chapter 3
Amric stood before iron gates twice his height and thirty feet in width, painted black and framed by the massive reddish stone wall surrounding the sprawling estate. Huge black lions, regal and forbidding and finely wrought of iron as well, glowered down from the outer bars of the gate. Light rippled across them from the torches set to either side, giving them the illusion of life, of hot breath and fluid muscle. From what Amric had heard, the man inside was as menacing as these, his chosen totems, but he shared none of their nobility of spirit. Halthak stood at his side, both hands curled tight around his knotted staff.
“This is folly,” said Halthak. “We are sheep, come to twist the whiskers of the lion in his own den.”
Amric chuckled. “I am no sheep.”
He looked askance at the healer. In his distress, the Half-Ork’s face was so pinched that he looked like a toothless old crone, and his outthrust lower lip seemed in the midst of swallowing the upper half of his own head. Amric considered jesting about it to lighten his mood, but dismissed the thought. Halthak’s hold on courage was, at the moment, too tenuous for levity.
“You need not be here, healer. It would be safer for you to remain at the inn.”
Halthak snorted. “You tried already to dissuade me. I am going with you. You will need an extra pair of eyes watching your back in there.”
Amric nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. He left unsaid what they both knew anyway: the inn offered scant enough protection from a stealthy blade without Amric and Valkarr present, and the healer had few options to escape the city alone if this all went poorly. His best odds of survival remained with the warriors, even in this venture. Halthak cleared his throat and changed the subject, his voice low as he glanced about him to ensure the street was empty save for them.
“I do not trust this Bellimar fellow,” he said.
“Nor do I,” Amric replied.
“This meeting he arranged could be a ruse, and he a more devious form of assassin meaning to collect the price on our heads.”
“The thought had occurred to me as well.”
Halthak turned toward him. “Then why do we trust him to lead us under the dominion of the man who set that price?”
“There is more to Bellimar than we have yet seen, and I am convinced that he has not been fully forthcoming as to his motives, but I do not believe he is deceiving us in this. He has been as good as his word thus far, and his contacts indicate that the trail of our Sil’ath friends leads here, to this merchant, Morland.”
“And is it coincidence,” Halthak said, “that the trail of your missing party ends at the door of the same wealthy merchant who then put a bounty on our heads?”
Amric adjusted the leather bracer on his forearm, his gaze never wavering from the gates before him. “One of many questions I intend to ask Morland. We have little choice, healer. This is our only lead, and even if it proves false, it might at least bring the merchant within reach to end this vendetta threat at its source.”
Halthak paled and fell silent.
“It may not come to that, healer,” Amric said. “Morland has guaranteed our safety for the duration of this meeting. Is that not true, Bellimar?”
“Quite true,” the old man’s voice came from behind them, and Halthak jumped.
Bellimar drew up beside them, a merry twinkle in his eye as he grinned at Halthak. He took in the iron gates and the black lions, and muttered, “Gaudy. We get a glimpse of the man’s titanic ego.”
“Any further word, Bellimar?” Amric asked.
Bellimar stepped forward and turned to face them. “Even piecing it together from multiple sources, there are gaps in the story. The Sil’ath warriors you seek were in the city only briefly, and during that time they met with Morland. The merchant is evidently a distant relative of Vorenius and has put a price on your heads at his behest. After their meeting, the Sil’ath were known to have departed the city through the eastern gate, according to sources that make it their business to monitor such things. From there, the trail grows uncertain. Their destination was unknown to any of my contacts, as the Sil’ath spoke to no one else after Morland, and they have not returned. They left weeks ago, by all accounts, but there is disagreement upon the exact day of departure.”
Halthak frowned. “So they left here alive, at least, and Morland is not to blame for their disappearance.”
“Let us not rush to conclusions,” Bellimar warned. “Morland is a serpent, and may still have sent them to their deaths. Word is that they were in Morland’s employ when they left.”
Amric shook his head. “They did not come here to sell their blades to the highest bidder, or to run errands for the wealthy.”
“Do not be so quick to dismiss the thought,” Bellimar said. “The rich grow increasingly frantic for their safety, between the spreading darkness outside the city walls and their rivals gathering personal armies within. Sil’ath reputation at arms being what it is, your friends could amass a fortune here. As could you and Valkarr.”
“That was not their purpose,” Amric insisted.
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because the Sil’ath care little for such things, and I share that sentiment. And I know their purpose because I sent them here, to Keldrin’s Landing. No, they would not abandon their task. If their goals coincided with Morland’s, a common purpose or at least mutual benefit was responsible. As I have mentioned, the Sil’ath are pragmatic; if they struck an accord with the likes of this Morland, he represented the best path they could find toward completing their task.”
“And that task was…?” Bellimar prodded.
“For now, suffice it to say they were to gather information to aid our people, information we believe is only available here. More detail will have to await our leisure, but it seems their search led them to the east.”
“Perhaps,” Bellimar said, tilting his head in thought. “But your thinking might be too linear on this, swordsman. If Morland had information they required but he refused to disclose, would your friends have bartered their effort in exchange?”
“Aye, that is possible,” Amric admitted.
“Then they may still have departed on a task not directly related to their goal, effectively in the employ of the merchant.”
“I cannot argue the logic,” Amric said with a sigh. “Tell me of Morland.”
“From all I hear,” Bellimar said, “he finds the truth very malleable. Be aware that he is avaricious and calculating to the core, and if he is putting aside his public need for vengeance––even for a time––it is because he is after a greater prize. When I discovered he was behind the bounty, I made conciliatory advances through third parties to see how he would respond, and to my surprise found them well received. This public show followed by quick agreement suggests to me that we might have been steered to him.”
“Or it is a trap,” Halthak put in.
“It could be a trap,” Bellimar agreed. “Though if it is, I do not know why he should bother to open his doors to us. Why not just let the bounty do its work?”
Amric gave a slow nod. “Let us discover what he wanted of my men, and what he wants now of us.”
Bellimar inclined his head, then moved to the gates and reached for the bronze bell affixed to them, but it proved unnecessary. Two pairs of burly guards in studded leather armor stepped in from their posts on either side, long spears in their fists.
“Your master is expecting us,” Bellimar said, exuding a haughty air of impatience.
“Names?” came the gruff query. Bellimar supplied all three.
“There were to be four,” the same guard responded, peering past them. “Where is the other?”
Amric smiled without warmth. “Regrettably, he is otherwise occupied, and could not accept the invitation. It will be the three of us.”
The guard gave him a long look, and finally grunted. “Wait here.” He moved to the side of the gate, took a torch from the wall, and waved it high over his head several times before returning it to its sconce. It was long minutes later that a carriage rumbled up the estate drive and into the ring of torchlight, drawn by large draft horses and surrounded by ten mounted soldiers. The gates swung inward with a heavy groan, and the door to the carriage opened. Amric exchanged an amused look with Bellimar, and gave Halthak a squeeze on the shoulder. Even in the poor light, he could see the Half-Ork had gone almost white, but he was at Amric’s heels as the swordsman strode forward and climbed into the carriage. Bellimar followed, and the carriage was moving before the door had shut behind him.
Amric scanned the darkness through the open windows, but could see little of the estate grounds. Members of their escort carried torches ahead of and behind the coach, but they penetrated the darkness only enough to reveal a broad tree-lined lane carved deep with wagon wheel ruts. Amric felt a touch of awe steal over him. Judging by the carriage’s rate of travel and the length of time it took to cross the estate grounds, he had seen many towns of not inconsequential size that could be contained entirely within the walls of this place.
“Because he can,” Bellimar said from the velvet seat across from him.
Amric swiveled his head to look at him. “What?”
“In answer to the question you were just musing over, why would any man claim so much for himself, more than he could use in a thousand lifetimes? Because he can.”
Amric laughed. “Was it so obvious? Or do you read minds, old man?”
Bellimar smiled and shook his head. “No, but it is a rational reaction to this much excess. More importantly, I want you to understand something of this man before you meet him. He has long since shed any need for rationality; he does not question whether he has enough or whether an agreement is equitable. For him, there is only the next conquest. If he can take something, or profit from it, or if he can eliminate an obstacle with no more than acceptable risk to himself, he will do it simply because he can.”
“Is Morland the wealthiest and most powerful in the city?” Halthak asked.
“I am not certain. He is climbing the ladder, if not yet at its top rung. From our vantage as the mice in the fable, however, all the elephants are interchangeable.” Bellimar’s features creased in a wicked smile before he continued. “Of one thing I have no doubt: Morland’s plans extend beyond this city. For all its recent growth, it is still a weed at the remote edge of civilization when compared to the great cities of the east like Tar Mora and Hyaxus. There is wealth to be gained here, but wealth alone will not be enough for Morland forever. I suspect he plans to buy his way into nobility and rule.”
Amric returned to contemplating the darkness outside the carriage. He had spent most of his life beneath the open sky, or in forests or on battlefields; Sil’ath tribes built modest structures, and tended toward nomadic behavior. He had spent time in human cities, certainly, to learn of his own kind and to supplement his education in ways the Sil’ath could not. He had thought himself prepared for a city larger than he had yet seen, but the immensity of Keldrin’s Landing had been bewildering. To discover there were still larger cities dwarfing Keldrin’s Landing was sobering indeed.
“Ah,” said Bellimar, interrupting his reverie. “We approach the manor at last.”
Amric craned his neck forward and beheld a veritable fortress looming ahead. Tiny flames bobbed along the high battlements and peeked through the crenellations atop the towers, marking the patrols. Torches set in sconces at ground level cast a lurid amber glow and sent long black shadows crawling up the walls, giving the appearance of a great bonfire of stone set stark against the night.
The carriage and its escort clattered across a bridge and under the raised portcullis, into a well-lit courtyard. They drew to a halt, and the carriage door was opened. Amric stepped out, followed by his companions. The carriage trundled away, and the ten soldiers formed around them and ushered them into the manor proper. They passed through stout outer doors and into a large marble antechamber where the elaborate engravings almost fully concealed the archer slits in the walls, and on again into a more opulent grand entry. Broad marble stairways and ornate balustrades curved up and away on either hand, but they were marched straight through to another set of brass-bound double doors.
The guard in the lead signaled for a halt and gave a respectful rap to the door with one studded fist. A moment’s pause, and then the doors were opened from within to reveal a new set of guards in finer garb than their current escort. Crisp and professional, the interior guards motioned them inward and shut the doors, leaving their erstwhile attendants outside the room.
They were at one end of a majestic hall with furnishings as lavish as the other rooms they had passed through. As with the preceding rooms, Amric paid little attention to the décor, though his roving gaze lingered on the towering tapestries that brushed the floor, and he speculated at what they might conceal. An enormous table of dark wood stretched into the room; Amric did not bother to count the high-backed chairs, but he estimated that a full company of soldiers could eat at the table without fear of bumping elbows. A lone figure was seated at the far end of the table, an ornate goblet in one hand as he studied an array of papers spread before him. The guards, ten strong as the last group had been, encircled them.
“Weapons,” said one, in a tone that retained a measure of courtesy without offering the illusion of choice.
Amric glanced back at his companions, and found them watching him intently. The corner of his mouth quirked upward in a smile. He unbuckled the baldric that held the two swords across his back and placed it on the end of the table. He drew the knife from behind his belt and laid it beside the swords. After a moment’s hesitation, Halthak stepped forward and relinquished his gnarled staff as well. The guards eyed Bellimar, who spread empty palms and smiled, the peculiar intensity of his stare seeming to invite a challenge. The lead guard met that stare for a long moment, perhaps searching for deception, and then he suddenly leaned away from Bellimar and fell back half a step. Shaken, he cast about to his men as if to gauge their reactions, or to reassure himself of their presence. Then he recovered and made a curt gesture. The guards formed around them, and they moved as a group in formation through the room.
As they approached, Morland pushed the papers from him and raised the goblet to his lips, studying them with dark, dispassionate eyes over its jeweled rim. Amric was seated in the chair nearest Morland but still well out of arm’s reach, Halthak to his immediate left, and Bellimar next. The guards took stolid stances behind their chairs, hands resting on the pommels of their swords.
Amric took a moment to study the merchant. He was a tall man, lean and hard like a twisted piece of iron swathed in silks. His dusky complexion, aquiline features and sunken cheeks gave him a cadaverous appearance, and his dead eyes seemed to be weighing whether to eat his prey and be done with it or try to wring some utility from it first. Amric felt an immediate and abiding dislike for the man.
The silence hung taut in the air as they regarded each other. Finally Morland spoke in a voice like dry leaves. “Do you know why I am here, swordsman?” he rasped.
“It is your house,” Amric replied.
Morland’s eyes tightened at the corners. “Here, in Keldrin’s Landing?”
“For the scenery?” Amric hazarded. He heard Bellimar stir in his seat, but he did not glance aside.
“You are baiting me, here, at the center of my power?” Morland demanded.
“My apologies,” Amric said. “It seems I left my manners in an alley, skewered on the point of an assassin’s dagger. Forgive me for saying it, but you and Vorenius look nothing alike.”
“Ah yes,” Morland said. “Now is as good a time as any to put that distasteful matter behind us. The boy is an utter fool. I can scarcely believe we share a bloodline, however distant it might be. The only use I can find for him is gathering hired swords to me, and even that is largely just to keep him out from under foot.”
“If he is so onerous to you,” Bellimar said, “why retaliate on his behalf, when he was prevented from committing a heinous act, and still allowed his life in the end?”
Morland waved a dismissive hand. “Vorenius’s actions out in the wilds are his own affair, provided he does not invoke my name. Had you slain him, swordsman, I would have been well rid of him and the matter would be closed. As it is, you spared his life, and he returned to Keldrin’s Landing squawking of the assault to all who would listen. To my eternal chagrin, his relation to me is somewhat well known here, and thus propriety had to be observed.”
“Then it was a matter of etiquette?” Amric asked, bristling.
“I am pleased you understand. More importantly, I have devised a means by which we can clear the debt between us.”
“I owe you no debt,” Amric growled.
“Sadly,” said the merchant, “that is not, strictly speaking, the case. You have caused me a loss of face, however indirect, and I cannot be seen to brook such defiance. It would erode my business dealings.”
“What do you propose?” Bellimar interjected before Amric could retort.
“I understand you seek the Sil’ath warriors who came to me weeks ago,” Morland stated, then paused. “Speaking of which, where is your other Sil’ath companion?”
“Oh, he is about somewhere,” Amric said. “He sends his regrets that he will not be meeting you face to face this evening.”
The implication was not lost on Morland, who gave a tight-lipped smile. “How unfortunate. May he come to no harm in his wanderings tonight. As I was saying, you seek the Sil’ath warriors who came to me weeks ago. As circumstance would have it, they undertook a task for me but have not returned. You can absolve your debt to me, and theirs as well, by completing this task. This will be of mutual benefit to us both, since you must realize your best chance to locate them will be to follow in their steps.”
Amric bit back another angry response contesting the debt. He needed to glean as much as he could from this man, so instead he asked, “What is this task?”
“I am coming to that, swordsman. First I must return to my initial question: Do you know why I am here? No? It is not, as you put it, for the scenery.” Morland’s lip curled in disdain. “Geographically, this city is an inconsequential little dung heap. It is making me rich, I must admit, but I will celebrate the day I leave this place behind. Being here in Keldrin’s Landing is like living in a demon’s armpit. Strategically, however, this city enjoys a number of unique properties that warrant close consideration. Very close consideration indeed.”
He trailed off, one finger caressing the base of the goblet. After a moment, Bellimar cleared his throat. Morland’s brow creased in irritation and he turned to the old man as if noticing him for the first time.
“Your name is Bellimar, yes? How did you come by it? Surely no parent would bestow it, given its history.”
Bellimar’s smile was fixed upon his face, and he did not return the sudden looks from his companions. “You were extolling the strategic properties of this city, Morland?”
“So I was,” Morland murmured. “Of this region, more accurately. This wart of a city just happens to be the nearest speck of civilization to the phenomenon. Are you aware that the greatest scholars among the nations are observing a marked drop in the world’s magical energies, of late?”
Amric and Halthak exchanged a blank look. Only Bellimar seemed unsurprised at the turn of the conversation.
“It is true,” Morland said. “It was gradual at first, a year or more ago, but in recent months it has accelerated. The most powerful sorcerers in all the lands are expressing concern as they can no longer draw on the same reservoirs of power they have in the past.”
“I fail to see the problem,” Amric said in a dry tone.
“Do not be a fool, boy,” the merchant snapped. “Magic is power, and our civilizations are in no small way built on that power. If this trend continues at its current rate, we face chaos and upheaval on a heretofore unseen scale.”
“There are many who theorize,” Bellimar said, his voice soft, “that magic is so intrinsic to life that, were that energy to ebb too low, our world would become a barren husk, devoid of life. Remember our discussion of auras, swordsman. Magic resonates with other magic, humming together like harmonic vibration, and we exist in accord with the energy that permeates our world. Not only will the fantastic creatures suffer from its loss. None of us would survive.”
Amric said nothing, unconvinced. A world with less magic, or no magic at all, sounded very much like an improvement to him. Morland, however, was nodding grudging approval.
“An educated man,” he said. “Furthermore, are you aware that this region is seeing an even more marked increase in magical energies, as they decline everywhere else? So much so that sorcerous endeavors in this area have become hazardous due to their unpredictability, their sheer instability. Imagine, if you will, lighting a candle only to have it blaze up and fill the room with flame. It is as if all the magical energies in the civilized lands are being drawn to this region.”
“Perhaps even,” Bellimar said, “all the magic in the world.”
Amric shifted, uncomfortable at the thought. “Why is this occurring?”
“No one knows,” Morland said, with another appraising look at Bellimar. “But it is also behind the swell of wealth here, in Keldrin’s Landing. The area was discovered to be rich in natural resources quickly enough after Keldrin first landed here. Now, however, the gems and minerals here are imbued with essence energies at a much higher rate than anywhere and anytime in recorded history. The nations have boundless appetites for such baubles: focus jewels to enhance rituals, magic alloys that never dull or cannot be pierced, and countless more. Those with mining rights, such as myself, were until recently making money as quickly as we could pull it from the ground.”
“Why no longer?” Amric asked.
“Our crews have fled their work sites, and many have departed the region entirely on the first ship that would have them. Chance or not––and I tend to think not––the meteoric rise in magic has coincided with a spreading contagion of dark creatures. We lost many workers, vanished or found torn limb from limb, and now no amount of promised wages is sufficient to coax them into performing their duties.”
Morland shook his head and sighed, and Amric ground his teeth. The merchant cared nothing for the loss of life, only his own profits.
“And thus,” said Bellimar, his tone wry, “the wealthy elite of Keldrin’s Landing found themselves at the golden spigot, now clogged, and put out a plea for assistance to the lands. Ample reward offered to any blades that would travel here and pit themselves against these creatures. Payment terms in arrears, naturally?”
“Spare me your moral arrogance, Bellimar,” the merchant sneered. “If you share anything with your namesake, you are on shifting sand of your own.”
Bellimar pressed on, his grin broad and predatory. “But times of strife call out to avarice, and one’s rivals can be so wonderfully vulnerable when all attention is facing outward. So the wealthy must fortify against each other, and continually more so as the armament continues; for every coin spent on the public defense, two go to outfit the estate. Stop me when you wish to resume the narrative yourself, Morland.”
“How does all this relate to my Sil’ath warriors?” Amric interrupted. “They would not have been diverted to serve as hired swords so that you could return to exploiting laborers.”
“You are correct, swordsman. Irksome, but correct. Your friends refused any offer of employ, but we found a common goal nonetheless.”
Amric snorted. “I doubt that.”
“Immaterial, as it is still true,” Morland remarked. “You see, your reptilian friends were seeking the source of the disruption in this region, for reasons they refused to divulge. I too have been seeking its source, investing considerable resources into research on that very subject. I offered to put your friends on the right path, provided they returned to me with any information they discovered regarding the fate of a business associate of mine who has been closely studying the phenomenon. The mineral wealth in this region has become secondary to a deeper game now.”
Amric’s jaw tightened. “Controlling the flow of magic.”
Morland gave an approving nod. “Very good. Your brains are not all in your sword arm, then. As magic grows scarce elsewhere and bountiful here, there may be opportunity to control the flow, the supply, the very future of magic on this world. Unfortunately, your friends failed to fulfill their end of the bargain by perishing somewhere out there, and still I lack the information I require.”
Amric felt the rage that had been simmering inside him swell against his restraint, cause a spider web of cracks, and burst through like a searing geyser. His vision swam before him, and he darted a look at his companions. He thought his expression under strict control, but they read his intent nevertheless; Bellimar’s eyes narrowed an almost imperceptible amount, and Halthak swallowed hard.
Morland was saying, “Now, we could transfer that accord to you, as would be only––”
Amric twisted in his seat and struck the guard behind him in the throat with rigid fingers in a hard upward motion that catapulted the man backward. In a flash, the swordsman was out of his chair and across the table. Morland had a split second in which to gape in shock before Amric hammered into him, overturning the merchant’s chair and landing astride him with hands locked about his throat as they slid to a halt on the marble floor. The jeweled goblet hit the floor with a wet clang and skittered away. Amric witnessed a fleeting gamut of emotions flicker through Morland’s bulging eyes: terror, pain, fury, appraisal, scheming. Then they were hooded once more. The man must have ice in his veins, a detached part of Amric marveled, to retain his sneer in the face of his own demise. The explosion of movement occurred with such blinding speed that the remaining guards were rooted in astonishment for a long moment before putting hands to sword hilts and charging forward.
“Come no closer!” Amric commanded, his grip tightening on the merchant’s throat. “I can snap his neck before you take another step.”
The guards stumbled to a halt, uncertain, and then fell back as the merchant gave a surreptitious signal with one pinned hand. Morland’s neck was very near its breaking point, and yet he managed a glare through the agonized wince.
“You,” he said, his breath wheezing through his constricted windpipe, “are a very fast man.”
“And your indifference to the fate of my friends offends me,” Amric said. He leaned his face closer to the merchant’s, until the tips of their noses almost touched. “All this wealth, all this power, and I can end it right here in an instant. I wonder, does Vorenius stand to inherit it all?”
“Now you are being purposely cruel, swordsman. You have my attention, but you still need something from me. How shall we proceed?”
“Remove the price from our heads, and give us the sum of all information you supplied my friends, so that we may follow their trail. If they live, we will find them, and they will deliver the information they owe you, as per whatever agreement they struck with you.”
“I will suspend the price on your heads,” Morland countered in a rattling gasp, “and remove it once the information is delivered to me by your friends or by you. It will be reinstated if you return empty-handed.”
They remained frozen for interminable seconds, Amric glowering down at the merchant while the latter scowled back in defiance. The guard that Amric struck in the throat thrashed onto his side on the floor, drew one short, whistling breath, and vomited with conviction.
“Agreed,” the swordsman said finally. “But before I release you, bear in mind that my Sil’ath friend Valkarr is inside your manor at this very moment, having infiltrated unseen earlier this evening, and he is faster than I am. He will depart your estate grounds after we have done so, safely.”
Morland’s black eyes glittered. “Understood.”
Amric released him and sprang to his feet. The merchant sat up with a grimace and put ginger hands to his throat, drawing deep, ragged breaths. His angry gaze raked over his guardsmen waiting with their fists curled tight around their sword hilts, then to the weapons piled at the far end of the table, then to Bellimar and Halthak standing before their chairs, and at last back to Amric, poised on the balls of his feet.
Finally he spoke in a rasp, “Get them the maps, and get them out of my sight.”
The interior of the carriage was primarily silent on the ride back to the estate perimeter, as the three companions each sat lost in their own thoughts. Amric held tight to the leather satchel containing the merchant’s maps and papers, his mind already racing ahead over the necessary preparations for the coming journey.
There was but one interlude of conversation.
“Amric?” Halthak whispered.
“Yes?”
“Was it true, what you said about Valkarr?”
“No, I am slightly faster.”
“I meant about him being in the manor house, ready to act.”
“Ah, yes, that part was true.”
Morland sat in the high-backed chair, tapping the heavy ring on his finger against the base of his goblet. Each tap was accompanied by an audible clink that echoed through the great hall. He did not move otherwise, but his gaze sifted through the corner shadows as he waited. Remembering Amric’s words, he quelled a spark of unease that the warrior’s Sil’ath friend might have stayed behind after all, might have evaded all the searching patrols and come here for him. He had sent all his guards from the room, as his next guests were peculiar, and the common soldiers found them unnerving. They always made his flesh crawl, despite their devotion to him, but now he felt too vulnerable alone and just found himself hoping they would arrive before some faceless intruder found him instead.
When they appeared, it was from the opposite direction he was facing. It always was, he thought, irritated; but then, that’s what made them so good at what they did. He spun around at the low sound of their laughter. Twin shocks of white hair above pale, mocking faces seemed to hang disembodied in the air, and then dark leather-clad forms formed beneath them. Nyar and Nylien, the twin Elvaren assassins, stepped from the shadows.
“I do not like to be kept waiting,” Morland snapped.
The Elvaren said nothing, and Morland felt a chill. He relied on their speech patterns to know when their ever volatile natures were turning against a target, and he did not want to inadvertently become one. He tried a different tact.
“You heard everything, I trust?” he said.
“We did, lord,” one replied. Nyar or Nylien, he could never tell them apart. “You were very tolerant of its boorish behavior.”
“Then you heard our arrangement as well. They are to complete a task for me, and then they will be yours once more. They must live for now.”
“We understand, lord.” There was a petulant quality to his voice.
“You need not worry, my boys,” Morland soothed. “I will find targets for you until they return.”
“As you command, lord,” one of the Elvaren said, mollified. They turned, faded back into the shadows and were gone.
Morland began to sift through the papers on the table, paused at a thought, and spoke into the air. “The guard who was struck down tonight and failed me, I have no further use for his service.”
The reply was a whisper, directionless. “Thank you, lord.”
Morland sipped from the goblet and resumed reading.