Realms of War a-12

by Paul S. Kemp

  Still, the horse's terror lent it strength, and Holwan drove the beast hard.

  Gethred risked a glance back. The eastern sky was a glow shy;ing pale curtain, and the only stars still visible rode the top of the Sunrise Mountains to their right. The lightening sky shone brightly off the snowfields, and what Gethred saw lurched his stomach into a tight knot.

  Their mount left a wake of flying snow behind them, but another cloud-much larger than the one they made-erupted from the snow behind them. Before it was a massive, dark shape. The bear. And it was gaining on them.

  "Holwan, faster!" Gethred screamed.

  The Khassidi kicked the horse's flanks, and it managed another burst of speed. Hope lit in Gethred's heart, and he looked over his shoulder-

  — in time to see a claw as large as a pikeman's shield swiping at the horse's hind legs.

  He opened his mouth to scream, but the horse's shriek cut him off, and both Holwan and his mount crashed beneath him. They went down in a great cloud of frost.

  Gethred slid-on ice at first, but the force of his fall ground him through weeks' worth of snow, and soon his face scraped soil and rock.

  Struggling to force air back into his bruised chest, Gethred forced himself to his feet. He coughed and spat, hoping to rid his mouth and throat of snow and dirt, but a fair amount of blood and at least two teeth came out with them. He scraped the snow and mud from his face and looked up.

  The bear had the horse's neck in its jaws. The poor creature was kicking and screaming. The bear threw its head up and to the side, the horse's neck broke with a snap, and the pitiful scream stopped.

  The bear dropped the carcass into the snow and turned its attention to Gethred. Its face was incapable of smiling, of course, but Gethred could see the all-too-human look of gleeful malice in its eyes.

  A tottering form stepped forward from behind Gethred: Holwan. The man held a knife in one hand, but in the other he held his holy symbol high. Gethred could hear the Khassidi chanting something in his own language. Gethred couldn't understand a word of it, but he could hear the fear in the man's tone.

  Fury lit the bear's eyes, and it growled low and deep, like tumbling river stones. It approached, but pain tinged the fury in its gaze. The bear did not like whatever Holwan was doing. Still it advanced, snarling. It came in slowly, each step forced and deliberate. Soon it would be in striking distance.

  "Holwan-?" said Gethred, and he took a step back.

  The bear lunged. One paw raked out-Gethred felt the wind of its passage-and Holwan went down.

  A shudder shook the bear, and it returned its attention to Gethred. He could feel its growl shaking the earth beneath his feet.

  But then something else-

  Above the bear's growl, coming down from the hill behind them, was the howling of wolves. Many wolves.

  The bear looked up, and Gethred followed its gaze. Wolves-dozens at least-stood at the rim of the hills.

  The bear circled, looking around. More wolves. They were surrounded.

  Three wolves-one of them as tall as a wolfhound but much more muscular-came down the slope at an easy run. They stopped ten paces away.

  Gethred watched as the wolves' forms rippled and blurred, like mist passing over moonlight on the water. As the first light of dawn broke over the eastern horizon and hit the hollow, three elves stood before them. They were the strangest elves Gethred had ever seen. Like the woman he'd seen in the wood, they stood naked, their pale skin seemingly unbothered by the frigid air. Unlike the woman, their skin was crisscrossed with many scars, some from battles and some in such patterns that they were obviously intentional. Stylized patterns had been set into their skin with ink.

  The tallest of them stood where the massive wolf had been only moments before. His snow white hair fell well past his waist, and his entire body from brow to feet was a maze of black tattoos marred by old wounds. Runes that seemed the color of wet blood in the dawn sunlight lined his arms and chest. Three deep scars marred his skin from scalp to cheek to chin, leaving empty tracks through his eyebrows. Beneath those brows his eyes stood out like frosty jewels.

  He looked on the bear without fear and said, "Wear your true form before me, Vurzhad."

  So transfixed was Gethred by the sight of these newcomers that he'd forgotten the bear. He wrenched his gaze away and looked back. The bear was gone and in its place stood the massive man who had trapped the wolf-girl, who had taken Gethred captive, and who had slaughtered the Tuigan.

  "Haerul," said Vurzhad. "Why are you here? This is not your hunt."

  The tall elf glanced at Gethred. "This one saved my son's daughter from one of your snares, and she returned to tell me that you slaughtered one of the Vil Adanrath for bait."

  Vurzhad looked at Gethred, and Gethred saw something in the man's eyes. The last thing he'd expected to see. It was fear. No, not fear. Sheer terror. Vurzhad was terrified of the naked elf, even though he was twice the elf's size at least.

  "So. . you wish me to let you have this robber?" said Vurzhad. "I let him go, and you let me go. Is that it?"

  "You presume too much," said Haerul. "You snared my son's daughter. You drew the blood of my people. You think because you hide near the mountains that you are beyond my reach? You have seen your last sunrise, Vurzhad. No one harms my family. My son's daughter will sleep in your skin tonight."

  Vurzhad screamed in defiance, and the scream became a roar-the roar of a massive bear. Gethred fell to his knees beside the still form of Holwan and covered his ears. But he could not cover the sounds of the roaring and howling.

  It was over. Gethred sat in the snow, looking down upon the cold corpse of the Khassidi who had been his enemy days before and his captor for less than a day. He doubted that he would ever remember Holwan as a friend, but still… Gethred was sorry he was dead. Holwan had saved his life and stood beside him till the very end. Whether out of any concern for Gethred or simply to fulfill his oath to his khan… either way, Holwan had shown courage and upheld his honor.

  Gethred sat on the other side of the hill from where Vurzhad had … died. Died did not seem the proper word for it. Gethred had only seen a little of what the wolves had done to the bear, and even that brief sight had caused every bit of his last meal to come back up.

  He heard footsteps. Not the crunch of heavy feet breaking through snow, but the light tread that-damn it all-reminded him of nothing but the careful pace of a wolf. But this wolf walked on two legs.

  The elf crouched in the snow on the other side of Holwan's corpse. Gethred looked up. It was not the tall one who had challenged Vurzhad. But it was one of the others who had accompanied him. The elf wore clothes now-all leather, skins, and fur, simple but expertly crafted. Where he'd come by them, Gethred did not know.

  "I am called Leren," said the elf.

  Gethred swallowed and said, "Gethred."

  "Gethred, you saved the life of my daughter. I am in your debt. Thank you."

  Gethred did not know what to say, so he simply nodded.

  "Are you hurt?" asked the elf. "Your face …"

  "Just scraped and bruised, I think."

  "We will see to your injuries. You are hungry?"

  Gethred's throat burned, and his mouth still tasted of bile. "No."

  The elf nodded then looked down on Holwan. "This one was your friend?"

  Gethred almost said, "No," but he thought better of it and said, "He died defending me."

  "We will honor his body as you wish."

  "Thank you." The thought of a funeral made Gethred realize he had no idea how the Khassidi dealt with their dead. Burial? A pyre? A tomb? He had no idea. Then he remembered something else. "There may be … others."

  "Others?"

  "Like this one. Tuigan. They are… not my friends."

  The elf's brows knit together in confusion. "You mean the other horsemen?"

  Gethred nodded.

  "They were not your friends?"

  "No."

  Leren's scowl deepe
ned.

  "It is a long story," said Gethred.

  "The horsemen," said the elf, "several died, as did their horses. A few survived. When last our people saw them, they were headed east into the steppe as if the Beastlord himself nipped their heels. Does this please you?"

  Gethred shrugged.

  "Are you well, Gethred?"

  "What is going to happen to me?"

  "Happen?"

  "What do you plan to do with me?"

  "Do?" The elf cocked his head, and a grin seemed to be trying to break out on his mouth.

  "Those… horsemen. They were my captors."

  "Those horsemen are gone," said Leren. "It is as I said: You saved my only daughter. I am in your debt. We will see to your needs, then lead you on your way. At the very least. The Vil Adanrath honor our debts. The son of the omah nin will do no less."

  "Omah…?"

  "The chief of my people," said Leren. "The chief of chiefs. My father."

  "So you are… a prince?"

  Leren's grin finally broke. "Something like that."

  "Where is"-a sudden shudder shook Gethred so hard that his teeth rattled-"the omah nin?"

  "When last I saw him he was ordering our warriors to gather enough of Vurzhad's hide to make a blanket."

  "A blanket?"

  "The omah nin swore that my daughter would sleep in Vurzhad's skin tonight, but in the fight… his anger got the better of him."

  "He's really making the bearskin into a blanket? I thought that was only a boast."

  Leren's face became very grave. "The omah nin does not give empty boasts. What he says, he does."

  "Gods," said Gethred. "I want to go home."

  The author would like to thank Teresa Tsimmu Marino for her gracious assistance in answering his many questions on the best way to free an injured wolf from a snare. Be sure to check out her website at www.wolftown.org.

  REDEMPTION

  Elaine Cunningham

  The Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

  The night was quiet but for the distant murmur of the sea and the faint chorus of snores rising from the second floor of Kirgard Manor. What had once been fine bedchambers filled with the trappings of a noble household now held a garrison of Tethyrian soldiers, sleeping nearly shoulder to shoulder on thin pallets. Officers slept on the third floor in tiny rooms that once housed the manors servants. These chambers offered but two luxuries: a narrow bed and privacy. A clever man with coins to spare could make do with that.

  Judging from the gleam in his eyes and the smirk half hidden beneath his thick black mustache, Captain Lamphor considered himself a clever man. Who but he, his expression demanded, could have managed to have a Calishite courtesan smuggled into the garrison?

  The courtesan allowed herself a hard, fleeting smile. Who indeed?

  She brushed back her veil, revealing a skillfully painted face framed by a turban of autumn-colored silks. Coyly she turned away, eying him over one slowly bared shoulder as she dropped her outer robe to the floor. As she spun back toward him, translucent silk swirled around her slender brown body.

  "Take that off," Lamphor said in a thick voice.

  The courtesan gathered up a handful of the filmy cloth as she swayed toward him. "These silks are as soft as a maiden's sigh," she assured him in a sultry whisper. "They hide nothing, and add much."

  Lamphor reached for her. As they tumbled together onto the cot, he snatched off her turban.

  For a moment he lay staring down at her. His chuckle started low in his belly, shaking them both with his quiet, unpleasant mirth.

  "I'm a suspicious man," he said softly, "and thought the turban might be hiding a knife. But a green elf whore?" He tugged none too gently at a pointed ear. "This I did not expect."

  The elf twisted beneath him, a serpent-quick movement that surprised Lamphor and tipped him off the narrow cot. He rolled aside and managed to get to his knees before she leaped onto his back. One small hand fisted in his hair and jerked his head back, the other swept a bone knife across his throat, hard and fast and deep.

  The elf known to her people as Ferret rose to her feet, still gripping the dying man's hair. She pulled his head back and captured his swiftly fading gaze with a cold, fierce glare.

  "You were wrong about the whore," Ferret whispered, "but right about the knife."

  She spat into his face and shoved him to the floor. Moving quickly, she shed her filmy garment and tugged on the dark shirt and leggings she'd tucked into the lining of her robe. She draped a dark scarf over her head and put Lamphor's cap over it. The cap was too big, but it lent her dark clothes the illusion of the "uniform" worn by the new queen's ragtag army. And Tethyr's soldiers often wore head scarves to shade their faces and necks from the southern sun. If glimpsed from a distance, she could pass.

  Ferret was pulling on her boots when the man's last gurgling breath faded into silence. She allowed herself a moment of quiet triumph. Captain Lamphor was the last of Bunlap's mercenaries.

  For nearly four years, she had hunted humans who'd sought to enrich themselves through the slaughter of the Wealdath's great trees and the destruction of the elves who lived among them. Four years of plots and lies, four years of quietly shed blood.

  Four years of forgetting what it was to be sy Tel'Quessir, so that her people could keep the memory alive.

  Foxfire, the tribe's battle leader, would not approve of Ferret's sacrifice. Even her brother Rhothomir, who had little use for humans, would be appalled if he knew what she did when she slipped away from the forest. They all remembered what had followed the accidental death of Tethyr's King Errilam, some ninety years ago. Errilam died in the Wealdath, and many humans had refused to believe the sy Tel'Quessir played no part in his death. The last three kings of Tethyr had sanctioned the slaughter of the forest elves. Ferret expected no better from Zaranda, the latest would-be monarch. Even if she managed to hold her throne and proved to be an honorable ruler, her subjects were accustomed to regarding elves with suspicion and taking brutal retribution for wrongs real and imagined. Ferret well knew the price her people would pay if her private war came to light.

  The narrow corridor beyond Lamphor's room was dark and silent. The elf crept down the back stairs to the second floor. Here the halls were wider, with faded Calishite carpets on the floor and a few candles burning in tarnished wall sconces. At its midpoint, the hall opened into a circular bal shy;cony, half of which overhung the grand hall-now employed as an armory-and half overlooking the back garden. The doors to the outer balcony had been left open to let in the cool night air.

  Ferret slipped out into the darkness. She grimaced at the sight of two large men sprawled near the door, snoring lustily. Never before had she seen guards posted on the balcony. Most likely they'd brought their pallets out into the night breeze. She stepped over them carefully. The rhythm of their breathing did not falter.

  As she started forward, one of them grabbed her ankle with a suddenness that sent her pitching forward.

  Ferret managed to catch herself with her hands, but still her forehead met the tile hard enough to send white sparks shooting through her vision. Rough hands seized her and dragged her to her feet.

  Her back slammed into a broad, hard chest. Long, sinewy arms held her fast. Ferret quickly abandoned the idea of struggle. Her captor was tall-her toes barely met the floor, and he had her arms clamped firmly to her sides. She sagged forward, her head lolling in defeat.

  Her apparent surrender had the desired effect; the man holding her loosened his grip. Not much, Ferret noted with grudging respect, but enough for her purposes.

  "Another damn deserter," the second soldier muttered as he rose to his feet. "That's three this tenday."

  Ferret's captor was big, but the man facing her probably outweighed him by half. He knocked the cap from her head and thrust his face close to hers. His eyes widened in surprise.

  "What have we here?" he murmured. Taking the elf's chin in one massive hand, he tipped her face up to catch the
moonlight.

  Ferret struck like her feral namesake, her teeth sinking deep into his neck. She wrapped her legs around his body and clung like a leech for as long as it took.

  It didn't take long.

  The man holding Ferret flung her away and caught his dying companion. As he staggered under the big man's weight, Ferret spat out a mouthful of blood and pulled a slim, curved knife from her boot. She couldn't reach the smaller man's throat, so she thrust her blade hilt-deep into his eye. Before he could cry out, she wrenched the hilt hard to one side and gave the knife a sharp, brutal turn, as if cranking a winch. The man was dead before he and his comrade hit the floor.

  Ferret's lips firmed into a grim line as she regarded the entangled bodies. This was not good. No one was likely to seek out Lamphor before morning, but these men might be seen by any soldier who happened to pass by.

  She hurried to the balcony's edge, following the heady scent of franchillia blossoms. Nimbly she climbed the rail and scrambled down the thick, flowering vines. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she started running for all she was worth.

  Ferret skirted the mile-long path leading to the Trade Road, following a jagged course among the hillocks and rocky outcrops that characterized the land east of the sea cliffs. Soon she had the Trade Road in sight, and beyond it, the sweep of grasses and brush leading into the forest. She was almost to the road when a horn's blast split the still night air.

  The baying of dogs answered the call.

  Fear skimmed along the elf's spine, chilling her like a ghoul's caress. Tethyrian hounds were fearful creatures, long-legged and barrel-chested. Bred from mastiffs and racing dogs, they were fleet enough to run down deer, and so fierce that two of them could pull down a bugbear.