Elfshadow

by Elaine Cunningham

  Arilyn’s voice rang out through the empty garden. There was a moment’s pause, then Kymil Nimesin stepped out from behind the statue.

  “Arilyn. You cannot know how delighted I am to see you,” he said, his patrician tones rounded with satisfaction.

  “Let’s see how quickly I can change your opinion on that matter,” Arilyn said, as she drew Danilo’s sword in challenge.

  Before the steel had scraped free of its scabbard, several elven warriors emerged from their hiding places amid the boxwood hedges. Weapons in hand, they formed a semicircle behind Kymil, ready for his signal to attack.

  “Need help these days, do you?” Arilyn asked.

  Kymil regarded her weapon with dismay. “Where is the moonblade?” he demanded.

  “If you’re here, the elfgate must be nearby. Surely you didn’t think I’d bring the moonblade with me.”

  Kymil stared at her, not sure whether to believe her or not. His noble plan, his grand design, could not be thwarted by a mere halfbreed. It was impossible. His handsome bronze face gleamed with righteous wrath. “Where is the sword?” he repeated.

  “Where you cannot get it,” Arilyn responded, smiling.

  The gold elf’s narrowed eyes glittered with malevolence as he changed his tactics. “This is a surprise. You’ve been so malleable all these years. Who would have thought that you could be as stubborn and stupid as Z’beryl?”

  The comment caught Arilyn off guard, just as Kymil had intended it to do. A cold hand of sorrow clutched at her heart. “What do you mean?”

  “What else could I mean?” he taunted. “After I learned the secret of the moonblade, it took me fifteen years—fifteen years!—to discover that Amnestria and the elfgate were in Evereska. I might still be looking, had I not encountered some students who had studied under Z’beryl of Evereska.”

  “I doubt any of Mother’s students knew her identity. I can’t believe any of them would betray her,” Arilyn said.

  “Not intentionally, perhaps. In their admiration for your departed mother, they tried to mimic her unusual two-handed fighting technique.” He spread his arms wide. “Imagine my chagrin to finally find elf and sword, only to learn that the moonstone was gone and the elfgate still denied me. Naturally, your mother refused to tell me where the stone was, so I ensured that the blade would pass to someone who promised to be more reasonable.”

  The color drained from Arilyn’s face. “You killed her.”

  “Of course not,” Kymil retorted, his voice tight with self-righteous scorn. “She was, as the watch reported, killed by a couple of cutpurses, though perhaps I sold the men some enspelled weapons. Perhaps I also informed them that she carried a heavy purse.”

  Arilyn hurled an elven curse at Kymil Nimesin like a javelin. He curled his lip in a show of disdain. “If you must be vulgar, by all means speak in Common and do not sully the elven language.”

  “You filthy murderer,” she spat. “Now I have one reason more to kill you.”

  “Don’t be tiresome. I did not kill Z’beryl,” Kymil reiterated calmly. “I merely passed on some information to the cutpurses who did. Of course, I don’t mourn the use they made of that information.” Kymil paused and swept a hand toward the gold elven fighters behind them. “Soon you will join her in whatever afterlife awaited her.”

  Arilyn saw a familiar face among the elves. “Hello, Tintagel. Still Kymil’s shadow after all these years?”

  “I follow Lord Nimesin,” Tintagel Ni’Tessine corrected her with cold disdain, “as did my father before me.”

  “Making a family business out of being assassins, are you?”

  “Can one use the term assassination to refer to eradication of gray elves? Extermination would be a more likely term,” he sneered.

  “That is apt,” Kymil agreed. “Once we open the gate, my Elite will slip in and kill every member of the so-called royal family. With the moon elf usurpers gone, the proper order and balance will be restored.”

  “I see,” said Arilyn slowly. “And Kymil Nimesin will reign in their stead, I imagine.”

  “Hardly.” Kymil gave a patrician sniff of scorn. “The high elves, the true Tel’Quessir, do not require the vulgar trappings of royalty. I will restore the ruling council of elders, as it was in the days of Myth Drannor.”

  “Will you, now?” Arilyn taunted him. “It seems to me that you’ll have to get to the moonblade first. How you’re going to remove it from Khelben Arunsun’s safe is a marvel to me.”

  “That is a lie,” the quessir snapped. “You cannot lay aside the moonblade on a whim. With the sword whole once more, you are tied to it like mother and newborn. If the sword were truly so far away, you would be dead.”

  “What can I say?” Arilyn returned with a flippant shrug. “It’s amazing what one can do when properly motivated. I refuse to die while you still draw breath.” Her face hardened.

  “Maybe you’re right about the moonblade, and it could be that neither of us has long to live. I challenge you, Kymil Nimesin, to single combat. May the gods judge between us.”

  “Your pretension is almost amusing,” said Kymil. “The student cannot possibly hope to vanquish the master.”

  “It has been known to happen.”

  The elf regarded her for a moment, then he noted in a condescending manner, “My dear Arilyn, you cannot fight a duel with that lifeless blade.”

  In reply, the half-elf raised Danilo’s sword to her forehead in challenge.

  Kymil merely laughed and turned to the Elite. “Kill her.”

  * * * * *

  Khelben Arunsun stood by a window of Blackstaff Tower, gazing out into the gathering night. Try as he might, he could not rid his mind of Danilo’s words. In the matter of the elfgate, the wizard had done what he thought best. The Harper council had decided that secrecy was the only real protection for the elven kingdom, and they had guarded the secret by dividing it up like so many chunks of bread. At the time, it had seemed to be the most prudent course to take.

  Now Khelben was not so sure. Harpers worked in secret, always collecting information and using their talented members to subtly thwart evil or correct imbalance. In the matter of the elfgate, the very veil of secrecy that the Harpers employed, usually with great success, had been turned against them by an elf they trusted. Therein, Khelben knew, lay the dilemma. Bran Skorlsun had been kept busy for almost forty years tracking down pretended Harpers and an occasional renegade Harper. What other disasters could occur if these false Harpers had access to Harpers’ secrets?

  Danilo had been right about many things, Khelben acknowledged silently. The archmage had knowingly and deliberately endangered Arilyn’s life. Without the moonblade, she was unlikely to live through the night. Khelben’s heart ached for his nephew, who obviously cared deeply for the half-elf.

  The archmage abruptly left the window and walked to the corner of the room where the moonblade still lay. To his knowledge, Arilyn had not named a successor. To whom, then, should he send the blade? Absently he reached for the ancient scabbard, and his hand closed on air.

  “What!” Snapped from his introspection, Khelben sped through the words of a cantrip to dispel magic. The moonblade faded, although its faint outline hung in the air a moment longer as if silently mocking him.

  “An illusion,” he murmured. “Danilo took the sword and left an illusion.” The boy’s getting too good to keep under wraps, the wizard thought, unable to suppress a small smile of pride.

  He passed a hand over his forehead. His sympathies were with Danilo, but how could the boy be foolish enough to endanger the elfgate? Both Danilo and Bran Skorlsun were risking their lives to help Arilyn. Khelben was not sure whether he ought to be angry or ashamed. Perhaps they could do it. Perhaps Danilo could move the gate without a problem, and perhaps Arilyn could defeat Kymil Nimesin. Perhaps I should let them try, the archmage mused.

  The weight of responsibility pressed upon Khelben Arunsun, and suddenly he felt very old. He walked the staircase to his
spellcasting chamber to alert Erlan Duirsar. The elven lord of Evereska would not be pleased to learn that the moonblade was again whole and on its way to the site of the elfgate.

  * * * * *

  The sounds of battle rang through the temple gardens, drifting down the labyrinth of footpaths that wove their way to the top of Evereska’s highest mountain. Two men broke into a run, the taller of them leading the way. Swiftly and surely the aging Harper raced to the top of the mountain. There, in the very center of the garden, was a sight that chilled him to the soul.

  Before the statue of a beautiful elven goddess stood his daughter, fighting for her life against four gold elves. The rising moon reflected from their flashing blades.

  Awe filled both Bran and Danilo, who had now reached the garden. It held them, immobile, in its spell. Never had they seen such fighting. In any company, each of the agile gold elves would be considered a rare champion. Although two of their number had fallen to Arilyn’s sword, the remaining four wove a dance of death around the half-elf. Off to one side stood another gold elf, a tall slender quessir who awaited the battle’s outcome with an expression of self-righteous confidence.

  At that moment, one of the fighters managed to knock Arilyn’s borrowed sword from her hand. In the bright moonlight, Danilo could see the triumphant sneer on the face of Tintagel Ni’Tessine. Panic struck the nobleman, and with it a moment of indecision. He had not intended to reveal the moonblade until he’d found the elfgate and moved it to safety.

  Tintagel Ni’Tessine raised his sword arm across his chest, preparing to deliver a backhanded strike to Arilyn’s throat. Danilo made his decision swiftly.

  “Arilyn!” he shouted, thrusting his wounded hand into the magic sack. A second blast of pain ripped through his arm as his fingers closed around the magic sword. The startled elves looked toward him, and Danilo hurled the sheathed blade toward Arilyn.

  A flash of blue lightning ripped through the garden like an explosion. Magic thunder shook the ground, and the gold elves were knocked to the ground by its force.

  Arilyn stood at base of the statue with a glowing sword in her hand, a powerful figure of magic and vengeance. Smoke from the explosion flowed toward her. Before Danilo’s stunned gaze, the writhing smoke swirled and twisted, forming a faint circle behind the half-elf that glowed with an eerie blue light.

  “The elfgate!” shouted Kymil Nimesin, pointing. “You must get past her and into the elfgate!”

  The elven fighters rose to their feet and exchanged uneasy glances. Danilo took one look at Bran Skorlsun’s puzzled face and immediately understood what troubled the elves. They could not see the gate.

  Some dimensional doors were visible only to powerful mages. Of all the people gathered in the garden, only Danilo could see what Kymil Nimesin was pointing to.

  The nobleman grabbed the spell scroll from his bag and prepared to move the elfgate. With a start, he realized that Khelben had not told him where the gate should be moved. An ephemeral smile touched his lips when an answer presented itself. Conjuring a mental picture of the elfgate’s new location, the young mage began the lengthy chant and gestures of the spell.

  “For the honor of Myth Drannor!” shrieked Kymil, galvanizing the elves into battle. Three of them circled Arilyn. Wielding his staff, Bran raced to aid his daughter, but was stopped by Filauria Ni’Tessine. The tall Harper and the elven circle-singer made strange opponents, but Filauria held him back with astounding skill.

  “Your sword cannot shed innocent blood,” Tintagel reminded Arilyn smugly. “It is worthless against me.”

  “Times have changed. Care to chance it?” she asked. Tintagel confidently advanced, and in three strokes Arilyn’s moonblade had found his heart. The elf’s eyes widened in disbelief as he slumped to the ground. With a keening wail, Filauria fled the battle and dropped to her knees beside her brother’s body.

  “The time to mourn our martyred dead will come later,” raged Kymil. “You must get through the elfgate.”

  Arilyn slashed viciously at her two elven attackers, intent on preventing them from following Kymil’s orders. The moonblade found the heart of one elf, killing him instantly. With her next stroke, Arilyn gutted her final opponent. His sword fell to the ground as he clutched at his spilling entrails. Arilyn slipped on the spilled blood and fell to the ground.

  “Show me,” Filauria demanded. Kymil pointed her in the direction of the elfgate and shoved. The etriel ran, leaping over Arilyn’s prone body and into something she could not see.

  At that moment Danilo completed his spell. The scroll disappeared from his hands, and a second magical explosion rocked the garden. The survivors stared in horror. Only half of Filauria Ni’Tessine had made it through the elfgate.

  A scream of frustration echoed through the temple garden. Kymil Nimesin’s patrician reserve had vanished along with the hope of fulfilling his lifelong quest. With quick, jerky movements, the elf formed the gestures for the teleportation spell that would take him away from the scene of his failure.

  “Wait!” Arilyn shouted. As Kymil glared murderously at her, she rose to her feet. “You haven’t lost yet.”

  Kymil’s obsidian eyes fixed upon Arilyn, hatred somehow making their black depths even darker.

  “Don’t speak in riddles. You haven’t the wit for it,” he snarled in scornful response.

  Arilyn came closer, facing down her former mentor. “I renew my challenge to single combat, to continue until one of us is disarmed or disabled. If you win, I will reveal to you the gate’s new location.”

  A flicker of interest showed in Kymil’s black eyes. “And in the unlikely event that you win?”

  “You die,” she said succinctly.

  “No!” Bran shouted from across the garden. “Many think of you as the Harper Assassin. You’ve got to bring Kymil Nimesin to trial or you may hang in his place.”

  “I’ll take that risk,” she said steadfastly.

  “Maybe you will, but I won’t,” declared Danilo. “Unless you promise me that you won’t kill that skinny orc-sired wretch, you’ll have to fight me to get at him.”

  Arilyn cast an exasperated look at the nobleman. In response, he stripped off his gloves. The moonlight revealed a badly burned hand and a face haggard from the effort of casting the spell. “If you fight me, you’ll have to kill me,” he added softly. “I shouldn’t think it would be too difficult.”

  His implacable tone convinced Arilyn he was serious. “I think I liked you better as a fool,” she said.

  Danilo would not be distracted. “Swear it!”

  “All right. You have my word. I shall leave enough of him to take to trial. Agreed?”

  “Done,” Danilo said. “Go get him.”

  Arilyn again addressed the elf. “Well? What will it be?”

  “The mere knowledge of the gate’s location will do me little good,” Kymil pointed out, bargaining, testing the limits of Arilyn’s resolve.

  “If it comes to that, I’ll take you to it myself. I’ll bring the moonblade and open the damned gate for you. I’ll even throw you a farewell party before you leave for Evermeet,” she said.

  “Agreed.” Kymil drew his sword and raised it to his forehead in a contemptuous salute. The elf and the half-elf crossed blades, and the fight was on.

  Scarcely remembering to breathe, Danilo Thann and Bran Skorlsun watched the duel in awed silence. Both men were skilled fighters, both had seen and done much during their lives, but the battle that raged before them was something completely beyond their experience.

  It was an incredible, mesmerizing dance of death, with individual movements almost too quick for the humans’ eyes to follow. With elven grace and agility, Arilyn and Kymil faced off, each stretched to the limit by the other’s skill and impassioned resolve. Evenly matched in height and strength and speed, at times the combatants were distinguishable only by color: Arilyn a white blur against the dark sky, Kymil an incongruous streak of golden light.

  Elven swords flashed
and twirled, and sparks from the clashing weapons shot upward into the darkening sky so rapidly that the incredulous Danilo was reminded of festival fireworks. The ringing blows of sword on sword came so quickly that the echoing clangor blended into one reverberating, metallic shriek. A small sound separated itself from the unearthly howl, and a voice began to focus in Danilo’s mind. The voice spoke not with words, not with sound, and not to him. Irresistible as the song of the lorelei, the magic voice soared above the din of battle: entreating, insisting, compelling. It called for vengeance. It called for death.

  With a start, Danilo realized that it was the voice of the elfshadow. The moonblade began to glow as the revenge-bent entity of the sword struggled to escape unbidden. Even to Danilo, its demands were nearly irresistible.

  Arilyn can’t give in, Danilo thought frantically. He watched the moonblade trail blue light as it traced a semi-circle and an upward thrust. The movements themselves were too fast to discern, but the sword’s lighted paths lingered in the air, luminous blue ribbons against the night sky.

  Suddenly there was silence, and the tangle of blue lights began to fade. Kymil Nimesin rose slowly to his feet; the splintered shards of his sword lay scattered around him.

  “Praise Mielikki, it’s over,” Bran said gratefully. With a sigh of relief, Danilo and the Harper came forward. The look on Arilyn’s face stopped them, and dread again seized Danilo as he comprehended that the battle was not yet done.

  As if it moved of its own accord, the moonblade drifted upward in Arilyn’s hands. It leveled at Kymil Nimesin’s throat and glowed with a malevolent blue light. The half-elf trembled with the effort of holding back the sword, and her face twisted against the urge to kill her former mentor. Kymil Nimesin stared defiantly at the blade and waited for death.

  “Fight, Arilyn,” Danilo pleaded. “Don’t let the elfshadow and your own need for vengeance command you.”

  The magical current began to grow, as it had on the streets of Waterdeep. Again the air swirled madly around the battle’s survivors in a tangible outpouring of the elfshadow’s rage. Only Arilyn managed to remain standing against the gale-strength force.