Six elven men entered, bearing a litter between them. They moved slowly, carefully, in order to prevent jostling the wounded elf. At a gesture from their king, they gently placed the litter on the ground before him.
Accompanying them was an elven physician, skilled in the healing arts of his people. On entering, I saw him glance askance at Delu; perhaps fearing interference. Elven and human healing techniques are considerably different, the former relying on extensive study of anatomy combined with alchemy, the latter treating hurts by means of sympathetic magic, chants to drive out evil humors, certain stones laid on vital body parts. We dwarves rely on the One and our own common sense.
Seeing that Delu made no move toward his patient, the elven physician relaxed. Or it may have been that he suddenly realized it would make no difference if the human wizardess attempted to work her magic. It was obvious to us and to everyone present that nothing in this world would help the dying elf.
“Don’t look, Sabia,” Alake warned, drawing back and attempting to hide the gruesome sight from her friend.
But it was too late. I heard Sabia’s breath catch in her throat and I knew she’d seen.
The young elf’s clothes were torn and soaked in blood. Cracked and splintered ends of bones protruded through the purple flesh of his legs. His eyes were missing, they’d been gouged out. The blind head turned this way and that, the mouth opened and closed, repeating some words that I couldn’t hear in a fevered sort of chant.
“He was found this morning outside the city gates, Your Majesty,” one of the elves said. “We heard his screams.”
“Who brought him?” Eliason asked, voice stern to mask his horror.
“We saw no one, Your Majesty. But a trail of foul ooze led from the body back to the sea.”
“Thank you. You may go now. Wait outside.”
The elves who had brought the litter bowed and left.
Once they were gone, our parents could give way to their feelings. Eliason cast his mantle over his head and averted his face, an elven response to grief. Dumaka turned away, strong body trembling in rage and pity. His wife rose and came to stand by his side, her hand on his arm. My father gathered his beard in great handfuls and pulled on it, bringing tears to his eyes. My mother yanked on her side whiskers.
I did the same. Alake was comforting Sabia, who had nearly passed out.
“We should take her to her room,” I said.
“No. I won’t go.” Sabia lifted her chin. “Someday I will be queen, and I must know how to handle situations like this.”
I looked at her with surprise and new respect. Alake and I had always considered Sabia weak and delicate. I’d seen her turn pale at the sight of blood running from a piece of undercooked meat. But, faced with a crisis, she was coming through it like a dwarven soldier. I was proud of her. Breeding will tell, they say.
We peeped cautiously out the window.
The physician was speaking to the king.
“Your Majesty, this messenger has refused all easeful medicine in order that he may deliver his message. I beg you listen to him.”
Eliason removed his mantle at once and knelt beside the dying elf.
“You are in the presence of your king,” said Eliason, keeping his voice calm and level. He took hold of the man’s hand that was clutching feebly at the air. “Deliver your message, then go with all honor to the One and find rest.”
The elf’s bloody eye sockets turned in the direction of the voice. His words came forth slowly, with many pauses to draw pain-filled breaths.
“The Masters of the Sea bid me say thus: ‘We will allow you to build the boats to carry your people to safety provided you give us in payment the eldest girl-child from each royal household. If you agree to our demand, place your daughters in a boat and cast them forth upon the Goodsea. If you do not, what we have done to this elf and to the human fisherman and to the dwarven shipbuilders is only a foretaste of the destruction we will bring upon your people. We give you two cycles to make your decision.’ “