Chapter Eight
Proposals
Iarion stood between Barlo and Silvaranwyn, gripping his knife with trembling fingers.
The leader of the riders stared down at them over the curved blade of his sword, his eyes narrowed. “What do we have here?” he asked.
It took a moment for Iarion to realize he understood the man’s words. Although his accent was lilting and strange, he spoke the Common Tongue.
“Please,” Iarion said, his voice emerging as a harsh croak. “We are strangers to this land.”
“Yes, I can see that.” The man’s pale blue eyes seemed to sparkle with wry humor in the darkness. “Tell me, how is it that all of these men are dead?” He gestured to the scattered corpses of the Darkling Men.
Iarion silently cursed. He wished he could see the riders’ features. They did not dress or arm themselv
