Page 4 of Captive

Everything about him was strange. Unnaturally bright blue eyes were set in a face the color of the sky at twilight. His features had an alien sharpness to them, not quite like any other humans or elves she’d ever seen, and his hair was arranged in a style she’d never seen before, with a braid winding along one side of his head and the rest of his oil-black hair falling loose to his shoulders.

He wore some kind of lightweight armor made of a material she couldn’t identify. It was clearly something built for protection, but the design seemed to prioritize ease of movement over blocking heavy blows.

She heard hoofbeats, and glimpsed Ermo and Chrysana on the second horse, riding away. They were safe. There was that, at least.

She’d been staring at the night elf so hard that she didn’t realize at first that he was staring back. He seemed to notice it at the same time she did. He raised his sword and lunged.

She stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding the tip of his sword. The horse reared again, and the night elf flinched as its hooves kicked past his head. Novikke backed away, raising her sword in front of her, but knew she was only prolonging the inevitable.

She wasn’t a fool. Night elves were famed warriors, and she was unpracticed and a mediocre swordsman at best. She knew she wouldn’t beat him. But her other option was lying down and dying, and that didn’t particularly appeal.

The second elf she’d seen behind the wagon appeared beside the first. Oddly, he was smiling. He had the same angular features and deep blue-tinged skin as the first, but was not quite as tall, and had bright green eyes. The eye colors were bizarre, like they’d been enchanted and were laced with magic.

He abruptly thrust his sword into the horse’s side. Novikke jumped as blood sprayed from it. The horse struggled in its harness as the elf stabbed it again and again.

The blue-eyed one turned to her, his face as cold and serious as the other’s was amused. Novikke held her sword up between herself and him, like a wand that might magically ward him away. The elf wore an expression of cool hatred on his face as he approached. She wondered what she’d done to earn a look like that.

He lunged again, and Novikke struggled to knock his blade aside. They traded blows, and as the fight went on, she found herself defending more than attacking.

She got one hit in, slicing a tiny, neat cut across the leather vambrace on his wrist, and he jerked away in surprise. He looked down at the cut, gauging the damage, then glared up at her. Novikke flinched as his sword flew toward her.

His blade slid down the length of hers, coming to a sharp stop at the crossguard. Before she could react, he’d leaned in and forced her blade out to the side, moving in a curve that stretched her wrist to an angle she couldn’t follow. Her grip weakened with the awkward movement, and when he kept pushing, her sword fell from her hands and hit the ground with a sharp clang.

She stumbled backward out of range of his sword. A self-satisfied expression crossed the night elf’s face. He didn’t bother to follow her right away. There was no rush. He had her where he wanted her.

Novikke took another step back, breathing hard. Her heart was in her throat. She could run. Her legs itched to. But she knew they’d catch her again.

Was this really how she died? In a chance encounter in a place she hadn’t wanted to be in the first place?

She looked the night elf in the eyes as he came toward her. Behind the anger in his gaze, she saw a range of emotions. She saw sharp intelligence. And as he looked back at her, she wondered if he saw the same in her.

She didn’t believe they were unthinking, violent beasts. They must have had some sense of compassion. Maybe there was mercy in them, even if no one had yet discovered it.

Shaking, she raised her hands and stopped moving.

The night elf stopped and arched an eyebrow. Was he used to people running? That was what any sensible person would have done.

He said something in a language she didn’t understand and gestured toward the ground with his sword. A sense of dread went through her as she dropped to her knees, hands still up.

He came right up to her with easy steps, assured of his victory. He raised the blade to her throat, letting the cold metal press against her. The edge bit at her skin.

She could feel the Panic creeping up on her, making her heart beat faster and her throat tighten and her stomach twist in nauseating knots.

No. She wouldn’t let that be the last thing she felt before she died.

The sword held steady against her, but didn’t cut. She swallowed tightly. The night elf was staring at her again. She supposed she looked as strange to him as he did to her.

Behind him, the smiling one had finished executing the horse and was wiping blood off his sword. The poor animal lay motionless on the ground in a pool of blood and entrails, still harnessed to the wagon. Disgust curled through her. Maybe she’d been wrong and night elves were just beasts, after all.

Smiler came to stand next to the other one, looking bored and vaguely amused. The serious one just continued to frown sternly at her.

They spoke in their own language to each other, watching her—like they were discussing what to do with her. She allowed herself to breathe just a little. She doubted they spoke Ardanian. It probably wouldn’t do any good to try to explain herself. Maybe she should beg. Begging looked the same in every language, she was pretty sure.

The elves seemed to come to an agreement. To her immense relief, the sword moved away from her neck. Then it gestured to the dirt again.

She moved uncertainly to the ground, lying on her stomach. No good could come of being put into this position. She regretted not running.

Serious sheathed his sword and went back toward the wagon. Smiler didn’t move for a long moment. She couldn’t see him from her prostrated pose on the ground, but she had the sense that he was staring at her.

---