“I told him to wait in your private study, lord,” she answered.

  “Perfect,” said Dacius, handing her his helm and gauntlets. “Send the basinet to the armorer for repair. I’ll go see what Alka wants.”

  “Shall I draw a bath, lord?”

  “By all means,” he said, bounding up the stairs. “And send some food to the study. Elven fare.”

  “Already sent,” the seneschal said somewhat disapprovingly. She rolled her eyes. “Like I don’t know my job.”

  Dacius reached the door to the study and threw it open. Lord Shara stood silhouetted against the far window. He was tall for an elf, nearly three and a half cubits, and he possessed a full measure of the lean grace which characterized his race. The green eyes, fine bone structure, and distinctly pointed ears were also classic elf features, but there was more gray than brown in his full head of hair. He wore the green and white leatherbark of the Inarr Regiment, with the crossed swords badge of the Legion over the heart.

  “Alka,” Dacius said. “It has been too long.”

  “Dacius, you look well. Keeping in shape I see,” the elf said, pointing to his armor.

  “Squire training,” Dacius explained, somewhat ruefully, “for Lord Wyrle’s niece.”

  The elf raised an eyebrow. “His niece?”

  “She is a very independent lady.”

  “There are few who accept such an honor,” Alka said, “even from the Duke of Norden West.”

  “I assure you, it was not by choice.” Dacius motioned for Alka to help him remove his platemail. The armor came off piece by piece, and they piled it beside the large desk which dominated the room.

  “So how did you come to sponsor this remarkable young woman?” the elf inquired after a decent interval.

  “Did I ever tell you how His Grace saved my life?”

  Alka shook his head.

  “Twice, in one day?”

  “No, I do not believe you have.”

  Dacius smiled. “It was during my first posting to the Hordelands, not six months after I earned my pendant and was accepted to wear the crossed swords. I became separated from my company during a goblin attack. I was surrounded. Lord Wyrle cut through the lines and broke me free. Then, on the way back to camp, he rescued me when I stumbled into a goblin pitfall.” He sighed. “My mistake came in the way I expressed my gratitude. I said to him, ‘If there is any way to repay you, I shall, by my honor.’”

  “An oath!” Alka said, not even trying to contain his laughter. “You gave him an oath in exchange for a mere duty of battle.”

  “The Duke,” Dacius said quietly, “considers it two separate oaths.”

  “Two!” Alka slapped the desk in amusement. “Oh, that is a heavy price, but tell me, Dacius. Is she any good?”

  “She nearly won her pendant this afternoon.”

  “Oh,” Alka said, “that is something I would like to see.”

  “I’m sure you would, just to watch me struck down by a squire.”

  Alka smiled. “If she is this close to her pendant, I am sure it would be a worthy match. And this was in full armor?”

  Dacius nodded, feeling a sense of pride. He felt immediately at ease with the elf, as if it had been only hours or days since they had last been together. “By the Creator,” he said. “Can it really have been two years? So much has happened since you left for Essienkal.”

  Some hint of pain must have shown in his face or his voice, because Alka’s manner became suddenly serious. “I heard about your family.”

  His family. The memories swarmed over him: his mother, his father, Cinder, just three more casualties in a long and bloody war, three more victims of goblin treachery, three more stones to cast shadows on a quiet hill.

  The war had gone well for Odenal. The human armies scored great victories in the Hordelands, forcing the goblin Heresiarchs to sue for peace. But on the day the treaty was signed a trio of goblin warships attacked the Isle of Rennock. Norden West was decimated by fire and steel. On his return, Dacius was greeted by the graves of his parents and his lover. Of course, the Heresiarchs denied knowledge of the raid, calling the attackers pirates and outcasts.

  “I am told—I am told they died well,” Dacius said. “My parents defending their lands and Cinder trying to shield a small child.”

  “Cinder?” said Alka.

  “My betrothed. You would have liked her. She had eyes that glowed like the sea mist. She—”

  Dacius pressed his eyes shut, fighting against the tears. He felt Alka’s hand come to rest on his shoulder. The touch was feather-light, but there was a quiet assurance in the grip that seemed to lend him strength. Dacius squeezed the elf’s hand with his own. “It is good to be together again.”

  “It is indeed. And we may stay together for quite some time.”

  “You mean you will be staying for a while?” said Dacius. “That’s wonderful.”

  The elf glanced around the room quickly before answering. “No, my friend, I mean you will be leaving with me. I am here to take you to the Holy City.”

  “Norivika?” Dacius did not try to conceal his astonishment. “But why?”

  “Forgive me, friend,” Alka said, “but now is not the time for explanations. We leave at sunrise, but no one must know our destination. If any ask, tell them we travel to Infiniterium on business for the Realm.”

  “Tomorrow! But that’s impossible. I can’t leave now. The repairs to the main hall are just under way. Plus, I’m still bartering for a decent shipment of new seed grain for the local farmers. And what about my responsibility as overseer of the new defenses and my obligation to Lord Wyrle’s niece? She’s almost ready, I tell you. How can I abandon her now? Give me a month, five weeks at the latest, and I’ll meet you at the Holy City.”

  Alka reached into his tunic and removed a carefully folded parchment. He handed it to Dacius. The letter simply stated that Lord Dacius Gemine was required to obey the instructions of Alka Shara in all matters pertaining to his quest. It was sealed with the personal signet of Cyrus, King of Odenal.

  “But why?” Dacius asked. “Why me?”

  “Because I know I can trust you. And because you are one of the finest Legionnaires I know.”

  “Oh, come on! There are many who—” He broke off, realizing that Alka was not trying to flatter him.

  The elf crossed the room to the fireplace. Two shields decorated the mantle: the crossed swords of the Legion, and the twin suns of House Gemine. Between the shields hung a straight, double-edged sword with a well-worn handle. “Is this your grandfather’s sword?”

  “You know it is.”

  Alka nodded. “A worthy blade. I think it would be a good idea for you to bring it along.”

  “Bring the vorpal sword? Why? Surely you don’t expect—”

  “Call it sentimentality,” the elf said. “I well remember the songs this blade sang in your grandfather’s hand.” He paused, staring at Dacius with his intense green eyes. “My friend, there are so many questions within you, but the answers must wait. I must have your trust in this, and I must have your word that you will do exactly as I have said. This is important, Dacius.”

  There was an edge in his friend’s voice that Dacius had never heard before, an edge that demanded respect. Alka would not ask if the need were not real.

  “You have my pledge, Alka,” Dacius said. “And with or without the King’s command, you have always had my trust. I will do as you instruct.”

  A knock at the door interrupted them.

  “Come in,” Dacius said.

  A serving maid entered, bearing a large platter of fresh fruit and roasted vegetables.

  Alka smiled. “Such a feast, and I must play the poor guest and turn down your hospitality. The hour is late and there are preparations to be made. I will call for you at first-light, my friend. Good night.”

  “Creator keep you.”

  As the elf strode quietly out of the room, the serving maid turned to follow.

  “Wait,” Dacius beckoned the maid. “Leave the food. And tell Charmaine I won’t be needing that bath after all. I want to see her, the marshal, and the steward in the main hall one hour from now. And tell the cooks to start some fresh bread; it’s going to be a long night.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  Dacius walked to the fireplace and took down the sword which had belonged to his father and his father’s father. The leather-wrapped hilt fit easily into his hand, as if his own fingers had worn the grooves in the grip. He pulled the blade from its metal sheath, admiring the perfect balance. Mystic runes seemed to flow like water across the blue-hued steel, proclaiming this as a weapon of power.

  The vorpal weapons were artifacts of the Wizards’ War, forged expressly to combat the Ill-creatures. That war was more than six decades gone, and no Ill-creatures had been seen in all those years. But now Alka wanted him to take up a sword which had been unused for generations, and Alka had never stopped carrying his own vorpal blade.

  Dacius sheathed the sword and rested it against the desk. He sat down, grabbing a quill and some blank paper. With a sigh, he began composing a letter to Lord Wyrle’s niece. It was, indeed, going to be a long night.

  Dacius lifted his sea chest onto the ceiling of the carriage. He had packed sparingly, but the trunk was still heavy with the weight of his armor and weapons. He made sure the chest was strapped securely in place. He had ordered Charmaine to stay in bed until truedawn, but he suspected she was watching anyway. He waved toward the window of the upstairs parlor and joined Alka in the cab.

  The elf sat alertly on the padded bench, looking as if he had both slept fully and been awake for hours. His bright green eyes showed no trace of fatigue. “Good morning,” he said.

  Dacius stretched, groaning softly at the stiffness in his back and shoulders. “I’ll suspend judgment, for now.”

  The driver cracked his whip and the horses started forward, hooves clacking rhythmically on the cobblestone drive. They passed the gatehouse and turned onto the gravel roadway, heading down the long slope into Norden West.

  The fields were red under Deneob’s feeble light, a hue that Dacius suspected was more than mirrored in his own bloodshot eyes. Most of the town was still asleep, though a few merchants on Market Square were already opening shop. The few people they did pass greeted them cheerily.

  Dacius loved that about Norden West. The Isle of Rennock lay outside the main trade routes, so its towns remained small and friendly. When Legion business took him to Infiniterium or Thyatius, the crowdedness and unruliness of the city always left him deeply disturbed. Norden West was his home in a sense that no busy city could ever match.

  They arrived at the docks, and the carriage pulled to a stop before an elven merchant ship. A proud three-masted vessel made of the finest trees from the Inarr. The name of the ship was inscribed on the bow in flowing elven script: Otan Stin.

  “Now I know why I had not heard of any Legion ships reaching port,” he said.

  “Secrecy, my friend,” said Alka.

  Alka paid the coachman and helped Dacius pull down his chest. They crossed the wharf and stopped at the foot of the trader’s gangplank. A pair of elves watched their approach from the ship’s deck.

  “Permission to come aboard, Captain,” Alka called out.

  “Aye, and welcome aboard, Lord Shara,” said the shorter of the two.

  “Captain Rone,” said Alka as they reached the top of the gangplank, “may I present Lord Dacius Gemine. Dacius, this is Captain Rone and his shipsage Vagen.”

  The two were a study in contrast. Vagen stood as tall as Alka and was so thin he appeared almost ephemeral. His skin was pale and unlined, but his hair was pure white. The captain was barely three cubits tall, but stocky for an elf. His tanned face carried deep wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, but there was no gray in the long brown hair which he wore braided and wrapped around his neck like a scarf.

  “Lord Gemine,” Captain Rone said, in the harshest rasp Dacius had ever heard from an elf, “you are welcome aboard the Otan Stin.”

  Then he turned and started bellowing to his crew. “Zubec, show Lord Gemine to his bunk and help him stow his gear. Everyone else, prepare for departure. Vagen, assume your post.”

  The elves scrambled to make ready as Captain Rone headed for the wheeldeck. One sailor detached himself from the activity and approached Dacius.

  “Shall we go below, lord?” he asked. Such a question, on ship or in battle, was never really a question, but a strong suggestion relayed from a superior.

  Dacius hesitated. He would prefer to stay on deck for the departure, but he didn’t want to make the sailor’s job more difficult.

  “It’s all right,” Alka said, bridging the silence. “You stay and watch, I’ll stow your gear.”

  The sailor nodded and picked up the gear; Alka had cleared it for the foreigner.

  Dacius thanked him and turned back to observe the crew. Some elves scurried through the rigging, preparing the sails, while others used long poles to push the ship away from the dock. The shipsage stood at the bow, leaning heavily on his oak staff.

  Captain Rone stood at the wheel, checking the clearance from the dock. “Mark!” he said. “Vagen, the ship is yours.”

  Vagen turned to face over the prow. He raised his staff and began chanting softly. Then he lowered one end of the staff and touched it to the deck. There was a moment of stillness as the oak of the staff fused with the wood of the deck. Then sagewind filled the sails and the ship began to move.

  Dacius felt the smooth acceleration, and listened to Vagen’s chanting. He inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of the sagewind. It was an aroma that was never encountered elsewhere, a mixture of salt and sea and the will of the sage. He knew sailors who swore they could identify a shipsage by the scent of his wind.

  Dacius felt an old longing rise within him, a longing for the sea, a longing which had been missing since his return from the Hordelands. “A good morning, indeed,” he said.

  The Otan Stin moved swiftly through the quiet waters of Norden Bay. As they cleared the natural harbor, Vagen released his control of the wood and the wind, yielding the ship to the natural currents. The shipsage looked spent from his efforts, but his steps were steady as he headed belowdecks to rest.

  Captain Rone shouted orders as the crew jumped to take control of the vessel. The Otan Stin caught the wind and turned north into the Great Sea. Off the starboard bow, Ellistar’s golden face was just rising over the Isle of Rennock.

  Dacius turned away from the rail and jumped when he saw Alka at his shoulder; he hadn’t heard the elf approach. He saw that several other elves were now on deck. Almost all wore the crossed swords of the Legion over their hearts, though their uniforms came from several different regiments. Dacius noted that the elves were all armed. Even Alka wore his vorpal sword, though the chances of piracy were slight this far from goblin lands.

  An old elf wearing undyed leatherbark sat on the steps to the wheeldeck, tuning a lute. His hair hung past his shoulders like strands of gray iron, restrained only by a headband of red silk. A sword rested on the elf’s left hip and a pair of ironwood rods hung from his right.

  Dacius was surprised; most elves had adopted steel weapons during the Wizards War. He had heard of elven fighting batons, but never seen them used.

  A crowd formed about the elf as he began to play. As Dacius and Alka moved closer, a strange look passed over his face. He shut his eyes and subtly altered the timbre of his music, slowing the tempo and moving down the scale. Then he started singing in the common tongue of the Realm, his slight accent giving the words a strange, lilting quality.

  Wrapped in armor, shining clear,

  A gallant knight who knows no fear.

  Horse hooves beat the ground with pride,

  As man and steed ride forth to cheer.

  Truth and honor are his guide

  Through devastated countryside.

  His battle cries, his solemn oaths:

  The beast that plagues this land defied.

  From darkest pit, flies forth the ghost,

  A dragon, black as Hel’s own host.

  He sounds his challenge to the knight,

  And spews his curse upon the coast.

  The hero charges to the fight,

  Pitting courage against might.

  The ring of steel, the dragon’s roar,

  The dance of death in cold twilight.

  The red sun falls beneath the shore.

  The dragon spreads his wings to soar.

  The golden star shines on the gear

  Of one brave knight who fights no more.

  The crowd of sailors and Legionnaires shifted uneasily. The elf played and sang marvelously, but the melancholy nature of his song had caught them off guard.

  “A beautiful song, Thildemar,” said Alka, “but such a grim ending. I do not believe I have heard it before. Is it an old tale?”

  “No, Alka Shara,” Thildemar said. “It came to me just now as I watched you and your friend approach.”

  The words hung in the air for several seconds before a call from above interrupted the silence.

  “Begging your pardon, Lord Shara,” said Captain Rone, “but if your man there is through depressing everyone, I was wondering if he could play something a little more cheerful for my crew. We don’t get to hear so fine a voice very often.”

  There was a general murmur of assent, and the aged elf started strumming a lively melody. He sang a ribald ballad of a dancing warrior and three enchanted maidens that soon lightened everyone’s mood.

  Dacius felt a tap on his shoulder. Alka motioned with his head, and the two of them disengaged from the crowd. Alka led him below deck and took him to the cabin that they would share for the voyage.

  “That was a disturbing song,” Alka said.

  “Indeed,” Dacius agreed. “And a strange singer, for all his talent.”

  “Thildemar? Do not worry, Dacius. I trust few men in this world, and none more than you, but I would gladly trust Thildemar with my life. In fact, I have done so on many occasions.”

  “But who is he? He isn’t Legion.”