Silver Shadows

by Cunningham, Elaine

  The elf sipped at his ale, but though he was deep in his memories, he did not neglect to watch for possible dangers. From the corner of his eye, Kendel noted the group of men that pushed their way into the room. Five of them, all mercenaries. He knew the breed well enough to recognize them at a glance; they were marked by a swaggering gait that bespoke bravado, but which also suggested a certain lack of purpose or direction. Masterless men, for the most part, looking for a reason to fight and therefore to live.

  But these men seemed to be an exception; they had purpose enough. All four of them pushed their way through the crowd, coming straight toward the place where Kendel sat.

  The elf surreptitiously loosened the dagger he kept strapped to one thigh. It had been many years since he’d had to use it, but elven memories were long. If he were required to fight, he felt confident he could make a good accounting of himself.

  “I know you,” one of the mercenaries proclaimed in a loud voice, pointing a beefy finger in Kendel’s direction. “You’re one of them wild elves what attacked the pipeweed farm south of Mosstone. Burned the barns to the ground, they did, and slaughtered the whole family and most of the farmhands.”

  In the suddenly silent room, Kendel swiveled to face his accuser. “Not so, sir,” he said evenly. “If there is any quarrel to be had with the elven people, you would do better to seek it among the Forest Folk. Surely you can see by my hair and my skin that I am not one of them.”

  “Well now, I don’t know about that,” another of the mercenaries put in. “I seen a red-headed elf among the raiders. Word has it he cut his mark onto our captain’s face. For all we know, you might even be him.”

  “That is not possible. I have not left Port Kir for many months,” the elf protested. “I’ve worked the docks since early spring. There are men here who can vouch for me!” Kendel looked around the room, seeking confirmation.

  There was none. Even some of the men who lifted alongside him day after day sat in stolid silence, their eyes averted.

  But the elf’s words elicited a burst of raucous laughter from the mercenaries. “Hear that, boys?” one of them hooted. “He works the docks, if you please! If any of you ever laid eyes on a more unlikely dockhand, I’d surely like to hear tell of it!”

  By now it was clear to Kendel what path this confrontation would take. He had played this scene before, albeit upon different stages. A farm, a palace, a counting-house, a tavern—it was all much the same in the end.

  The elf’s gaze remained calm and even, but his fingers closed around the grip of his dagger. If he struck first, and struck fast and hard, there was a good chance he could to work his way to the door.

  A good chance—that was more than he usually had. He would escape, and then he would rebuild, as he had so many times before.

  “I heared tell there was elven slaves working that farm, against what passes fer law in this land,” observed a gruff voice from behind the counter. “If you boys was smart, you might not be so quick to claim fighting to keep ’em there.”

  The mercenaries exchanged startled glances. There came the screech of wood dragging across wood, and a dwarf with a dun-colored beard popped into view and affixed the men with an accusing glare. The mercenaries exploded into laughter.

  “A dwarf! And here was me, thinking we was hearing the voice of the gods!” hooted one of the men.

  “He’s a bit short for a god,” noted another man, grinning widely when his dubious witticism inspired a new burst of mirth.

  “Mind your affairs, dwarf, and let us tend ours,” growled the largest man among them. The dwarf shrugged and lifted both hands in a careless gesture of agreement; then he hopped down off the keg and disappeared. The mercenary lashed out with one foot, kicking the stool out from under the elf.

  Agile Kendel was on his feet at once, his dagger bright and ready in his hand. His attacker reached over his shoulder, drew a broadsword from his shoulder sheath, and closed in.

  Fortunately for the elf, the crowds put his attackers at a disadvantage. There was little room for the swordsman to maneuver, and Kendel was able to parry the first of several thrusts. But only the first few. With the ease of frequent practice, the patrons pushed the tables and chairs against the walls to clear an impromptu arena. Many of the others, especially those who still bore the scars of the last brawl, made hastily for the exit.

  Kendel soon found himself faced with five men and an open field. The bar was to his back, and the mercenaries surrounded him in a semicircle. Swords drawn and confident leers twisting their faces, they began to close in.

  A tremendous crash ripped through the ominous silence of the tavern. The dwarven barkeep exploded through the wooden wall under the bar counter, head leading and held down like that of a ramming goat. It occurred to Kendel suddenly how the large hole in the wall of the wine cellar had come to be.

  Bellowing a cry to his god of battle, the dwarf barreled straight toward the largest mercenary. His head connected hard, significantly below the man’s swordbelt.

  The mercenary’s eyes glazed, and his sword clattered from his hand. His lips fluttered soundlessly, and his hands lowered to grasp at his flattened crotch. After a moment’s silence, he tilted and toppled like a felled tree. A small, high-pitched whimper wafted up from the floor where he lay.

  But the dwarf suffered no ill effect from the impact. Few substances on all Toril could rival a dwarven skull for sheer durability. He staggered back a few paces, rebounded off the bar, and sprinted across the room in search of a weapon. The patrons parted before him like cockroaches scattering from a suddenly lit torch, and the hearth came into full view. Before it stood the bemused cook, who balanced on one arm and hip a large platter holding a leg of freshly roasted lamb.

  The dwarf headed for the hearth at a run. On the way, he grabbed a cloth that had been left on a table and wrapped it twice about his hand. Then he seized the leg by the joint and whirled back toward the battle. Using the roast meat as a club, he aimed a hard upswing at the nearest mercenary.

  The man got his sword down to meet the unusual weapon, but the blade sank to the hilt in the tender meat and did not seem to slow the dwarf’s blow in the slightest. Up swung the leg of lamb, driving the hilt of the sword into the man’s face. There was a crunch of bone as the hilt struck and shattered his nose, then a splat as the sizzling meat slapped into the man and splattered him with hot juices. Howling, pawing at his ruined nose and blinded eyes, the mercenary reeled off.

  “Waste o’ good food,” muttered the dwarf. Nonetheless, he tossed the leg of lamb to the floor so he could tug free the sword. The weapon was too long for him to use, but judging from how well the elf was holding forth with just a dagger, he figured his new friend would know the use of it well enough.

  Between parried blows, Kendel glanced toward the hearth as another dwarven battle cry ripped through the tavern. His new ally held a sword before him like a lance, hilt braced against his belly, and was already well into another charge. The dwarfs chosen mark turned toward the low-pitched shout and neatly sidestepped. The dwarf could not change course in time to hit his original target, but his sword plunged deep into the protruding belly of yet another mercenary.

  “Oops,” murmured the dwarf, but he quickly made the best of his mistake. He leaned into the sword and began to run in a circle around the impaled man, looking for all the world like a farmhand pushing one of the handles that turns a millstone. The sword tore through the man’s flesh with sickening ease. His insides spilled forth, and he slumped, lifeless, into the spreading pile of gore.

  The elf, meanwhile, leaped forward to parry a blow from the first man, a vicious downward sweep that would have felled the dwarf. He caught the man’s sword on the crossguard of his dagger, but the force of the blow forced him to his knees.

  Before the mercenary could disengage his sword for another strike, the dwarf closed in. Reaching high over the joined blades, he delivered a punch to a point just below the man’s rib cage. The man’s breath wh
eezed out in a single gusty rush, and he bent double over the kneeling elf.

  The dwarf seized the man by the hair and forced his head up. “Seems like we finally see eye to eye,” he quipped, and then he smashed his fist into the mercenary’s face. Once would have been enough, but the dwarf hit him again just for the practice. Casually he shoved the insensible man aside and picked up his fallen sword.

  “Use this one, elf,” he advised Kendel. “The other’s a finer weapon, but you’ll find the grip a mite slippery.”

  The elf seized the offered sword and leaped to his feet, whirling to meet the final challenger and slapping his dagger into the dwarf’s hand. But the last standing mercenary did not like his chances against these two. He slid his own sword hastily into its scabbard and bolted for the door.

  “After ’im,” bellowed the dwarf, kicking into a run.

  Kendel hesitated and then followed suit. He had drawn steel against human soldiers; the penalties would be stern. Wherever this dwarf might be going would certainly be safer for him than Port Kir. And it occurred to Kendel that the journey might well be worthwhile in itself.

  He found the dwarf in the courtyard, bouncing wildly as he sat atop the struggling mercenary. Kendel strode over and placed a blade at the man’s throat.

  “ ’Bout time you got here,” grumbled the dwarf as he rolled aside. “This one’s jumpier than a bee-stung horse. On yer feet,” he instructed the man. “Start a’walking east down the street. I’m behind you, and if you run a step or sing out fer help, I’ll dig this fine dagger into yer backside.”

  “What do you plan to do with him?” Kendel asked as he fell in beside the dwarf.

  The dwarf pursed his lips and considered. “Truth be told, I’m a’getting mighty tired of all that’s been going on in these parts. I’m for going back to the Earthfast Mountains and my kin, but first I’m thinking we should take this scum back to whatever pond he’s used to floating on. I’d like to meet the man who hired him,” he said in a voice full of grim promise.

  “Why?” Kendel asked, surprised.

  “I been a slave fer ten years. More, if’n you add the days I was forced to work in that sow’s bowels of a tavern. Didn’t much like it. Don’t much like the idea of anybody, not even them pixie-licking wild elves, being forced into slavery. I wanna know the who and why of it. Hired swords don’t come cheap, and taking elves as slaves can only bring a keg of trouble. There’s cheaper and easier ways of picking pipeweed leaves. Something else is going on.”

  Kendel eyed the dwarf with new respect. Seldom did the insular dwarven people consider the well-being of other races. He was also a bit shamed by the dwarf’s concern. He had long heard tales of the forest elves’ troubles, but had been unwilling to get involved. To many humans, an elf was an elf, and incidents such as the one in the tavern were far too common. Yet here was a dwarf, ready to go to the aid of the forest folk.

  “Is that why you fought in the tavern that first night?” he asked softly. “In defense of a beleaguered elf?”

  The dwarf snorted and prodded at the mercenary with the tip of the dagger. “They spoke ill of me mother,” he said. “They shouldn’t ought to do that.”

  “Indeed they shouldn’t,” Kendel agreed. “You did well to defend her honor.”

  “And her name,” the dwarf added. “Seems like I do more’n my share of that. See, me mother passed her name along to me. I wear it right proud, but not everyone sees things the same.”

  “Ah. My name is Kendel Leafbower,” the elf said, curious as to what the dwarf’s name might be and hoping to speed the introductions.

  “And I be called Jill,” responded his new friend, shooting a cautious, sidelong look up at the elf. His expression dared Kendel to comment.

  “That explains much,” murmured Kendel solemnly. “In Elvish, the word ‘Jill’ means ‘fearsome warrior,’ ” he lied hastily, for storm clouds were already gathering on the dwarf’s brow.

  “Aye, that she was,” Jill said happily, his ire forgotten. “The name come down through the clan to male and female alike. And odd enough, it seems like every male dwarf who bears it fights better ’n most.”

  “Probably because you have more practice,” the elf observed; then he winced as it occurred to him how the proud dwarf might take these words.

  But to his surprise, a deep rumble of laughter shook the dwarf’s belly and rolled upward in waves. “Aye, there’s something to that,” Jill admitted.

  The new friends shared a companionable grin and set off with their hostage at a brisk pace toward the east, and whatever answers might await them there.

  Sixteen

  After his meeting with Lord Hhune, Bunlap set off for his fortress with a new contingent of hired men and a dark heart full to overbrimming with plans for the destruction of the elves who had taunted and eluded him for far too long. One of his new employees, a priest of Loviatar whose fascination with the concept of suffering lay well beyond the bounds of orthodoxy, had agreed to accompany him eastward and interrogate the slain elves that Vhenlar and his men had retrieved. In time, they would strike the elves in their most secret places.

  But the mercenary captain was none too happy with the news that greeted him upon his arrival. Most of the members of his last war band had died in the forest, and his best archer had been stuck more times than a seamstress’s pincushion. The expensive Halruaan wizard still lay abed, suffering from low spirits and unspecified injuries. Worse, Vhenlar had not managed to retrieve a single long-eared corpse for the priest to interrogate.

  “Leave ’em or join ’em. That was the choice we had,” Vhenlar informed his captain. “I say we leave ’em altogether—and forever—and let well enough alone.”

  “In due time,” Bunlap informed him, staring moodily at the forest.

  “What’s to be gained from going on?” pressed Vhenlar. “The logging operation is over. You got your money out of it and came away clean. What more do you want?”

  “It’s a personal matter—” the captain began.

  But Vhenlar wasn’t having any of that. “Not again! I’ve seen you plunge headfirst and neck-deep into trouble one time too many. I didn’t spend four years dodging the Zhents just so I could live the rest of my years looking over my shoulder for vengeful elves. I’ve had a bellyful. Give me my pay, and I’m gone.”

  The captain shook his head, not even bothering to look at the angry archer. “Three more battles. That’s all it should take. The first will be a minor skirmish. Then it’s on to the logging camp. Old Hhune put a fair amount of money into it. That site is strategic and it’s ours. We can even pick up the lumbering trade, once things cool down a bit, only there will be no need to split the proceeds with anyone else. You could retire a very, very rich man.”

  “I’m not going back into that forest,” Vhenlar began.

  “You won’t have to. You can fight this one in your preferred fashion—from behind the parapets, shooting down at the attackers. For this you need not leave the safety of the fortress.”

  The archer considered this. “How are you going to arrange that?”

  “We wait,” Bunlap said simply. “The elves will come to us, of that I am confident.”

  “Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why.”

  The mercenary captain fixed an icy glare on his longtime associate. “You do remember the Harpers, do you not?”

  Vhenlar groaned. The secret society known as the Harpers was devoted to thwarting the plans of the Zhentarim, curbing the ambitions of ruthless and powerful men, and just generally being a boil on the backside of any man out for a bit more than what the meddlers considered to be his fair share. “They’re snooping into this mess?”

  “Indeed. It is well that I returned to Zazesspur. Word is that a Harper agent bungled his cover and managed to slip out of the city just ahead of the local assassins. I asked around and learned there was yet another Harper in the city, at least until just recently. The elf woman who slipped right past our fortress with that clev
er little smoke screen is one of their more troublesome agents. You might even recall the name: Arilyn Moonblade?”

  “Not the one they say snuck into Darkhold and killed old Cherbil Nimmt?”

  “The same. She knows who I am and, if she meets up with the forest elves in time, they’ll figure out between them that the source of their troubles lies behind these fortress walls.”

  “Oh, she’s met up with them,” Vhenlar retorted. “She’s a gray elf, right? With a magic sword? Well, she was right there with the wild elves, telling ’em what to do. And they were listening, though never would I have believed it. But for her, they would have killed us all!”

  “All the better. You can be certain that elven scouts followed you here. I expect they’ll come calling in force anytime now. And that is where your skills with the bow come into play. Kill me a certain moon elf, and you’re free to go where you want,” Bunlap concluded grimly.

  The archer nodded, but in truth he had little faith in the other man’s assurances. Nor could he muster a shred of enthusiasm for the coming battle. Having faced those elves and that Harper wench, he had no desire to do so again anytime soon. Not one night passed by but he didn’t relive the elf woman’s blue-fire charge, or awake sitting bolt upright and drenched in sweat, dreaming of enemies he could never see or touch, but who constantly surrounded him.

  Yet what choice did he have? Vhenlar would be forced to fight the wild elves until he was either slain or went mad. Bunlap would not let him go until his desire for vengeance was slaked. And from all that Vhenlar had seen of his captain, that was not likely to happen easily … or soon.