saddle, barely aware of the world around him.
“Hey, Kevin! Kevin!”
Lydia was calling him. The bardling roused himself, realizing with a start that night had stolen up on them. They were stopped in the middle of a small meadow, their horses grabbing greedily at the lush weeds and grass. “We’re stopping for the night?”
“I think that’s a good idea, boy, don’t you?”
Oh, he did, indeed.
Lydia, experienced traveler and adventurer that she was, carried a pouch of healing herbs with which she treated everyone’s cuts and bruises, including the bardling’s sore hand.
“Now let’s try to get some sleep,” she ordered after they’d finished a brief meal of cold rabbit and stale bread. “It’s been one hell of a tiring day!”
But for all his weariness, Kevin couldn’t sleep. He kept seeing death, and blood, and a man dying on the point of his sword, another man withering to dust .... At last he moved away from the others to sit wrapped in darkness without and within.
After a time a shadow stirred: Naitachal, moving silently to join him.
“What’s wrong, Kevin?” the Dark Elf asked softly.
“Nothing. I just can’t sleep.”
“You’re still thinking of the battle, aren’t you?”
“No—Yes—” The bardling broke off with a choked little gasp. “Naitachal, t-this isn’t going to mean much to you, I mean you’re a Dark Elf and a necromancer, you’re used to death and all that, but I... killed a man today.”
“So you did.”
Kevin stiffened at the casual reply. “That really doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?”
“Oh, it does.” It was the barest whisper. “ I cannot remember the first time I was forced to take a life. But 1 have never totally forgotten the horror of it”
“You c-can’t remember? How could you not remember—”
“Kevin, I don’t know how much you know of my people. Humans tell some truly bizarre stories about the Nithathil, those you call the Dark Elves. But one thing they say of us is quite true: we are indeed raised without love, without anything that might weaken us. I was singled out early in my childhood as one who held sorcerous promise. That means only one thing to the Nithathil. For all the years of my life I have studied dark magic, the magic of death. Necromancy, as you call it. But ... ah. Powers, I am so very weary of it!”
Kevin glanced at the Dark Elfin surprise. “Then I was right, wasn’t I? You were every bit as horrified as I was when that bandit died from—from age.”
“When I killed him, you mean? That life-draining spell is called Archahai Necrawch, Spectre Touch in your language.” Naitachal shuddered, ever so faintly. “It is a very dark thing, indeed. But there wasn’t much time to act, not with that knife about to slay you, and I couldn’t think of any other way to save you.”
“You had a ... sword.”
“A Death Sword, Kevin, a temporary thing drawn from sorcery’s heart. You heard its joy in taking life, did you not? That soft and empty laughter? I couldn’t run the risk of even scratching you with it.”
Hearing the bitter self-loathing in the Dark Elf’s voice, the bardling cried, “I don’t understand! If you don’t want to work death-spells, why do it? Why not try something else?”
“There is nothing else, not for one of my kind. Not yet, at any rate,” the Dark Elf added softly. “I meant it when I told you 1 intended to prove my people had nothing to do with the stealing of Count Volmar’s niece—Love or hate, they are my people. But I have no intention of ever returning to them.”
“What will you do?”
“Aye, bardling! I don’t know, not yet.” Naitachal paused. “You don’t know how I envy you.”
“Me?”
