Silver Shadows (23 page)

“Where did you get that?”

Hasheth jolted. He had not heard Achnib’s approach, so intent was he upon his study of the coin. The scribe pounced on him like a hunting cat and tore the coin from his hand.

“This bears Lord Hhune’s mark. Where did you get this?” the man demanded in an accusing voice.

“At the Purple Minotaur,” Hasheth said, honestly enough. The mere mention of Zazesspur’s most luxurious inn set the scribe back on his heels and stole some of the indignation from his face. In fact, Achnib looked so nonplused that Hasheth could not resist the urge to continue.

“As you no doubt know, Lord Hhune engaged the services of assassins to rid the city of a suspected Harper agent. Two of these assassins were slain at the inn where their mark resided; one of them carried this coin. Since the hired man failed at his assigned task, I took the liberty of removing the coin from his body so that I might return to it Lord Hhune. If you wish to check out the particulars,” Hasheth continued in a casual voice, “the chatelaine of the Minotaur will happily vouchsafe my tale. You might also wander by the assassins’ guildhouse, if you like.”

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The scribe’s eyes narrowed, for Hasheth’s seemingly innocent words held a triple insult. First, Achnib did not know of this matter, and the fact that Hasheth did placed him subtly higher in the hierarchy surrounding Lord Hhune. Secondly, since Achnib was neither wealthy nor well-born, he would not find a welcome, much less the offer of information, from the lofty chatelaine of the exclusive Purple Minotaur. And finally, an invitation to stop by the assassins* guildhouse was tantamount to wishing a person dead. Yet since Hasheth himself had briefly tasted the assassin’s path and had lived to speak of this adventure, he could mask this curse in the garb of a casual, if boastful, suggestion. Even so, it was beyond bearing!

“Hhune will hear of this,” the scribe warned.

Hasheth inclined his head in a parody of gratitude. “You are kind, to offer to speak of me to my Lord Hhune. I had planned to give him the coin myself, not wishing to trouble you with matters outside of your duties, but of course it is better so. It is unbecoming of a man to put himself forward in such a manner.”

Achnib’s face turned deep red. “You meant to do no such thing! You would have kept it for yourself!”.

In response, the young man reached for the cash ledger and thumbed to the day’s page. He held up the book so the scribe could see that the entry had already been made.

“I will let your insult pass, for it is beneath me,” he said in a soft, dangerous voice. “As a son of the pasha, I have little need for gold. But now that the coin is in your hands, perhaps you should sign for it as well?”

The scribe sputtered angrily, but no suitable response came to his mind. Nor could he refuse the proper procedure that Hasheth had suggested. At length he shut his mouth, snatched the quill from the apprentice’s inkwell, and scrawled his mark next to the neat entry. He spun on his heel and stalked from the room. ^

Only then did Hasheth permit himself a sneer. The

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fool had no idea what he held in his hand! Achnib saw a piece of gold, no more.

Very well. He would come to know in time, to his sorrow.

In the young prince’s mind, the lines of battle had been clearly drawn.

Foxfire stood in respectful silence as the body of yet another elf was lowered into the bog — the last of then-number who had sustained mortal injuries in the farmlands to the east — and he listened as the songs were sung that marked the return of yet another forest spirit into the great caldron of life. The others stood with him — the survivors of the raid, the reinforcements from Talltrees, even the volatile Tamsin — all taking solace and direction from their leader’s dignified mourning.

But Foxfire was far from feeling as calm as he appeared. Nor did he accept the deaths of his people with anything approaching resignation.

He was young, by the measure of elvenkind, not long into his second century of life. Yet he had seen much death — too much death, and too much change. Life in the world beyond their forest’s boundaries swirled past them at a dizzying pace; events came and went too swiftly for the elves to absorb, much less assimilate. During the short span of Foxfire’s years, kingdoms had risen and tumbled, forests had given way to farmland, whole human settlements had sprung up like mushrooms after a spring rain.

It often seemed to Foxfire that humans were rather like hummingbirds: they whizzed past and were gone in a moment’s time. Suddenly, unaccountably, the elves of Tethyr had been caught up in this pace, dragged along in the wake of this headlong flight. He did not know how to stop it. He did not know if it could be stopped.

Tamsin, however, was not beset with such doubts. The

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young fighter, along with the three archers who had been sent northward, had found his way back to the fen lands moments before his kinsman’s body was to be returned to the forest. After the songs had been chanted and the rituals complete, the elf sought out Foxfire and asked to give his report.

“I did as you said,” he stated bluntly. “We all did— Eldrin, Sontar, Wyndelleu. They pushed the humans northward with their arrows, making sure along the way that the hounds would not live to betray us to their masters. I awoke the white dragon and led her to the humans. By now she is probably back in her lair, sleeping, with a belly full enough to keep her through the rest of the summer. Of the warriors who pursued us, perhaps ten are dead.”

“You did well,” Foxfire told him. “But for your efforts, the People would not have reached the safety of the fen lands.”

“Yet we could have done more!” Tamsin burst out. “Why let any of them escape? Our lives would be better if we killed every human that ventures into the forest!”

Foxfire was silent for a long moment. “Not all,” he ventured at last, “for there are humanfolk in the forest who actually do good—the druids, rangers, even the swanmays.”

Tamsin’s eyes flashed with excitement as he regarded his leader, measured the meaning of his hesitation. “But the men who pursued us—”

“Will not stop,” Foxfire concluded grimly. “It is time to turn hunter.”

The young elf nodded eagerly. “As before? Small parties of archers?”

“No. We are rested now, and all those who yet live are ready to fight. We have also six fresh warriors from Talltrees. I say we strike hard and have done with them.”

“I will scout,” Tamsin offered immediately.

For once Foxfire did not try to temper the young elf s

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impetuous nature. “You know the way; you will lead the first group. Find the humans, take to the trees, and pass over them, then attack from the north. Korrigash will lead from the east, Eldrin will take his archers to the west, and Wyndelleu to the south.”

“And you?”

Foxfire placed a hand on the younger elf’s shoulder. “I will fight beside you, or elsewhere as I am needed, but the command of the northern band will be yours. Now go, and gather your fighters.”

His eyes sparkling at the thought of his first command, the younger elf spun and raced back toward the main camp. The news came as no surprise to the others. In moments the camp was gone as if it had never been there, and the elven fighters were ready to move northward from their fen-land refuge.

They followed Tamsin’s confident lead, traveling throughout the day and well into the night. Shortly before dawn they came upon the humans’ camp, not far from the place where the white dragon had fallen upon them. By all appearances, the humans did not realize this. Their panicked trails had taken them in wide circles, and they had wandered still farther in an attempt to gather their scattered members. Yet it seemed they had made a good recovery. The camp was neat and orderly, and three alert sentries circled the site.

Tamsin pointed to the sentries, then to himself, to Sontar, and young Hawkwing. All were good choices, Foxfire acknowledged silently as the three elves slipped up into the trees and moved into position, though it pained him to see a maid as young as Hawkwing in battle. But war had chosen her, and she did not flinch from the burden that had fallen her way.

At a signal from Tamsin, the three elves dropped silently to the ground, directly in front of their chosen marks. Before the humans could move or cry out, three bone knives slashed forward and dealt swift and silent death. The elves caught the falling humans and eased

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them silently to the ground—a difficult feat for the tiny Hawkwing, who used her own body to muffle the sound of the falling human. Foxfire winced, but the elf girl crawled out from under the dead sentry and signaled that all was well.

Foxfire nodded to the group leaders, and the elves scattered into the forest. He followed Tamsin into the trees. As they crept through the canopy over the campsite, he took careful note of the men who slept below. There were a total of three-and-forty humans—a large band, far more than Foxfire had anticipated. More, in fact, than had pursued them into the forest. Somehow they, like the elves, had managed to send for reinforcements. The implications of this did not bode well for the elves.

Although he knew little of humans, Foxfire understood that they did not possess the elven gift of rapport, that mystical closeness that enabled elves to share thoughts and feelings, even across long distances. Rapport was strongest among the twin-born—Tamsin and Tamara shared such a bond with each other and a strong empathy with other elves—but most often rapport occurred between elven lovers who forged a bond strong and bright enough to weld their spirits together for all time. It was the deepest commitment known to elves, rarely undertaken and never done so lightly. Foxfire knew that humans could not send messages through rapport; they could do so through use of magic.

Suddenly a sharp crack split the silence of the night—the heart-chilling sound of a metal trap springing shut. There came another, and a third, and then a quick brutal crackle that came too quickly to count. The sounds roused the humans, who leaped from their bedrolls and seized their weapons: wooden shields, small crossbows, swords, and daggers.

Tamsin’s body contorted in a spasm of agony as the backlash of the trapped elves’ pain swept through him. Foxfire reached out to steady him, then captured the

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younger elfs anguished eyes with his own. It was clear that Tamsin not only felt the elves’ suffering, but blamed himself for it. Had he not been so focused on the hunt, he might have sensed the coming danger.

“Shield yourself?’ Foxfire said sternly. “What’s done cannot be undone; you will not help them by sharing their deaths.”

“How could this happen?” demanded Hawkwing, her black eyes wide with horror. “Why could they not see the traps?”

“The humans have a wizard,” Foxfire replied as he nocked an arrow. He elbowed Tamsin, for the young elf s gifts were needed. Of all of them, Tamsin had the best chance of discerning the deadly foe.

The young fighter shook himself, scattering his borrowed emotions like an otter casting off droplets of water. He put aside his grief and his guilt and took a deep, steadying breath. Swiftly, surely, he focused on the unseen threads that tied him to the forest and to the web of magic that was its essence.

Tamsin knew the pattern—they all did—but more than most elves, he felt it in his blood, traveled its gossamer paths whenever he rested in reverie. And thus he sensed quickly and surely the ugly, gaping tear in the fabric of life that indicated that a human wizard was at work.

“There,” he said, pointing to one of the men crouched below—an easy target, for he was one of the few humans who did not hold a shield.

Foxfire swung his bow into place and loosed his ready arrow. The bolt tore through the layers of leaves, straight toward its mark …

… and burst into flame.

Blue fire flashed down the length of the shaft, and a thin line of black ash drifted to the ground at the wizard’s feet.

The other humans were not quite so lucky. The archers under Wyndelleu’s command bombarded them

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with a small storm of arrows; most clattered harmlessly off the wooden shields, but a few got through. No humans sustained mortal wounds, but at least a few of them would be slowed during the battle to come.

Undeterred by the cries of his comrades and the arrows that flamed and fizzled around him, the wizard began to move his fingers rapidly in some sort of silent, arcane language. He concluded by banging both hands together. The result was like a summer storm, like lighting and thunder combined into one killing stroke.

A thunderclap rolled outward from his hands and through the forest; every arrow that was in flight at that moment flared with brilliant white light. A bolt of energy sizzled back from each glowing arrow, following an invisible path through the air and back to the archer who had sent it forth.

Foxfire watched in horror as five of his people were blasted into ash.

He drew in a breath to call for retreat, but the sound died in a strangled gasp as all the world seemed to burst into flame. There was no heat, just a sudden, searing light that was nearly as painful.

The elf dug both fists into his eyes, trying to rub away the painful sparkles that danced and whirled behind his eyelids. When at last his eyes adjusted to the unnatural brightness, the possibility of retreat vanished from his thoughts.

The humans had dragged the captured elves into the clearing. There were seven of them, and all were alive, though the foot-hold traps—clearly visible now that they had been sprung—had inflicted terrible wounds upon them. A few men guarded them, loaded crossbows leveled at their hearts. And surrounding them was a circle of human mercenaries, swords drawn.

One of these men waved his weapon at the trees overhead and shouted something. Foxfire and Tamsin exchanged helpless shrugs—neither of them spoke the language of Tethyr’s humans. Before Foxfire could call

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