“The time to mourn our martyred dead will come later,” raged Kymil. “You must get through the elfgate.”
Arilyn slashed viciously at her two elven attackers, intent on preventing them from following Kymil’s orders. The moonblade found the heart of one elf, killing him instantly. With her next stroke, Arilyn gutted her final opponent. His sword fell to the ground as he clutched at his spilling entrails. Arilyn slipped on the spilled blood and fell to the ground.
“Show me,” Filauria demanded. Kymil pointed her in the direction of the elfgate and shoved. The etriel ran, leaping over Arilyn’s prone body and into something she could not see.
At that moment Danilo completed his spell. The scroll disappeared from his hands, and a second magical explosion rocked the garden. The survivors stared in horror. Only half of Filauria Ni’Tessine had made it through the elfgate.
A scream of frustration echoed through the temple garden. Kymil Nimesin’s patrician reserve had vanished along with the hope of fulfilling his lifelong quest. With quick, jerky movements, the elf formed the gestures for the teleportation spell that would take him away from the scene of his failure.
“Wait!” Arilyn shouted. As Kymil glared murderously at her, she rose to her feet. “You haven’t lost yet.”
Kymil’s obsidian eyes fixed upon Arilyn, hatred somehow making their black depths even darker.
“Don’t speak in riddles. You haven’t the wit for it,” he snarled in scornful response.
Arilyn came closer, facing down her former mentor. “I renew my challenge to single combat, to continue until one of us is disarmed or disabled. If you win, I will reveal to you the gate’s new location.”
A flicker of interest showed in Kymil’s black eyes. “And in the unlikely event that you win?”
“You die,” she said succinctly.
“No!” Bran shouted from across the garden. “Many think of you as the Harper Assassin. You’ve got to bring Kymil Nimesin to trial or you may hang in his place.”
“I’ll take that risk,” she said steadfastly.
“Maybe you will, but I won’t,” declared Danilo. “Unless you promise me that you won’t kill that skinny orc-sired wretch, you’ll have to fight me to get at him.”
Arilyn cast an exasperated look at the nobleman. In response, he stripped off his gloves. The moonlight revealed a badly burned hand and a face haggard from the effort of casting the spell. “If you fight me, you’ll have to kill me,” he added softly. “I shouldn’t think it would be too difficult.”
His implacable tone convinced Arilyn he was serious. “I think I liked you better as a fool,” she said.
Danilo would not be distracted. “Swear it!”
“All right. You have my word. I shall leave enough of him to take to trial. Agreed?”
“Done,” Danilo said. “Go get him.”
Arilyn again addressed the elf. “Well? What will it be?”
“The mere knowledge of the gate’s location will do me little good,” Kymil pointed out, bargaining, testing the limits of Arilyn’s resolve.
“If it comes to that, I’ll take you to it myself. I’ll bring the moonblade and open the damned gate for you. I’ll even throw you a farewell party before you leave for Evermeet,” she said.
“Agreed.” Kymil drew his sword and raised it to his forehead in a contemptuous salute. The elf and the half-elf crossed blades, and the fight was on.
Scarcely remembering to breathe, Danilo Thann and Bran Skorlsun watched the duel in awed silence. Both men were skilled fighters, both had seen and done much during their lives, but the battle that raged before them was something completely beyond their experience.
It was an incredible, mesmerizing dance of death, with individual movements almost too quick for the humans’ eyes to follow. With elven grace and agility, Arilyn and Kymil faced off, each stretched to the limit by the other’s skill and impassioned resolve. Evenly matched in height and strength and speed, at times the combatants were distinguishable only by color: Arilyn a white blur against the dark sky, Kymil an incongruous streak of golden light.
Elven swords flashed and twirled, and sparks from the clashing weapons shot upward into the darkening sky so rapidly that the incredulous Danilo was reminded of festival fireworks. The ringing blows of sword on sword came so quickly that the echoing clangor blended into one reverberating, metallic shriek. A small sound separated itself from the unearthly howl, and a voice began to focus in Danilo’s mind. The voice spoke not with words, not with sound, and not to him. Irresistible as the song of the lorelei, the magic voice soared above the din of battle: entreating, insisting, compelling. It called for vengeance. It called for death.
With a start, Danilo realized that it was the voice of the elfshadow. The moonblade began to glow as the revenge-bent entity of the sword struggled to escape unbidden. Even to Danilo, its demands were nearly irresistible.
Arilyn can’t give in, Danilo thought frantically. He watched the moonblade trail blue light as it traced a semi-circle and an upward thrust. The movements themselves were too fast to discern, but the sword’s lighted paths lingered in the air, luminous blue ribbons against the night sky.
Suddenly there was silence, and the tangle of blue lights began to fade. Kymil Nimesin rose slowly to his feet; the splintered shards of his sword lay scattered around him.
“Praise Mielikki, it’s over,” Bran said gratefully. With a sigh of relief, Danilo and the Harper came forward. The look on Arilyn’s face stopped them, and dread again seized Danilo as he comprehended that the battle was not yet done.
As if it moved of its own accord, the moonblade drifted upward in Arilyn’s hands. It leveled at Kymil Nimesin’s throat and glowed with a malevolent blue light. The half-elf trembled with the effort of holding back the sword, and her face twisted against the urge to kill her former mentor. Kymil Nimesin stared defiantly at the blade and waited for death.
“Fight, Arilyn,” Danilo pleaded. “Don’t let the elfshadow and your own need for vengeance command you.”
The magical current began to grow, as it had on the streets of Waterdeep. Again the air swirled madly around the battle’s survivors in a tangible outpouring of the elfshadow’s rage. Only Arilyn managed to remain standing against the gale-strength force.
“Come forth!”
Arilyn’s commanding voice rang above the tumult. The angry current of magic energy faltered, then rapidly began to compress. In the span of two heartbeats the elfshadow stood before Arilyn.
“Have done,” the half-elf insisted sternly. “We are not the only ones Kymil Nimesin has wronged. The Harpers have the right to bring him to trial. He must live for that.”
“It is a mistake,” protested the elfshadow, glaring at Kymil’s prone form with undisguised hatred.
The half-elf’s chin lifted. “Perhaps so, but it is mine to make.” She lifted the moonblade, and for a moment Arilyn and her shadow faced each other.
At last the elfshadow bowed slightly and spread her hands, palms up, in the elven gesture of respect. The shadow faded into blue mist, which in a small quick vortex disappeared into the sword’s moonstone.
Arilyn slid the moonblade back into the scabbard at her side and walked toward her companions. Bran had helped Danilo to his feet, and the young man was busily fussing over his once-fine clothing.
“Danilo.”
He looked up at the half-elf. Her clothing was torn and bloodied and her face was nearly gray with exhaustion. To his perceptive gaze her elven eyes spoke as clearly as words. Finally, Arilyn was at peace with herself, and she was mistress of the moonblade.
“Now it’s over,” she said.
Epilogue
“Did I sing you the ballad about the Marsh of Chelimber?” Danilo asked the Harper.
“Twice,” Bran Skorlsun said.
“Oh.”
Arilyn chuckled. “Did you notice that the number of goblins and lizard men grows with each rendition? I expect that next he’ll throw an orc or two into the pot for spice.”