“Next alley,” she said with admirable quickness. He did admire a woman who understood the practical at such times, another reminder of what he had lost when Mavreen was killed. “It’s broad enough for two abreast, but difficult for three. Montimort, move behind us when the blades come out.”
“I can defend myself,” the young wizard retorted.
“I expect you to do so,” she answered calmly. “But from a distance. They want you. If it’s a grab-and-run they have in mind, let us make it as difficult as possible.”
“Might I ask why they want him?” Sarfael inquired. “Not that you aren’t lovable, my friend, but still…”
“They have as few wizards as the Nashers,” Elyne answered. “They could use him.”
“I won’t go back, they know I won’t,” Montimort said as they entered the narrow alley. Elyne and Sarfael whirled as one to face the entrance, and Montimort slid with obvious reluctance behind them.
“No heroics,” Elyne said.
“I’m rarely heroic,” Sarfael said.
“I wasn’t talking to you.” She glanced over her shoulder at Montimort. “Stay back, let us handle them. Don’t lose that basket!”
The three Dead Rats rounded the corner slowly, chatting to each other, but when they saw the drawn blades facing them, they gave up all pretense of other business. With a shout, the half-orc charged them, swinging his cudgel in a sweeping blow meant to bowl them over.
Elyne waited until the last possible second then drove her sword precisely under his flailing arm and down into his knee. She wrenched the point free as the brute swayed back with a howl of pain.
At the same time, Sarfael struck a calculated blow at the second man, so his opponent overbalanced in his attempt to block the thrust. Sarfael flowed back and then forward, using the edge and the point of his sword to deliver a flurry of rapid jabs that left his opponent bloodied and bewildered.
With another quick strike, Elyne killed the half-orc and drew back slightly, forcing the third and final Dead Rat to lunge over the body of his comrade to reach her.
Sarfael finished off his man, meaning to come to her aid, but Elyne’s sword darted out, parrying the thrust of her attacker and driving straight through his padded vest to his heart. The man was dead before he hit the ground.
“Very neat,” he said with one raised eyebrow. “You must teach me that trick.”
Elyne stepped back from the corpses. “They were fools and died fools’ deaths.” She wiped her sword clean and sheathed it.
“Should we do something about the bodies?” he asked her.
Elyne glanced up and down the empty alley. All the windows overlooking it had remained tightly shuttered throughout the fight. The clash of steel, Sarfael noted, had brought no one running, arguing that the citizens of Blacklake were remarkably uncurious or perhaps more cautious than most.
“Safe enough to leave them here,” Elyne decided. “The Rats will find them this evening. That’s why I wanted to come so early. These streets become much more crowded after twilight. I want to get Montimort out of this district before nightfall.”
Beside her, Montimort flushed. “You shouldn’t have to protect me,” he muttered. “I should be strong enough to keep them away.”
“If your magic was greater,” said Elyne, “they would send even more after you. For now, be glad that they misjudged us.”
The boy still looked sulky, so Sarfael gave him a friendly rap on the head as he passed him. “Keep those brains between your ears, and not decorating the pavement, and your powers will grow every year. A fighter’s strength is eaten away by time, but a wizard’s only increases.”
Montimort sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I know. But it is not fast enough. I owe so much to Elyne. I would take this city for her, if I had the spells to do it.”
Elyne smiled at him. “Stay safe, that is all I ask. I’m not sure what I’d do with Neverwinter if you gave it to me.”
“An odd sentiment for a rebel,” said Sarfael.
“I’m a terrible Nasher,” Elyne admitted. “But my father believed so passionately in the cause, and I cannot betray him.”
“Is he dead then?” Sarfael remembered Virchez’s idle chatter at the meeting.
“Lost, along with my mother. They left the city two winters ago and did not return. Like the others, they sought allies to aid us and were last seen entering the Neverwinter Wood.”
“A dangerous place, if all the stories are to be believed.”
“But one with a rich history. My father thought that a truce might be made with the powers there, or treasures bought with promises of future alliances with the new Neverwinter. But the eladrin who roam that forest guard their secrets and do not look kindly on outsiders. My mother, like myself, had considerable talent with the sword and went to protect him.”
“And no word of their fate?”
Elyne shook her head. “My sister started hunting for them last year.”
“I heard she ran off.”
“Virchez?” At Sarfael’s nod, she snorted. “That man can never get anything right. Much like that foolish cousin of his in Waterdeep. No, my sister is an adept in the magical arts. When a child, she trained with an eladrin friend and can walk safely in many places where I would be challenged.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, it is not as it was in my grandmother’s stories, when the fey folk and others were friendly in their dealings and travel was easy along the Sword Coast. Still, you cannot change the past. We decided that I would stay, for all our wealth is here and someone must manage our household and protect our servants, and she would go. So I remain, the last of our little family in Neverwinter.”
“Did you form your school after your sister left?” His guess was rewarded with a nod from Elyne.
“I teach our old playmates how to protect themselves,” she said.
So the lady taught sword play to help her friends? Where was the dangerous rebel Dhafiyand feared? Perhaps Lord Neverember’s assessment of her had less to do with her looks and more with her character.
“Arlon Bladeshaper grows more violent in his plans every day,” Elyne spoke in low tones and continued to scan the alleyways and walls with sharp eyes as they hurried away from the truly dead Rats and their ambush.
“I noticed your argument with Arlon at the meeting last night,” Sarfael said. He walked as quickly but kept watch with less obvious turns of the head. She was good with the blade, but he could show her a few tricks of spycraft, such as how to saunter through dangerous streets.
“We often disagree. He thinks too much of bloodlines, and those who trace their lineage back to Alagondar and the Neverwinter Nine. At the same time, Arlon makes alliances left and right with any who he thinks can bring us an advantage. He justifies it by saying that he can keep them at a distance and not give them a place at the table when we meet.”
“A tricky path to power, and dangerous to follow.”
Elyne nodded. “If he takes complete control, and there are many who see him as their leader already, I fear that the Nashers soon will be openly attacking Lord Neverember’s mercenaries. It would be bloody war in the streets.”
“When that day comes,” Montimort injected, “we will prevail. I just need to find the right master, someone powerful who can teach me more quickly.”
Sarfael looked at them and thought that Dhafiyand had been wrong when he named Elyne a pretty ruffian. She was indeed a noble lady, and Montimort, for all his pirate past, a chivalrous boy.
Karion’s dark house was squeezed between two larger and heavily damaged buildings. Only wide enough to present a door and a single, boarded-up window on the ground floor, it rose four stories, each upper floor showing only two narrow windows, also shuttered against the sun.
It reminded Sarfael in shape and color of certain types of fungus that grew up through cracks in stones.
Elyne stared with distaste at the black door with its rusty iron knocker.
“Are you sure there is anything living in there?” Sarfael asked.