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One of the elves wasn’t wearing armor—a scout, Daine supposed. The captain spoke to her and she raced off into the darkness, most likely to deliver word of their arrival. The other soldiers spread out around them, spears and bronze swords at the ready. Their faces were grim, and Daine found his hand back on the hilt of his dagger.

“They don’t seem that happy to see us.”

“It’s not you. I told you—the jungle isn’t safe at night. We’re just lucky we didn’t stumble into any cesspits or briarghosts on our way here.”

Indeed, the elves turned their attention outward, and the captain led the way with his flaming spear. They continued on in silence. The smell of wood-smoke grew stronger with each passing minute, then they came to the edge of the jungle and saw the city.

It was a castle sculpted from glowing volcanic glass. The orange glow Daine had seen in the sky was coming from the walls themselves, and Daine could feel heat radiating out from the city, but the glowing walls were only one of the strange features of the castle. It was enormous; the gates were at least thirty feet high, and the walls might have been fifty feet in height.

And it was a ruin.

The towers that rose above the walls were shattered and broken, and the walls themselves were cracked and uneven. Set against the vast walls, the dark shapes of the elves seemed like insects crawling around a broken toy.

A troop of elves was waiting for them as they approached the gates. A dozen soldiers in bronze armor stood in a semi-circle, arranged around a man and a woman. The man wore a black robe and what appeared to be a prayer shawl inscribed with letters of flame. There was an obsidian crown with three tall spikes on his head, and Daine guessed that this was the priest Holuar. The woman next to him was a warrior. She was holding a double-bladed sword—a shaft of wood with a long blade on either end, much like the double scimitars of the Valenar elves. However, these blades were straight—and wreathed in flame. Her armor was quite different from her comrades. She wore chainmail made with lines finer than Daine had ever seen, but the metal was glowing cherry-red with heat. It should have seared her alive, burning flesh and bone—but it didn’t seem to harm her in any way. Her helmet was sculpted to resemble a bonfire, and her pale eyes were surrounded by tattooed flames. She met Daine’s gaze and showed her teeth in what might have been a smile—but probably wasn’t.

The priest and the warrior exchanged a few words with Gerrion; Lakashtai immediately began to translate.

The man with the crown is Holuar. The woman is their war leader, Zulaje.

War leader. Well, good to know they’re peaceful hunter-gatherers.

The woman pointed the blade of her sword at Gerrion, but the priest spoke sharply and she stepped back, scowling. Gerrion raised his hands in a placating manner.

Holuar welcomes Gerrion, but Zulaje is suspicious of him. She believes he is wasting time again.

Again?

Daine could feel Lakashtai’s frustration. Let me try to forge a stronger link between us—to allow you to draw on my knowledge of the language.

There was a sharp, twisting pain in Daine’s head, and he almost cried out. For a moment all sensation was blocked out by the pain. Then the sing-song voices of the elves returned—but he realized that he understood the words of the song, the meaning of pitch and inflection.

“… Foolish prophecy?” said the woman, Zulaje. “We should be eradicating the oathbreakers, not wasting our time on legends.”

“You know nothing but the sword.” Holuar was old; his face was not wrinkled, but it was gaunt and drawn, and his voice was rough. “This is where our destiny lies. This is the vow that gives our lives meaning. You are certain?”

“I swear it on my father’s blood.” Gerrion was more serious than Daine had ever seen him. All traces of the laughing rogue had vanished. “The child of war, the voice from the past. There can be no doubt.”

“Then let us put them to the test.” The old