In The Coils Of The Snake by Clare B. Dunkle Read Free Book Online

trees that enclosed the crown of the hill and walked to the center of the large, open circle of turf within. The half moon lit them
with its pale light. A single elf stepped out of the shadows and walked
over to join them.
    When Seylin had
hunted for elves in his youth, he had hunted for
an elf like this. The man was noble and stately, and he was dressed as his people had always dressed. He wore
a sleeveless, belted tunic and loose
breeches of dark green cloth cross-gartered up to the knee, leather straps wrapping around the lower
legs in X patterns to hold the
breeches close to the calves. His short boots were of soft deer hide. Over tunic and breeches, he wore a dark
green cloak, the hood pushed back,
and at his belt was a proper elf knife sheathed in leather. The belt
lacked the sophistication of a buckle. It simply crossed through a loop in one end and knotted over itself, the free end hanging. No metal, noted Seylin: the cloak tied
with leather thongs. True elves, he knew, hated metal.
    The man who wore
this true elf clothing was a true elf in every sense. The smooth skin of his
pale face glimmered with a silvery sheen in
the moonlight, and his eyes were large and black. His black locks clustered around the pale, high forehead
and fringed the edge of his face, just brushing the cheekbones. In the back,
thick, loosely curl ing hair just
reached the lowered hood. Seylin shared with this stranger the impatient
eyebrows that slanted up where a human’s eyebrows slanted down and the well-formed, pointed ears that showed through the black hair. But even to Seylin, who saw an elf
every day in the mirror, this stranger’s appearance was remarkable.
Strong and strikingly handsome, he possessed a cold authority that demanded
respect. The chronicles told tales of great warrior lords who had slaughtered
goblins like sheep. This man could be such a warrior, concluded Seylin.
    The goblin King
merely noted a properly dressed elf man who had the black eyes of an
aristocrat. Good, he thought: a rival with manners
and distinction. His reign might turn out to be quite interesting.
    For a moment, none
of them spoke. Seylin was too excited. Richard
knew his place. Marak Catspaw didn’t intend to speak first. What the stranger felt, knew, or intended was
impossible to guess. His expression was very guarded. His eyes betrayed
only the slightest gleam at the sight of
the goblins, the faintest hint of fascinated distaste.
    “I have to
speak to Marak, the goblin King,” he informed them in English.
    “I am Marak,
the goblin King,” replied Catspaw. “These are Richard and Seylin, my
lieutenants.”
    The
elf turned toward Seylin, his manner relaxing somewhat. “I know
of you,” he said. “You are the goblin who showed himself to be a
friend to my people. Even though you raided for brides, you didn’t murder the
men. You left them in safety and provided them with supplies.”
    “We did that on
the orders of the old goblin King,” answered Seylin.
    The
elf paused, and his expression once again became guarded. “The old goblin King,” he murmured, looking at
Catspaw. “You are a new goblin
King. And unmarried.”
    His
tone was hostile. Seylin considered the matter from his point of
view. The most dangerous thing in the elf world was an unmar ried goblin King. The Kings had always tried to
capture brides from the very highest noble families.
    “A good guess,”
replied Catspaw calmly. “And who are you?”
    “My
people call me Nir,” said the elf. This revealed nothing. Nir was
only a polite term of address, the elvish word for “lord.”
    “What
sort of lord are you?” demanded Seylin. “Did your ancestors lead a camp? What is your proper name?”
But the elf just glanced at him and
then turned back to the goblin King. He plainly intended to stay with business.
    “I
am here to propose a treaty,” he announced. “My people were widely scattered after the death of our King, and we have
been hunted down to a handful. Over the