Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  The Elf withdrew his long slender hand and nodded, meeting Dahleven’s stare with a calm steady gaze. Then he turned to join his companions.

  The violet light continued to grow, reflected and multiplied a thousand times by the crystals embedded in the walls. It obliterated everything but the silhouettes of the Elves, but now Dahleven could look at it without wincing.

  A sharp, loud Crack! made both Dahleven and Celia jump. The light flared and Dahleven’s arms tightened around her.

  Then Jorund shouted triumphantly, his wild laugh echoing through the chamber.

  CHAPTER TWENTY~SEVEN

  Dahleven’s throat closed, choked by despair. Now that Jorund Firestarter had the Troll’s Talent, no one would be able to stand against him. His capricious will would rule Alfheim. Why didn’t Fanlon destroy the Staff when he had the chance?

  Jorund screamed.

  Raw agony tore from the Firestarter’s throat. Dahleven shuddered as the horrific shrieks echoed throughout the chamber. He couldn’t see what was happening to Jorund. He didn’t want to. The excruciating wails clawed and cut. Dahleven winced and ground his teeth, hunching his shoulders against the sound of torment. He pulled Celia close, pressing her head against his chest, trying to muffle the sound of more pain than a man or woman should ever imagine. Celia moaned and clenched her fists on his byrnie.

  The screaming stopped abruptly. The light faded. The Elvenkind were gone.

  Angrim shrieked, “My eyes! I can’t see! I can’t see!” Eirik merely stared about him with blank horror.

  Jorund lay on his back by the split geode, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth twisted in a rictus of pain. His arms bent tightly to his chest, fingers claw-like. Blood trickled sluggishly from his ears and nose. He was unmistakably dead.

  *

  Cele let Dahleven pull her to her feet. She stared at Jorund’s body, his tortuous screams echoing in her mind. In all her time on the phones, she’d never heard suffering so horrible. And she’d caused it by pointing to a particular rock. A rock that Jorund had asked for, demanded, as the price of Dahleven’s blood and body. Now the Outcast was dead, along with the chance he’d offered her of returning home.

  Cele shook her head, ashamed of her gullibility. She still grieved for that lost hope, though not for Jorund. He’d manipulated her from the start. He’d never intended to send her back, but she’d wanted it so badly she’d let herself be deceived.

  Dahleven turned her away from Jorund. She became aware again of the fallen men and the wails of Angrim and Eirik. Here was something she could do, something more useful than dwelling on the betrayal and anger Dahleven must feel toward her. “We have to see to the injured,” Cele said, pulling out of Dahleven’s arms.

  With an arm around each of them, she guided Angrim and Eirik to sit by against the wall, knowing they’d feel more secure with something solid at their backs.

  Angrim’s sobbing subsided to whimpers. She looked older and duller, diminished. Eirik was babbling and staring wide-eyed at nothing in particular. There was nothing Cele could do but speak soothingly. They clutched at her desperately, and she had to pry their fingers free to move on to the other injured. Cele felt Dahleven watching her and tried to ignore it, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand.

  *

  Dahleven watched Celia for a moment, her face devoid of emotion. She’s holding her heart at arm’s length. He’d seen men react that way after a battle. She moved deliberately, efficiently checking for life in the nearest of the fallen warriors. He didn’t like the shadow in her eyes, or the way she avoided looking at him. She’d seen too much death—and he’d failed to protect her from it.

  Dahleven knelt by Jorund’s twisted body. He regretted not having the chance to kill the Outcast himself, but this was a fitting end to his perfidy. His lip curled in distaste as he pried the stolen priest’s talisman from Jorund’s convulsed fingers. It was blackened like the geode. The Staff of Befaling was another matter. Its crystal was still clear, though a deep crack ran from base to tip. Dahleven gathered them up. Ragni will want these. They should be returned to the priesthood.

  A groan from Fender drew Dahleven to his side in an instant. The gash to his scalp had left his friend’s face bloody, but the flow of blood had slowed, leaving a sticky mess.

  Fender dragged himself to sit against the wall, and gently probed his cut scalp. “Having one’s head laid open leads to strange dreams, my lord.”

  “Then keep your helmet on next time,” Dahleven jibed, relieved that his friend still had his wits—and his head.

  Fender looked around and frowned at the bodies of their friends and foes. “Lady Celia?”

  “Alive,” Dahleven answered, shifting so she could be seen.

  “And that whoreson?”

  “Dead.”

  Fender nodded and winced. “I dreamed Elves were at hand.”

  A cold grue slithered down Dahleven’s spine. “It was no dream.” Dahleven’s gaze locked with Fender’s for a moment in silent understanding. They both knew the world didn’t turn as it usually did when the Elvenkind were involved.

  Celia appeared at his side then, and held her hand in front of Fendrikanin’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Three,” Fender answered accurately.

  “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

  “I’m glad to see you well too, my lady.” Fender grinned. “But I’m sure there are others more in need of your attention.”

  “A head wound is nothing to laugh at,” Celia said, her voice tightly controlled.

  “Even for someone as thick-headed as me?”

  Celia didn’t smile at Fender’s teasing.

  Dahleven looked at her closely. “The others?”

  Celia’s face was a stiff mask. She didn’t meet his eyes. “All dead. Two of Jorund’s men are still alive…but not for long.”

  Dahleven closed his eyes. Five more of his men dead. Five more to sing to Valhalla. Five more families grieving.

  “There’s nothing I can do for them,” Celia said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. None of you would be here if it weren’t for me.” She covered her face with hands bloodstained from checking the dead and injured.

  Dahleven looked at Celia, startled out of his own pain. Is that what she’s been thinking? “That’s right. If not for you, Jorund might have found some other way to release the Talents, and we would not have known until he destroyed us. He might have taken more time, learned a better magic, and succeeded. Because of you, Jorund got careless. Because of you, the Light Elves are grateful to us.” He could hardly believe he was saying those last words. Light Elves grateful to us.

  Celia dropped her hands. Her green eyes glistened with tears. “Your men are dead because of me! Because I believed that son of a bitch!”

  “My men chose the warrior’s path and understood its dangers. They died honorable deaths, and they will feast in Valhalla tonight. The tale of this battle will be sung for generations.”

  “If not for me, they’d be singing their own songs! I wanted to go home so badly I didn’t think about what I was doing or what it would mean to you. I Found the damn Staff for him! I should have known better, even if he did use Persuasion on me. I just didn’t want to see what was in front of my face all along, and people are dead because of it! Because of my stupid, selfish, gullibility.”

  A slow cold anger moved in Dahleven. Neven had dangled Celia in front of Jorund’s nose and left her vulnerable to him, pushing her into the Firestarter’s web of lies. Neven’s plan had borne its fruit, their Outcast enemy was revealed and destroyed, and widespread ruin averted. But all Celia could see were the bodies of his men and her part in their deaths. Neven had brought her to this, but Celia was bearing the weight of it.

  He grabbed Celia by the shoulders. “Listen to me! You didn’t make those mistakes alone. Jorund was an accomplished liar. He fooled us all for years before he got arrogant and burned Koll’s crofts. Even then he almost talked his way out of his punishme
nt. Your mistakes saved thousands of lives. Don’t you understand? If not for you, everyone in Quartzholm might have been killed by that Oathbreaker!”

  Celia clenched her jaw and looked away.

  “I heard what Angrim said. It was she who told the Outcast where to look for the Staff. When it came down to it, you couldn’t do it, could you?”

  Celia remained silent.

  “Nor did you know when you Found the Staff that Angrim was Jorund’s agent, did you?” Dahleven lifted her chin so she had to look at him. “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “If we were all condemned for what we might have done, we’d all be exiled,” Fender contributed. Celia cast a knife sharp glance at him. He raised his hands as if in surrender. “Remember, I’m a wounded man.”

  “If not for you, the Light Elves wouldn’t have been here to counter what the Dark set in motion,” Dahleven continued. “It was your ‘beacon’ that drew them here. I think they sensed you using your Talent.”

  Cele slumped, as if in surrender. “Then the agony was worth it. When I first tried to Find the Talent he wanted, the damn things nearly ripped me apart.”

  Celia’s words sobered him. He remembered her screams. “And now? How do you feel?” So much had happened, he’d forgotten that Celia was still in Emergence. She’d been weak as a babe before the Elf’s touch had strengthened her. He cursed himself for not bringing any sterkkidrikk.

  “I’m fine.”

  Fender chuckled. “I think Lady Celia’s in better shape than we are.”

  Dahleven looked at Fendrikanin’s bloody face and felt the ache in his own muscles growing. Fender was probably right.

  *

  Cele cleaned and bandaged the cut in Fender’s scalp, then helped Dahleven arrange the bodies of their fallen companions, laying them side-by-side with hands crossed on their swords’ hilts. Then Dahleven and Fender sang the funerary song. Some magic of the caverns amplified their two voices until they sounded like a choir, sending shivers of longing and loss and hopeful joy racing through Cele’s heart.

  Afterward, Cele and Fender went on ahead while Dahleven remained behind, executing the law on Jorund’s dying men. As Outcasts, the law turned every man’s hand against them, and it was more merciful than leaving them to die slowly. Cele thought she should be appalled at the summary justice, but all she could think of was how difficult and unpleasant it must be for Dahleven.

  “Are you sure you feel well enough to manage Angrim and Eirik alone?” Cele asked Fender. She and Dahleven were going on to bring news of Jorund’s defeat to the parley. Fender would take the same news, and Angrim and Eirik, back to Quartzholm. “You took quite a blow to the head.” They walked side-by-side down the spur of tunnel to where Dahleven and his men had entered the caverns only hours before.

  “Never fear, my lady. It’s the sturdiest part of me—but one.” He winked.

  Cele made a face and rolled her eyes, but she was glad Fender still felt like joking.

  “Besides, Torvald and Sieg are waiting just beyond. I won’t be alone long. And I doubt Lord Dahleven will allow you out of his sight for some time yet.” Fender’s eyes twinkled, and Cele felt herself blushing.

  Suddenly Fender flung his arm in front of Cele. “Look out!”

  “What is it?”

  Fender looked at her strangely. “You almost ran into the wall…Don’t you see it?”

  Cele looked. There was no wall in front of them, just those to either side. She shook her head and lifted her lantern to peer closely into Fender’s face. Was the blow he took making him hallucinate? “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Dahleven came around a bend in the passage leading Angrim and Eirik, his face grim. He stopped abruptly. “Where’s the wall?”

  “What wall?” Cele demanded.

  “You don’t see it either?” Fender asked. He stepped forward and patted his splayed fingers in the air like a mime. “You saw it before. I see and feel it quite clearly.”

  Dahleven walked forward, hands in front of him, until he was slightly beyond Fender, then stepped back, shaking his head. His gaze locked with Fender’s and they shared a grim expression.

  “What is it? What are you not saying?” Cele demanded.

  “No one has congress with Elvenkind and remains unaffected,” Fender said in a voice like bad news.

  “Ragni said something like that once,” Cele said. “What does it mean?”

  “It means,” Dahleven said slowly, “that we’re Fey-marked. I don’t know why he saved us from blindness, but the Elf’s touch had greater consequence than our protection. There’s a wall of Glamour here, Celia. The illusion doesn’t trick our eyes. We can’t see it, while Fender can.”

  Cele stared, blinking at where Fender said the wall stood, then turned back to Dahleven. “Because the Elves touched us, and not him? Then why isn’t he blind like Eirik and Angrim?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps because they were closer to the magic, or because he was unconscious at the time. He’s lucky to have escaped our fate.”

  “But it sounds like a gift.”

  Dahleven shook his head. “Few will see it that way. You must tell no one about this. People aren’t—comfortable—with the Fey-marked.”

  “Comfortable. You mean we’ll be ostracized, don’t you?” Cele stared, worried for him. “Could you be disinherited?”

  “You can rest easily, Lord Dahleven,” Eirik said. “I’ll say nothing of your affliction—unless it comes up at my trial.” He cocked his head at an odd angle staring with wide eyes. “And you, Lady Angrim, can you keep the secret as well?”

  The threat was obvious. All of Cele’s anger, frustration, and anguish coalesced into a sharp glittering point. She stepped forward and grabbed the front of Eirik’s tunic. He flinched when she spoke an inch from his nose, her voice cutting like a razor. “And just how do you intend to get back to Quartzholm, you lying little weasel? Will you lead, or will you leave that to Angrim?”

  She let Eirik go with a little shove and he stumbled, awkwardly keeping his balance.

  “You wouldn’t leave us.”

  All the anger it was too late to express to Jorund found its mark in Eirik. “Don’t try me,” Cele grated. “Then again, maybe we will take you back. What do you think Neven will do when he finds out you’ve been in Jorund’s pocket all this time? What will your Guild do when it learns you’ve lied about what the runes revealed?”

  Dahleven raised his eyebrows at Cele but didn’t interfere.

  Eirik blinked rapidly. “I won’t say anything. I have nothing to say. I didn’t see anything.”

  “Do you have enough honor left to swear to that?” Fender asked. “As Lord Dahleven’s sworn man, it would be up to him, not Neven or even your Guild, to choose appropriate punishment, or care for you in your blindness. And what of you, Lady Angrim? Will you swear fealty?”

  “Don’t be angry with me! Jorund misled me. I’ll do whatever you want.” Angrim cocked her head coquettishly. The gesture seemed like a parody of her former self, now that she no longer sparkled with allure. Something more than her sight was missing. Had her beauty and sex appeal been an illusion, too?

  “I’ll take your oaths, then.” Dahleven stood impassively as Eirik and Angrim got down on their knees and swore fealty to him. Cele wondered if they could really be trusted, but this was obviously more solemn and significant than a casual promise. Cele remembered Sorn’s reaction to what Jeff had done, how he’d called Jeff an Oathbreaker. Obviously, a promise wasn’t given, or broken, lightly here.

  Dahleven accepted their oaths of loyalty; in return, he promised to provide for their needs as long as they stood true. All three of them seemed more relaxed when it was over, as though something essential had changed between them. Dahleven swore them to secrecy, then led them and Fender safely through the wall she couldn’t see.

  She knew they were through the wall of glamour when Dahleven’s waiting men shouted their joy at seeing him and Fender. Their expressions of b
ack-thumping relief swung quickly to grim sorrow at the loss of their comrades.

  Fender took charge of the small party, giving Eirik and Angrim into the care of Torvald and Seig. Cele and Dahleven watched until the little group disappeared around a curve and the light from their lanterns faded.

  “We must go, as well,” Dahleven said. “Neven must be told about Jorund as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, no!” Anguish washed over Cele, and she grabbed Dahleven’s arm. “Jorund said the parley was going to be attacked.”

  *

  Dahleven stiffened. Father and Ragni are walking into an ambush.

  Even in death, the Firestarter might still begin a conflagration. “That could end all hope of peace. If only one side or the other is attacked, they’ll believe the truce has been violated.”

  Celia released his arm. “Can’t we warn them?”

  “When did he say the attack would occur?”

  “He didn’t. He just said soon.”

  Dahleven cursed. With Jorund, “soon” probably meant the attack had already begun, and they were at least two days away from the parley site. Whatever Jorund had set in motion would be over by the time they got there.

  Celia reached out, but didn’t quite touch him. “Can we get there in time?”

  The words almost choked him. “No. We’re too far away.” He’d sent men ahead to secure the site. If they did their job—and were lucky—they’d discover the ambush. That might at least save Neven and the Nuvinlanders. But the Tewakwe would still be vulnerable, and if Jorund’s Outcasts attacked them, they’d believe the Nuvinlanders false. He didn’t see how a tangle of misunderstanding and bloodshed could be avoided.

  He still had to try. He had to tell Neven and the Tewakwe about Jorund’s treachery and death as soon as possible. That knowledge just might prevent the situation from escalating to war.