the wrist irons and Gorath watched them fall to the ground with an impassive expression. ‘Take the assassin’s sword.’
‘Maybe we should bury him?’ suggested Owyn.
