Silver Shadows (43 page)

“Oh yes indeed, an excellent result,” he said with satisfaction.

Foxfire raced off into the forest, leaping lightly over fallen trees and dodging low branches. He had already chosen his ground: a small level clearing not far from

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the ravaged logging site. It was a good place for battle. His people could take to the trees and fight from cover, and he could at last face the human who pursued him.

When he reached the clearing, he stepped behind a thick cedar and waited. He could hear Bunlap’s approach—heavy iron boots crunching the foliage, his breath coming in short, furious bursts that whistled out from between his clenched teeth. Foxfire tensed in readiness. His would be the advantage of first attack.

But some instinct, perhaps born of hatred, sharpened the human’s senses. When Foxfire leaped out from his hiding place, Bunlap did not so much as blink, but instead hurled the knife he had back and ready.

Foxfire leaned aside with elven speed and agility. The knife that would have found his heart buried itself instead in the muscles of his arm. For a moment the eh7 felt nothing but the thump of impact. Then pain, white-hot in its intensity, seared up his arm. He swayed and reached for the tree to steady himself.

The human came on, sword in hand.

The Elmanesse fled into the forest, the humans following them like hounds nipping at the heels of a hare. Indeed, the mercenaries had little choice in the matter. Eight of the centaur warriors still stood, and their spears pressed the humans relentlessly northward. And loath though they were to fight the elves amid the trees, they were less eager to face the wrath of their captain.

Vhenlar, his loaded bow ready in his hand, was one of the last to pass the tree line. He was less afraid of Bunlap than the others, and in some ways he would have preferred to take his chances with those deadly horsemen than to face the elven archers again. The prospect of venturing into Tethir’s deep, cool shadows, every one of which might hide a wild elf, chilled him to the soul.

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He did not get quite that far.

A stand of ferns exploded into movement, and from it leaped the most astonishing creature Vhenlar had ever seen. Shorter than a halfling, the creature had a naked, manlike torso atop hindquarters rather like those of a stout, two-legged goat. Wild brown hair erupted from the creature’s head and fell to his shoulders, where it mingled with an equally rampant beard.

A faun, Vhenlar realized with awe. He lifted his bow and took aim. The arrow—a stolen elven bolt—streaked toward the creature’s throat.

The faun snorted and made a lightning-fast grab for the arrow. He fielded it without blinking. Before the stunned Vhenlar could absorb this astonishing parry, the faun leaped at him.

The Zhentish archer went down, his hands flailing as he tried to push the small warrior off. A sudden bright pain exploded in his gut and seared its way up into his chest. The fiaun leaped up and danced away into the forest.

Vhenlar looked down at the black shaft protruding from his body. A wry, bitter smile twisted his lips. Although this was not quite the end he’d imagined for himself, somehow he’d known from the first that one of those elven bolts would turn on him. There was a certain perverse satisfaction in being proved right.

Darkness, deep and swift and compelling, surged up from spmewhere within the mercenary’s soul, drawing him down toward oblivion.

Beneath the shadows of Tethir’s trees, Zoastria faced off against a pair of swordsmen. The moonblade in her hand flashed and darted and thrust with astonishing speed. Terrifying speed, and a power that lay on the outermost boundaries of the elf woman’s skill and strength.

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The force behind each stoke, each lunge, nearly tore the sword from Zoastria’s hand. Keeping her balance was difficult. More than once she had overextended and presented an opening to the humans’ blades. Her arms and shoulders bled from several small wounds. If not for the uncanny speed of the moonblade’s strike, which allowed her to quickly cover such lapses, she likely would have been slain.

The half-elf had admonished her to hold the sword in a two-handed grip, else it would be too difficult to control. Zoastria, in her pride, had ignored the warning.

From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the half-elf just as she ran a half-ore fighter through. Not bothering to retrieve the blade from his chest, she ripped the sword from his hand and turned to meet the next attack.

The tiny moon elf darted between the two men, ducking below the instinctive sweep of their blades and whirling back to lunge at the man to her right. She got in below his guard; the moonblade sank easily between his ribs.

But the man was not through just yet. As he fell, he lashed out with his sword. Zoastria was in too close for the edge to find her, but the hilt and crosspiece struck her hard across the face. Her head snapped painfully to one side.

The elf threw herself sideways so that her continued motion would absorb some of the force of the blow. She hit the ground hard, spat teeth, and rolled to her feet. Dragging the increasingly heavy moonblade up into guard position, she faced down her second opponent.

Before she could strike, a stunning jolt tore through her from behind. She glanced down at the bloody arrow protruding from her body.

With a yelp of triumph, the swordsman hauled his blade up and across his body fin a backhanded slash. Zoastria raised her head and prepared to meet death.

A sword flashed in over her shoulder and dove toward

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the swordsman. It pierced his leather gauntlet, plunging deeply between the twin bones of his forearm and pinning his arm to his chest.

Thin but strong arms gathered up the elf woman and bore her away from the fighting. Zoastria looked up into the eyes of her half-elven descendent.

“That arrow has to come out,” Arilyn said, placing her hand on the crimson shaft.

“Do not,” the elf woman replied as fiercely as she could in her fading voice. “It has pierced a lung. If you remove it, I will die all the faster, and there are things that must be said. I name you blade heir. Take up the moonblade once again and finish this fight.”

With those words, Zoastria seized the arrow and tore it free. Blood bubbled from the corner of her lips, and her head slid limply to one side.

Arilyn stood, staring down at the elf woman. Zoastria had aped her own death so that her blade heir could claim the sword. A moonblade could have but one wielder.

The half-elf turned and strode to the place where the moonblade had fallen. Indecision shimmered over her, for neither of her choices looked promising. To take up the blade was to willingly embrace untold centuries of servitude—perhaps an eternity’s imprisonment—to the moonblade’s magic. There was also the very real possibility that the sword would not accept her this time, for she had rejected it and turned aside from the elven sacrifice it required.

The sounds of battle tore Arilyn’s gaze from the sword. All around her, the forest folk fought fiercely for their home. Yet the humans were many, and the outcome of the conflict by no means certain.

Instant death, or eternal servitude.

Arilyn stooped and seized the blade.

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A flash of vivid azure magic burst from the moonblade, enveloping Arilyn in a flair of arcane energy. And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come.

The moonblade had reclaimed her. Without pause for reflection or regret, the half-elf flung herself toward the nearest battle. A dozen or so mercenaries had surrounded a pair of elven females, who stood back to back and held off the taunting blades of the humans as best they could. The humans were toying with their captives. The females’ clothing hung about them in ribbons, and their coppery skin was marked by many shallow cuts. More painful to the proud elves than these wounds was the indignity of their situation. Arilyn saw this in her elf-sisters’ eyes, and she burned with wrath at the lewd, taunting comments that the captive elves, mercifully, could not fully understand.

Arilyn stalked in, her moonblade held high over her right shoulder. Without breaking step, she slashed into

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the neck of the man to her left, cutting him nearly to the bone. She pivoted with the backswing and knocked the sword from the hand of the man on her right-hand side, then ran him through before the surprise of the attack could wipe the lascivious sneer from his bearded face. She heaved him off her blade and into the reflexive grasp of the man behind him—a short, slight youth who staggered under the weight of his dying comrade.

For a moment the young mercenary could not use his sword. One of the elf women seized the opportunity. She darted forward and drew her bone dagger across his windpipe.

•Down!” Arilyn shouted in Elvish as she slashed forward. The elf woman dropped and rolled as the magic blade whistled in over the young man’s head—and cut a deep and bloody path through the eyes of the mercenary who approached from behind.

Eight men still stood, eight against three elven females. No longer were the mercenaries quite so cocky. There was an element of vindictive fury to their fighting that brought to mind wicked children, outraged when the puppies they tormented nipped at their fingers.

Arilyn winced as one of the elf women was disarmed, almost literally, by the brutal stoke of a broadsword wielded by a man nearly thrice her weight. Two of the men leaped at the wounded female and wrestled her down. One of them pinned her arms, and the other opened her belly. Grinning fiendishly, they left her there to die slowly.

Arilyn’s first thought was to end the elf woman’s agony as quickly as possible. Yet she could not. Pressed as she was by the remaining swordsmen, she could not get through with the merciful gift of death. And the elf woman who still fought at Arilyn’s side was not much better off than her kin. She bled freely from many wounds, and her face was nearly gray under its coppery tints. Arilyn noted with sudden sharp horror the softly rounded swell of the elf s belly. The female carried her

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unborn child into battle; there were two more lives soon to be lost.

The half-elf nudged the swaying female sharply. “To the trees, while you still can!”

“I will not leave you alone,” the elf insisted.

Arilyn hesitated for only a moment. The warning that Danilo’s shadow-double had sent her rang loudly in her mind: she could not call forth the elfshadows again without grave danger to herself. Yet in truth, what risk was this, to one whose life was already forfeit to the service of the moonblade?

“Come forth, all of you!” Arilyn shouted.

She parried an attack even as the mists that presaged the elfshadow entities poured from the sword. Then the startled humans fell back as they regarded the eerie manifestation taking shape before them.

Eight elfshadow warriors, apparently as solid as life and armed with elven blades, stalked toward the dumbfounded humans. One of them, a tiny, blue-haired female, slipped an arm around the pregnant elf and helped her toward the safety of the trees. Arilyn saw this and took comfort in the knowledge that Zoastria was still watching over the forest People.

Then the moonblade’s mists seemed to close in around Arilyn, and the blood-soaked earth wavered and tilted strangely as it floated up to meet her. Arilyn scanned the entities of the moonblade and then turned her rapidly failing gaze on the sword in her hands. As she slid inexorably into the darkness, a tiny smile lifted the corners of her lips. Danilo’s double was not among the warriors, nor had her rune of rapport reappeared on the sword.

Whatever her fate, Danilo had been freed.

The appearance of the elfshadow warriors brought new strength to the weary and outnumbered elves. From his corner of the battle, Kendel Leafbower looked

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with awe upon the white-haired mage who bore down upon a pair of half-ore mercenaries, his outstretched hands crackling with eldritch energy and the many braids of his hair swirling like the snakes of a vengeful medusa. At the sight of this new and fearsome warrior, one of the burly creatures let out a strangled whimper of fear, dropped his sword, and ran for the trees.

It was not among his more intelligent decisions. Roaring out an oath to Morodin, the dwarven god of battle, Jill leaped into the half-ore’s path—and onto the high, thick stump of what had until recently been an ancient tree. This brought him nearly eye-to-eye with the larger fighter. Jill evened the score completely by lifting his axe high overhead. It plunged in deep between the fleeing half-ore’s eyes, cleaving his skull as easily as a goodwife might slice through a summer melon.

“Hee hee!” exulted the dwarf as he hopped down from his perch. His battle glee quickly turned to frustration, however, for his axe refused to come free of the thick skull. Jill planted one booted foot on the fallen half-ore’s chest, the other on his ruined forehead, and tugged and grunted for all he was worth. None of this availed.

Before Kendel could call out a warning, a spear-wielding human closed in on the preoccupied dwarf. He thrust the tip of the spear deep into the thicket of pale brown beard, forcing the dwarfs head up and back.

For a moment Jill froze. His eyes sought his elven friend, and he made his farewells with an apologetic little shrug.

But Kendel was not prepared to lose his odd companion. Inspiration struck; he pointed toward the captive dwarf. “Jill!” he shouted desperately. “The dwarfs name is Jill!”

A smirk crossed the mercenary’s face. “And what of it?” he said, misunderstanding the elf s ploy. “I’ve nothing more against killing me a female dwarf than a male, though may Cyric take me if I can tell the difference one from t’other!”

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Storm clouds began to gather on Jill’s craggy face. “I ain’t no ding-blasted female!” he roared in a voice that plumbed depths no human male could reach. “You human men got the eyesight of a mole and the git-up of a gelding—no wonder yer wimmenfolk is takin’ up more common with the likes of elves and halflings!”