Blood and Honor

The elf tried to distract Mordan with a sweep of his cloak, but Mordan twisted aside from the probing rapier that followed it. He feinted to the left before bringing his sword back in a fast slash to the right that forced the elf to jump backward.

After a few probing attacks, the Valenar swept with his cloak again. Mordan ignored it, preparing to dodge the thrust he knew would follow. But he was wrong. Under the cover of his cloak, the elf had drawn a broad-bladed dagger with his left hand. Seeing the flash of the blade, Mordan sidestepped a blow that would have struck his sword hand, but the Valenar was one move ahead of him. A backhanded slash of the dagger struck his left wrist hard, sending a jarring pain the length of his arm.

Gritting his teeth against he shock of the wound, Mordan glanced down. His left hand lay on the ground twitching. Blood pumped out of the stump of his wrist. His vision was starting to blur. He had only a few seconds to act.

A feint with his longsword forced his opponent further to his left. The elf watched his blade, ignoring the maimed left arm. That was his mistake. Twisting aside from a rapier thrust, Mordan slammed the bleeding arm against the Valenar’s own wrist. There was a small flare of black energy, accompanied by a brief sizzling sound, and the elf yelped in surprise, momentarily off-balance. In that instant, Mordan stepped inside the elf’s reach and spun round, reversing his sword and stabbing backward at the exposed torso. His longsword pierced the elf’s mail coat, and he heard a grunt of surprise that turned into a soft, bubbling wheeze as the elf collapsed.

Mordan’s left arm was ablaze with pain. Beside the loss of his hand, the dragonmark on his shoulder burned, as it always did when he used its power. He stood for a moment, fighting the darkness that pressed down on his eyes, and then fell on top of the dead elf.

Chapter 2

Farewells

Late Barrakas, 998 YK

Mordan awoke in a low tent, with an elderly halfling woman leaning over him. He tried to sit up, but she shushed him and pressed him back. He was too weak to resist. His left hand ached abominably.

The next time he opened his eyes, he found Dern sitting beside his bed. The halfling scout looked at him solemnly as he struggled to sit up.

“Drink this,” Dern said, handing him a mug of steaming broth. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’re going to be fine.” He paused, then said, “Perra couldn’t save your hand. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t till Dern spoke that Mordan looked down and saw the tightly bound stump of his left wrist. Odd, he thought, still light-headed from the effort of sitting up, I could swear I can still feel my hand. He took the mug in his right hand and sipped at the hot, bitter broth.

“I thought your Jorasco healers could fix anything,” he said after he had drunk.

Dern grimaced. “Some of them can,” he said, “but not all.”

Mordan drained the mug, feeling his head clear and his pain subside as he did so. Whatever Perra’s limitations, her healing potions were effective. He pushed his lank blond hair out of his eyes and swung his legs off the cot—actually two halfling-sized beds lashed together—stooping in the low space. He was still a little light-headed, but felt strong enough to walk. He looked for his sword, and as his eye lit on the elegant elven rapier beside his cot, he remembered the battle.

“I saw Carn fall,” he said. “Is she … ?”

Dern nodded. “We wrapped her body and put it on her pony,” he said. “We figured she’d want to be sent back to the Mror Holds. Perra cast a preserving spell on her.”

“Anyone else?”

Much to Mordan’s relief, Dern shook his head. “Nothing serious.”

Mordan swung his legs off the cot and got to his feet. Dern held back the flap of the tent.

Outside, the troopers sat on brightly colored rugs, in the open middle of the camp. Grasht hoisted a drink as four giggling halfling women brought him a huge rack of hammertail ribs, tottering under their weight. His shoulder was bandaged where the arrow had struck him; it was just a flesh wound, and as he told anyone who would listen, he’d had worse. Around him, the others relaxed and enjoyed the hospitality of Dern’s tribe. There was a moment of silence as Mordan appeared, followed by a loud cheer. The troopers shuffled to make space for their leader, and he motioned Dern to sit beside him.

“How did you miss them?” he asked as more food arrived. Dern was too good a scout to overlook a troop of Valenar cavalry in open terrain.

“I don’t know.” The halfling grimaced, more in puzzlement than apology. “Maybe they were invisible. Their leader’s cloak would have hidden him, but it couldn’t have covered all of them and their horses.”

“At least none of them had any spells,” said Mordan. “Maybe they used a scroll or something.”

“They must have seen me, though,” Dern said. “They didn’t charge till Redwind had landed.”

“They saw all of us,” said Mordan. “No question of that.”