Regret. Guilt. Remorse. They are alien concepts for any who live and thrive within the domain of Shadowdwell, far beneath the bright, surface world of Artha. The words have no equivalent, and thus no meaning in the native language of the Dúre Silthari. But, for me, they have always existed somewhere, I think, deep within the very fiber of my being . . . like blighted spots etched into my eternal soul.

At the age of eleven when I was taken to live and train among the Kir Alshai, I had no preconception of the formidable weapon I was to become. I could not have imagined that, over the next century and a half, I would be responsible for the deaths of over a thousand living, breathing beings, below the surface, and above.

Eight years ago, consumed by the darkness of my own deeds, I contemplated ending my life. Instead, I judiciously chose to live . . . and leave behind the world of a hired assassin; to deny the claim the Kir Alshai sisterhood held over me and flee to another existence, on another continent, far from the Jurcoralan Realms.

Eight years is a drop of water in the ocean of a lifetime for one such as me and my kin. But in those years, I have endeavored to find a way to forgive who I was and make peace with who I have become . . . even in those fleeting moments when the shadows returned and tempted me to embrace the darkness once more. I no longer dance to a bitter melody of hatred and cruelty. My dance is my own, guided by the gentle teachings of Ilxurra . . . who assures us that regret is only valuable as a means to an end . . . that there must be some higher, selfless purpose for our lives. And that purpose, no matter how trivial to others, is the true path of our redemption.

– Shiretha Tzylxariette

The sun had just begun to rise in the east, but the unwavering darkness of night stubbornly refused to acknowledge that it was, once again, time for morning to return to the Jurcoralan city-state of Thal Doren. Overhead, fat, gray clouds continued to roll in from the harbor, carrying with them the promise of a dreary, stormy day. Hisix noticed the cool wind shift from the south and pick up momentum, even as he felt the warm breath of Shiretha’s voice whisper in his ear. “Careful, my darling. We have no idea what we will find here. Ilxurra tells us every unknown opponent is stronger by the fear of our own imaginings . . . but that doesn’t mean they can’t kill us just the same. Remember, I’ll be close if you need me.” And then she was off, racing the perimeter of the property like a slip of shadow, carried along by an enchanted breeze.

The Location spell Hisix cast on his drow companion would reveal exactly where she was in relation to him, for the next several hours. With the hood of her magical cloak in place, Shiretha was practically invisible, even to his exceptional gnomish vision. And in this pre-storm darkness, it would be all too easy to lose track of her. But, when he did, the spell provided a means to instantly find her, even if they were separated by several buildings over a considerable distance. Hisix had also cast Message, allowing the two of them to speak and hear each other, as if they were standing side-by-side . . . which worked really well, as long as there were no solid objects – like a huge stinking mansion – between them.

Still, the gnome felt far too vulnerable and unprepared to wade into the wide-open, unfamiliar grounds ahead. When it came to confrontation, Hisix was an ardent planner. Shiretha was not. Faced with so many unknowns, his confidence wasn’t quite up to a level he would have preferred when laying siege to a three-story manor house . . . even one that hadn’t seemingly been tactically fortified by some unknown person or persons. Nope, he was definitely not feeling good about this . . . no matter what the incoherent, ten-thousand-year-old texts of Ilxurra had to say on the matter.

Despite a possible conflict with a mysterious squatter, the gnome was relieved that his original instincts had not been correct . . . that, in Shiretha’s absence, the Thal Doren authorities hadn’t confiscated her estate for failing to pay the required yearly taxes. If that had been the case, however, there was almost zero chance of reclaiming her property. But Shiretha assured him that all taxes, fees and upkeep were paid in full, in advance, for the next several decades. When she had been forced to depart Thal Doren, eight years ago, the only way she could protect her fortune was to be certain her house (and her vaults) remained intact and firmly in her legal custody. She was well aware, if she missed even a single tax payment, the city would readily execute their right to evict her and lay claim to property, house, and every copper within. Shiretha made absolutely certain that would never happen. To date, she retained every notarized and signet-sealed deed, receipt, and scrap of official paperwork substantiating her undeniable ownership of the estate. Shiretha was a lot of things . . . smart, beautiful, deadly, compulsive, aggravating . . . but determined easily topped the list. And she had been very determined that, despite its underhanded reputation, Thal Doren wasn’t going to bolster its coffers at her expense.

At first, Hisix considered suggesting they wait a few days and perform some mundane and magical reconnaissance, along with a bit of good old fashioned spying, before taking any actions. But, bearing in mind their immediate and very grim Ratcher problem, he knew that drawing this out wasn’t in their best interest. Shiretha wouldn’t have agreed to it anyway. Someone had laid claim to something that was important to her. Ugly or not, the house was hers, and no one was going to just move in and take it away. Seeing as how they were about to embark on an exercise that could easily turn perilous, Hisix sincerely hoped she felt the same way about him.

“You know, Shiretha, all of this just might be for nothing in the end. A mansion sits empty for close to a decade, it’s practically an expectation that some opportunistic slug is gonna move in, right? Maybe a minor noble with money problems. Or a good-hearted vagabond who serendipitously happens to stumble on a vacant place for him and fifty of his homeless friends to live, rent-free. Or maybe a gaggle of orphans, lost in a storm, found your empty house and spent the last eight years fixing up the place. It could be absolutely lovely inside by now . . . you never know.”

There was a lengthy pause before Shiretha responded. “Orphans . . . a gaggle of orphans specializing in portcullis construction and interior design. Really?”

Hisix shrugged despite the fact she probably couldn’t see him. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Lawful citizens and orphans do not move in and take over someone else’s house.”

“But vagabonds do. Probably more often than you realize.”

Shiretha didn’t bother to respond and he knew fully well the conversation was over for now. With a shake of his head and a sigh of resignation, Hisix began to move forward at a brisk pace, down the carriageway, toward the godawful mansion and whatever waited there. As he advanced, he once again reconsidered the likelihood that nobody at all resided in the house. Just because the door – or doors – had been secured, didn’t automatically mean someone now lived there. And even if someone did, they might not currently be home. To every single one of Hisix’s senses, the building continued to scream vacant. Maybe a little too loudly, in fact. But then, if the house wasn’t empty, it was also possible – even likely – that an illusion had been dropped over the property, to ensure anyone outside, looking in, had no view of the actual happenings within the enchanted area. He himself had accomplished similar effects, many times, but never for an object remotely the size of Shiretha’s enormous manor. A wizard competent enough to fabricate and maintain such a convincing illusion, over an area of that magnitude, was leaps and bounds beyond Hisix’s own abilities . . . and not someone he wanted to face off against . . . at least not without a really good plan and a full compilation of spells. At the moment, he had neither.

Even as those discomforting thoughts batted around in his brain, Hisix felt the first tiny tendrils of static charge dance in the air, just in front of him.

Magic for certain.

The negligible static significantly amplified as Hisix took his next couple steps. There was, undeniably, some sort of enchantment over the house, and he had finally gotten close enough to feel it. Which meant, another five or six paces and he would proceed beyond the illusionary veil and get a looksee at what had truly been there all along. For good measure, Hisix cast a Shield spell, to protect himself from any arrows, blades or sharp nastiness that might unknowingly come flying in his direction. It wasn’t a very powerful spell and it provided only minimal protection, but it was better than nothing. He then reached out to Shiretha. “There’s most definitely an enchantment over your house. Which is why I thought it was empty. It’s a damned good illusion, too, or I would have seen through it pretty quickly. I’ll know more in a couple moments.”

Shiretha answered. “Put a shield up.”

“Already did.”

“Good, because you still owe me a dinner that doesn’t include rancid meat on a stick . . . or anything cooked in the Belge. And I intend to collect.”

Hisix smiled a broad smile and said to himself. “Yup . . . definitely right up there with the ugly mansion.”

“What was that?”

“Umm . . . Nothing. Never mind. Are you around the back yet?”

“Just about. It’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“Be careful.”

“Psshhhht. Aren’t I always?”

“Actually, no. Almost never.” As Hisix finished speaking he felt another surge of static charge pass through him, making every strand of hair on his smaller than average body stand up and prickle like the dickens. Then, just as quickly, both the static and the prickling sensation vanished, and the gnome found himself on the other side of the illusionary curtain. Hisix noticed the air felt chillier than it did even a few moments ago, and he wondered if this was a result of the incoming storm, or an effect of yet another spell in the area.

Not twenty feet away from Hisix, halfway between him and the marble stairway leading up to the front door, stood four tall, slender silthari, planted evenly across the carriageway, with the obvious intent of impeding the gnome’s forward progress. In the dimness of the cold cloudy morning, their elven eyes practically glowed . . . reflecting light in much the same way nocturnal animals’ did. Out of all the elven people, only the crimson eyes of Shiretha’s race did not possess this extraordinary, reflective quality, despite the fact they actually saw much better in the dark than their surface-dwelling cousins. Shiretha had once remarked that, in the deep places of the world, where the refuge of darkness is a principal source of defense, such an oddity would most assuredly get one killed. Hisix couldn’t argue the point.

Two of the elves ahead were male, two were female. All four were somewhere way up there on the better-looking-than-Hisix scale. One pair – male and female – had long raven-black hair with pale skin and icy blue eyes, appearing enough alike to be twins . . . or at least siblings. Their identical, dark leather vests and trousers strongly suggested a concerted effort at visual coordination between the two, which Hisix found a little creepy. The other male had medium-length flaxen hair, surrounding a somewhat wider face, and eyes the color of smoky amber. He was the shortest of the group but not by much, and his noticeably more solid, muscular frame hinted at a human ancestry that was not so many generations removed. The remaining elf possessed a ruddier, darker skin tone, which implied a life spent chiefly outdoors, beneath the bright Arthan sun. She had long braided locks of red-auburn and piercing eyes as green as the Hestrian Sea. She wore a trim breastplate composed of overlapping leather strips and bits of chain mail, which provided significantly more protection than anything the others had on. She was also the closest to Hisix, causing him to conclude she was likely the one in charge.

While they wore little armor, the elves were armed with slender siltharin long swords and short bows . . . with the exception of the auburn-haired female. In her left hand, she held an ornate rapier, of sorts, with a basket hilt designed to represent a lattice of flowering vines. And in her right, she carried a shorter-bladed version of the exact sword. The manner in which they all stood – relaxed, exchanging glances, cocksure, and completely unimpressed by the solitary trespasser entering their hidden domain – revealed a total lack of concern from any of them. Hisix was just one person, after all – and, at first glance – not very intimidating. He could tell by the self-assured expressions on their smug faces that they weren’t threatened by his unanticipated, early morning appearance on their front lawn.

Hisix did a quick scan of the house. Except for a few dim lights flickering behind some of the smaller windows on the ground and second floor, the mansion appeared pretty much as it did back on Endicott View. From eight of the nine narrow chimneys, however, steady plumes of gray smoke could now be seen snaking along skyward, to the north. With that many of the fireplaces alight, it was a sure bet that someone was making generous use of the rooms in Shiretha’s mansion.

Despite the prospect of bloodshed – most likely his own – Hisix was delighted he finally had some knowns and variables to wrap his brain around. He quickly began to assess options, probabilities, and outcomes . . . which of course, were based solely on what he could visually confirm at this very second . . . all guaranteed to change significantly, as each additional morsel of new information entered the equation. But, at least for the moment, it was a starting point he could work with.

Hisix’s main concern now was that there might be any number of other spells, placed as traps, throughout the property . . . or even other illusions hiding who knows what. And, if time spent with Shiretha had taught him anything at all, it’s . . . you can’t defend against what you can’t see. As a wizard, skilled in arcane lore and its practical uses, Hisix would have little trouble locating such traps. His concern was for Shiretha, running full out, trying to circle the mansion as swiftly as she could. Her original objective was to obtain a visual lay of the land and scout out easier options for entry into the place. Shiretha had been tasked with taking mental notes of the number of opponents and noticeable hazards as she encircled the grounds . . . with the goal of meeting back up at the marble stairs before they decided on their next move. But that was probably not going to happen, now that there were actual elves with actual swords standing in his way.

“Stay sharp, my love. There could be any number of enchantments scattered around the property to deal with unwanted guests. And I am about to make four new siltharin friends. Wish me luck.” Shiretha did not answer, which was not exactly unexpected. She could very well be on the opposite side of the building at this point. And until he heard a grunt, groan or scream from her end, he would have to assume she was fine. Still, he would continue to check on her, just to be sure.

“Stop right there if you wish to continue breathing, gnome” said the auburn-haired elf as she made her way straight for Hisix. The other three stood their ground, but didn’t take their eyes off of him. Hisix wasn’t sure if he should be amused or offended that none of the three considered him enough of a threat to ready their bows or draw a weapon. “Who are you? What are you doing here? And how did you do that?” she asked, using her shorter sword to point to the open gate.

Not willing to throw out any name Selibus Ratcher might have already tacked a hefty reward to, Hisix opted to borrow one from a childhood friend whose own name was apparently quite a bit more annoying than his. Hisix half bowed and blurted. “I am Perebis Nofgothen Trivulera Iniswick Derivum VIII. And pray tell, whose acquaintance do I have the absolute pleasure of making on this dark and dreary Thal Doren morning?”

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The elf took a full last step, so that she was well within striking distance and raised her left arm, placing the tip of her long, slender blade just inches before Hisix’s chest. “You have two more questions to go before I will pretend to consider any of yours, gnome.”

Due to the nature of the Message spell, Shiretha would only be privy to Hisix’s side of the conversation . . . unless of course she was physically close enough to hear the elf speak as well. If she had heard his previous warning, she was probably already somewhere close by, or was on her way back to him. The Location spell could have told him exactly where she was, but it had to be activated by a series of silly looking hand gestures that – in this somewhat precarious situation – was just as likely to be interpreted as an attempt to cast a spell at the elves. And depending upon the disposition and intention of his auburn-haired interrogator, he might just not survive long enough for it to matter.

So, instead, Hisix elected to stall for time. If Shiretha was near, he wouldn’t expect her to speak, lest she give her position away. It was unfortunate, but her shadow cloak was less inclined to prove effective against the superb vision of elves, so she would likely adhere to whatever cover was available . . . which wasn’t much more than a few scattered trees, in this open front yard. On the plus side, it was overcast and dark, with no direct light to speak of, so the enchantment was still considerably more effective than if the sky had been clear.

Hisix raised both his arms, palms outward, to show the elf he posed no threat. “I’m sorry. What was that second question again? And do you really have to hold that thing so close to me? I mean it’s not like I have anything to defend against your blade . . . not if you decided to use it. Well . . . I do have this knife, here on my belt. It’s not much but it was given to me by . . .”

With a flick of her wrist, the elf now had the sword tip resting against Hisix’s slender throat, which, understandably, made him a little nervous.

“Why are you here?”

“Ummm . . . May I answer that other question first? You were asking about the gate, yes? How did I open it? That’s what you meant?” asked Hisix, knowing that from where she stood, the elf had a perfect view of the wide-open monstrosity.

“Fine. Tell me then, before I lose my patience.”

Hisix couldn’t help but recognize the subtle but purposefully threatening move the elf made with her other sword as she continued to hold the point of the longer blade against his throat. He also correctly assumed this one didn’t have all that much patience to lose, so he intended to proceed with ample caution.

“That gate hasn’t moved in years,” she added. “Yet there it is, wide open to all of Thal Doren. So . . . I will only ask this once more . . . and make no mistake, if you waste my time, I will end you without a second thought. How did you manage to open it?”

Hisix did his best to ignore the deadly bit of siltharin steel pressing in on his throat. He figured the elf probably wouldn’t kill him . . . not immediately anyway. She had questions. As long as she believed he could provide answers and didn’t pose any kind of threat, he was almost certainly safe. For a while, at least.

Or so he hoped.

Hisix wrung his hands nervously, trying to appear more fretful than he actually was. “Simple, really. I um . . . I know the password.”

The elf gave pause, contemplating his answer . . . perhaps trying to measure the truthfulness of his unexpected response. “There’s a password? And how did you come by this knowledge?”

Hisix feigned a genuine smile and replied, “Well . . . this lovely piece of real estate we all find ourselves standing on at this moment in time . . . it belongs to me. Are you the Elos Milaró neighborhood watch? Because I can prove the house is mine. I know it’s been a while since I’ve been back to Thal Doren, but I have all the paperwork and, of course, the keys and I . . .”

“Shut up, gnome.” The elf expertly pressed in and outward, ever so lightly with her sword, intending to apply just enough force to create a small incision at the V of Hisix’s throat. However, the unseen barrier of his Shield spell repelled the blade, preventing it from making any mark, whatsoever, on his skin. Hisix, who was keenly focused on his antagonist at that moment, noted her immediate reaction to the unforeseen outcome. There wasn’t any way for her to be certain of the gnome’s casting abilities, but from this point forward, it was unlikely she would take any chances with him. Nobody wants to get walloped by an unexpected spell.

The elf leaned boldly inward. Her bright green eyes narrowing into jade slits as they bore into Hisix. The expression on her face was suddenly all business. As her second rapier was lifted and pointed at his chest, the elf’s entire posture changed. Her unwillingness to gamble with the possibility that Hisix was a spell caster couldn’t have been more obvious. “Remove all titles or deeds that verify your ownership of this property, along with any keys you currently carry, and place them on the ground before you. If I were you, I would do this in the most expeditious manner you are capable of. And do nothing at all with your hands or I will cut them off at the wrist. Whatever rights you once claimed over this property are now forfeit. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes,” replied Hisix. “You are stealing my estate and if I don’t do what you ask, quickly and efficiently enough to suit you, you will simply remove what you want from my bloody corpse.”

The auburn-haired elf offered a disingenuous half-smile and snapped a quick look over her shoulder at her allies, who seemed to have acquired a deeper interest in the gnome as well. Drawing their bows, the three took aim and adjusted where they stood, in order to guarantee a clear shot, if one became necessary. Her head then turned quickly back to Hisix. “This estate was stolen from you years ago. You just didn’t know it until now. We have our own titles and deeds, suitably purchased and notarized by all the proper administrators . . . the best that money can buy, in fact. Ilventra always worried someone might just show up one day, title in hand, and cause us a pile of issues with the city authorities. And, it turns out, she was half right. But I don’t think there will be any issues or unwelcome involvement by any authorities . . . do you? Especially not if we all want to make it through the day with our heads still firmly attached to our shoulders, hmmm?”

Understanding that the questions were meant to be rhetorical, the gnome was tempted to pop off a few smartass comments, which might just engage the elf enough to continue their conversation. But he swiftly reconsidered. It was far likelier to piss her off and get him to target practice status all the quicker. What he really wanted was buy as much time as he could. Shiretha had to be close enough by this point. Hisix was positive the elf had no intention of letting him leave the property alive. However, if she intended to make use of the estate’s official titles, she certainly didn’t want to answer questions about blood stains or arrow holes. Smarter to have him turn everything over before the slaughter ensued. Except, since he had lied to the elf and Shiretha still possessed all of her paperwork – and keys – stuffed away in her satchel, the only article on him that might pass for any kind of deed was the very letter that had prompted his seven week journey to Thal Doren in the first place. Still, it might be enough to buy him a few more seconds . . .

In the background of his brain, the gnome ran several scenarios on how this might all play out. But without a swift intervention by Shiretha, he ended up a pincushion in every option, save one. In that particular scenario, he was stabbed to death by a pair of elegant rapiers. Hisix had only a few prepared spells remaining, and none of them would allow him to outrun an arrow, much less three. He might be able to take down the smug elf standing right in front of him, if he could avoid getting skewered for more than a couple seconds. And of course, there was also the ring. He hadn’t actually been afforded an opportunity to test it out, but considering the handful of abilities he already determined, the item might provide enough of an edge to keep from dying on the carriageway. And that alone was worth the two hundred jurcoras it had cost him.

“I don’t think she particularly likes you, my love” came the slightest echo of a whisper in his head, carried by the Message spell he had cast earlier. Hisix knew better than to react or reply, but he almost couldn’t help smiling in response to the relief he felt at that moment.

The elf pressed in with her blade, and this time the Shield spelled wasn’t sufficient to stop her from drawing Hisix’s blood. “The papers, gnome. Now.”

Hisix slowly reached into the lining of his cloak, where the letter sat nestled within a buttoned pocket, even as the first spatters of rain began to fall from the dark clouds, overhead. “You do realize you never actually asked me about it,” he said.

The elf heard him, but it was plain to see she was tired of the conversation and ready to be done with the gnome, altogether. “Asked you what?”

Hisix extended his arm, presenting the ivory envelope and holding it out for the elf to retrieve.

“Place it . . . on the ground.”

“It’s beginning to rain.”

The elf’s silent stare made it clear she didn’t intend to change her mind, so Hisix slowly bent down and dropped the envelope onto the carriageway, facedown, at his feet. His true name, after all, was written plainly and boldly on the front and wouldn’t be too difficult to read from where she stood.

Hisix stood back up, straight, and managed to shuffle a couple steps backwards in the process, clearing the way for the elf to get to the envelope . . . and more importantly, bring him a little farther away from the business end of her rapier.

With her longer blade trained on him, she squatted just enough to snatch the envelope and stuff it into her back pocket. “And the keys?”

“Oh yes . . . the keys.” Hisix began padding his coat pockets, looking for where he had placed his imaginary keys. And in doing so, he slipped the basilisk ring onto his finger and hoped that his action had gone unnoticed.

“Wait,” said the elf. “What was the question?”

“The what?”

She furrowed her brow and it was clear she had no more patience to spare, especially now that the rain had begun to fall even harder. “The question. The one I didn’t ask you about.”

“Oh, that. Yes . . . you never asked me the password. To open and close the front gate. It appears as if there should be a set of keys, but it’s just a ruse – it takes a password, not a key, to unlock the mechanism. Dwarven technical expertise. Really quite ingenious.”

The elf nodded her head ever so slightly, but Hisix could tell she was still not wholly convinced. “Indeed . . . that would have been vexing if I had failed to obtain the word from you. So tell me then, Perebis, what’s the password?”

Hisix frowned and touched the small incision at his neck with a wince, then wiped the trivial amount of blood from his finger, onto the leg of his trousers. “If I tell you, will you let me go? Unharmed?” Although Hisix asked the question, he knew perfectly well that as soon as whatever word he offered up was tested on the gate, his life would become instantly meaningless to these elves. And they wouldn’t really care if anything else the gnome carried got messy with blood. Keys, coins and valuables could simply be rinsed off, after all.

The elf shrugged, but the resigned look on her face didn’t change a whit. “Don’t worry. I have no reason to kill you . . . or cause you further grief. Once I verify the password, you are free to go.”

Hisix pretended to contemplate the elf’s lie with care before nodding his head in response. “Fair enough. As long as I have your word. The password to the gate is Shiretha. But, do be careful when you say it. It’s actually quite a potent little enchantment.”

The elf grunted and stepped at an angle from Hisix, with the intent on moving past him and on toward the gate, back at the carriageway entrance. “Watch him. And when I give the signal, fill him with as many arrows as it takes to permanently shut him up.“

Hisix contrived his best betrayed and terrified look as the auburn-headed elf marched on past him, toward where the gate sat, wide open. This meant that, in a few moments she would be too far away to aid her allies and, if the ring worked like he thought, she might never make it back down the carriageway in one piece.

Hisix continued to observe in silence as the elf reached the curb at Endicott Way. But before she could even attempt the bogus password, Shiretha launched her vicious attack on the other three. The drow wasted no time disarming the twins, separating the female’s bow (and hand) from her arm . . . and the cry the elf emitted was shrill enough to wake the dead. But her screams did not go on for long. Before he was even aware of the danger, her brother – if that’s who he was – no longer had a throat to speak of. Hisix watched him drop with his raven haired head flopping idly to the side, barely attached, as spouts of blood erupted from the gaping wound. A moment later, the other twin joined him, dying on the ground, a river of red flowing freely from the hole in her ruined midsection. The remaining male must have spotted Shiretha from the get go, despite her shadow cloak’s enchantment. He let an arrow fly and Hisix watched in relief as Shiretha’s black blade moved across her body with tremendous speed, intercepting and knocking the deadly arrow off course. In her haste to deal with the incoming projectile, however, Shiretha’s hood slipped back, dismissing the spell and leaving her fully visible.

But just as the elf drew his sword and hurled himself at Shiretha, Hisix pointed his finger and willed the basilisk ring to release a burst of deadly magic missiles. Like an army of tiny fireballs, dozens of white hot projectiles in the shape of little reptilian eyes, shot forward, slamming into elf’s face and upper torso, over and over, eating through skin, burning flesh and blasting off considerable chunks of his skull. With a sickening gurgle, the elf fell at Shiretha’s feet, clutching his melted face. As he hit the ground, unconscious or dead, the skies above suddenly opened with a vengeance, giving way to a tumult of thunder, rain and hailstones.

Hisix had no time to pause or regroup his thoughts as cold, hard pellets slammed in from every direction. He spun on his heels in response to the bellowing screams of the auburn-haired elf, and hoped he still had ample time to cast a spell. She was sprinting down the carriageway, through a sheet of water, as ice pellets crashed and bounced off the carriage pavement all around her. In a moment she was upon him, rapiers forward, her face in a twisted expression of murderous rage. But before she could strike, Shiretha was somehow between them, half crouched . . . her sword held at an angle across her body, ready to intercept and deal with the enemy’s charge.

As the combat commenced, there was no doubt the elf had trained diligently, for many decades, maybe centuries. The flashing, fluid movements of her rapier strikes were lightning quick . . . and her two matching blades twisted, turned, parried and attacked, never stopping, relentlessly searching for a way past Shiretha’s defenses. She was well beyond competent in her fighting abilities . . . the elf was truly a master at the craft of swordplay . . . and her confidence in her own capabilities assured her she would easily dispatch this drow before moving on to finish the bothersome gnome. But just mere seconds into the fray, the elf realized how misplaced her bravado had been.

Shiretha Tzylxariette embraced the rhythms of her deadly dance as the first hopeful strikes from her opponent came into play . . . her body and sword moving in tandem as a single instrument of death undeniable, as ice and water blasted futilely down upon her. Her black blade became little more than a blur of midnight as it parried and countered the advancing rapiers so quickly and effectively that Hisix could hardly follow its path. Like a wraith on the wind, Shiretha twisted and turned, her sword complementing every flawless, graceful measure with its own. All too soon, Shiretha’s opponent could match neither her speed nor her skill, and the elf began to tire from the feverous battle. But Shiretha only continued to dance, fully ignoring the wind and weather, striking at her opponent in quick, unstoppable jabs, over and over. And the auburn-haired elf soon bled freely from a dozen places on her body. And still Shiretha did not let up, guiding her blade to pierce her enemy again and again . . . as relentless as the hailstones screaming down from the skies above.

It was clear that Shiretha hadn’t intended to kill the elf straight away, or she could have done so at any time. Breathing hard and bleeding profusely, the elf now barely had the strength to maintain a hold on her swords or even remain standing. Struggling and unable to continue the combat, she collapsed in a pile on the carriageway, as trails of crimson mixed freely with the mounting flows of rain and ice pellets, gathering in muddy pools around her. Yet, the enraged, murderous expression did not leave her face, and she spat out a bloody gobbet at Shiretha . . . for all the good it did her in the end.

Shiretha responded with no such emotions. In fact, she showed none at all, and stood there, silently watching her opponent bleed out. The elf, however, still unwilling to admit defeat, tried to reach out and retrieve one of her rapiers, but Shiretha was already upon her, crushing the heel of her boot onto her opponent’s bloody hand. And still, the drow’s stoic expression remained as she continued to press her weight down until there was an audible pop, as tendons and cartilage gave way beneath the pressure of her boot heel. The elf grunted, then retched in response . . . then closed her eyes and lay back, seemingly accepting the futility of attempting any further actions. Her body went limp, determined now to die, on the hard, wet ground of the carriageway.

It continued to pour but the hail had mostly abated. Hisix pulled his coat in closer around him as he searched Shiretha’s face for some appearance of empathy or compassion . . . but there was nothing . . . not even anger. And just for the briefest of seconds, Hisix found himself truly frightened of the very woman he loved.

“You . . . you could have just finished her.”

Shiretha, raised her head and met Hisix’s gaze with her own, her eyes noticeably softening. “She intended to kill you. I needed her to know what that meant to me. What you mean to me.”

Hisix felt himself hit by a flood of emotions but wasn’t exactly sure how to respond, so he changed the subject back to the problem at hand. “Umm, what now then? There has to be more of them in the house. A lot more. They’re probably watching us right now, in fact. What do you want to do?”

“Ilventra D’Sair.”

Hisix paused and shook his head. “Ilventra D’Sair? The elf mentioned Ilventra being concerned about the owner returning . . .”

“She’s the sorceress who stole my house. There were three more elves around back. One of them was amazingly helpful in filling me in about her. Well, the important stuff, anyway.”

Hisix was pretty sure how that had played out but he had no intention of asking. “So then, let me ask again, Shiretha . . . What do you want to do?”

“I want to march up those stairs and demand the sorceress return my home to me.”

“And if she says no?”

Shiretha, fully soaked in rain and blood wiped the wet from her face with the edge of her cloak. She sighed and looked up toward house, her gaze falling upon the portcullis blocking entrance to her front door. “Then she’d better have a deep dark hole to crawl into, my love, because we aren’t taking no for an answer.”