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The clatter of sword against sword.
Bang, smash, yell. The tinkle of breaking glass.
I sit bolt upright in my bed. It’s the dead of night – what could be happening?!
The splinter of breaking wood. Shouts and screams rip the air.
What in the name of all the gods. . .?
I jump out from under my covers and fish wildly for my hunting knife. I still have it, hidden under my pillow, even though we live in a city now. Still practicing with it, still half-hoping that I would and half-hoping that I’d never get a chance to use it.
Still dressed only in sleeping tunic and leggings, I rush to the door, planning to ask my grandparents what’s going on outside -- and jump back as two strange men burst through the hallway, blundering for the sitting room. Before I can think, wonder what they were doing, another follows them. This one is much faster, leaping lightly in pursuit of the others. He moves so fast I am not even entirely sure he is human – just a blur of silver armor and blue steel.
My heart pounds in my chest. My eyes dart from side to side, searching the corridor for more surprises, before stealing out carefully. I hold the knife before me, trying to be brave. Like the strong firstborn son I should be, rather than a skinny secondborn with old grandparents and a dead brother. But the knife trembles, betraying my fright.
More clashes – the sound of steel on steel. I gasp a breath in shock.
It smells like fire and blood.
Abandoning all attempts at stealth, I dash down the hall, trying to get to my grandparents. They would be in the large bedroom, with my baby sister–
A shape moves in the shadows before I can get past the bend in the corridor. I stifle a scream. The thing moves again; a flash of light illuminates the same steel and blue I saw before, on the man who didn’t seem human. Another flash, and I see his silhouette: tall, slender and graceful, but still masculine and strong. He is clad in chain mail and holds an iridescent sapphire sword, the flash of blue that I had seen when he first passed.
I don’t think. I step forward and put all of my strength, my fear, my confusion, into one strike with my knife, aiming for a chink in his armor. I stab as hard as I can; despite the inessential place, surely such a stroke would incapacitate him. A burst of fierce pride and strength rushes through me as I make this strike: I may be just a boy, but I can fight as well as any man!
The dagger bounces off of something invisible. I stumble back, but the man’s head turns: his sword arm comes up, and the beautiful cobalt blade moves in a whistling arc. I can’t move. I am frozen in place, watching a man I don’t know behead me.
And then there is another flash. A fire lights in the house next door, illuminating him and me in its harsh, dancing light. Our eyes lock, and his blade stops as if blocked as mine was a moment ago.
For the first time, I can see his face, and it is not at all what I expected. I had imagined, of course, the normal soldier: a harsh, scarred face, a rugged, unshaven jaw – but this man is nothing like I could have thought.
For one thing, he is no older than I.
His face is smooth and angled, its lines enforcing my earlier thought that he wasn’t human. Well, he’s not. He wears no helm, and beneath locks of brown hair I see his pointed ears.
But all this is peripheral as I stare at him. The foremost thing in my mind, imprinted in front of my vision, is his expression: brown eyes wide, as shocked as my own must be, and filled with horror. Shadows fan under them and in them, the primitive, fierce brightness of battle rapidly draining away in favor of dismay.
Who is he, this elf-man, young as me and yet with eyes so jaded? Why is he here, why is he bringing this battle to me, why are he and his enemies destroying my childhood as surely as he lost his own?
He freezes, as still as I am. Then a shiver runs through him. His sword arm drops as if weighted down, and he takes my hand. My heart stops, but all he does is take my dagger, dropping it to the floor. The clatter that it makes is unnaturally loud, even among the clamor of the battle that rages outside.
“If I were you,” he mutters, “I wouldn’t go outside until the battle is over.” He finally drops my hand like he did my knife and darts to the door. Just before he reaches it, however, he stops and looks back at me. He hesitates, then whispers, “I’m sorry.” All I can do is watch him – this man, this elf, this terrifying creature of war, this terrified boy – go, and stand there in shock.
I only saw the Shadeslayer once in my life, but that was enough.