“I think you’re worried about nothing,” said Eliason, with a languid wave of his hand. “You sailed to Elmas in perfect safety. Perhaps these serpents got it into their snakey heads that the sun-chasers were some sort of threat to them, and, once they smashed them to bits, they felt better about the whole thing and departed, never to bother us again.”
” ‘Masters of the Sea,’ they called themselves,” my father reminded them, his black eyes glistening. “And they meant it. We sailed here by their permission. I’m as certain of that as if I’d heard them give it me. And they were watching. I felt their green-red eyes upon me the whole way.”
“Yes, I think you’re right.”
Dumaka stood up abruptly, walked over to a low wall of coral, and stood gazing down into the shining depths of the calm and placid Goodsea. Was it my imagination, or did I see now upon its surface a trace of shimmering oil?
“I believe you should tell them our news, my dear,” said his wife, Delu.
Dumaka did not immediately reply, but kept his back turned, staring gloomily out to sea. He is a tall man, considered handsome by the humans. His rapid-fire speech, swift walk, and abrupt gestures always make him appear, in the realm of the easygoing Elmas, as if he were doing and saying everything in double-quick time. Now, however, he was not pacing or roaming about in frantic activity, trying to outrun the swift mortality that must inevitably overtake him.
“What’s the matter with your father, Alake?” whispered Sabia. “Is he ill?”
“Wait and listen,” said Alake softly. Her face was sad. “Grundle’s parents aren’t the only ones who have a fearful tale to tell.”
Eliason must have found this change in his friend as disturbing as I did. He rose to his feet, moving with the slow, fluid grace of the elves, and laid a comforting hand on Dumaka’s shoulder.
“Bad news, like fish, doesn’t smell sweeter for being kept longer,” Eliason said gently.
“Yes, you are right.” Dumaka kept his gaze out to sea. “I had intended to say nothing of this to either of you, because I wasn’t certain of the facts. The magi are investigating.” He cast a glance at his wife, a powerful wizardess. She inclined her head in response. “I wanted to wait for their report. But . . .” He drew a deep breath. “It seems all too clear to me now what happened.
“Two days ago, a small Phondran fishing village, located on the coast directly opposite Gargan, was attacked and completely destroyed. Boats were smashed, houses leveled. One hundred and twenty men, women, and children lived in the village.” Dumaka shook his head, his shoulders bowed. “All are now dead.”
“Ach,” said my father, tugging at his forelock in respectful sympathy.
“The One have mercy,” murmured Eliason. “Was it tribal war?”
Dumaka looked around at those gathered on the terrace. The humans of Phondra are a dark-skinned race. Unlike the Elmas, whose emotions run skin-deep, so the saying goes, the Phondrans do not blush in shame or pale in fear or anger. The ebony of their skin often masks their inner feelings. It is their eyes that are most expressive, and the chief’s eyes smoldered in anger and bitter, helpless frustration.
“Not war. Murder.”
“Murder?” It took Eliason a moment to comprehend the word that had been spoken in human. The elves have no term for such a heinous crime in their vocabulary. “One hundred and twenty people! But . . . who? What?”
“We weren’t certain at first. We found tracks that we could not explain. Could not, until now.” Dumaka’s hand moved in a quick S-shape. “Sinuous waves across the sand. And trails of slime.”
“The serpents?” said Eliason in disbelief. “But why? What did they want?”
“To murder! To kill!” The chieftain’s hand clenched. “It was butchery. Plain out-and-out butchery! The wolf carries off the lamb and we are not angry because we know that this is the nature of the wolf and that the lamb will fill the empty bellies of the wolf’s young. But these serpents or whatever they are did not kill for food. They killed for the pleasure of killing!