Eravon blocked his brutal chop during the descent, but his skills were in words and schemes, not the blade. He parried the next few swings, then overextended to block what turned out to be a feint. Before the other two could come to his aid, the Wraith’s sword pierced his side. Gasping in pain, Eravon fell to one knee. When the Wraith pulled the blade free, blood poured across the grass.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” the Wraith said, turning on the other two. “I will kill you all if I must.”

“Speak,” said Sildur. “Give your message.”

Eravon tried to stand, but his head felt light, and his muscles refused to cooperate. He collapsed onto his side. Beneath him the grass warmed from his own blood. With fading vision, he watched the Wraith approach, his footfalls frighteningly silent.

“You are not wanted,” the Wraith said, grabbing Eravon by the hair and lifting his head back so they might see eye to eye. “Leave, tonight. The people here do not need your meddling. Stick to your forests. One day, axes and fire will come for your borders. Remember that the next time you think of returning to Angelport.”

Eravon’s vision was nearly dark, but he still saw Maradun launch himself into an attack. The Wraith let him go, then twirled, his sword a blur. Eravon felt something wet splash across him, and then Maradun fell clutching a bloody stump, his arm gone from the elbow down. Trying to stand, Eravon succeeded only in rolling onto his back. The Wraith stood above him, looking down. Still smiling.

His sword sliced into Eravon’s flesh, never deep. The sharp stings were nothing compared to the deep ache in his side, but still his anger grew.

“We’ll kill you for this,” he said, coughing.

“Many will try,” the Wraith said, his sword twirling in his hand, flicking blood all across the tent. “But not you.”

The blade descended straight for his eye.