Free The Dream Spheres by Elaine Cunningham Page B

movements in the air and then groped for the hilt of Elaith’s thrown blade. The creature’s body stiffened and began to topple forward.
    The leader let out a roar of outrage and charged the half-elf. Its sickle blade slashed the air in anticipation of deadly harvest.
    Arilyn stepped aside, putting the dying creature between herself and her attacker. The tren kept on, too enraged to pull his attack. His curved blade hooked deep into the soft folds under the dying tren’s throat. Before he could pull the weapon free, his comrade’s falling weight bore him down. Arilyn lunged, her sword diving for the assassin’s eye.
    The tip of her sword struck the bony ridge, slid wetly across the scales and sought the narrow socket.
    The tren was too quick for her. With another roar, he
    tossed his enormous head and threw her sword wide. Wrenching the sickle free of his comrade’s slack throat, the tren backed away from the carcasses of his clan. He melted into the shadows as completely as a drop of water might merge with the sea.
    Arilyn’s first impulse was pursuit, but years on the battlefield prompted her not to turn her back too soon on any opponent. She spun, sword held in guard position before her, prepared to face the final tren—or its elven opponent.
    The last tren was weaving on its feet, bleeding from scores of wounds. There was no fight left in the creature. Its long arms hung slack, claws scraping the stone floor as it rocked on unsteady legs.
    Yet Elaith showed no signs of ending the game. Arilyn had seen barn cats show more mercy in torturing a captured squirrel, and less pleasure.
    “End it!” she snapped.
    The elf shot her a quick, startled glance, as if he’d suddenly recalled where and who he was. For a moment Arilyn could have sworn that his handsome features wore an expression of shame.
    Elaith turned aside quickly, as if from some unwanted truth. He dropped one dripping weapon to the floor and produced a slender knife from some hidden fold of his festive garb. A quick flick sent the blade hurtling into the inner corner of the creature’s slack mouth. The silver tip burst through the hide on the opposing side of the tren’s throat, opening the way for a bright, quick flow of lifeblood. The tren sank quickly, almost gratefully, to the blood-soaked floor.
    For a long moment elf and half-elf regarded each other. Disgust and gratitude warred for possession of Arilyn’s first words. “I should thank you,” she began.
    “Much against your personal inclination,” Elaith cut in smoothly. He lifted one hand to forestall the words one elf spoke to another after shared battle. “There is no
    debt, Princess. I have been pledged from birth to serve the royal house. My sword is yours.”
    That shut Arilyn up, as no doubt Elaith had intended it to do. The rogue elf was one of the few who knew of her heritage and the only elf who openly acknowledged it. Among the Tel’Quessar—the elven term which meant simply and exclusively “The People”—there was little honor in being the half-breed daughter of an exiled princess. Elaith, for his own reasons, seemed to think otherwise.
    She turned away and busied herself with cleaning her sword. “We should follow that last tren.”
    “Undoubtedly,” Elaith said, and smiled faintly. “Unless I miss my guess, however, another battle awaits you above. This has been a most eventful evening.”
    Arilyn did not dispute that. First Danilo’s mishap with the skyflower spell, then the odd conversation she’d overheard.
    The words Cassandra Thann had spoken came back to her—the promise to promptly deal with any trouble Elaith might cause. In the aftermath of battle with paid assassins, these words held a new and sinister meaning.
    She shook her head, denying this absurd thought. Lady Cassandra might be a two-legged dragon, but Arilyn could not picture her hiring assassins to deal with misbehaving guests. On the other hand, there was the risk that Elaith might believe this to be