Morgawr by Terry Brooks

When the grinding ended, it was silent again. Ahren stared into the ruins, trying to make sense of things, but there was no way to do that from here.

He turned to Kian in exasperation. “I’m going to have a look. Something’s happened.”

Kian blocked his way, facing him. “No, Elven Prince. It isn’t safe for you—“

He gave a sharp grunt, and his eyes went wide in shock. As Ahren watched in confusion, Kian took two quick steps toward him and toppled over, eyes fixed and staring. Ahren caught him as he fell, lowering him to the ship’s decking. The haft of a throwing knife protruded from his back, the blade buried to the hilt.

Ahren released him, rushed to the railing and peered over. A Mwellret had hold of the rope ladder and was climbing its rungs. The dark, blunt face lifted into the light, the yellow eyes fixing on Ahren. It was Cree Bega.

“Little Elvess,” he purred. “Ssuch foolss.”

Unable to believe what was happening, Ahren backed away in horror. He glanced down quickly at Kian, but the Elven Hunter was dead. There was no one else aboard, save Quentin, and the Highlander was too sick to help.

Too late, he thought to cut the ladder away. By then, Cree Bega was climbing onto the deck across from him.

“Musstn’t be frightened of me, little Elvess,” he hissed. “Doess little Elvess thinkss I mean them harm?”

He stepped over to Kian and pulled out his knife. He held it up as if to examine it, letting the blood run down the smooth, bright blade onto his fingers. His dark tongue slipped out, licking the blood away.

Ahren was frantic. He backed all the way to the pilot box before he stopped, fighting to control his terror. He couldn’t use the Elfstones, his most powerful weapon, because they only worked to defend against creatures of magic. Nor could he run, because if he ran, Quentin was a dead man. He swallowed hard. He couldn’t run anyway, not if he wanted to retain even a shred of self-respect. It was better that he died here and now than flee again, than fail still another time to do what was needed.

“Givess me what I wantss, little Elvess, and perhapss I will let you live,” Cree Bega said softly. “The bookss of magic. Hidess them where, Elven Prince?”

Ahren drew his broadsword. He was shaking so badly he almost dropped it, but he breathed in deeply to steady himself. “Get off the ship,” he said. “The others will be back in minutes.”

“Otherss are too far away, foolissh little Elvess. They won’t come thiss way in time to ssave you.”

“I don’t need them to save me.” He made himself take a step toward the other, away from the pilot box, away from the almost overpowering temptation to run. “You’re the one who’s alone.”

The Mwellret started toward him, coming slowly, dark face expressionless, movements almost languid. Don’t look into his eyes, Ahren reminded himself quickly. If you look into a Mwellret’s eyes, be will freeze you in place and cut your throat before you know what is happening.

“Doess ssomething sseem wrong, little Elvess?” Cree Bega whispered. “Afraid to look at me?”

Ahren glanced at the ret in spite of himself, looking into his eyes, almost as if the question required it of him, and in an instant Cree Bega sprang. Ahren slashed at the other in desperation to ward him off, but the Mwellret blocked the blow. The throwing knife sliced across Ahren’s chest, cutting through skin and muscle as if they were made of paper. Burning pain flooded through the Elven Prince as he pushed the other away, dropping into a crouch and whipping the sword back and forth to clear a space between them.

Cree Bega slid clear, watching him. “Esscapess uss once perhapss, little Elvess, but not twice. Little sseer made that misstake. Sshall I tell you what we did to her? After the Morgawr gave her to uss? How sshe sscreamed and begged for uss to kill her? Doess that make you ssad?”

Ahren felt a roaring in his ears, a tremendous pressure from the rage he felt building inside, but he would not give way to it because he knew that if he did, he was a dead man. He hated Cree Bega. He hated all the rets, but their leader in particular. Cree Bega was a weight around his neck that would drag him to his death if he didn’t cut it loose. The Elven Prince was not the boy he had been even a few weeks ago, and he was not going to let the Mwellret win this contest of wills. He was not going to panic. He was not going to be baited into foolish acts. He was not going to run. If he died, he would do so fighting to defend himself in the way that Ard Patrinell had taught him.