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“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 Eke 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, hut 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.

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“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 eWbs ran

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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

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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 bor-

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rowed 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

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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 mechanical traps or triggered devices. Probably the idiot wizard relied on

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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 anc

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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.