Blood Song

All activity on the dockside gradually died away as we tied up to the quay. Every stevedore, fisherman, sailor, fish-wife and whore stopped what they were doing and turned to regard the son of the City Burner. The silence was instantly thick and oppressive, even the constant keening of the innumerable gulls seemed to fade in an atmosphere now heavy with an unspoken, universal hatred. Only one figure amongst the throng seemed immune to the mood, a tall man standing arms wide in welcome at the foot of the gangplank, perfect teeth gleaming in a broad smile. “Welcome, friends, welcome!” he called in rich, deep baritone.

I took in his full stature as I descended to the quay, noting the expensive blue silk shirt that clad his broad, lean torso and the gold-hilted sabre at his belt. His hair, long and honey-blond, trailed in the wind like a lion’s mane. He was, quite simply, the most handsome man I had ever seen. Unlike Al Sorna, his appearance was entirely in keeping with his legend and I knew his name before he told me, Atheran Ell-Nestra, Shield of the Isles, the man the Hope Killer had come to fight.

“Lord Verniers is it not?” he greeted me, his hand engulfing my own. “An honour, sir. Your histories have pride of place of my shelves.”

“Thank you.” I turned as Al Sorna made his way down the gangplank. “This…”

“Is Vaelin Al Sorna,” El-Nestra finished, bowing deeply to the Hope Killer. “The tale of your deeds flies before you, of course…”

“When do we fight?” Al Sorna cut in.

Ell-Nestra’s eyes narrowed a little but his smile never wavered. “Three days hence, my lord. If it suits you.”

“It doesn’t. I wish to conclude this farce as quickly as possible.”

“I was under the impression that you had been languishing at the Emperor’s pleasure for the last five years. Do you not require time to refresh your skills? I should feel dishonoured if folk were to say I had too easy a victory.”

Watching them stare at each other, I was struck by the contrast they made. Although roughly equal in stature, Ell-Nestra’s masculine beauty and blazing smile should have outshone Al-Sorna’s stern, angular visage. But there was something about the Hope Killer that defied the islander’s commanding presence, an innate inability to be diminished. I knew why, of course, I could see it in the false humour Ell-Nestra painted on his face, the way his eyes scanned his opponent from head to toe. The Hope Killer was the most dangerous man he would ever face, and he knew it.