Aelrindel's hand moved from his friend's shoulder to his face, tracing the light webbing of scars that marred the otherwise bronze perfection of his skin, and was surprised to note a small shock of white hair beginning to grow at his temples. Had it truly been so long, he thought, since they were both tael, apprenticed to their masters and learning the rudiments of their art?
Faelyn reached out and gently put a stop to Aelrindel's exploration.
"You rebuke me, kaer'vaelen. Without words, you rebuke me," Faelyn said, casting his gaze to the ground.
Aelrindel heard the accusation. Kaer'vaelen. First Hilt of the bladesingers. This is what lay between them. It was a hard thing, a stone that had dragged on their friendship ever since Cauladra Brightwing had passed her sword, and her authority, to him before she journeyed to the groves of Corellon Larethian.
He was about to respond when a soft cry sounded in the morning air. Faelyn's head shot up and his hand strayed to the sword sheathed at his side.
The cry came again, just as soft. This time, Aelrindel's sensitive ears caught the direction of the sound. Without a word, he stepped out from beneath their hiding spot, confident that his companion strode right behind him, and moved in search of it.
The sun had risen over the site of battle and Aelrindel counted at least a score of bodies that had washed ashore and nearly twice that many lay dead and bloodied upon the ground. Carefully he picked his way down the slope that led to the heart of the destruction, avoiding the snapped points of blades, congealed pools of blood, and the feathered shafts of spent arrows that sprouted from the slick earth like gruesome flowers.
His senses were alert for the slightest sound, as, he knew, were Faelyn's. Death often called more than just crows to its sickening feast. So it was that the figures leaping from behind a small jumble of rocks and small boulders did not surprise the two elves.
There were nine of them, Aelrindel noted, adorned with mismatched armor-pieces of metal, strips of boiled leather, and hardened cloth. All were human, though barely recognizable as such beneath the gore and grit that covered their skin. Some were missing teeth or fingers, and one, a particularly emaciated figure whose bones stood out beneath a thin layer of skin, had only a single ear. They held steel in their hands-a motley collection of pitted swords, bloodied axes, and evil-looking dirks-and had a hard glint around the eyes.
Aelrindel felt his lithe form relax, the tension brought on by surveying the destruction of human war melted away beneath the promise of action. Distantly, somewhere deep within his heart, the elf heard the gentle strains of the Song begin.
"What have we here?" one of the scavengers, a burly man with a grizzled beard and a wicked scar running from temple to throat, asked in exaggerated good humor. "Two pretty maids from the lands of the bleedin' elves?"
His accent was short and clipped, difficult for Aelrindel to understand.
"N Tel'Quessir scum!" Faelyn proclaimed behind him.
The First Hilt held up his hand, to leash his friend's anger as much as to show these rude humans that they meant no harm.
"We are here in peace," he said slowly in the human tongue. His own mouth formed the unfamiliar syllables slowly. "We do not seek to hurt you."
That last brought a round of harsh laughter from the brigands.
"Been no peace in this land for quite some time," a weasely faced man barked out.
"An' that's just the way we like it, isn't it, lads?" the burly human asked, to the roaring affirmation of his companions. He moved closer to Aelrindel, close enough that the elf could make out the blackened stain of rot on his teeth; his breath stank like carrion. " 'Tis you who should worry about getting hurt," the burly human said with a cruel smile. "Now hand over your swords and the pretty little things that you and your 'lass' here no doubt decorate yerselves with."
Aelrindel simply stood there, watching the man's smile slowly fade as the elf made no move to comply with his commands.
The grizzled human took a step back.
"Kill them," was all that he said-was all that he would ever say again.
Twin elven blades sang from worn leather scabbards, catching the sunlight along their gleaming lengths. A single spray of blood erupted from the burly human's throat as Aelrindel's sword, unleashed at last, cleaved through muscle and bone in a single cut. The man fell, headless, to the ground.
Behind him, Aelrindel heard the sound of Faelyn's Song, and joined it with his own in fearsome harmony. Four more scavengers fell within moments. A fifth, the weasel-eyed man, began to cast a spell. The First Hilt parried a clumsy axe swing and caught the rhythm of the wizard's spell. It was one with which he was well familiar. Using his free hand, the bladesinger mirrored his opponent's casting then sent his considerable power out to surround the overmatched wizard, binding it to himself. Argent energy flew from the human's outstretched hand only to fizzle into nothingness as the bladesinger quenched the spell.
The brigands were obviously fearful now. Their earlier swagger gave way to wariness, and Aelrindel could see two of them already surveying their escape routes. Using skills honed from centuries of combat, the two elves wove a deadly net of steel from which none of their opponents could escape. Two more scavengers fell. One threw his dirk hard at Faelyn. Aelrindel batted the makeshift missile away with the flat of his own blade, while his companion slid forward to drive the point of his weapon into the man's chest. The second, perhaps the most skilled fighter of the lot, parried the snaking steel of Aelrindel's blade twice before a quick feint left his guard open. The bladesinger took the advantage, and the man fell backward with a deep tear in his stomach.
The remaining two humans dropped their weapons and began to plead for their lives. Still holding his blade easily in one hand, the First Hilt pointed a slender finger away from the battleground.
"Go," he commanded, "and leave the dead to the gods."
The two babbled their thanks and hastily retreated, tripping repeatedly over one another as they ran up the slope and back toward the human settlement. Only when they moved out of the range of his elf sight did Aelrindel start cleaning his blade. Once it gleamed again, free of the blood of his enemies, the bladesinger held it flat between both of his hands, bowed low in the way of the laeriaen, and placed it back within its scabbard.
"They deserved to be punished for what they did-attempted to do," Faelyn said when he, too, had finished the ritual.
"I know, my friend," he replied, expecting another session of wrangling with his embittered companion, "but we shall let the humans deal with them."
"Eyes and ears indeed…" came the reply, with a surprising hint of humor.
Aelrindel laughed softly at the jest. It was good to laugh.
The child's cry came again, breaking the moment. It was close, just beyond the jutting rocks from which their attackers had leaped. Aelrindel gave his companion a final smile then moved toward the sound. As he drew near, he saw a pile of corpses, each bloody and awkwardly bent. When the wailing came again, the bladesinger knew that it originated from beneath the corpses. He motioned Faelyn to help, and between them, the two bladesingers carefully separated the dead from their eternal embrace. The bodies were cool and stiff.
There, cradled in the rigored arms of a woman and protected from the elements by the press of bodies and a simple bloodied cloth, lay a screaming child. Its skin was red and splotchy from its exertion and its tiny fingers were balled into fists, beating the air in obvious fear and frustration.