Silver Shadows fr-13

by Elaine Cunnighham

  The green elves squinted, then nodded uncertainly. All the fey folk had in some measure the gift of perceiving hidden doors, but this skill was seldom used by the forest-dwelling folk. In the forest, they could find a trail that would be invisible to the best human ranger, but out here, Arilyn's eyes were sharper than theirs.

  "This is an outpost for the fortress. The men stationed here control trade coming and going along this branch of the river. There are too many of them for us to fight, and even if we could attack in larger numbers than we have, they'd still have the advantage of position and arms. So this is what well do. First, gather some poles and lash together a raft. Fll need those pelts," she said, nodding to the bundle Foxfire carried on his back.

  The elf shouldered off the skins and watched with interest as Arilyn took two small vials from her pack. The Harper carefully sprinkled some brownish powder on one pelt, then doused it with liquid from the second bottle. That done, she pressed the two pelts together. This she repeated with each skin until they formed a small stack. She tied the bundle securely with a length of rope from her pack. By then Ferret and Hawkwing had finished their raft and come over to watch.

  "I'm going to put this bundle on the raft and ride, alone, past that encampment. As a moon elf, I'm the most human-looking among us," Arilyn said, forestalling Hawkwing's ready protest. They'll think me a trapper, floating goods downriver to the nearest trading post."

  She ran a hand lightly over the glossy pelt of a river otter. "I doubt they'll let me pass by without demanding a few of these beauties as tax. More than likely, they'll shoot me out of the water and take the whole pile.

  "But no matter how bad it looks, stay out of sight," she cautioned the elves. "Fll hit the water as soon as I can and swim away. When the mercenaries take their plunder in to examine, they'll have a nasty surprise. Any one of those pelts, pulled away from other others, will trigger an explosion that should blow the top off that hillock." *

  "Explosion?" queried Hawkwing.

  "A sudden blast, like lightning," Ferret explained tersely. "Like that human wizard threw at us in the forest. I didn't know you could cast such spells!" she demanded, turning accusingly on Arilyn.

  "I don't," Arilyn retorted. "This isn't even magic- although it's much the same in many ways. I just happen to have an associate who enjoys finding new ways to blow things up."

  "Like tossing a torch into rising swamp gas?" Foxfire asked.

  "Exactly," she agreed, relieved to have an explanation of alchemy the others could understand. "After the explosion, well revive a few of the survivors. We piece together uniforms, boats, passwords-anything that will help Ferret and me get closer to the fortress."

  The half-elf slipped off her chain mail, cloak, and boots and stashed them in the bushes near the stream. Not only would it be difficult to swim wearing such garments, but glittering armor and boots of elvenkind were not exactly the type of gear a poacher might wear!

  Arilyn hesitated a moment before adding the rest of her disguise. She'd grown comfortable in her elven role, and she was none too eager to take on another. But she'd fought the men of Bunlap's fortress before. It was likely that few moon elven females passed by, and any one might leave an imprint on their memories-especially one who had handed them a rather embarrassing defeat.

  So she took a tiny pot of dark unguent from her pack and spread the cream over her face. She smoothed her hair down over her ears and tied it back at the nape of her neck with a bit of leather thong. Her pack yielded a rough cap, tightly rolled, which she shook out and placed low over her eyes. She loosened her shirt and let it hang over her swordbelt, then rolled up her leggings to her knees. That finished, she placed one hand on her moonblade and brought to mind a gangly, sun-browned human lad. The trio of gasps from the elves told her the blade had done its task.

  One of Arilyn's predecessors had endowed the sword with the ability to cast minor glamours over the wield-er. It was a slight effect, a small shifting of perception. Arilyn had learned to work with the moonblade's magic to create a number of personas. Part of the transformation was done with small changes of costume, and she had learned to mimic the stance and movements of each character type she portrayed: a human lad, a courtesan, a gold-elf priestess, and perhaps a half-dozen more. But to the wild elves, her transformation from moon elf warrior to adolescent Tethyrian poacher must have been as startling-and as foreign-as anything a human wizard might accomplish!

  But there was no time to soothe their surprise or explain the sword's power. She ordered them to take cover in the bushes and to follow along out of sight. As soon as her companions were away, Arilyn tossed the furs onto the raft and waded into the stream. She knelt on the raft and began to guide it downriver with a long pole.

  She was almost abreast of the hillock when the first arrow came at her. It went wide, but the visibility from the narrow strips of window carved into the barracks was such that she doubted the archer would know the difference. With a cry of feigned agony, she toppled off the raft and into the water.

  Sound traveled well under the water, and as Arilyn clung to the rocks at the bottom of the river, she heard the puzzled oaths of the mercenaries who'd come out to finish off the poacher, only to find no trace of him. Arilyn watched as they caught the raft and pulled it ashore, and she blessed Black Pearl, her half-sea-elf friend, for the gift of the amulet that enabled her to stay underwater.

  But it occurred to her, belatedly, that she should have explained this bit of stored magic to her companions.

  Apparently the admonition to stay hidden and quiet regardless of how things appeared to be going had not been sufficient for the loyal Hawkwing. Arilyn's blood chilled as a long, shrill cry filtered down to her through the water. She'd heard the elf maid's battle yell often enough to know what it was.

  Arilyn braced her bare feet against the stones and pushed up with all her might. She broke the surface of the water and swam for shore so that she could join her friends in battle. Where Hawkwing went, the others would surely follow.

  The half-elf splashed ashore, drawing her sword as she came. The scene before her was not encouraging. At least thirty men poured from the barracks-far too many for the four of them to handle. Arilyn kicked into a running charge. Even so, she could do nothing but watch as the fierce elf child went down, clutching at the bright ribbon that a mercenary's sword had opened along the length of her fighting arm.

  But Hawkwing was nothing if not resilient. She rolled aside, slapping her dagger into her other hand as she went. The elven girl came up with a fire in her eyes that no amount of blood could quench-not hers, and certainly not that of her enemies.

  Arilyn reached the nearest of the mercenaries and delivered a vicious backhanded slash. The man got his sword up in time to parry, but the speed and force of her blow knocked the weapon from his hand. The half-elf stepped back, then lunged in, her sword driving precisely between the man's third and forth ribs and into his heart. She pivoted slightly, putting the soldier's body between herself and the charging attack of a second man. She planted her foot in the dead mercenary's middle and kicked him off her blade-and into the second man's path.

  The charging mercenary couldn't pull up in time, and the sword he held before him in a lancelike attack thrust deep into his comrade's body. Arilyn circled

  around behind the confused human with three quick steps. With a mighty, chopping blow she severed his spine before he could withdraw his blade.

  She whirled, moonblade held before her in guard position, to face the approach of a third man. This one moved with a light, measured tread and wore an expression of supreme self-confidence. He smirked as he raised his sword in a parody of the salute that would begin a gentleman's duel.

  A nobleman's son turned soldier-of-fortune, Arilyn reasoned, one who was prepared to amuse himself at the expense of the commonborn lad before him. In short, an idiot.

  Arilyn let out a brief; disgusted hiss. She parried the rogue nobleman's first lunge, countered with a quic
k underhand sweep-which was also deftly parried-and followed up with a flurry of ringing exchanges. He met each of the thrusts and returned as often as he parried. The man was good, but not nearly as skilled as he seemed to think he was.

  The half-elf spun, faked a stumble, and went down on one knee with her back toward him. To all appearances, it would be a fatal fumble. She could almost feel his supercilious smile as he raised his sword for the killing blow.

  Arilyn listened to the whistling sweep of the descending blade; then, at precisely the right moment, she lifted her moonblade up high overhead to meet it. She leaped to her feet and turned hard to confront him, pushing their joined blades around and down as she came. The speed of the unexpected attack threw the swordsman off-balance. Arilyn, however, lashed up high and hard, severing one of the man's ears as the moon-blade flashed up over his head. Her opponent howled with pain, but only briefly, for Arilyn pivoted to the left and swept the moonblade across in a hard, level stroke. The man's head rolled from his shoulders.

  Arilyn continued the swing, pulling her right elbow back until her two-fisted grip was tightly pressed against her right shoulder. She face off against the nearest man and stepped toward him, her left foot leading and sword thrusting out straight and hard toward his throat. He could not even lift a blade in time to parry.

  Pulling her sword from the dead man's throat, she spun about to see how her companions were faring.

  Not well. Hawkwing was down, and Ferret was pressed on all sides. The elven war leader was doing his best to work his way through to any one of the beleaguered females, but he was badly outnumbered. Even if he'd been fighting one-on-one, Foxfire's bone dagger was not designed for battle against tempered steel.

  As if in response to her thoughts, the elf s dagger shattered under the attack of a mercenary's sword. The elf leaped aside, agile and quick, but several men closed in, and Arilyn knew he could not long avoid them.

  Her next response was pure instinct. She held her bloodstained blade high and shouted a command to the magic imprisoned within: "Come forth! All of you!"

  At Arilyn's summons, magic exploded from the moon-blade-a white, swirling mist that rose into the air with a force and fury rivaling that of a waterspout at sea.

  Every combatant on the field froze and stared at the brief, spectacular manifestation. Then it was gone, and in its place stood several battle-ready elven warriors, each armed with a sword identical to the moonblade that had called them forth. These advanced on the befuddled humans, and the battle began anew.

  For a moment Arilyn could do nothing but gaze in awe at her ancestors, all the elves who had wielded her moonblade since the days of its forging in long-ago Myth Drannor.

  There was Zoastria, tiny and wraithlike-the most insubstantial of the elfshadow warriors. The elf woman's angular face was a mask of frustration as she slashed at the human mercenaries with her sword, a sword that drew no more blood than would a breath of wind. Yet Zoastria's efforts were not without effect. The mercenaries shrank away in terror from the ghostly elven warrior-and onto the blades of the others.

  A tall, ancient elven wizard, his long white hair a mass of tiny braids, held his shadow-moonblade out at arm's length, point-down, as if it were a mage's staff. The sword blazed with blue fire, as did his eyes and the fingertips of his outstretched hand. Pinpricks of blazing eldritch light darted toward the mercenaries like vengeful fireflies.

  A small, slight male elf held his sword with two hands, yet he wielded the single blade with a dizzying speed that brought to mind the dual swords of a bladesinger's dance. The crest on his tabard, a bright-plummaged bird rising from flames, proclaimed him to be Phoenix Moonflower, the elf who, centuries before, had imbued the sword with its rapid strike.

  Another male elf, this one with, flame-colored hair, wielded a shadow-sword that flickered and seared with arcane fire. Heat rose from the blade, which glowed a red so intense that it brought to mind a dwarven forge. Arilyn recognized him as Xenophor, the elf who had lent the power of fire resistance to the blade, and she watched in awe as he fought, for his shadow moonblade leaped and darted and licked like wildfire in a capricious wind.

  There was a tall, rangy elf woman who seemed oddly devoid of color. Her skin was starkly white, her eyes and hair the color of jet, her leathers and boots a dusty black. There was nothing colorless about her fighting, though. Never had Arilyn seen anyone fight with such bloody fury. And there were others as well-Arilyn's own elfshadow and two males, one small and fierce and the other taller than the rest and golden-haired.

  All this Arilyn noted in an instant, for the churning battle did not allow for leisurely study of her elfshadow allies. But as her well-trained mind took note of the shadow warriors and the general course of battle, her eyes instinctively swept the fierce group for a glimpse of a face she had last seen when she was only a child- that of her mother, ZTteryl.

  A tall, thick-bodied man reeled toward the Harper, his hands clutching at his torn and bloody jerkin. Arilyn shoved him aside and looked up into the face of his killer.

  An icy fist clutched at Arilyn's chest as she gazed upon her mother. She was as beautiful as Arilyn remembered-as tall as her daughter, with the same milky skin and gold-flecked blue eyes, but her small, fine-featured face was crowned with a cloud of thick, wavy hair the color of spun sapphires. Beautiful, yes, but grim and terrible. This was not Z*beryl of Evereska, the loving mother and patient instructor of swordcraft This was the elf Z*beryl had once been: Amnestria, daughter of Zaor and Amlaruil of Evermeet, crown princess of the elves, battle wizard, and warrior. And this was the face Amnestria showed to her enemies.

  The regal elf woman raised her blood-drenched sword and pointed it at Arilyn. To the stunned half-elf, the gesture seemed ominous, accusing. Amnestria spoke, but only a word: "Beware!"

  Arilyn heard the ringing clash of steel on steel, so dose and so loud that it seemed to echo through her bones and teeth. Instinctively, she raised her moonblade and whirled toward the sound.

  Her own elfshadow stood behind her, shadow-sword uplifted in a defensive parry against the broadsword that would have cleaved Arilyn's head from her shoulders. The man who held the sword was easily the size of Arilyn and her elfshadow combined. Grinning with sadistic delight, he forced the joined swords downward, pressing Arilyn's shadow slowly to her knees.

  The half-elf recovered her wits and lunged forward. Her moonblade dug between his ribs; she wrenched it out and plunged it in again. Arilyn's elfshadow threw

  aside the dying man's sword arm and wheeled away to find another fight.

  Arilyn took a deep steadying breath and made a quick survey of the battle. Although she now understood that her mother's elfshadow had meant to warn her of the danger behind her, she could not rid herself of the feeling that Z'beryl-no, from now on she would forever be Amnestria-was ashamed of the course her daughter and blade heir had taken. Arilyn's mother had willingly embraced the service and the sacrifice required of those who wielded a moonblade, as had all the elves who now fought. Was Arilyn, a mere half-elf, incapable of such nobility?

  Instinctively, the Harper knew this was not so. She would do what she must for the elven People, as she always had. If that meant giving up her dream of freedom from the demands of the moonblade, then so be it. She would serve the sword, throughout eternity if need be.

  With new resolve, Arilyn waded through the fighting toward the place where young Hawkwing had faltered and fallen. But her own arms seemed numb and heavy, and the moonblade refused to move at quite its usual speed. Too late she remembered the warning her own elfshadow had given her: she could not expect both to call forth the magic and wield it.

  She managed to block a chest-high thrust and then flung the attacking blade aside. But a second mercenary got through her guard-not with a sword, but with a mailed fist. The blow struck Arilyn's jaw hard and sent her reeling to her knees. It was then she saw the wound that had at last brought Hawkwing to ground.

  The elven girl lay on on
e side, staring forward with a single fierce black eye. From the other protruded the hilt of a dagger.

  For just a moment, grief clenched Arilyn like a giant fist, squeezing the breath from her body and stealing her will to fight. It was just for a second, but even that was too much. A shadow fell over Hawkwing's body; Arilyn looked up into the point of a nocked and ready arrow. This man had seen her fight; apparently he was not going to chance facing her sword.

  Before he could release the arrow, a large missile hurtled over Arilyn's head and toward the archer. The man staggered back, and the arrow soared upward in a limp and harmless arc. Arilyn stared at the horrid, sticky mess that had taken the place of the archer's head.

  "I say, that was a good one," announced a satisfied male voice behind her. "Custard and cream, I should think, and a vast improvement in matters of size and aim. Though to be quite frank with you, my dear, the spell for Snilloc's Cream Pie was rather a benign missile for this blighter. Not his just desserts at all, you should pardon the expression."

  The tone was familiar-a cultured and lazy-sounding tenor-but oddly enough, the words were spoken in the Elvish tongue. Arilyn whirled, staring up in horrified silence into the handsome, smiling, human face of her Harper partner.

  She knew at once how he'd come to be here, though never for a moment had the possibility occurred to her that such a thing might come to pass.

  Bach wielder of a moonblade added a power to the sword. Two years past, Arilyn had done the same, removing certain restrictions so she might share the moonblade and its magic with her partner. Never once had she suspected that in doing so, she had created an elfshadow entity that linked Danilo to the magic sword-and condemned him to her own fate.

  "Oh, my goddess," she said in a despairing whisper. "No, Danilo. Oh, not you too."

  Seventeen

  After several hours, the darkness that had cocooned Arilyn's mind since the battle began to dim around the edges, and bright, blinding colors seeped in to whirl and dance madly behind her closed eyelids.