Free Honor Bound by Elaine Cunningham Page B

fisherman fall as he pulled a sword and
looked around for an enemy to fight.
    Nimbolk drew two daggers and obliged
him.
    He walked down the alley, blades
held at his sides. The last man standing raised his sword high and
rushed forward, roaring like a charging boar.
    Nimbolk lifted both daggers and
caught the descending sword in a cross parry. A quick twist
wrenched the blade from the man's hand and sent it clattering
aside. He stroked one dagger across the human's throat and kept
walking.
    The club wielder was sitting on the
ground, one hand clamped to his wound. His eyes widened as he took
in Nimbolk's approach and he scuttled backwards like a crab. The
scent of blood and fear rose from him, mingling with the tang of
salt and sharper mineral odors.
    Nimbolk pursued, bloody dagger
leading.
    "Where is Volgo?"
    "Heartstone Island!" the man
shrieked. "Works for the adept Rhendish, he does! They're coming to
Stormwall tomorrow. I can take you to them."
    He'd be dead long before dawn. If
not for the human ability to ignore truths they didn't wish to
contemplate, the man would know this.
    Nimbolk toed the fallen club. "Where
you there? Was it you that killed the queen's champion?"
    "I . . . I don't know what you're
talking about."
    Nimbolk reached for his hood and
jerked it down. An elf with pale skin and brown hair might pass for
human, but only if he took care to hide his distinctive
ears.
    "Dead gods," the human swore. "I
know you. You were with that fancy elf bitch."
    Nimbolk's boot slammed into the
man's jaw and knocked him flat onto his back. He hooked one toe
under the club and flipped it up, catching it by the handle. The
worst insult one fighter could offer another was to end him with
his own weapon.
    "Stand," he commanded.
    The thug struggled to his feet.
"You'd kill an unarmed man?"
    "You were armed when I killed you.
That's more than you can say for the elves you murdered in the
forest grove."
    The man dipped one gloved hand into
a pocket. As the fabric gaped open, the smell of salt and minerals
grew stronger. Nimbolk waited until the man drew out a fistful of
powder and started an underhand toss.
    Nimbolk swung the club, catching the
man's hand and driving it up into his own face. A cloud of greenish
mineral salt surrounded him. Crystals melted and sizzled as they
met flesh.
    The man fell to his knees, shrieking
and clawing at his eyes. Nimbolk poked him in the ribs with the
club in deliberate imitation of his treatment of the fisherman. He
must have sensed the elf's intent, for he flung both hands over his
head and cringed away from the coming blow.
    But Nimbolk hesitated. This man did
not deserve to die the same death as the queen's
champion.
    He broke the club over one knee and
drove the jagged edge up under the thug's ribcage.
    Behind him, the fisherman gave a
choking cough. It occurred to Nimbolk that the man might be
laughing.
    He turned and knelt beside the
fisherman. The grim mirth faded from the man's face as his gaze
locked onto Nimbolk's elfin ears. Terror glazed his
eyes.
    "I didn't say anything. . . about
your people. The boat, the fairy girl that took it. I swear it! But
Dorn . . . he pulled the Fox out of the water. Knows he's alive.
They'll find Dorn. He's got no love for the adepts, but he won't
bleed . . . to keep the thief's secrets."
    Nimbolk sat back on his heels,
surprised by this sudden outpouring. "You could have saved yourself
a beating if you'd told that to Volgo's men. Why tell
me?"
    "All Volgo's men can do is kill
me."
    The fisherman slowly lifted one hand
and to his heart and with great effort traced a circle—a warding
against evil. He tried to say something more, but blood spilled
from his mouth and ran in crimson streaks down his beard. A tremor
ran through him and he lay still.
    Nimbolk rose, staring at the dead
man in puzzlement. Perhaps these humans knew so little of elves and
fairies that they thought them the same people?
    The fisherman had been right about
one thing, though. The