The Black Elfstone

  Tigueron lay still, glaring at him. He was a big man, but the Druid had manhandled him effortlessly. “You won’t get out of here alive, you know.”

  Drisker bent close. “Nor will you, likely. Not after what you tried to do. Did I fail to mention my name? It’s Drisker Arc.”

  There was a flash of genuine fear in Tigueron’s face, and Tarsha, standing where she could watch while still keeping an eye on the room, did not mistake its meaning. Drisker was kneeling now, his face quite close to that of the other man, his dark features gone almost black with rage.

  “I should kill you and be done with it,” he hissed. “Do to you what you would have done to me. But I need something from you. If you give it to me, I will let you live.”

  Tigueron sneered. “How can I believe that?”

  “I don’t know. Find a way. It’s the only hope you have. Now listen closely, as I don’t intend to say this more than once. I don’t care all that much about you. I only care about the man who hired you. When did you make the contract?”

  Tigueron hesitated, and then shrugged. “Somewhere around six weeks back. I was to wait until the end of the month to fulfill my end of the bargain.”

  “He paid you, then?”

  “Letter of credit. I cashed it the next day to be sure it was good.”

  “A letter of credit? No gold or silver or coin? You must have been convinced the letter would be honored.”

  “Convinced enough. And I was right to be convinced. It was a goodly amount—although it ended up costing me too many members of my guild. And now it will likely cost me something more, won’t it?”

  Drisker ignored him. “Tell me his name.”

  The assassin leader’s face underwent several rapid changes of expression, but in the end it was one of harsh determination. “Go ahead and kill me! If I start naming names, I am a dead man anyway. Your reputation for Druid wisdom should tell you that much. Except you’re not a Druid anymore, are you? You’re an outcast, an exile, a man shunned by your own kind. Must hurt quite a bit, I imagine.”

  “You’re wasting your time if you think that you can anger me sufficiently that I will put you out of your misery. You’re going to tell me what I want to know. Do you know why? Because, sooner or later, whoever hired you is going to find out you’ve failed. They’re going to discover I’m still alive. And when that happens, your reputation as a reliable hire is finished. Likely, whoever finds out they paid for nothing will come after you. I am the only one who can save you. Reveal the name of whoever hired you and I’ll silence him. No one needs to know how I found out. That stays between you and me.”

  He placed two fingers at the juncture of Tigueron’s chin and throat, a soft spot on the neck that lacked adequate protection, and pressed in hard on his windpipe. “You are wasting my time. Decide now.”

  A look passed between them, followed by a long pause. Then Tigueron leaned forward slightly and whispered something. Drisker Arc backed away again, shaking his head. Tigueron whispered something more, and finally the Druid nodded. Then he took his hands away from the assassin’s throat, placed them on either side of the other man’s head in a curiously gentle way, and gave a vicious twist. Tarsha, standing twenty feet away, heard the snapping of neck bones.

  The Druid rose, wiping his hands on the dead man’s robes and then patting him gently on the head. Tarsha watched him carefully as he walked over to her. “I thought he told you what you wanted to know,” she said. “It seemed like he did.”

  “Oh, he told me. I just didn’t like the idea of giving him another chance at trying to kill me. I didn’t think I could trust his word to let things be. Better to end it here.” She caught a glimpse of a sad smile. “I suppose my word’s not so good after all.”

  His face was grim enough that she did not think it wise to pursue the matter further.

  —

  Drisker unsealed the door leading out by withdrawing the magic that bound it and led Tarsha back through the underground warren the way they had come, accurately following the escape route she had worked so hard to memorize, tracking it as if she were telling him verbally where to go every step of the way. In no time they were back in the front hall. The old man was waiting. He opened the door for them as they left, avoiding eye contact and saying nothing.

  Once out on the street again, they crossed through the crowds to the other side and found the boy waiting. “Take us back to the inn,” the Druid ordered and went silent.

  The return trip seemed to take forever. Some of it was due to the continued presence of heavy foot traffic in the streets and the raucous intrusion of the city’s nightlife surging in and out of pleasure houses, gaming parlors, and taverns, the cacophony of the crowds drowning out the possibility of any meaningful conversation. And some of it was due to the reluctance of anyone to speak.

  For Tarsha, she was still coming to terms with what she had just witnessed. She could not stop thinking about how swiftly Drisker Arc had dismantled that carefully secured room and gotten to those three men who believed themselves safe behind a barrier of iron bars. She kept seeing him as he sprang into motion—a black-robed dervish, a dark wraith with even darker intentions. He had been a force of nature, a creature of such resolve that he willed what he wanted to happen into being. He possessed astonishing strength, and he was ruthless. He had given his word to spare Tigueron’s life and then gone back on it. He had killed the Orsis assassin without hesitation, without a moment’s second thought.

  What must it take to be like that? What sorts of personal hardships did you have to endure before you became that cold?

  She wasn’t sure. She didn’t know that much about him. There were stories about her mentor, but she wondered how many more remained secret. She thought again of his admission that he had been born and raised on the streets of Varfleet, like their young guide. How many tales of that period in his life lay buried within him? She could not begin to imagine, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

  They had reached the inn when the boy turned to Drisker and held out his hand, waiting to be paid. For just an instant—one terrible instant—she wondered if the Druid would go back on his word. If he might even kill the lad. “Grandfather?” the boy said, sensing what she did. “Our agreement?”

  Drisker nodded and put his hand on the boy’s slender shoulder. “You did well tonight. You kept your word, and you deserve every credit I promised to pay you. My thanks.”

  He reached inside his cloak and produced a handful of notes. The boy’s eyes widened. “This is too much! We agreed on a smaller amount.”

  “I am changing the agreement. Consider it a bribe. I may need your services again one day.”

  Tarsha exhaled in relief. She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath.

  She was moving toward the inn door when she heard the boy say to her, “You’re very pretty.”

  She blushed deeply and was immediately irritated with herself. Drisker, watching, shook his head.

  “I forgot to ask you earlier,” he called after to the boy, who was already moving off into the mix of city lights and crowds. “What is your name?”

  The boy turned. “Ohmsford!” he shouted back. “Shea Ohmsford!”

  Then he was gone, disappearing into the night, leaving Drisker and Tarsha staring after him in disbelief.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have done it.”

  Over and over, like a litany, Tavo kept repeating the words, all as if to measure the steps he was taking along the roadway he was following, a refrain to accompany his progress. He spoke the words in a low monotone, without thinking about them, without tiring. His mind was spinning as he looked back two days to what he had been forced to do in that inn of cutthroats and monsters.

  Forced!

  It wasn’t his fault he’d killed them. It wasn’t his fault they were dead. They had lied to him and then tried to rob him. They would have killed him if he hadn’t saved himse
lf. He recalled hands and blades and hard looks in a frightening rush of images. They intended to hurt him and he hurt them, instead.

  They brought it on themselves!

  They had caused it to happen!

  Like his parents. Like his uncle. Like Squit Malk. Like all the others, although he no longer remembered who they were. It really didn’t seem to matter much anymore.

  His concentration broke. He stopped his mumbling and his voice trailed off. “Why did they do this to me?” he said to Fluken.

  Fluken did not reply. He never replied, although that didn’t much matter because Tavo always knew what he was thinking anyway. Fluken was his best friend—had been since Tavo discovered his magic. Fluken came to him unbidden, but with clear intent. He was there to be his friend. He was there to help him understand. He was there to listen. Fluken was the best friend Tavo had never had. He was always close by when Tavo used his magic and often encouraged him in his efforts. He never criticized, and he never attempted to pass judgment. He never complained, and he never contradicted.

  “We have a long way to go,” he told Fluken. “We have to find Tarsha.”

  Fluken gave him a sly look and a wink.

  “She hurt me,” Tavo added vaguely. “Hurt me inside.”

  They were walking along in the late-morning hours, on their way to the next village, and he was already starting to feel more than a little tired. “It will be necessary to show her. It will be necessary to hurt Tarsha, too. Not my fault. You can see that, can’t you?”

  As usual, Fluken just looked at him. But Tavo knew he agreed, and that his continuing presence was an affirmation of his decided course. It was reassuring. It was good to know Fluken would always be there.

  Something he had once believed to be true of Tarsha, as well.

  He stopped talking for a while, content to follow the road without paying much attention, his thoughts again drifting back to the tavern and the men he had left there, the life sucked out of them. Such men did not deserve to live. They wanted to hurt him. They wanted to steal his money and his possessions and cast him away like garbage. Like all the others, these men hadn’t known what he could do or they might have left him alone. How many had there been? Twenty, perhaps? Not that it mattered to him. Not really.

  No more than Tarsha mattered now. But he wondered, suddenly, what would happen after he found her. If he killed her, what would become of him then? His home and the people who had tried to claim him as their child were gone. His old life was finished. He would have to begin life over, and he had no idea where to start. Once it would have involved his sister. But if she were gone, he would be alone. This troubled him more than it should have. Suddenly he was crying, the pain of his loneliness excruciating. His stomach clutched and nausea swept through him. He doubled over and retched until his stomach had emptied.

  Off to one side, in the sunshine of a small grove of trees, birds were singing. He hated the sound. He screamed out at them, releasing his magic in a fiery torrent that shattered limbs and incinerated leaves. The birds went silent.

  Inexplicably, he felt a terrible urge to curl up and die.

  He almost gave in to it, but then he remembered his plan to find Tarsha, and the feeling gradually lessened and then passed altogether.

  —

  “I can stop using the magic anytime I want,” he declared to Fluken as they neared the next village. Dusk was settling in, and there were lights visible on the porches of houses and businesses; the buildings were set close together surrounding a small village green. He wondered again what the name of the village was, but it didn’t matter. All it had to offer was a chance for him to rest before going on.

  Fluken, as usual, said nothing.

  “I can, you know. I can quit. I know how to do it.”

  He was speaking now to Squit Malk, his uncle, and the man and woman who had been his parents as they walked beside him. Like Fluken, they said nothing. They were growing bolder, he thought. They had never dared to walk this close before. He shivered momentarily. He had no reason to be afraid, but their nearness was troubling. Maybe they wanted something from him. But it was too late for that. He had nothing to give them.

  “Get away from me!” he shouted finally, his hatred for them surfacing.

  They didn’t even bother to look at him, their dead eyes fixed on the empty space in front of them as they walked.

  He tried to remember what they had been like in life, but he had already pretty much forgotten. Most of the particulars of the events that formed the building blocks of his early life were lost to him. His mind was fuzzy these days, and the part of it that still worked was consumed with thoughts of Tarsha’s betrayal. Everything else seemed unimportant—even the reasons behind what he had done to his fellow travelers.

  He traipsed along in sullen silence through rows of silent buildings, peering into the approaching darkness, searching for a place where he might find shelter for a few hours. It had been raining again, although he hadn’t noticed until now, and he was soaked through and chilled to the bone. The unpleasantness and discomfort persisted, but his thoughts were on other things, the burning in his heart all-consuming.

  Tarsha.

  Why?

  Ahead, a man was working in his yard, covering planting beds and their fruit-bearing vines and bushes with netting, his own clothes as wet as Tavo’s. The man’s house looked warm and inviting, and he was tempted to walk over and ask if he could spend the night. But then the man’s wife called to him from within and Tavo heard the voices of children and thought better of it. The man turned and waved to him but Tavo just kept walking.

  He didn’t think he could trust anyone. Even to be dry and warm and maybe be given something to eat.

  It seemed that only moments had passed and suddenly he was through the village and out in the countryside. He looked around in surprise, but he did not turn back. There would be no turning back. He trudged on until he saw a dim light ahead, a spot of brightness in the damp dark. It was a fire, lit beneath the boughs of an ancient chestnut, and a man was sitting there, warming himself.

  When he drew even, the man looked up. “Hey there, fellow traveler, you are welcome to come sit with me. You can get dry and have a bite of my food. Come on over; I don’t mean no harm.”

  And he beckoned, pausing in the midst of the meal he was consuming to emphasize his insistence.

  Tavo wanted to go. The man had a kind face and a gentle voice. He didn’t sound like he wanted anything or would try to hurt Tavo. But Fluken was whispering in his ear. No, no, no. He hesitated, but then decided he would take a chance. One man, alone, was no threat. Fluken meant well, but he would simply have to understand. That’s what friends did, after all.

  He walked over to the fire and sat down across from the man. It was dry beneath the big tree’s leafy boughs, and the little gathering of wood scraps and twigs blazed cheerfully. Without a word, the man scooped some meat and potatoes out of a small kettle that was hanging over the flames and handed the bowl to him. Tavo nodded his thanks and began to eat. The stew was hot and tasty, and he consumed it with relish. It had been two days since he had eaten anything.

  Back at that tavern, standing alone among all those dead men—that was the last meal he had eaten.

  Fluken did not come over to the fire with him. He remained out in the rain, although when he looked Tavo could not see him.

  “Traveling far?” the man asked suddenly.

  Tavo shrugged. “Not sure.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Another shrug.

  “Well, you don’t need to tell me if you don’t know. Stew good?”

  Tavo nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, no thanks needed. I saw you walking out there, soaked through and looking more than a little sad. I knew you needed someone to lend you a hand. Didn’t want to stay back there in the village, I gather?”

  Tavo shook his head.

  “I’m like that.” The man ate the last bite of his food and set the b
owl aside. “I prefer the outdoors and my own company. Never know what to expect in the villages. Some aren’t such good places.” He gestured at Tavo. “Looks like you might have found that out for yourself.”

  Tavo shook his head again, then glanced down at the blood on his clothing. “I had an accident.”

  “Well, it seems like it might have been a serious one. Not your blood, is it? I hope not. Someone else’s maybe; that would be all right, I guess. If they were troubling you.”

  Tavo was getting tired of all the talking, especially the questions. He shook his head and turned away, not wanting to listen to any more of it.

  The man hesitated and stopped himself from saying more. “You must be tired. Why don’t you sleep now? Here’s an extra blanket. Wrap yourself up close by the fire and rest. Tomorrow’s always a new start for those like ourselves.”

  He produced a ragged blanket and passed it to Tavo, who took it without comment, rolled into it, and lay down next to the fire. In minutes, he was fast asleep.

  —

  It was deep in the night when he woke. He wouldn’t have woken at all if not for Fluken. His friend was hissing at him, his voice raw and urgent. Something was wrong. The words weren’t clear and Fluken was speaking to him from the darkness, but there was no mistaking his tone of voice. Tavo opened his eyes and peeked out guardedly. The man who had fed him and given him a blanket was searching his pack, rummaging through it furtively, pulling things out, looking them over, and slipping them back inside again.

  Tavo sat up quickly, facing him. “What are you doing?”

  The man wheeled about, startled and frightened, his kind face twisted into a mask of desperation. “Nothing. Your pack tipped over and some of your things spilled out. I was just trying to put them back. The ground’s damp, and I didn’t want everything to get all wet. Here it is, all of it, safely back where…”

  He trailed off. It sounded as if he were telling the truth, but Tavo knew he wasn’t. “You were stealing from me,” he said.