Silver Shadows

by Cunningham, Elaine

  The Duke regarded him somberly. “There is wisdom in what you say, as well as a modesty becoming to a man of your years. You do well to bring this matter so openly before me. It will be as you have asked. The Knights will leave Hhune’s traitor in your hands. But as for this Bunlap—where can this man be found?”

  “He has a fortress near the mouth of the Sulduskoon’s northern branch. The logging camp is much farther to the east, where the river and the forest touch.”

  A frustrated grimace twisted the Duke’s face. “The Knights of the Shield do not have an army to send against him over such distances!”

  “An assassin, then,” the young man suggested. “I know of one who will do the task well and take word of its completion to the elves. She is half-elven, and eager to see that peace is made between her mother’s folk and her father’s. To this end, she has received assurances from the forest folk that the death of Bunlap will end the troubles.”

  This was, of course, an utter fabrication, but Hasheth assured himself that the end result would bear out his words as true. After all, Arilyn had set her sights on the destruction of the logging operations. To do so, she would have to remove Bunlap from the picture.

  “See to it and report to me when all is done,” the Duke said.

  Hearing the dismissal, Hasheth rose and walked from Duke Hembreon’s chambers, doing his best to hide his elation.

  The interview had gone far better than he’d hoped. Just a few more steps and he would be firmly in the graces of Hhune, Hembreon, and the Knights. And the only cost would be Hhune’s fleet of ships.

  A bargain, by Hasheth’s eyes.

  * * * * *

  The following day, the forest elves and the lythari gathered in the hills beyond the Suldusk settlement. They would attack with the dawn, and there were still many preparations to make, and plans to lay, for the battle ahead.

  The most difficult of the tasks before them would be rescuing the captured elves. By the best estimates of their lythari scouts, perhaps fifty elves of the Suldusk tribe remained alive. It was hard to judge their numbers with any certainty, for they were huddled together in cages built upon the ruined ground, from branches torn from the pillaged trees. The human camp was split, with some men guarding the captives, and others camped near the river. Accordingly, the elven forces would have to be divided.

  Despite the grim nature of the task before them, the elven folk could not help but look with bemused wonder upon the strangers in their midst. Kendel Leafbower they accepted readily enough, though his obvious friendship with a dwarf was beyond their understanding. It was the human who most fascinated them.

  Tinkersdam kept to himself, muttering and fussing with the collection of pots and vials and powders that he’d carried with him. The elves had all heard Ferret’s story of the destruction his concoctions had unleashed among the humans in Zazesspur, and even Tamsin, perhaps the most xenophobic elf among them, was more than willing to let Tinkersdam go about his business unhindered.

  Arilyn felt rather useless amid the quietly intense preparations. In many ways her part in this battle was over. Through her efforts the lythari had joined the forest elves, and Zoastria had returned. The half elf had also secretly sent Ganamede into the forest, seeking allies among the fey forest creatures—those folk who were so reclusive that even the elves could find them only if they wished to be found. The lythari knew all the secrets of the forest. Even so, Arilyn felt little hope that Ganamede would succeed in gaining recruits.

  She also felt oddly incomplete without the elven sword at her hip, for she had not been without the moonblade since her fifteenth year. Nor did she have a sword with which to replace it. Such weapons were scarce among the forest folk.

  This lack did not escape Foxfire’s notice. “You cannot go into battle without a sword,” he insisted.

  Arilyn shrugged. “I’ve got a dagger. That’ll do long enough for me to disarm one of the humans.” She attempted a smile. “I’ll try out a few of their swords and keep the one I like best.”

  “But even so, you must have a blade. If not for yourself, for the good you might do the tribe—the People,” he corrected himself. There were now three elven races uniting in preparation for battle, and the once reclusive Elmanesse were learning to expand their concept of community. “Not one among us can match your skill, not even Soora Thea!”

  Foxfire nodded toward the tiny moon elf female, who was demonstrating an attack sequence to a small group of young adult elves.

  But Arilyn shook her head. “No, her technique is far cleaner and more polished than mine could ever hope to become. If there is any lack, it is because the moonblade has grown in power since she last wielded it. At least four elves have carried the moonblade since Zoastria passed it on, and each added a power to the sword’s store of magic. Truth be told, moonblades are becoming pretty damned hard to handle,” she concluded. “I doubt there are many left that still hold their magic.”

  “And fewer still who can manage such magic,” Foxfire reasoned. “The tales say such a sword will consume anyone unworthy who draws the blade. It must take great courage to accept a moonblade.”

  The half-elf merely shrugged. She was not being modest. She had first drawn the sword without knowing any of the implications.

  “I have often wondered about the power you gave to your sword. They say this gift is not a deliberate choice, but rather the true reflection of the wielder’s needs and talents,” he observed.

  “Or mission,” Arilyn added. “Sometimes the magic comes in response to a sudden challenge. One of my ancestors found himself in a disagreement with a red dragon and ended up endowing the sword with fire resistance. Imagine his surprise when he woke up and found himself alive after that battle!”

  The green elf chuckled. “So that was how you endured the wizard’s fire bolts. I have seen the sword cast a glamour over you, and I have seen the uncanny speed with which it moves. Which of these was your gift?”

  “Neither. A moonblade can be handled by only one person,” Arilyn explained, “and that can cause problems if you’ve got a partner. My gift was to share the blade and its magic, should he have need of it.”

  “Ah. This explains much,” Foxfire said.

  Arilyn cast him a quizzical look.

  “During the battle at the river, I was hard pressed by the human fighters,” he began. “Yet I saw the shadow warriors come forth from your moonblade, and I noticed that one among them was not elven, though he quickly chose to appear so. I did not understand how this could be, until you told me you had joined with another in rapport.

  “Do not look so startled,” he said, smiling a bit at the stunned expression on the half-elf’s face. “As you yourself told me, there are many kinds of sharing. The gift of your moonblade to this human was the deepest bonding of any you could have offered him. It reflected, as you have said, your deepest wish. And perhaps it was a needed thing, that the moonblade should do this. You were not able to see your need for this human or to find your own way to him.”

  The half-elf stared at her friend, utterly dumbfounded by his words—and by the realization that she could not dispute them. The power she had given the moonblade was one of rapport, and her heart—and her sword—had chosen Danilo to share this most elven gift! How strange, that the well-intentioned lie she had offered as a balm to Foxfire’s pride should turn out to be simple truth!

  Foxfire’s smile was slight and rueful. “You are not the first to bond with a human in one way or another. There is something about them that draws many of the People. There was a song sung among the elves of Trademeet about this very thing. I do not remember the words, but for the last line.”

  “How brief their flame, yet how bright they burn!” Arilyn recited. “Yes, I have heard it sung.”

  “And you know the words of this song to be true, as did your mother before you,” he added softly.

  Arilyn jolted as his meaning struck her. “You know. You know I am half-elven. You have known for some ti
me!”

  “Almost from the beginning,” the elf agreed. “At first I did not speak for the same reason that Ferret held her silence: it seemed the best way to serve the clan. You were needed. Then I kept silent for your sake, and for my own. Very soon I realized your being half-elven was not important to me, nor should it matter to any of the People. Your soul is elven, else you could never have wielded a moonblade or sought another in rapport. That you have chosen to share that bond with a human does not change your elven nature or belittle it.”

  For the first time in her life, Arilyn truly understood the dichotomy of her own nature. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Foxfire placed both hands on her shoulders. “These were things which needed to be said. We go into battle tomorrow. You know what faces us, and you also know I myself must face Bunlap. He will die, or he will be avenged. Either way, this matter must end.”

  A slight rustle from the forest beyond caught the ears of both elves. They looked up into the bearded face of a centaur.

  Arilyn remembered him from the elves’ midsummer celebration. He carried a long spear and wore an expression of grim determination. Apparently Ganamede had been convincing when he carried her message to the other peoples of the forest!

  “We came as soon as we could,” the centaur announced, speaking the Elvish language in a deep, grave voice. “I am Nesstiss, and there are ten centaur warriors with me. It may be that the fauns will come as well, but do not expect to see them until battle. To whom do we report?”

  * * * * *

  The appearance of the elusive centaurs galvanized the army of forest people. Their grim, quiet determination shifted toward fierce glee, even exhilaration. Shortly before dawn, they gathered for the attack, hiding among the trees that lay just beyond the portion of the forest devastated by loggers.

  The scene before them was like something from the most desolate reaches of the Abyss. The rich undergrowth of the forest had been burned to ash, from which blackened tree stumps rose like giant mushrooms. An oppressive aura of despair hung like a shroud over the land. Yet even this stirred the children of Tethir. The ruined forest was a grim reminder to all of why they fought.

  Arilyn took her place with those who would make the first surprise charge. Their numbers looked pitifully few to her eyes, and she imagined how their attack would appear to the mercenaries. On impulse, she reached into her pack for the vial Tinkersdam had given her more than a month before—the concoction he’d made from the shrieker mushrooms.

  She shook the vial and unstoppered it, shook a few drops onto a square of linen, and hurried over to the centaur captain.

  “Nesstiss, give me your hoof,” she demanded. The centaur looked surprised, but he obligingly bent one leg. Arilyn stooped and wiped a bit of the potion on the hoof. “Now put it down, as gently as possible.”

  Nesstiss eased down his hoof. The crunch of a pebble beneath it was magnified to a startling rattle. He looked at Arilyn with wonder.

  “Five centaurs, charging the camp from either flank,” she said with a grin. “It’ll sound like a cavalry charge. That ought to wake up the mercenaries!”

  She caught Zoastria’s eyes upon her. The elf woman nodded in solemn approval. “Anoint the hoofs of the others, quickly,” she said. “Centaurs, do as Arilyn suggests. Attack from both sides, startle the humans, and send them toward us. Then circle around to the back of their camp and continue to press them.”

  Arilyn motioned for the centaurs to get into position; then she handed another bit of linen to the nearest elf and indicated that he should help. When the centaurs were ready, she went over to Zoastria.

  “There’s a drop or two left in the vial. You have heard how it increases sound. Drink it, and your commands will be heard over any battle,” Arilyn said softly.

  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 orc-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-orc 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. Shirtless 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 b
lades 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.