A Merchant’s Luck

by Michael R. Meyerhofer

part 3 of 7

The color of their garb was common enough these days. Black was the favorite color of assassins who wanted to blend into the shadows, not to mention warriors who just wanted to look more intimidating in broad daylight.

But even Castor could tell these men were different. They moved with astonishing speed and fluidity, always half-crouched, skittering almost insect-like over the earth. They seemed to be armed with nothing but sickle-swords strapped across their backs. Only their faces were exposed. Their features seemed Elfish, but that elegance was blunted by skin patched in disquieting, midnight-blue blemishes.

Castor’s stomach lurched. Dusk Elves!

He glanced at his bodyguard’s expression and saw that she was thinking the same thing. This was not just any band of highwaymen. Somehow, Xozaria’s most treacherous enemies — a race shunned by Light and Dark Elves alike — must have learned Castor’s itinerary. That meant the Dusk Elves either wanted to kill Castor then steal his mouthbrushes, or else they wanted to buy from him too.

Castor considered this for a moment. He was perfectly willing to sell his wares to anyone who could pay, even the very race responsible for the sundering of the realms in the first place. But he could not imagine the god-cursed Dusk Elves cared much about oral hygiene.

If they’ve come to assassinate me, they’re going to need more than twenty men! Castor suddenly felt a bit insulted. Dusk Elves were famously vicious fighters, but Castor had fifty-three crack warriors under his command. To say nothing of Aesho Hess. His confidence rose. His wheezing stopped. He watched the situation unfold.

Captain Therocles and his guards moved out of the positions Aesho had ascribed, seemingly heartened by the Dusk Elves’ relatively small numbers. The guards rode on horseback away from the wagons, weapons bristling. Aesho Hess snorted with rage as they disobeyed her orders, but Castor’s fears melted.

Therocles and his guards were close enough now. They could easily dispatch the Dusk Elves if a fight broke out. Besides, Castor was tired of crouching like a villain. The thickets scratched and snagged his expensive robes. He felt the disquieting touch of insects on his sweaty skin. He forgot his bodyguard’s orders and stood. Before she could stop him, he called out, “I assume you’re looking for me!”

Everyone turned. The Dusk Elves tensed. Some reached for weapons, but Captain Therocles and the guards were closer to the Elves than Castor was. One order from Therocles and Castor’s men could turn the Elves into pincushions for crossbow bolts.

Castor stepped away from the dogwoods, brushing dirt and dead blossoms from his robes. Aesho Hess hissed furiously, but Castor ignored her. He swept the Dusk Elves in a derisive stare and made his way back to Captain Therocles at the front of the wagons. He realized with irritation that Hess was not following, but he ignored her.

Facing the Dusk Elves, Castor said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it your kind that so angered the gods, they cleaved our realms in half? One would think, after that, you’d know better than to go sneaking around with swords!”

Castor saw out of the corner of his eye that some of his men smiled, and this pleased him. He paused meaningfully. “Who is your leader?”

One of the Elves stepped forward. He looked no different than the rest, save for the deeper cruelty of his eyes, as though they had been carved from painted ice. “I am.”

The Dusk Elf cast him a chilling look. Castor reminded himself that Captain Therocles and the guards were close at hand. He was safe. “What is your name?”

“Nightmare.”

Castor smirked. “I’m not impressed. Anyway, isn’t that a few syllables short for an Elfish name?”

The Dusk Elf’s stiletto-thin lips broke into wolfish smile. “A Murklord does not share his true name with foreigners. Nightmare is just what you humans call me.”

“Why?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” The Dusk Elf’s look was one of icy confidence.

Castor fought off a chill and answered with what he hoped was a condescending grin. “Let’s speak plainly here. If you’ve come to kill me, you’re shorthanded.”

Captain Therocles and the caravan guards nodded in terse agreement, weapons held at the ready. The steel tips of crossbow bolts gleamed in the afternoon light.

Nightmare’s cold grin broadened. “Not really.” He gestured. Black-clothed men materialized out of thin air. Dark, lean shapes armed with taut longbows. Castor and his men were surrounded.

Nightmare stepped forward. He removed a ring from his finger and held it up, even as it crumbled to dust. “Rings of Blessed Invisibility,” he said. “They cost a fortune. Too bad they only work for a few minutes.” He offered Castor a slight, mocking bow. “Thank you for coming out of hiding. I was worried these wouldn’t last long enough. Now, tell your guards to surrender before this gets messy.”

Castor was too stunned to speak.

After a long, tense moment punctuated by the sound of Castor’s sudden wheezing, Therocles acted instead. The mercenary-captain swore under his breath. Then he gave the command. When the guards did not move, Therocles spoke again, more sternly this time. His guards reluctantly lowered their weapons.

The Dusk Elves moved fast. Some confiscated crossbows and blades while others herded Castor’s servants and wagon-drivers together with the guards. None said a word. Nightmare came to stand before Castor, fixing the young, balding merchant in an icy gaze.

Castor paled and looked away. Faun... where are you?

Nightmare’s hot, sour breath scoured his face. Castor swallowed hard, trying to steel himself. “I am protected... by powerful friends,” he sputtered.

“Really?” Nightmare smirked, revealing sickly yellow teeth. “Where are they?”

Castor shuddered. “There’s no reason to kill me. Take my wagons—”

Nightmare cut him off. “I don’t give a damn about your mouthbrushes. At least, not the way you think I do!” He laughed thinly, sending a gust of sour air into Castor’s face. He turned to Captain Therocles. “If you and your men want to live, go to Xozaria. Tell Duke Meddo what has happened here.”

Captain Therocles’ eyebrows raised in surprise. He glanced sidelong at Castor.

“The merchant and the wagons stay,” Nightmare said. “My archers will pick off anyone who so much as turns around. Now go.” When no one moved, Nightmare drew his sword. The other Dusk Elves not already holding taut longbows did likewise. “Any man still here in ten seconds will be gutted like a Xozarian pig.”

The guards woke from their daze and started off. Therocles hesitated, glanced at Castor again, then followed. Castor dumbly started to follow too, but Nightmare grabbed him by the scruff of his silk robes and yanked him back. Castor’s men hurried off on foot, down the road toward Xozaria. Moments later they were gone and Castor felt more alone than he ever had in his life.

“When... Duke Meddo hears about this, he’ll send troops to rescue me,” he protested weakly. He fought to contain his wheezing as he scanned the foliage for some sign of Hess.

Nightmare grinned. “I sincerely hope so. Now, where is your Satyr?”

“I don’t know,” Castor said. He thought quickly. “She... she was supposed to meet us in Rayne, but she never showed. I heard... the Knaves’ Guild made her a better offer. Something about hauling dragon-chitin for the Dwarves.” He shrugged. “Really, that’s all I know!”

Castor had developed a flare for bluffs during his business dealings, but he was no good at lying with a sword at his throat. He saw right away that Nightmare did not believe him. “Search the area,” the Dusk Elf ordered. “Look sharp. I hear she’s quite formidable.”

It took the Dusk Elves only a moment to find Castor’s floating, rune-carved chair behind the trees. Nightmare eyed the magical invention with disgust, then ordered it smashed. Castor expected to hear a furious clash of steel when the Elves stumbled upon Hess too, but the Satyr was gone.

She must have left with Captain Therocles and the guards, he thought.

Castor panicked. He knew that if the Dusk Elves took him away from Xozaria, into their own dank kingdom, Duke Meddo might be unwilling to send an army into Nelophi, Miraculous Mouthbrushes or no. Castor thought guiltily of all the lewd insults he’d ever leveled at Aesho Hess about her equine posterior.

I never should have said her tent smelled like a stable!

That, he knew, had deeply offended her, even more than the question he posed whenever they passed a field filled with goats, and he asked if she recognized any of her relatives. Castor winced. Was it any surprise that she’d gone to save herself?

One of the Dusk Elves asked, “Should we lash the merchant’s wrists?”

Castor heard slash instead of lash and nearly fainted.

Nightmare eyed the merchant, then shook his head. “Put a sword in those pudgy hands, and he’d probably be more dangerous to himself than to us!”

His men snickered again, revealing teeth even more rotten than their leader’s. Some of the Dusk Elves took command of the wagons, turning them around, and the caravan started in the opposite direction, away from Xozaria.

Proceed to part 4...