Honor Bound (10 page)

"Where is Volgo?"

"Heartstone Island!" the man
shrieked. "Works for the adept Rhendish, he does! They're coming to
Stormwall tomorrow. I can take you to them."

He'd be dead long before dawn. If
not for the human ability to ignore truths they didn't wish to
contemplate, the man would know this.

Nimbolk toed the fallen club. "Where
you there? Was it you that killed the queen's champion?"

"I . . . I don't know what you're
talking about."

Nimbolk reached for his hood and
jerked it down. An elf with pale skin and brown hair might pass for
human, but only if he took care to hide his distinctive
ears.

"Dead gods," the human swore. "I
know you. You were with that fancy elf bitch."

Nimbolk's boot slammed into the
man's jaw and knocked him flat onto his back. He hooked one toe
under the club and flipped it up, catching it by the handle. The
worst insult one fighter could offer another was to end him with
his own weapon.

"Stand," he commanded.

The thug struggled to his feet.
"You'd kill an unarmed man?"

"You were armed when I killed you.
That's more than you can say for the elves you murdered in the
forest grove."

The man dipped one gloved hand into
a pocket. As the fabric gaped open, the smell of salt and minerals
grew stronger. Nimbolk waited until the man drew out a fistful of
powder and started an underhand toss.

Nimbolk swung the club, catching the
man's hand and driving it up into his own face. A cloud of greenish
mineral salt surrounded him. Crystals melted and sizzled as they
met flesh.

The man fell to his knees, shrieking
and clawing at his eyes. Nimbolk poked him in the ribs with the
club in deliberate imitation of his treatment of the fisherman. He
must have sensed the elf's intent, for he flung both hands over his
head and cringed away from the coming blow.

But Nimbolk hesitated. This man did
not deserve to die the same death as the queen's
champion.

He broke the club over one knee and
drove the jagged edge up under the thug's ribcage.

Behind him, the fisherman gave a
choking cough. It occurred to Nimbolk that the man might be
laughing.

He turned and knelt beside the
fisherman. The grim mirth faded from the man's face as his gaze
locked onto Nimbolk's elfin ears. Terror glazed his
eyes.

"I didn't say anything. . . about
your people. The boat, the fairy girl that took it. I swear it! But
Dorn . . . he pulled the Fox out of the water. Knows he's alive.
They'll find Dorn. He's got no love for the adepts, but he won't
bleed . . . to keep the thief's secrets."

Nimbolk sat back on his heels,
surprised by this sudden outpouring. "You could have saved yourself
a beating if you'd told that to Volgo's men. Why tell
me?"

"All Volgo's men can do is kill
me."

The fisherman slowly lifted one hand
and to his heart and with great effort traced a circle—a warding
against evil. He tried to say something more, but blood spilled
from his mouth and ran in crimson streaks down his beard. A tremor
ran through him and he lay still.

Nimbolk rose, staring at the dead
man in puzzlement. Perhaps these humans knew so little of elves and
fairies that they thought them the same people?

The fisherman had been right about
one thing, though. The harsh death he'd suffered at the hands of
Volgo's men was quicker and kinder than a fairy's mercy.

Nimbolk tipped his head back to
study the cliff. It curved out over the sea, dropping off in a
sheer rock wall. The fortress overlooked the port—the only
deepwater harbor on any of Sevrin's islands—but it also sprawled
along the crescent-shaped cliff. Toward the end of that curve stood
a round tower, an ancient stone keep that reflected the light of
the first evening star.

He walked along the base of the
cliff until the incoming tide left him nowhere to go but up.
According to the gossipy fisherfolk and their speculation about the
Fox's raid, climbing the rock wall was impossible. By the time the
moon rose, Nimbolk was beginning to think they were more right than
wrong.

Hours passed before he rolled onto
the ledge and staggered to the base of the tower, shaking with
fatigue.

No guards patrolled this part of the
cliff and no lights shone in the windows placed high on the tower
walls. Nimbolk tried the door, but the locks on the iron grate held
firm. Again, the only possible path was straight up.

From a distance, the tower might
look perfectly smooth, but hundreds of years of sea wind and salt
air had worn away at the thick walls. Finding handholds in the
rough stone took time, but it was not impossible.

Finally Nimbolk's hand closed on a
window sill. He pulled himself up and edged aside the unlatched
shutter.

His gaze swept the starlit room for
danger. Dozens of weapons hung on the walls or in cases, but no
guards stood ready to wield them. After a moment, it struck Nimbolk
that the chamber was more like a shrine than an arsenal.

The stone walls had been plastered
and painted to resemble the trees surrounding a forest glen. Potted
plants added to the illusion, which was crude but clearly
heart-felt.

Nimbolk slipped into the room and
moved from one case to another. Most of the weapons were
elf-crafted, and those that were not were similar enough to fool
those who had no ear for the magic they held.

Another case held jewelry; yet
another, elaborately tooled leather bracers. Books filled a row of
shelves. To Nimbolk's surprise, some of them were filled with
Elfish runes.

Muldonny had amassed a remarkable
collection. Even more astonishing, it appeared that the adept's
intent was to honor elfin culture rather than plunder it. Placing
the treasure at the keep's highest point showed that the adept had
been familiar with elfin custom. Dwarves buried their wealth, while
elves kept things of value atop ancient trees and in the highest
towers of mountaintop keeps.

Nimbolk wondered if the adept had
understood why.

Stars sent vibrations into the night
sky. Elf-crafted items resonated with it, captured and magnified
and stored it to be released later in a burst of speed or power or
magic. Starsong might be as constant as air, but on clear, bright
nights an elf could feel it in his blood and bones.

An echoing melody came from the sea
beyond. Nimbolk went to the window. In the open sea south of the
island, a whale breached and blew. Its eerie, plaintive song
shimmered across the water. As Nimbolk watched, more whales joined
the singer.

Only elves and whales could hear
starsong. Only whales could sing it back to the sky.

Watching the pod brought Nimbolk
almost as much pain as comfort. They had their shared song, and
whatever rituals they enacted in the ocean depths. He had only the
healing to be found in these stolen relics. It was almost a relief
when the whales sank beneath the waves.

He'd been away from his kind for too
long.

* * *

The old man huddled in the curtained
alcove in a corner of the adept's workshop, torn between exhaustion
and exhilaration. The trip to Khronus had taken more strength than
he could spare. Still, it had been good to leave Rhendish Manor.
He'd haunted this place for so many years that some days he wasn't
entirely certain that he was not, in fact, a ghost.

But the trip had been well worth the
strain. Relying on another man's sorcery had taxed his pride, but
what else could he do? His own magic was long gone.

The murmur of voices in the work
room grew louder. He leaned closer to listen.

"Are you quite certain you don't
know the dwarf's whereabouts?"

The adept's voice was deep and
pleasant, despite the serrated edge of irritation in his
question.

"I have told you that I do not," the
elf said. "I left Muldonny's workroom moments before it exploded.
That was the last I saw or heard from him."

"What part did he play in the
attack?"

"He led the way up the oubliette
shaft. They came in from the sea caves."

"Are there tunnels beyond these
caves?"

"Yes, but I doubt anyone could find
them. The tunnel openings will be blocked and the stone walls will
be seamless. Dwarf masons do extraordinary work."

"How many dwarf masons are we
talking about?"

"Nine."

"That's all?" Rhendish sounded
relieved. "Did you find out why they were working with the
thief?"

"Fox and the young dwarf were
friends. I don't know the how and why of that. The other dwarves
followed the youth."

"I see," he murmured. "And what do
you suppose they'll do now, assuming their leader is
dead?"

"If they stay, they'll clear a few
old tunnels, eke out an existence. More likely they'll return to
the mainland."

"Did he tell you what brought
dwarves to Sevrin?"

"No."

"But you know, don't you?" the adept
persisted. "I sense there's more to the tale."

The old man shifted
impatiently.
And I sense that both of you
are stalling
.

"Some years back, I heard rumors of
a scandal," the elf said. "A dwarf lord, king in all but name,
rules the vales and mountains on the sunrise side of the forest. He
has five sons. Another king sent his daughter to wed one of the
lord's sons in an alliance between their two clans."

A bitter smile curved the old man's
lips. Dwarves and elves took alliances very seriously. No one knew
this better than he.

"Making the match was put in the
hands of the second-eldest son, who acted as the heir's steward.
Apparently this dwarf had little talent for his role. The fifth
brother was loyal to the heir but considered the steward
unreliable. To prove to the heir that his steward lacked judgment,
the youngest brother challenged him to a game of chance. When all
was said and done, the steward had gambled away the princess's
dowry."

"Among humans, this would most
likely lead to war."

"Among dwarves, it leads to
marriage," the elf said with dry humor. "The princess Hedvig
declared that since the dowry had changed hands, a match was made.
She declared herself betrothed to Delgar, the youngest
brother.

"The steward convinced the heir that
this was evidence of Delgar's ambition. The heir took the second
brother's advice and sent Delgar away. Hedvig remains in the
clanhold. Everyone involved wants her to wed the heir, but she's
said to be stubborn even by the measures of dwarves. She declared
her intention to wait out the exile."

"So these nine dwarf masons will
return to bring news of their young lord's death so that the clan
alliance can be concluded."

"That is my assumption, yes. If he
lives, he'll finish out his exile and return to his
clanhold."

"Good."

Silence fell. Lingered.

Soft footsteps approached the old
man's alcove. He was about to dart back into the hidden passage
when he heard the window latches snap. The creak of shutters
followed as the elf swung them open to let in the
starlight.

"The lamps are lit," Rhendish
pointed out.

"Then call one of your guards and
we'll begin."

The old man edged the curtain aside
just in time to see the adept's jolt of surprise. "Why?"

The elf turned to face him.
"Removing the metal from my body will require time and effort. You
might decide the process is more trouble than my service is worth.
Once we start, you'll have a knife in my arm. One flick is all it
would take to sever the veins."

"If killing you was my intention, a
clockwork guard couldn't prevent me."

"No, but it could make sure I don't
die alone."

The adept huffed. "Few people do
their best work with a sword pointed their way."

"Will you call the guard, or shall
I?"

The adept gave a single terse nod.
In moments a metal guard clanked into the room and drew a
sword.

Rhendish sent the construct a
disgusted look and reached for a small, curved knife. The elf took
a chair and laid her arm on the attached metal table.

The adept dipped the tip of his
knife under one of the stitches on the elf's arm, flicking aside
the threads one by one. She did not flinch, and when the knife sank
deep into living flesh, she did not scream. Not when he clamped off
the veins to slow the flow of blood, not when he removed tiny bolts
holding a metal bone in place, not even when he pulled the bar free
with what appeared to be more force than was strictly
necessary.

A metallic rustle filled the room as
the clockwork guard shifted, raising its sword for a sweeping
cut.

"My arm, your head," the elf said
softly.

Rhendish removed a slender crystal
bone from the skeleton, the smaller of the two forearm bones. The
starsong humming through the crystal faltered. The elf's eyes
glazed as the magic sustaining her fell silent.