Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [4]
"Peace, Faelyn," he said at last, placing long, graceful fingers upon his companion's shoulders. "We are here as eyes and ears, not swords."
Faelyn scowled, but held his tongue. The elegant, angular cast of his features was sharper than Aelrindel's, more severe, like blades cutting through the air. Faelyn wore his thick, raven-black hair pulled back in the style of the laeriaen, bound with the finely wrought silver clasp that identified him as a bladesinger.
As he gazed at his friend, Aelrindel felt a prick of sadness. From as far back as he could remember, Faelyn had been a true companion and sword-brother, steady-fast and loyal, but where Aelrindel opened his heart to the world in studied contemplation, seeking wisdom, the dark-haired bladesinger perceived only threat from almost every aspect of life. It had always been so. Though both of them had been forged by centuries of training as living weapons for the defense of their people, blood, war, and unrelenting pride had tempered Faelyn into a bitter metal indeed.
Aelrindel's hand moved from his friend's shoulder to his face, tracing the light webbing of scars that marred the otherwise bronze perfection of his skin, and was surprised to note a small shock of white hair beginning to grow at his temples. Had it truly been so long, he thought, since they were both tael, apprenticed to their masters and learning the rudiments of their art?
Faelyn reached out and gently put a stop to Aelrindel's exploration.
"You rebuke me, kaer'vaelen. Without words, you rebuke me," Faelyn said, casting his gaze to the ground.
Aelrindel heard the accusation. Kaer'vaelen. First Hilt of the bladesingers. This is what lay between them. It was a hard thing, a stone that had dragged on their friendship ever since Cauladra Brightwing had passed her sword, and her authority, to him before she journeyed to the groves of Corellon Larethian.
He was about to respond when a soft cry sounded in the morning air. Faelyn's head shot up and his hand strayed to the sword sheathed at his side.
The cry came again, just as soft. This time, Aelrindel's sensitive ears caught the direction of the sound. Without a word, he stepped out from beneath their hiding spot, confident that his companion strode right behind him, and moved in search of it.
The sun had risen over the site of battle and Aelrindel counted at least a score of bodies that had washed ashore and nearly twice that many lay dead and bloodied upon the ground. Carefully he picked his way down the slope that led to the heart of the destruction, avoiding the snapped points of blades, congealed pools of blood, and the feathered shafts of spent arrows that sprouted from the slick earth like gruesome flowers.
His senses were alert for the slightest sound, as, he knew, were Faelyn's. Death often called more than just crows to its sickening feast. So it was that the figures leaping from behind a small jumble of rocks and small boulders did not surprise the two elves.
There were nine of them, Aelrindel noted, adorned with mismatched armor-pieces of metal, strips of boiled leather, and hardened cloth. All were human, though barely recognizable as such beneath the gore and grit that covered their skin. Some were missing teeth or fingers, and one, a particularly emaciated figure whose bones stood out beneath a thin layer of skin, had only a single ear. They held steel in their hands-a motley collection of pitted swords, bloodied axes, and evil-looking dirks-and had a hard glint around the eyes.
Aelrindel felt his lithe form relax, the tension brought on by surveying the destruction of human war melted away beneath the promise of action. Distantly, somewhere deep within his heart, the elf heard the gentle strains of the Song begin.
"What have we here?" one of the scavengers, a burly man with a grizzled