Silver Shadows fr-13

by Elaine Cunnighham

  The sounds of battle tore Arilyn's gaze from the sword. All around her, the forest folk fought fiercely for their home. Yet the humans were many, and the outcome of the conflict by no means certain.

  Instant death, or eternal servitude.

  Arilyn stooped and seized the blade.

  Twenty-three

  A flash of vivid azure magic burst from the moonblade, enveloping Arilyn in a flair of arcane energy. And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come.

  The moonblade had reclaimed her. Without pause for reflection or regret, the half-elf flung herself toward the nearest battle. A dozen or so mercenaries had surrounded a pair of elven females, who stood back to back and held off the taunting blades of the humans as best they could. The humans were toying with their captives. The females' clothing hung about them in ribbons, and their coppery skin was marked by many shallow cuts. More painful to the proud elves than these wounds was the indignity of their situation. Arilyn saw this in her elf-sisters' eyes, and she burned with wrath at the lewd, taunting comments that the captive elves, mercifully, could not fully understand.

  Arilyn stalked in, her moonblade held high over her right shoulder. Without breaking step, she slashed into the neck of the man to her left, cutting him nearly to the bone. She pivoted with the backswing and knocked the sword from the hand of the man on her right-hand side, then ran him through before the surprise of the attack could wipe the lascivious sneer from his bearded face. She heaved him off her blade and into the reflexive grasp of the man behind him-a short, slight youth who staggered under the weight of his dying comrade.

  For a moment the young mercenary could not use his sword. One of the elf women seized the opportunity. She darted forward and drew her bone dagger across his windpipe.

  •Down!" Arilyn shouted in Elvish as she slashed forward. The elf woman dropped and rolled as the magic blade whistled in over the young man's head-and cut a deep and bloody path through the eyes of the mercenary who approached from behind.

  Eight men still stood, eight against three elven females. No longer were the mercenaries quite so cocky. There was an element of vindictive fury to their fighting that brought to mind wicked children, outraged when the puppies they tormented nipped at their fingers.

  Arilyn winced as one of the elf women was disarmed, almost literally, by the brutal stoke of a broadsword wielded by a man nearly thrice her weight. Two of the men leaped at the wounded female and wrestled her down. One of them pinned her arms, and the other opened her belly. Grinning fiendishly, they left her there to die slowly.

  Arilyn's first thought was to end the elf woman's agony as quickly as possible. Yet she could not. Pressed as she was by the remaining swordsmen, she could not get through with the merciful gift of death. And the elf woman who still fought at Arilyn's side was not much better off than her kin. She bled freely from many wounds, and her face was nearly gray under its coppery tints. Arilyn noted with sudden sharp horror the softly rounded swell of the elf s belly. The female carried her unborn child into battle; there were two more lives soon to be lost.

  The half-elf nudged the swaying female sharply. "To the trees, while you still can!"

  "I will not leave you alone," the elf insisted.

  Arilyn hesitated for only a moment. The warning that Danilo's shadow-double had sent her rang loudly in her mind: she could not call forth the elfshadows again without grave danger to herself. Yet in truth, what risk was this, to one whose life was already forfeit to the service of the moonblade?

  "Come forth, all of you!" Arilyn shouted.

  She parried an attack even as the mists that presaged the elfshadow entities poured from the sword. Then the startled humans fell back as they regarded the eerie manifestation taking shape before them.

  Eight elfshadow warriors, apparently as solid as life and armed with elven blades, stalked toward the dumbfounded humans. One of them, a tiny, blue-haired female, slipped an arm around the pregnant elf and helped her toward the safety of the trees. Arilyn saw this and took comfort in the knowledge that Zoastria was still watching over the forest People.

  Then the moonblade's mists seemed to close in around Arilyn, and the blood-soaked earth wavered and tilted strangely as it floated up to meet her. Arilyn scanned the entities of the moonblade and then turned her rapidly failing gaze on the sword in her hands. As she slid inexorably into the darkness, a tiny smile lifted the corners of her lips. Danilo's double was not among the warriors, nor had her rune of rapport reappeared on the sword.

  Whatever her fate, Danilo had been freed.

  The appearance of the elfshadow warriors brought new strength to the weary and outnumbered elves. From his corner of the battle, Kendel Leafbower looked

  with awe upon the white-haired mage who bore down upon a pair of half-ore mercenaries, his outstretched hands crackling with eldritch energy and the many braids of his hair swirling like the snakes of a vengeful medusa. At the sight of this new and fearsome warrior, one of the burly creatures let out a strangled whimper of fear, dropped his sword, and ran for the trees.

  It was not among his more intelligent decisions. Roaring out an oath to Morodin, the dwarven god of battle, Jill leaped into the half-ore's path-and onto the high, thick stump of what had until recently been an ancient tree. This brought him nearly eye-to-eye with the larger fighter. Jill evened the score completely by lifting his axe high overhead. It plunged in deep between the fleeing half-ore's eyes, cleaving his skull as easily as a goodwife might slice through a summer melon.

  "Hee hee!" exulted the dwarf as he hopped down from his perch. His battle glee quickly turned to frustration, however, for his axe refused to come free of the thick skull. Jill planted one booted foot on the fallen half-ore's chest, the other on his ruined forehead, and tugged and grunted for all he was worth. None of this availed.

  Before Kendel could call out a warning, a spear-wielding human closed in on the preoccupied dwarf. He thrust the tip of the spear deep into the thicket of pale brown beard, forcing the dwarfs head up and back.

  For a moment Jill froze. His eyes sought his elven friend, and he made his farewells with an apologetic little shrug.

  But Kendel was not prepared to lose his odd companion. Inspiration struck; he pointed toward the captive dwarf. "Jill!" he shouted desperately. "The dwarfs name is Jill!"

  A smirk crossed the mercenary's face. "And what of it?" he said, misunderstanding the elf s ploy. "I've nothing more against killing me a female dwarf than a male, though may Cyric take me if I can tell the difference one from the other!"

  Storm clouds began to gather on Jill's craggy face. "I ain't no ding-blasted female!" he roared in a voice that plumbed depths no human male could reach. "You human men got the eyesight of a mole and the git-up of a gelding-no wonder yer wimmenfolk is takin' up more common with the likes of elves and halflings!"

  The insult seemed to strike the mercenary in a sensitive spot. "Jill?" he repeated, this time in a cruel taunt.

  The single, sneering word at last had the desired effect. Galvanized by the familiar insult, the dwarf reached forward and seized the shaft of the spear. He leaned back and then ripped the weapon to one side, ignoring the strands of dun-colored beard that were torn out by the V-shaped prongs of the iron point. Then he lunged at the weapon and bit clear through the shaft.

  Before the man could recover from the surprise of this unusual counterattack, Jill chewed lustily and then spat a mouthful of oak splinters into the man's face. He leaped at him, the broken spear head held like a dagger. The man stumbled and went down under the fury of the attack, and found himself securely pinned to the ground by nearly two hundred pounds of irate dwarf.

  "Jill was me mother's name," the stout little warrior growled and then drove the spear home.

  The dwarf hopped to his feet and wiped his bloodstained hands on his tunic. Still in the throes of his own peculiar battle frenzy, he stomped a couple of times on the dead half-ore's head. The skull gave way completely, and the axe slid free with ease.r />
  Kendel made his way quickly to his friend's side. The battle is not yet over," he said with a grin. "Come… there are many introductions yet to be made."

  Understanding-and a touch of wry humor-flooded the dwarfs slate-gray eyes. He responded with a deep-throated chuckle and fell in beside the elf.

  "Oh, but that were a smart one," he said admiringly as they trotted toward the nearest skirmish. "Yer a quick-thinkin' one in battle, scrawny elf though you

  might be. Me kin's gonna love hearin' this tale, once we finish this business and get us under the Earthfast Mountains. Come to think on it," the dwarf added, a speculative tone entering hie voice, "I got me a right pretty little cousin you might like to meet."

  Kendel blinked, astounded by the dwarfs invitation to accompany him to his ancestral home, by the cozy welcome Jill obviously anticipated for them both, and by the somewhat daunting prospect of being expected to court a dwarf maid. And oddly enough, to the homeless and disenfranchised elf, there was an odd appeal in all of it.

  "Her name wouldn't happen to be Jill, would it?" he asked casually as he raised a sword to meet an onrush-ing mercenary.

  The dwarf scowled and stepped into the path of the charging human. "Yeah," he said in a belligerent growl. "And what of it?"

  Bunlap advanced on the wounded elf; his bearded face twisted in a hideous parody of glee and his sword held high and back. Foxfire's torn and bleeding sword arm refused to respond. He seized his sword in his other hand and managed to bring it up. The parry was weak, but it turned aside the first blow.

  The man thrust in again, high, with a quick, stabbing movement. Foxfire parried again, this time more surely. For several minutes they fought, the blows ringing harder and coming faster.

  But the loss of blood was beginning to take a toll on the elЈ His vision swam, and the human's sword darted in over his guard to cut a deep line across his chest. Foxfire lunged at his opponent; Bunlap danced back, and the elf fell facedown onto the ground.

  The expected killing stroke did not come. A heavy, iron-shod boot stamped hard on the elfs lower back, sending waves of agony shimmering along every nerve. Dimly Foxfire felt the man's sword cutting deep and burning lines upon his skin. Apparently Bunlap intended to mark the elf as he himself had been marked. He took his time, cutting his signature with painstaking care and a sadistic pleasure as tangible to the lading elf as his own pain.

  Suddenly Foxfire heard a startled oath. The heavy boot that pinned him to the ground was gone.

  The elf lifted his head, shook away the haze of pain and blood. To his astonishment, Arilyn stood between him and the human, an elven sword held in a two-handed grip.

  "You again," Bunlap said in a low, ominous voice. "Get out of my way. This elf is mine."

  "I think not," the elf woman said coolly. She met the mercenary's first vicious stroke and parried it with a circular sweep that sent his sword arm out wide.

  Bunlap stepped in close and delivered a bare-knuckled punch to the elf's beautiful face. She reeled back, shaking her head as if to clear her vision. Then she ducked as he brought his sword whistling down and across. It was a near miss. A thick lock of her wavy sapphire hair fell to the ground.

  The elf woman straightened to her full height and got her moonblade back out in front of her. She lunged, turned the lunge into a feint, and then lunged again, the moves coming so close together that Bunlap was forced to retreat.

  He responded by landing a brutal kick to Foxfire's ribs.

  The beautiful face of his elven opponent darkened with outrage. She slammed her sword into its ancient sheath and leaped forward, her hands reaching for Bunlap's wrist.

  The attack was unexpected. Surprising, too, was the female's next move. Holding fast to the man's sword arm, she pivoted so that her back was pressed against

  him. Then she leaned forward at the waist, yanking down hard on his arm as she did so. Bunlap somersaulted over her and landed heavily on his back. His sword clattered to the ground.

  Growling like an enraged bear, Bunlap rolled onto his stomach and seized the elf woman's ankles. With a quick jerk, he pulled both feet out from under her.

  With elven agility she twisted and managed to ge+ her hands under her as she fell. This broke her fall somewhat, but did nothing to free her from the vengeful human's grasp.

  Bunlap rose to his knees. With a quick, vicious movement, he twisted the elf woman so that she slammed down onto her back. He jerked her toward him and then fell forward to pin her body to the ground.

  He was a large man, well over six feet tall, and his heavy-muscled bulk weighed closer to three hundred pounds than two. No female, no matter what her skills in battle, could free herself from such bonds.

  Bunlap propped himself up on one elbow. With his free hand, he struck the woman across the face again and again. He took his time, leaving livid red welts on the pale skin but never hitting with enough force to break bones. This was vengeance of another sort, and one best taken slowly.

  At first the elf woman struggled beneath him, her hands pushing at his chest. Gradually, the fight went out of her and her eyes-odd, gold-flecked blue eyes- became distant and unfocused. Bunlap had seen such things happen before. Terror did odd things to women. Such withdrawal was not all that unusual. And so he did not wonder when her lips began to move in a soft elven chant, or notice that her hands, which had fallen limply to her sides, moved in slight, subtle gestures. Arcane gestures.

  Bunlap noticed none of this. His thirst for vengeance had given way to a darker emotion. He tore aside the elf woman's outer tunic, grimacing as he gathered up in both fists the fluid, silvery mesh of the elven chain mail that lay beneath.

  It was at that moment that the elf woman finished her chant. Eldritch energy poured from her, and the metal of her sword and her armor glowed with white heat. Bunlap screamed with agony and rage as the waves of power jolted through him, yet try though he might he could not release his grip on the deadly elven mail.

  He was not aware of the moment when the killing surge stopped, nor did he know how the elf woman managed to get out from under him. When he came to, he was on his knees, his blackened hands held before him like the claws of a charred bird.

  "Arm yourself," the elf woman said in a low, musical voice. "If you've any honor, stand and fight."

  Bunlap looked up into the eyes of the elf woman and at the point of her sword. Both glowed with angry, arcane blue fire. He found he had no desire to fight. "With these?" he demanded as he held up his ruined hands. "How can you speak of honor?"

  "I give you the opportunity to die on your feet with your sword in your hands," she said. "It is more than you deserve. Refuse, and I will cut you down where you grovel."

  The utter contempt in her tone stirred the proud man into action. He seized his sword, accepted the searing pain of contact, and rolled to his feet.

  Bunlap was a hardened mercenary. He'd killed his first man at the age of thirteen and since then had won his living by the sword. But in his nearly forty years of constant fighting, never had he faced a swordmaster to match the one before him.

  Cold, grim, inexorable, the elf woman worked his sword down with each stroke and parry and thrust. Finally she forced the point of his blade to the ground. With a quick move of her booted foot, she stomped on the blade and tore it from his blasted hand.

  Holding his gaze, she ran him through the heart.

  All this Foxfire witnessed as if he were watching through smoked glass. He could not move, could do nothing to stop his enemy from harming the elf woman he loved above all others. Unreal, too, were the moon elf s ministrations when she turned and stooped beside him.

  Gentle hands helped Foxfire to sit against a tree, probed his bruised ribs and pronounced them whole, bound his wounds, and held a water flask as he drank. When at last the haze of pain began to dim, the elf woman took his face between her hands and turned it toward her.

  With a start of wonder, Foxfire realized that this was not Arilyn at all, but someone
like enough to her to be a twin. Only the hair-the rare color of spun sapphires- and the slightly more angular lines of her face, distinguished her from her half-elven descendent.

  "For all you have done for my daughter, I thank you," the elf woman said in a voice like wind and music. "You have shown Arilyn that she possesses an elven soul. Tell her that her mother is proud. Tell her she and I will be together again, in service to the People for as long as we are needed, and in Arvandor when our task is completed. Tell her this! I would speak to her myself," the elf said with obvious longing, "but to come to her again would hasten our reunion, and that I must not do. Arilyn is needed by the People. You will tell her these things?"

  Foxfire nodded, and the beautiful moon elf dissipated like mist at highsun.

  Fear filled the green elf s heart; once before he had seen the shadow warriors disappear during battle, after the fall of the moonblade's mistress. He struggled to his feet and staggered toward the glowing light that heralded Arilyn's sword.

  The moonblade lay on the blood-soaked earth, its arcane blue fire dimming rapidly. Its wielder had fallen nearby. Oddly enough, Ferret knelt beside the fallen warrior, cradling her raven head in an oddly protective gesture. Around them stood a circle of exulting warriors: green elves, both Elmanesse and Suldusk, centaurs, fauns, lythari, even a battered and broadly grinning dwarf

  Ferret looked up and met his gaze. "The battle has been won, and Arilyn lives!"

  Twenty-four

  After the wounded were tended and the dead returned to the forest, the sylvan folk began the northward trek. By common agreement, they would rebuild, forming a settlement at the Swanmay's Glade that would embrace Elmanesse and Suldusk alike. After the battle, the wisdom of joining together had been clear to them all.

  Arilyn and Oanamede walked together. The half-elf was still weak from her ordeal and thinner than ever, yet she was strengthened by the success of her mission and the sweetness of the message Foxfire had given her. Neither she nor the lythari were much given to talk at any time, and each had a heartful of matters to treasure and contemplate.