“You’re the least nervous elf I ever met,” he declared.
“I should have looked up first,” Mathi said.
“Why?”
“I know that trick,” she said, remembering her escape from Balif. “Few people look skyward when there’s trouble.” “I’m not trouble. I’m Rufe.”
She looked puzzled. He let go with his feet and swung down. Letting go with his hands, he alighted easily right in front of the young elf woman.
“Name’s Rufe. You can call me Rufe.”
Face-to-face, Mathi tried to place her odd visitor. He was apparently male with a beaky nose; large, pointed ears; and very big eyes. He was definitely the oddest specimen of elf she had ever seen.
“My name is Mathani,” she said. “How did you get in here?”
“I squeezed under the door.”
The massive door was so close to the floor that it scraped when it opened. Nothing as big as Rufe could possibly pass underneath.
Rufe looked around. “Pretty plain. The others have nicer rooms.”
“What others?” Mathi said, seizing on his clue.
“Some folks down the hall. Locked up they are. I suppose they must like it.” Apparently having satisfied his curiosity, Rufe gave a little wave and said, “Bye! I’m off.”
“Wait!” Mathi grabbed him by the sleeve. Rufe looked at her hand, shrugged, and twisted out of Mathi’s grip so effortlessly that she ended up clutching her own arm instead. Treading lightly, the little fellow was at the door before Mathi could say or do anything about it.
“Get me out of here!” she cried. “I am unjustly imprisoned, as are my companions.”
“Really? I thought it was because elves don’t take kindly to impostors. Ain’t that why you’re in here?”
Mathi recoiled. How had Rufe seen through her pose as Balif’s daughter? Shaking off her surprise, she appealed to his sense of freedom. “Don’t let me languish in a cell,” she pleaded.
“There’s not much to do in here; that’s certain. Unless you’ve got some imagination, that is.” He pointed at the luminar, white and bright. “Can you bring that with us?”
Mathi climbed onto the only piece of furniture in the room, the chair she’d come in on. Stretching up high, she snagged the bright crystal with her fingertips.
“I have it!”
Stepping down, she saw Rufe was gone, but the door of the cell was standing wide open.
Delighted, Mathi ran to the door. The corridor was empty. Where had the little fellow gone to so fast? Remembering how they had met, she checked the ceiling. No, Rufe wasn’t there, but she noticed diminutive footprints in the dust, many sets running in both directions. Either Rufe had friends there or else he he’d been roaming the fortress at will for some time.
Mathi tiptoed down the passage, holding the luminar at arm’s length. Even though they were capable of blindingly bright light, luminars were never more than faintly warm to the touch. At the next door she found, she knocked softly and whispered, “My lord? Are you there?” Getting no answer, she tried the next. On her third try, she heard an answering hiss from the door she’d just left. It was Artyrith. Mathi slid back the bolt and pushed the door open with her toe.
Two strong hands seized the front of her gown. She was dragged forcefully forward, losing the light rod in the process. Whirled aroundand thrown down, Mathi found a foot planted on her throat before she even had time to protest.
A face bent low over. “It is the girl. Let her up.”
Artyrith stood back. Treskan helped Mathi stand.
Lofotan said, “My apologies for the rough welcome. Since we were forced in here, we haven’t found out who has confined us or why.”
Mathi compared her experiences with the others’. Lofotan and Treskan had been taken exactly as she was, at the dining table. The strange gag paralyzed them. The old warrior and the awkward scribe were stripped of weapons and carried to that room (larger than Mathi’s cell), where they found Artyrith already a prisoner.
“Where’s our lord?” she asked.
Artyrith said they were separated when they were dragged out of the dining hall.
“Of more immediate interest is how did you escape?” said the cook.
Mathi described Rufe in some detail as she had never encountered such a being before.
“Sounds like the race said to be invading the eastern province,” Lofotan remarked. He picked up the dropped luminar, ruby red and failing. “It’s cracked.” He hefted it like a club. “We must find our lord at once. He may be in worse danger than the rest of us.”
They pulled apart the chairs and divided the sturdy wooden legs among themselves. Hardly fine weapons but under the circumstances they would have to do.
Lofotan led the way, club in one hand and the dying luminar in the other. The passage outside ran straight another twenty yards then ended on a sharp left turn. They tried all the doors along the way but found no one.
“This will take all night!” Artyrith fumed. He slipped ahead of the cautious soldier and boldly grasped the latch of the next door. He flung it open, calling out, “My lord, are you here?”
Balif wasn’t in the room. But eight elf warriors were. They had stumbled into a guard room.
“Oh, E’li!” gasped Lofotan.
Artyrith uttered a wild yell and launched himself at the nearest soldiers. They scrambled to their feet, groping for arms they weren’t carrying. All their swords and pole arms were neatly racked on the back wall. Lofotan propelled Treskan forward to join the fray, while Mathi hung back.
Swinging his club, Artyrith connected twice in two sweeps. Down went an opponent with each blow. Lofotan kicked over a stray chair and threw the dark luminar at his closest foes. Treskan flailed around a bit, beating the air but not hitting any opponents.
By then the whole room was engulfed in a wild melee. Artyrith proved to be a remarkably adroit fighter. He dueled with his length of wood as if it were a sword, besting one warrior after another. Lofotan was as formidable as his age and experience could make him. He wasn’t as stylish as the cook, but he made no mistakes. Inept as he was, even Treskan held his own in the chaos, keeping warriors busy until his more martial comrades could deal with them.
Impressed by her companions’ skill, Mathi stayed by the door. She was no warrior, and she was certainly not fit to battle eight Silvanesti hand to hand. Lingering in the open door with a chair leg held tight against her chest, she flexed her fingers, nervous but unwilling to join the fray. She did shout warnings when Artyrith or Lofotan were in danger of being outflanked. The Silvanesti soldiers fought bravely, but they seemed reluctant to do the kind of damage Artyrith and Lofotan were willing to inflict. Sensing defeat, one of the warriors decided to get help.
Seeing him sprint for the door, Lofotan barked, “Stop him, girl!”
Not knowing what else to do, Mathi stuck her stave out at knee height. The rushing elf tripped on it and crashed headfirst into the stone wall outside.
When the rest were subdued, Artyrith came to see if the fleeing elf was taken care of. He picked up Mathi’s stick-she had dropped it during the collision-and handed it back to her.
“Well done.”
Lofotan helped himself to a sword from the wall rack. He tossed one underhand to the cook, who caught it neatly in midair. Treskan’s he pressed into the scribe’s hand.
“One for you, Mathi,” he said next. She shook her head.
“Take one anyway. If either of us loses ours, yours can be our spare.”
After inspecting the corridor, Lofotan slipped out. Artyrith followed with a swagger, and Treskan went behind him, nursing a bruised hand. Looking over the devastated room and its prostrate residents, Mathi turned and went through the door after her comrades.
Sword in hand, Lofotan strode the corridor with new authority. He flung open doors defiantly, loudly calling for Balif by his forest name, Camaxilas. He found no one but some startled civilians doing an inventory in a nearly empty storeroom. No one tried to impede them.
