Barlo considered the limp elven form on his couch. Despite its fine features and lack of facial hair, there was no doubt it was male. The shaft of a crude, headless arrow protruded from the creature’s left shoulder. Narilga had stripped the elf of his tunic and positioned him on his stomach to tend his wound, his long legs dangling over the end of the dwarven sofa. His skin was a dusky hue, stained with the dust of travel. Long, silver hair draped over his good shoulder, matted with blood. His boots and clothing showed signs of heavy wear. A long knife hung from his belt, and the calluses on his nimble fingers told Barlo he knew how to use it.
Why hadn’t Narilga removed the weapon? The elf’s longbow and quiver already sat in the far corner of the room, well out of reach. Barlo didn’t like the idea of an armed elf in his home, especially with his pregnant wife in attendance. He gave the creature a scowl and stepped forward to retrieve the blade, but Narilga positioned herself between them, arms crossed above her swollen belly. She was tall for a dwarven woman, and for a moment, they stood eye to eye.
“I think you can watch him just fine from where you were standing,” she said, her deep blue gaze narrowing.
“But—”
“I saw the look on your face. He’s wounded and unconscious. I can’t work with you hovering. Now go back to where you were standing.”
“Narilga, he has a knife!”
“I can see that. Just leave it alone. He’s not a prisoner, Barlo.”
Barlo gave his beard a frustrated tug before stepping back. “Why did you take him in, anyway?”
“Who else would? It’s clear from his coloring, he’s not an Earth Elf. I couldn’t just leave him to die on Dwarvenhome’s doorstep.” She pushed her long, dark tresses over her shoulder and turned to face her patient.
Barlo tried his most reasonable tone. “If he’s not an Earth Elf, how do we know he can be trusted? We have to consider the city’s safety. He should be kept in the dungeon.”
“If you put him in the dungeon, he’ll die.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic? It’s just a shoulder wound.” As soon as his wife turned to face him, Barlo regretted his choice of words.
“You think I’m being dramatic?” Narilga cocked her head, giving him a dangerous look. “Here.” She touched her fingers to the tip of the arrow, where it protruded from the font of the elf’s shoulder, and held them up for Barlo to see. Her fingertips were smeared with a sticky looking, black substance that wasn’t blood.
“Poison.” Barlo blew out a sigh.
“Yes. And what you seem to be overlooking is our guest has obviously been shot by a goblin arrow, which means he’s a goblin enemy. Which means regardless of our strained relations with the rest of the elves, this one is no enemy of ours.”
“With that kind of wound, he couldn’t have traveled far before coming here.” Barlo’s thoughts seemed to come slowly as they reached their unthinkable conclusion. “That means there must be dark creatures here in the midlands!”
Narilga gave him a satisfied nod. “Now you’re thinking like the clan chief you are.”
Barlo flushed. “How many people know the elf is here?”
“I encouraged the sentries to keep it quiet. As far as the rest of the city’s concerned, we’ve taken in an old, Earth Elf friend.”
She turned back toward the elf. Holding his shoulder down with one hand, she used the other to yank the arrow free. Even unconscious, the elf’s face twisted in pain, his lean muscles clenching. Narilga began cleaning and bandaging the wound, flushing out as much of the poison as possible, while Barlo watched, thinking.
