Silver Shadows fr-13

by Elaine Cunnighham

  The others watched, bemused, as the ranger crashed off heedlessly toward the south. Before they could follow suit, a roar rolled through the forest-a fearsome sound that was both shriek and rumble, a cry of rage such as few of them had ever heard before. Yet there was not a man among them who did not know instinctively what it meant:Dragon.

  Vhenlar had heard men speak of dragonfear, the paralyzing terror that comes from looking into the eyes of a great wyrm. He now knew that the very sound of a dragon's cry could root a man's boots to the soil and turn his legs to stone.

  The dragonfear lasted but a moment, but that was long enough. With the speed of a wizard's transformation, the dragon's passage through the forest changed from a rustling murmur into a deafening crash. Like a tidal wave, the dragon came on. Vhenlar would never had guessed that something so large could move with such speed!

  Then he caught a glimpse of it through the trees, still a couple hundred feet away but closing fast. It was a white, and it glittered like some enormous, reptilian ghost against the darkness of the forest. The creature stopped, fell back on its haunches, and inhaled deeply.

  The trees parted, the leaves cringing away and falling in brittle shards as an icy winter wind tore through the forest. Widening as it came, a cone of devastation blasted everything in its path and reached icy, grasping hands toward the mercenaries.

  With the clarity of absolute terror, with a heart-stopping fear that made everything around him seem to slow down to a speed of a drifting snowflake, Vhenlar watched it come.

  The dragon's breath reached the scouts, so quickly that it froze Justin's face in its derisive sneer, so suddenly that it caught Tacher in the act of turning toward the onrushing sound. It leached all color from their skin, coating their hair and clothes in a thick layer of frost. To all appearances, the men were as completely frozen as if they'd been turned to ice statues by a vengeful sorceress.

  Then the cold hit Vhenlar, bitter, searing, but not quite enough to immobilize him. Quite the contrary, like a slap to the face, it tore him from his momentary terror. He realized the dragon's breath weapon had reached its outer limits with the unfortunate scouts. Even so, he did not intend to stay around in case the monster could repeat its trick.

  "Run!" he shrieked, and he kicked into the fastest gait his benumbed limbs could manage.

  Bunlap's secondhand authority was not needed this time. The men followed Vhenlar without pause or question. As they fled wildly into the forest, their steps were spurred by the sound of cracking ice, a horrid crunching, and the faint and deadly scent of wintermint.

  Ten

  From the palisades of his fortress, Bunlap had a splendid view of Tethyr and its varied landscapes. To his east lay the Starspire Mountains, their jagged and lofty peaks snow-tipped even now in early summer. On the western side of his land were the rolling foothills, and just north of him the sudden, dense tree line that marked the southern edge of the Forest of Tethir.

  A brisk wind ruffled his black beard and sent his cloak swirling up behind him. Bunlap caught the flying folds and wrapped them around himself, folding his arms to keep the garment firmly in place. Mornings were chill, even this time of year, for the western winds came straight off the Starspires, as did the icy waters that spilled into the river below-the northern branch, most called it, but Bunlap liked to think of it as "his" river.

  Located as he was, on a cliff overlooking the plain where a dozen or more small waterways converged into a single flow, he could exact a tariff from every small-time farmer or trapper who floated down the tributaries to paddle his goods downriver to the Sulduskoon, and thence to Zazesspur.

  It amused Bunlap that his demands were never challenged. The people of Tethyr were too accustomed to paying tariffs and tributes and out-and-out bribes at every turn, for petty noblemen bred like rabbits in this land. Not a single traveler questioned Bunlap's right to tax their cargo. He held this remote territory with a fortress and men-at-arms. In the mind of the Tethyrians, that made him nobility.

  "Baron Bunlap," he said aloud, and a wry smile twisted his lips at the irony of it. Not a man alive was more lowly born than he, but what did that matter in Tethyr? In the few short years since he'd left his post at Darkhold, the former Zhentish soldier had amassed more land, wealth, and power than was possessed by most Cormyran lords. Bane's blood, how he loved this country!

  "Two-sailed approaching!" called a man from the southern lookout.

  Bunlap's mood darkened instantly. He'd received word of this ship's approach the night before, for he kept runners and horsemen stationed along the river to bring him news of water traffic. It was an organization nearly as swift and efficient as the town criers of any city a man could name, and as a result Bunlap knew the business of nearly everyone who traveled Tethyr*s main waterway.

  Which is why this particular ship disturbed him. Shallow-keeled as a Northman's raiding ship, single-masted but flying a jib as well as a mainsail, the ship was built for speed and stealth. She was small enough to escape the notice of everyone but the most observant and suspicious of men, small enough so that two or three might sail her, yet large enough to hold a dozen men or stow a considerable amount of contrabandvln short, it was the sort of ship that carried trouble and a prime example of what his informants had been trained and paid to notice.

  Yet his man at Port Starhaven, one of the few towns that lay along the northern branch, had been the first to note its approach. Bunlap had checked the fortress's log the night before. Recent entries indicated that there were no reported sightings of such a ship on the Sulduskoon, not on either side of the place where the northern branch met the main river. It was as if the ship had fallen from the clouds.

  Or, a more likely possibility, and even more disturbing, it had been carted overland to a point on the northern branch and kept hidden hi dry dock until it was needed. But why, and by whom?

  Bunlap well knew the difficulty and expense of overland shipping. Whoever had gone to such trouble must have deep pockets and a compelling motivation. Well enough; he would empty those pockets and demand to know the reasons.

  "Raise the chain behind her, bring it up fast and pull it as tight as it'll go," he bellowed, raising an eyeglass and peering down at the swiftly sailing craft. "On my mark… now!"

  Several men hurried to a massive crank and began to turn with frantic haste. A huge chain, nearly as thick as a dwarfs waist, began to wind around a gathering spool. The other end of the chain was tethered to the far shore, bolted and welded to a platform that was itself pile-driven into the rocky bank. Once the chain was raised, no ship-not even this shallow-keeled phantom-could escape downriver.

  As Bunlap anticipated, the sailboat tacked sharply, heading straight toward the eastern shore. This was the response most ships made, and it was the most logical. Put some distance between the ship and the apparently hostile fortress-a reasonable dodge. But what most travelers did not realize until too late was that the raising of the chain alerted men who were stationed on the eastern shore and along each of the tributaries. These men poured from their hidden barracks, those on the east shore seizing arms and those along the north putting small, swift craft into the water and rushing toward the pinned-down ship. They would surround it, capture it, and escort the ship and crew to Bunlap's fortress. It was a well-planned maneuver, put into practice often enough to have become almost routine.

  But to Bunlap's surprise, the sailboat continued straight for the eastern shore and the forces that awaited her there. Several sets of long oars flung out over the side, and unseen oarsmen pulled hard as they rowed with breakneck haste for the beach.

  The mercenaries assembled at water's edge scattered as the shallow boat thrust up out of the water. A dozen or more fighters leaped from the boat onto dry land and hurled themselves at Bunlap's men. One of them, a minor mage of some sort, sent a tiny ball of light hurtling toward the sails. The canvas had been treated with some kind of oil, for immediately flames leaped outward in all directions to engulf the
entire ship.

  Dark billows of smoke forced the battle back from the shore. Bunlap squinted into his eyeglass, peering through the gathering cloud of smoke and trying to find some clue that would help him make sense of this ship and these tactics. What he saw thrust him even deeper into puzzlement.

  Most of the crew of the strange sailing craft were clad in tunics and leggings of a distinctive dark purple which marked them as hired swords of the palace, mercenaries who reported to the lesser members of the Balik family. This was an oddity, for Pasha Balik and his pleasure-loving kin were not known to venture beyond the walls of Zazesspur. Odder still was the sole exception among these purple-clad fighters: a female, and an elf!

  She was not one of the forest people, of that Bunlap was certain. The elves of Tethir were copper-hued and tended to be small in build and stature. This one was raven-haired and tall as most men. Bunlap caught a glimpse of her face-it was as pale as a pearl, a shade that was peculiar to moon elves. These were common enough in Tethyr, but most were fairly recent arrivals who had settled in the trade cities and farmlands. Bunlap hadn't a clue as to what might bring palace guards and a moon elf wench to this part of the country.

  Whatever her purpose, the elf woman was a sword-master of rare ability. The mercenary captain watched in helpless rage as she cut through his hired men with dizzying speed and terrifying ease. Not a man among them could stand before her sword. Bunlap was not certain that he himself could match her. Then the smoke grew too thick for him to see more, and there was nothing to do but wait.

  The clang of battle and the cries of the wounded drifted up to him across the expanse of water. Bunlap noticed that the chorus of steel on steel was rapidly thinning out. The battle was winding down faster than he would have thought possible. At this rate, it would be over before any of his other boats could reach the eastern shore!

  At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that the elf woman and the purple mercenaries would soon be in his power. With their ship destroyed, they could hardly escape. They had nowhere to go-except to Bunlap's fortress!

  Even as this thought formed, Bunlap noted a flurry of movement several hundred yards south of the battle. Two small boats, bottoms up, emerged from the thick smoke and scuttled toward the river like bugs-large bugs that boasted three pairs of purple-clad legs each.

  Several more Balik guards hurried along behind these boats, some carrying pilfered oars, others brandishing their curved swords and watching their backs for pursuit. There was none. Bunlap's men were lost in the smoke, battling a deadly elf woman who, unlike them, could see in darkness better than any cat. For all he knew, by now she had them fighting each other!

  A surge of rage swept through the mercenary captain as the escape strategy became clear to him. Using the smoke as a cover, the guards were stealing Bunlap's boats, walking portage around the chain, and making their escape downriver!

  There was nothing he could do to stop them, not even if he had the chain lowered so his other boats were able to give pursuit. He had no way of getting new orders to the men. Nor would they take such action on their own, for the strong westerly wind was blowing the dark, oily smoke across the river in a thick and effective screen. It was unlikely that any of the men who fought on the eastern shore or who were still on the river could even see the escaping boats!

  As he waited for the battle to end, Bunlap's rage and frustration deepened. He could not vent his spleen upon the men, for he would need every one of them for the coming battles. And he was fairly certain he would get no satisfaction from the elf wench. Bunlap was ready to bet big money that when the smoke cleared, there would be no trace of her.

  He was also fairly certain of her destination. It would not be the mountains, which were catacombed with dwarven tribes, but the elven forest.

  This was not a heartening thought. A moon-elven warrior, smart enough to elude him, powerful enough to claim assistance from Zazesspur's ruling family? As if he hadn't problems enough in that thrice-blasted forest!

  Bunlap spun away and stalked down the steps that led from the palisades to the courtyard. For several moments he stood, watching as his lieutenants took the new recruits through their morning weapons training. They were good, this batch, and as he watched Bunlap felt his rage cool-but not dissipate, never that. Bunlap's anger was like a forge-heated sword: it only got harder and sharper as the heat slipped away.

  He'd counted on the reclusive nature of the forest elves for his plan's success, and so far it had served him well. If this moon elf had a notion to join forces with the wild folk, she'd likely find they had ideas of their own! And even if she did, what of it? One more sword would not turn the balance in favor of the elves of Tethir. And when the time was right, he, Bunlap, would take great pleasure in ending the career of this elf woman. She would have to wait her turn, of course, but she'd be just as dead for the delay. There was enough elf-hatred in Bunlap's heart to sink Evenneet into the sea.

  The captain's hand instinctively lifted to his cheek and to the still-fiery brand the wild elf had left there. With each day that passed, his latest assignment was becoming more and more a personal crusade.

  Ferret pressed her stolen horse as hard as she dared. It was no easy task, keeping pace with a swift-sailing boat and yet staying out of sight. To make matters still more difficult, this terrain was unfamiliar to her. The mountains were dwarven territory.

  But the female assassin had earned her reputation as a tracker. She made her way to the river's mouth in time to witness the battle between the half-elf's hired men and the locals-she might even have joined in, had the river not lain between her and the fight.

  Ferret watched with keen interest as Arilyn engaged the mercenaries, sent her own men southward, and then slipped away in the confusion. Despite her personal opinion of the half-elf, Ferret could not help but admire the smoothly executed plan. She needed to know more about this half breed's talents-and her motivations.

  When the fight was over, the female urged her tired mount into the hills, for she had to give wide berth to the fortress. Although she had not known of the stronghold's existence and knew nothing of its lord, she'd had ample experience with petty noblemen and knew what to expect from them, even if she hadn't seen the attempted ambush of Arilyn's ship.

  Throughout that day and most of the following night and the day after that, Ferret pursued her half-elven quarry. By late afternoon she caught her first glimpse of Arilyn-just as she was slipping into the edge of Tethir.

  The assassin shook her head in disbelief. To cover such a distance, the half-elf must have run the entire way, with very little pause for rest. Elves could do this, when pressed, but Ferret never would have credited that a half-elf could manage such a feat. She herself had traveled even farther, but she had done so on four legs.

  Ferret swung down from the horse and grasped the animal's tangled mane in both hands. She drew down the horse's head and spoke for several minutes in the centaur tongue: an apology, as well as instructions for the journey ahead.

  The mare seemed to grasp the gist of it, for she turned southward and set off at a jog in the direction of the fortress. There, Ferret reasoned, the horse would be fed and cared for. However ill the local lord treated passing travelers, he would be unlikely to disdain such a valuable gift. And the horse could not survive otherwise. It had become an unnatural creature, stripped of its instincts and made dependent upon humans.

  The female set off for the forest with an easy, running stride, confident she could pick up the half-elf s trail and have the wench in her sights by nightfall. And then, she would learn what had brought a half-elven assassin into the shadows of Tethir.

  The waxing moon rose high over the forest's canopy, but only a few stubborn shafts of moonlight worked their way through the thick layers of leaves. Ferret found that Arilyn's trail was harder to follow than she had anticipated. Somewhere along the line, the assassin who walked the streets of Zazesspur with such grim assurance had also learned a considerable amount o
f woods craft!

  At last Ferret caught sight of the half-elf, down on one knee examining what appeared to be wolf sign. She placed her palm down on the soil as if measuring the print, then nodded in satisfaction. With a quick, fluid movement she was back on her feet. She set a brisk, silent pace toward the north, stopping from time to time to examine the soil, or to pick a tuft of fur from a bramble.

  To all appearances, she was tracking a wolf.

  Why, Ferret could not say, but she could easily guess Arilyn's destination. There was a small glade not too far away, a place with lush grasses and a spring pool that did not dry up until late summer. Deer and other animals came there to drink. If the half-elf was indeed tracking a wolf, this is where she would likely find one.

  Ferret hesitated, and then nimbly climbed an ash tree. From this perch she could follow the half-elf, unseen, and yet remain beyond the reach of any wolf Arilyn might encounter.

  Not that forest wolves posed a serious threat. They were shy, intelligent creatures who kept to themselves and killed only what they needed for survival. Only in the borderlands, where human poaching had stripped the forest of the wolves' natural prey, had they become a nuisance. From time to time, hungry wolves ventured out into the fields and farmlands. Most of these contented themselves with the mice and voles that were plentiful in cultivated lands-wolves could live solely on such prey-but a few developed a taste for mutton.

  If cornered by an indignant shepherd, a poaching wolf would defend itself. It was possible that just such a wolf had wounded or even killed someone who had relatives wealthy enough to purchase the half-elf s services. There were other possibilities, however, that dictated a certain amount of caution on Ferret's part. Extremely rare, although more common in these troubled times, was a rogue wolf, one that either through sickness or despair had left its nature behind to become a ravening beast, Most often the atrocities attributed to them were not committed by wolves at all, but by lycanthropes- humans who'd been cursed with a wolfs form and an unnatural lust for blood. Although Tethir's ancient magic acted as a barrier to many such abominations, it was possible-possible-that the half-elf had been hired to track and slay such a monster. Best to keep a distance from that battle!