Silver Shadows fr-13

by Elaine Cunnighham

  The tiny elven warrior took the potion without hesitation and tipped back her head. Arilyn reclaimed the empty vial and stepped back into the ranks of elves.

  Zoastria faced the assembled forces. Her eyes blazed as they swept the lines, connecting briefly but intensely with each one there. Then she drew the moonblade with a slow, deliberate flourish. The centaurs lifted their long spears into position, each looking very much like a lance-bearing knight and fearful warhorse, combined into one being.

  The elven battle leader spun toward the encampment and whipped the sword forward, signaling the attack with a battle cry that rang over the hills like a dragon's roar.

  Immediately the centaurs kicked into a charge. Hooves pounding, the two small bands swept out wide and descended upon the camp like summer thunder. The ground shook beneath them, magnifying their charge into that of a vast army.

  In response, the mercenaries poured from their tents, half dressed and fumbling for their weapons. Again Zoastria shouted, and the first wave of elves ran

  through the deforested grounds toward the still-bemused humans.

  As he ran, Foxfire fitted an arrow to his bow and sighted down the nearest and most deadly target. Two hideous ore-human hybrids charged forward to meet the elves. Their speed was astonishing, their battle-axes held high. Foxfire aimed for the slower runner. His arrow took the creature through the throat. The half-ore plunged to the ground, and as he fell his up-held axe bit deep into the back of his comrade.

  "One arrow, two half-ores," Arilyn commended him as she passed, her hands empty but for a single long dagger.

  The half-elf was not skilled enough with the bow to shoot while running, but she was the only one there who knew of that lack. Every member of the Elmanesse tribe was a hunter trained to shoot with deadly accuracy while running down prey. Black arrows rained down upon the mercenaries, sending them fleeing for cover.

  But there was none to be found. Already the centaurs had circled around to the back of the camp and were pressing the humans forward. The cries of men who died on the ends of centaur spears mingled with the clash of swords against the oak-staffed spears as their comrades sparred against the centaur warriors.

  A tall human stalked through the encampment, his dark cloak flowing behind him and a large, broad-bladed sword in his hand. He smacked a retreating fighter with the flat of his blade, roaring out orders until the chaos settled into some semblance of order. His mercenaries formed into ranks and raced forward to meet the elves hand to hand.

  Arilyn picked her first opponent, a large man who was equipped with a fine Cormyran sword and very little else. Shiftless from slumber and clad only in woolen trews, he had managed to pull on only his boots before battle. She charged straight at him, her dagger held level before her. The man saw the charge and the gleaming hilt in her hand, but he could not judge the length

  of the weapon. Ten inches of steel, held at just the right angle, could give the illusion of a sword.

  The man parried with an upward sweep-one that fell several inches short of Arilyn's oncoming blade. She hurled herself at him, thrust the dagger into his belly with one hand, and grabbed the wrist of his sword arm with the other. Tearing the dagger free, she twisted her body toward him. She yanked his arm down, bringing her knee up hard to meet it just behind the wrist. The bones of his forearm gave way with a brutal crack.

  Arilyn rolled clear of the falling man and came up with his sword in her hand. She whirled and lifted the sword high to meet the downward sweep of a battle-axe. At the last moment she remembered that the weapon in her hands was not elven steel. She pushed the direction of the parry closer in toward her opponent, so that she blocked the wooden haft of the axe, rather than its blade.

  It was a well-done impulse, for surely the axe would have shattered the slender Cormyran sword. As it was, the force of the blow pushed her borrowed blade to the ground. Before the axeman could lift his weapon for another sword-shattering blow, Arilyn kicked out hard over their joined blades and caught him just above the belt. The man folded; she danced aside and finished him with a quick stroke.

  Nearby, one of the elves was fighting toe-to-toe with a much larger human, a rough street fighter who wielded two long knives. One of the blades slashed through the elf s defenses and tore open his shoulder. The human grinned wildly and drew back his other knife for a killing stroke.

  Arilyn's first lunge knocked the attacking knife out wide. She body-blocked the wounded and much smaller elf, sending him reeling out of the line of battle so that she might take his place. Facing the street fighter, she feinted high. He crossed his blades before his face to ward off the blow. Arilyn continued the attack, her borrowed sword diving in over the joined blades, pinning them into place, and pressing them down. The man jerked his knives free of the sword with a shriek of metal, a movement that sent both arms out wide and left his torso unprotected. The half-elf's sword plunged deep between his ribs. She lifted one foot high and kicked the impaled fighter off her blade, then turned to find another foe.

  Not all the forest people were faring so well. Some of the humans had broken through their ranks and were forming a line between the elves and the cover of the forest. They had apparently learned the danger of engaging the forest folk amid the trees and did not intend to be pressed that far northward.

  Seeing this, Foxfire looked about for the mercenary captain. He caught a glimpse of a swirling dark cloak. The human was battling one of the centaurs who, although bleeding from several wounds and bereft of half his spear, still parried the man's broadsword with a broken length of oaken shaft.

  The elven archer lifted his bow for the shot. The black bolt skimmed between the combatants and grazed Bunlap's face-as Foxfire had intended for it to do. The human let out a roar of anger and pain. He clapped one hand to his bleeding, scarred cheek.

  The centaur made use of this opportunity to clobber the man across the shoulders with bis staff. Unfortunately, the creature's wounds had stolen most of his strength. Bunlap whirled back toward the centaur, swinging his sword viciously as he went. The blade sank deep into the centaur's body, cutting a deep and deadly furrow between his manlike torso and his equine body. Seeing that this particular battle was over, the mercenary turned to search for his elven tormentor-and his long-sought prey

  Foxfire was easy to pick out from among the forest elves. He had deliberately left his auburn hair unbound, and for once its bright color was not dimmed by the usual ornaments of feathers and woven reeds that helped him blend with the forest.

  The elf met the human's coldly furious gaze and then began to back into the forest. On his signal, the elven warriors slipped away from their individual battles and began the retreat.

  The mercenaries pressed them through the razed ground but came to a stop at the tree line, as they had been ordered and drilled to do. Their eyes turned to their captain, who stood over the body of the centaur, his black beard sticky with his own blood and his hate-filled eyes fixed upon the forest.

  Bunlap did not need long to decide. "Pursue," he said, and then he himself strode toward the forest in search of the eh7 who had marked him… and revenge.

  Twenty-two

  Tinkersdam had never considered himself in the role of war leader, and he found he did not much like it. The elves with him, twenty or so, had been ordered to follow his instructions, and they were quick to do so. That much was fine. But he had no gift for stealth, no love for the insects that ignored the elves to buzz around his coppery hair, and a remarkable lack of tolerance for something in the forest air. His nose itched, and he felt distressingly as if he might sneeze at any moment.

  At least his little band had surprise on their side. The mercenaries wouldn't expect them for another day or so. Tinkersdam hoped this also meant that their damnable Halruaan wizard would have no more than the rudimentary defenses in place.

  The Gondsman called a halt, spat out a tiny flying insect, and squinted in the direction of the captured elves. He could see no evidence of me
chanical traps or triggered devices. Probably the idiot wizard relied on his fire magic spells to form a defensive perimeter.

  Tinkersdam smiled slyly. So be it. Such spells were like a door-and a door meant to shut intruders out could also be used to close the mercenaries in.

  He took a coil of twine from his belt-the thin, almost transparent "spider silk" ropes Arilyn had used to good effect for many years. It was one of his earner inventions. The thought of testing it himself was actually rather pleasant.

  "See that tree, right by the edge, the one marked with yellow paint for cutting? Affix this twine to an arrow, and on my mark shoot it over that branch. It should fall into that cage, just short of the captives. Shoot high; the angle of the rope has to be steep. Can you do that?" he demanded of one of the elves.

  The archer nodded and did as he was bade. His arrow streaked into the lofty tree, a shimmering thread trailing behind it, and traced an arc down toward the captive elves. The captive elves acted as if they did not even notice, but one of them surreptitiously fastened the end of the line firmly to the bars of the cage.

  "Oh, fine. Well done all around," Tinkersdam said happily. He took from his bag several small wood-and-metal devices and a jar of cream. "You know what to do with these. Get up the tree, hook the top wheel over the rope, and grab the handle. You'll slide down the rope fast. This ointment is for the return trip. Sticky hands. You'll be able to climb the rope better. Take it with you, and get those folk up the rope. You, you, and you four- climb that tree and help get the captives away into the forest. The rest of you, wait. When the others attack the camp, we also attack."

  The elves nodded. They had not long to wait for the signal. A pealing elven battle cry undulated through the forest, followed by a thunderous, rolling charge.

  "Essence of Shrieker Mushroom," the alchemist muttered thoughtfully. "Yes, indeed-an excellent result."

  As planned, his band leaped to their feet and hurling the small, hard pellets Tinkersdam had given them: small, fetid missiles of sulfur and bat guano mixed with substances that were particularly sensitive to the presence of Halruaan fire magic. Some of these pellets fell to the ground, as harmless as pebbles. Others struck unseen barriers. These exploded into walls of arcane fire, walls that rippled about to encircle the encampment in a flaming palisade.

  Through the licking flames they could see the silhouettes of frantic guards milling about in search of some escape. Some tried to rush through the fire. The walls merely bulged, and then snapped back into place.

  "Oh, splendid," Tinkersdam said delightedly. "Neatly penned. Very tidy. A fine result!"

  He watched as six elves, one after another, rapidly slid down the steep rope and into the flaming enclosure. There came a splintering crash as they broke through the top of the wooden cage, and then the clash of sword on sword as some of the elven warriors held back the guard.

  After a few moments the first of the captured elves came into view, climbing up the rope hand-over-hand into the trees. Tinkersdam counted as they came. One after another, forty-seven bedraggled elves made their way up into the safety of the trees. Fierce yells and the sound of intensified battle within the fiery enclosure suggested that some of the Suldusk elves remained behind to aid their rescuers and perhaps to avenge their captivity. By Tinkersdam's estimation, the operation would soon be over.

  "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 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 horse-men 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.

  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.

  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 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.