The sight before her stole her breath and froze her feet to the lush carpet.
An eldritch blue light filled the room, tossing the dancing shadows of three fighters against every wall of the chamber. The source of the light was a living moon-blade, and it was held in the two hands of a half-elven assassin.
Like a hero from some ancient elven legend, Arilyn stood firm against her two attackers, beating back every thrust and slash of their wickedly curved scimitars. Her magical sword flashed and spun, leaving dizzy ribbons of blue light to mark its path.
A moonblade, Ferret thought dazedly. A true, living moonblade!
She knew the half-elf carried such a sword and even presumed to take her name from it, but Ferret had assumed the weapon had been dormant for centuries, and that Arilyn had purchased it from some ignorant peddler, or plundered it from some ancient elven tomb. Moonblades were hereditary swords of fearsome magic, and according to legend, none but moon elves of true blood and noble spirit could wield them. To see such a weapon in the hands of a half-elf-and a hired killer- raised implications that staggered Ferret's imagination.
Just then Arilyn's blazing eyes settled on the new intruder. Instinctively Ferret lifted her dagger into a defensive position.
Just in time. With the speed of a striking snake, the half-elf whirled on the nearest man and feinted high. As he lifted his blade, she spun away in a quick, tight circle and then ducked in under her opponent's defensive parry. She lunged past him toward the female assassin, her glowing sword leading with deadly intent.
The elven sword struck Ferret's parrying dagger with a force that sent bright sparks of pain dancing up her arm to explode in her head like festival fireworks. The half-elf s intent was apparent: in a battle against greater odds, it was wise to eliminate the most dangerous opponent first, and quickly. In some corner of her mind, Ferret reminded herself that a moonblade could not shed innocent blood. She was not, however, convinced of her safety. The path she had taken was a need- j ed thing, but it may have tarnished her in the sentient sword's perception.
Fortunately for her, the two men recovered from their surprise and closed in on the half-elf. They charged at her, scimitars aloft, fueling their attack with yells of bloodlust. Without turning, Arilyn lifted her moonblade high overhead and met the first downward strike. At the same time she kicked forward; her booted foot caught Ferret in the gut with a force that folded the smaller female over and sent her staggering back into a table. In the next heartbeat the half-elf pivoted, using the momentum of her turn to press the joined blades toward the second attacker. The three swords met with a ringing clash. Arilyn pulled hers free of the tangle and danced back. Her gaze again settled upon the female.
Ferret saw her own death in the half-elf s eyes and knew that her next action would either be brilliant, or it would be her last.
The ache in the assassin's lower ribs gave her inspiration: she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood.
Pressing one hand against her rib cage, Ferret let out a groan. As she did, bloody foam spilled onto her lips. She wiped it off, regarded her hand with dawning horror, and then fixed a venomous glare upon the half-elf. Slowly, she slid down, the table's edge scraping her back, until she lay crumpled on the floor, clutching her ribs and moaning softly. Seeing that the female was down for good, Arilyn turned away to face the other assassins.
Ferret was not surprised that the half-elf accepted her performance as genuine. In her time as an assassin, Ferret had seen enough men die, in enough ways, to know exactly what the process looked like. A kick like that could have broken a rib, which in turn could have pierced a lung. Death by drowning was the inevitable, albeit slow, result of such an injury. But what did surprise Ferret was the flash of compassion that came into Arilyn Moonblade's eyes as she realized the manner of death she had dealt. It was just as well for Ferret that the half-elf was otherwise engaged, or she might well have granted her fallen adversary a quick and merciful end.
Better die quickly, Ferret admonished herself with a touch of grim humor.
Lying as still as she could, the assassin closed her eyes to mere slits and watched the battle from beneath the thick curtain of her lashes.
Ferret had to admit that her half-elven enemy was brilliant in battle. She had never seen anyone who possessed a surer knowledge of the sword. Yet much of what Arilyn did seemed to be pure instinct. She seemed to sense when and how the next strike would come, and she was quick enough to keep a step ahead of both her opponents.
In fact, the speed and force of her strike seemed all out of proportion with her size. Granted, the half-elf was tall, and her slender form had an elf s surprising resilience and strength, but those things could not account for the power of her fighting. Ferret wondered what secrets lay behind the glowing aura of the half-elf s moonblade.
Just then Arilyn's sword dove in past Samir's guard and buried itself in his throat. She pulled the moon-blade down hard, thrusting deeper as she went, sweeping through bone and sinew with terrifying ease. Ferret suppressed a wince as the elven blade cleaved the man from gizzard to groin.
Seeing an opportunity in his comrade's death, the other man grinned wolfishly and raised his scimitar high overhead for the killing strike. To add force to the blow-and perhaps in unconscious imitation of his half-elven foe-he gripped the blade with both hands and began the downward slash. ^
But his intended victim had other plans. Arilyn tore the blade free of the assassin's body and continued its downward cut. The sword gained momentum as she traced a sweeping circle back and around. As the elven sword reached the zenith of its swing, Arilyn spun to face the surviving assassin and stepped hard into the attack.
The two blades met with a shriek of metal. Arilyn ducked aside instinctively as jagged shards flew from the man's ruined scimitar.
With a hiss of rage, the assassin lunged at her with the ragged stub of blade that remained to him, apparently hoping to catch her while she was still off-balance.
The half-elf nimbly side-stepped the attack. She pivoted in a quick circle and brought the flat of her sword down hard on the man's outstretched arm, striking him just below the elbow. Immediately she dropped to one knee, using the moonblade as a lever and forcing the man's elbow to bend down. The jagged end of his blade turned upward; the momentum of his charge did the rest. The assassin stumbled forward as the broken scimitar plunged through his own throat.
Arilyn rose, sliding the bloody moonblade from the crook of the dead man's arm. The sword's magical blue fire slowly faded away, apparently quenched by the blood it had shed. The half-elf stooped and wiped the blade clean on the fallen assassin's shirt, then slid the sword firmly into its ancient scabbard.
Without a backward glance, she turned and strode to the open window. She climbed up the rope, hand over hand, and disappeared into the night sky.
For several silent moments Ferret lay where she had fallen, busily sorting through all she had seen. Very little of it made sense to her.
Arilyn was half-elven, yet she possessed a moonblade. She had taken an assassin's path, yet the sword continued to do her bidding. Was it possible the sword's magic had somehow been perverted to evil? Or was Arilyn,like Ferret herself, something very different from what she appeared to be?
And what of Danilo Thann? According to the intelligence Ferret had gathered, the nobleman was in the Purple Minotaur. Minutes before, she herself had heard his voice lifted in song. Where, then, had he gone? And what part did Arilyn play in this mystery?
Of one thing Ferret was certain: she needed the Harper, and if he was still within her reach she would find him- It grated on the proud female that the key to her success seemed to be in the hands of the half-breed fighter.