Silver_Shadow

                                                                                                                                                                                   Archenbridge, Archendale
                                                                                                                                                              8 Marpenoth, the Year of Rogue Dragons
                                                                                                                                                                                                          (1373 DR)

Faelyn prowled the ruined streets of Archenbridge, a hunter limned in moonlit silver. Even in the soft starlight, his elven eyes could see the devastation. A flight of dragons had done this: buildings burned, ruined, cut to shreds, the roads torn and pitted with claw marks, the smoldering remnants of fires still leaking smoke into the night. The efficient Arkhen Riders had already recovered their fallen brethren and the civilian casualties, but blood still stained the empty streets. The dragons themselves were left to rot where they were cut down�by the Hand of Valor, it was said, who brought down no less than seven wyrms this day. Their burned and arrow-pocked scales glistened with the silver moonlight, turning their drying blood into pools of impenetrable darkness. No doubt the Riders would be back the next day to butcher and remove the festering hulks; the draconic holocaust and the mass graves of their kinsmen had been enough for one day.

Many more Dalesmen would have fallen had it not been for the lucky intervention of the Hand of Valor, he reminded himself. He flitted from shadow to shadow as he made his way to Old Stonehows, guided by the slight thrumming of his mother�s pendant. The place was stuffed with refugees�travelers who had escaped the immolation of the Black Horse, the town�s only other inn, or else simple folk whose homes had been ground to dust beneath scaly claws. Calling on his magic with a casual flick of the wrist, he gave himself a running start and jumped onto the roof, jacknifing between protruding beams and slate cantilevers, landing in a battle-ready crouch on the dully gleaming tiles.

He may have lost the Purple Skulls, but he wouldn�t fail tonight. Despite his intense concentration on locating his prey, Faelyn�s mind wandered over his problems tracking the squad from Darkhold. He had picked up their trail and lost it again nearly half a dozen times; such was to be expected when dealing with priests who could travel as invisible mist over vast distances. Probably they knew of him by now, that he was trailing them, and that was dangerous. Still, if they had business with the Ha�

Here. He dropped to the tiles and willed his heart to be silent, stretching his keen ears to catch the sound of his quarry. Armor scraping against leather; harsh whispers, soft boots padding around, the faint pop of a poison vial uncorking. Silent as death, he drew his needle-thin blade from its sheath and called upon the Art to give him the power of flight. As he wheeled through the humid summer air towards the window of his targets he drew a tiny ceramic pellet from his pouch and twirled it through his fingers, like a gambler with his coin. With a gentle flick from his forefinger, he sent it spinning towards the glass, diving himself just a second behind it.

The pellet struck the fragile pane, shattering it at the same time that the ceramic cracked and released its magic�silencing the shards as they tumbled down. Faelyn followed, heedless of the minor scrapes and gashes caused by the shrapnel. Drawing upon the ancient Art of his people, he simply willed himself invisible the moment before he struck.

It was over in seconds. He had to give the assassins credit; at least they were alert when he window shattered, but not nearly alert enough. Diving blade first, the invisible point of his sword slashed through the throat of a dark-clad man. Dancing forward, weaving sword and spell in the deadly music of the bladesong, he tore like a phantom whirlwind through the room. He kicked off a second assassin to halt his momentum, cracking a rib in the process, following it with a sweeping punt to the man�s jaw that sent a spray of blood across the paneled walls. The two remaining attackers drew short, inelegant swords and tried to locate their invisible assailant; Faelyn simply hammered them with attacks meant to be parried, driving them together until he simply dove under their attacks, reversing suddently to impale them both with a single thrust. Still nothing more than an aural blur, he dove across the room to impale the last assassin�s hand, nailing it to his soot-blackened scabbard as he reached for his blade. Faelyn used his free hand to grab the man�s jerkin and hoist him roughly against the wall. He was whimpering incoherently now�though whether that was due to sheer terror or his broken jaw, it was hard to tell. The assassin�s good hand clutched Faelyn�s futilely; it was impossible to break the grip. He stopped struggling after Faelyn smashed his forehead into the man�s nose. Limp, defeated, he seemed to hang a foot off the ground, pinned by the iron grip of an invisible hunter.

�Listen, Fire Knife,� whispered the bladesinger hoarsely. �You get to live. Your friends aren�t so lucky. Go tell Tagreth that he�s not to
touch Elros or any other member of the Hand of Valor. Got that?�

The assassin�s eyes widened in fear. �But he�s the grandfather of assassins! He��

Faelyn dropped the man unceremoniously to the ground, allowing his thinblade to slide out of the wounded hand. He brought it down
in a quick sweeping motion, flicking the excess blood onto the assassin�s face. The maneuver had the desired effect; he stopped
blubbering.

�I don�t care if he�s the pharoah of Mulhorand. If he wants to get to Elros he�s going to have to get through me.�

�But who are you?�

Faelyn, sensing that his invisibility dweomer would soon end, stepped towards the window. �He doesn�t need to know who I am. All he needs to know is that the Hand of Valor is off limits. He may as well put aside any feud that he�s got with them, because any Fire Knife that comes within 50 miles of them is going to end up dead. Tell Tagreth that he�s more than welcome to test my resolve. Tell him that if he doesn�t believe me, then I�d be more than happy coming after him.�

With that he dove out into balmy air, wiping his blade on an oilcloth before sheathing it. A dirty business, but it had to be done. Let�s just hope that Tagreth Cormaeril doesn�t call my bluff, he thought. I�m not in the mood to take down the Fire Knives single-handed; at least not tonight.

Chuckling ruefully, he followed the steady pulse to a nearby window, where six figures huddled unceremoniously on a pair of beds, all asleep but the trio of elves, who sat in deep reverie. Shocked, Faelyn nearly rammed into the stone wall, forgetting to guide his flight spell.

By Correllon�the Holy Strategist, at least, should know better. He shook his head, imagining himself giving these men�these kids�a stern dressing down. Just because you stop a flight of dragons, you think you can just all go to sleep? In a public inn, with no one on watch? Don�t you know that Faer�n is burning around you? Don�t you have any idea how many enemies you have?

You�d better clever up soon, my friends, he thought. The Purple Skulls will not be so easily defeated.

Silver Shadow