Realms of War

REDEMPTION

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.

Ferret darted across the road and into the brush, twisting and turning as she ran. The belling cries of the hounds changed to excited barking, a sure sign that they'd found her trail and were closing in fast.

The trees were too small and far apart for the elf to escape into the canopy. Once she climbed, she'd be trapped-beyond the teeth of the hounds, yes, but easy prey for the men coming behind them.

Clouds parted, and moonbeams stabbed deep into a stand of young duskwood trees. Ferret caught a glimpse of reflective eyes near the upturned roots of a fallen elder tree. Only a moment passed before the lights disappeared into the tiny root-cave, but the elf's keen eyes registered a silvery coat and a long, plumy tail. It was a wolf, and a large one, perhaps preternaturally so.

She had only a moment to decide.

The crash of brush announced that the dogs were well past the Trade Road. Ferret ran directly toward the wolf's den. If she was wrong, she was dead.

At least the wolf would be quicker and kinder than the dogs.

Elaith Craulnober could not remember when he'd last felt so content, so at peace with himself and the world. Nor could he think of another place in all Faerыn he'd rather be. The garden behind Danilo Thann's Waterdeep townhouse filled him with nostalgia for Evermeet, and for once, those memories were untainted with shame or regret.

In this walled haven grew plants unique to Evermeet: tiny sapphire-hued grapes, delicate white "welcome trumpets" so sensitive to heat they would turn toward anyone entering the garden, uniquely fragrant herbs, and even some of the sky blue roses associated with the royal moon elves. How Danilo had persuaded the elves of that reclusive island kingdom to part with such treasures was beyond Elaith's powers of imagination.

But the moon elf's favorite part of the garden was the tree-lined alee set aside for sword practice. Elaith had a fine elven weapon in his hand, a skilled sparring partner, and a worthy task before him. Life was good indeed.

His opponent, a tall half-elf female, came at him in a running attack. Elaith caught her sword with his and spun their enjoined blades down and around in a circular parry, turning as he went. The move brought them face to face, swords crossed and pointing upward.

The half-elf leaned in and delivered a straight-armed jab over their crossed swords. Elaith caught her fist with his free hand.

"A bold move, Princess Arilyn, but a risky one. You could lose your dagger hand that way."

She shook him off and stepped back. "Don't call me that. But you're right about the risk. It was a stupid move. I meant to press your sword down and back while I struck-"

"But you could not," Elaith finished. "You haven't the strength."

Arilyn grimaced. "Not yet."

She came in again. Elaith parried two quick thrusts and a lunge with easy economy of motion. Their swords slid apart with a metallic hiss as Arilyn fell back.

As they circled each other, Elaith took a moment to study his opponent. As always, that meant forcing his way past the half-elf's resemblance to Amnestria, a princess of Evermeet.

His princess.

The task at hand, Elaith reminded himself, was seeing Amnestria's daughter back to fighting form.

The half-elf's too-familiar face was set in determined lines, but it was drawn and thin, and far too pale. Pain darkened her blue eyes, and her hair, which had been as smooth and glossy as a raven's wing when they'd first crossed swords, had sprung up into an unruly mass of damp black curls.

Her mother's hair had been nearly as dark, but it was that rarest shade of moon elf blue-the color of fine sapphires, the midnight blue of a star-filled night…

Elaith shook off the image.

"You move as fast as ever," he told Arilyn, "but your attacks lack power and your grip is unreliable."

To demonstrate, he feinted low. The half-elf easily parried. Before she could disengage, Elaith stomped on her sword-an unconventional move that caught her by surprise and tore the hilt from her grasp.

Her practice sword had not yet hit the ground when Arilyn pivoted on her back foot and delivered a kick that landed several strategic inches south of Elaith's sword belt.

The moon elf staggered back, resisting the temptation to fall to the ground and curl up in agony.

Maybe, he conceded, his attack had not been quite so unexpected as he'd thought.

"Well countered," he managed to say, "but street fighting tactics are unworthy of a princess."

"Next time I see a princess, I'll be sure to pass that along," Arilyn assured him. "It'd be a good thing for her to know. If a tactic is 'unworthy,' it's probably also unexpected."

"Indeed."

The half-elf hooked the toe of one boot under her fallen sword, flicked it up, and caught it by the hilt. When Elaith moved into guard position, Arilyn shook her head and slid her practice sword into the sheath that had, until recently, held her moonblade.

"Thanks for the match."

Elaith's silver brows rose. "We've only been sparring since dawn. No more than two bells have rung since we began."

"You just don't want to quit when you're behind," she teased him.

The moon elf shook his head. "Princess, if you hope to wield your ancestral blade again, you must rebuild your strength."

The smile fell from Arilyn's face. "If you call me 'princess' one more time," she said softly, "I won't need the thrice-damned moonblade. I'll just tear out your liver with my fingernails."

She spun away and shouldered her way past the tall, fair-haired man just entering the practice grounds. Danilo Thann, one of the few humans Elaith counted among his friends, watched the half-elf stalk toward the garden's back gate.

"Where is she going?"

"To have her nails tended, I expect," Elaith said dryly.

Danilo blinked. After a moment he shook himself free of that puzzling vision. "We will have visitors very shortly. I received a sending-an amazing bit of magic, by the way-requesting that permission to enter this garden be granted to Shalana O Rhothomir, sister to the Wealdath's elf chieftain, Ganemede, a lythari."

"A lythari," Elaith echoed incredulously. He'd only half believed the race of wolf-natured, shapeshifting elves existed. "In Waterdeep?"

"Oh, it wouldn't be the first time. Ganemede and Arilyn are old friends. He can open a magical gate nearly anywhere, using her moonblade as a focus."

Elaith's gaze shifted to the weapons rack, where hung an ancient elven long sword. Eight runes marked the shin shy;ing length, and the blue-white moonstone in the hilt fairly glowed with magic. Just a tenday past, it had turned on its half-elf wielder rather than shed the blood of a moon elf who'd thought himself long past redemption.

"I wonder if the princess will ever wield it again," he said softly.

A faint smile touched the corners of Danilo's lips. "You're lucky she didn't hear you call her that. As to the other thing, Arilyn knew what might happen when she challenged you. She figured taking the sword's backlash was the quickest, surest way to convince the forest elves to fight under your command and alongside your men."

"A form of persuasion that nearly cost her her life."

"Arilyn thought the cause worthy, and she thought you were worth the risk. Considering the response of her moonblade, it appears she was right about you."

"Imagine my surprise," the elf murmured, "especially considering my own moonblade was decidedly less optimistic."

The air near the weapons rack changed, taking on a subtle shimmering that might easily be mistaken for rising heat. If not for an elf's innate knack for perceiving magical gates, Elaith might not have seen it at all. Danilo was less prepared, and his eyes widened when two elves suddenly appeared in the garden.

Elaith recognized the female as one of the forest elves who'd recently come to Waterdeep and fought under his command. Ferret, she called herself. The male resembled no forest elf Elaith had ever seen. In fact, his coloring was similar to Elaith's: silvery hair, amber eyes. Like Elaith, he was tall for an elf, long of leg and broad through the shoulders. Had Elaith not known otherwise, he might have mistaken the lythari for kin.

"There is trouble in the Wealdath," the female said without preamble.

Danilo's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh of resignation. "I'll get Arilyn."

"Not the half-elf, not this time," Ferret said. She nodded toward Elaith. "It's him we need."

The sun hung low over the city's western walls when Elaith returned to Danilo's elven garden. Gathering supplies and information, making the necessary contacts, readying spells-such things took time.

A shimmering halo rose around the lythari. Ferret impatiently seized Elaith's hand and pulled him toward it. The three elves stepped through into the deep green shade of an ancient forest.

One step-the journey was that quick, that smooth and simple.

Elaith inclined his head to Ganemede in a gesture of respect. "I have traveled magic's silver paths many times, but never so skillfully managed."

The lythari nodded acknowledgment. "Meet me here at nightfall."

"It's a brisk walk to Suldanessellar, but we can be back before dusk," Ferret said. Without waiting for a reply, she circled the trunk of an enormous oak and started down a faint path.

Elaith soon found that keeping pace with a forest elf was no easy task. Before long Ferret veered off the path and headed for a thicket of thorny bushes-formidable thorns, Elaith noted, each as long as his thumb.

"Stay close behind me," Ferret instructed. She paused, cocked her head, and considered. "Better yet, keep a hand on my shoulder. The thorns might not recognize you otherwise."

There was magic here, subtle but powerful, quite different from anything Elaith knew. Curious, he did as Ferret bid.

The branches parted to let them pass. It seemed to the moon elf that the guardian thicket begrudged his presence, for the branches slid back into place behind him with an ominous hiss, close enough for the thorns to scrape against his travel leathers, but not quite hard enough to pierce them.

Finally they stepped out of the thicket into a tree-ringed forest glade. Stones had been piled into a shoulder-high cairn in the center of the glade and crowned with a platform of rune-carved wood. On it rested a low-sided casket topped with a rounded glass lid. Within lay an elf female of middle years, clad in armor of a style not seen in five centuries. Still as the grave she lay, untouched by death's corruption. Magic lingered in the air like incense, and so did something rarer and more wondrous: a sense of legend. Elaith went to one knee to honor a story he had not yet heard.

"Zoastria's tomb," Ferret said.

Memory stirred. Elaith knew that name. His heart quickened as he rose and stepped closer. The entombed elf's face seemed familiar to him, and her long, braided hair held the distinctive black-sapphire shade Elaith thought of as Moonflower blue. More than fifty years ago, an elf who looked very like that sleeping warrior had come to Evermeet. Thasitalia Moonflower had been kin to the royal family of Evermeet, and she named Princess Amnestria as her blade heir. Elaith had been captain of the king's guard then, betrothed to Amnestria and full of hope for the future they planned to share.

"Zoastria Moonflower, a friend to the forest folk," Ferret said, confirming Elaith's suspicions. "She was slain in battle some four years past."

Elaith whirled toward her. Anger, sudden and inexplicable, filled his heart and blazed from his amber eyes.

"That's impossible. Zoastria was the fourth moonfighter in her line. She lived and died long before you were born."

"The first time, yes," Ferret agreed, unperturbed by the moon elf's ire. "But every moonfighter adds another magic to the sword, is that not true? The elf who passed the sword to Zoastria ensured that as long as her moonblade's magic endures, a hero will return when the need is great. Arilyn is of this line. When she placed the sword in her ancestor's uncor shy;rupted hands, Zoastria became a living elf."

Deathless sleep… the first of her line… a hero will return… her line… will return… a living elf.

Ferret's words tumbled through Elaith's mind, staggering in their implications.

Amnestria was the seventh in Zoastria's line.

It was possible. Somehow he'd always known it. When he'd caught his first glimpse of Arilyn nearly six years ago, for a moment he'd thought her Amnestria reborn. Such things were not unknown in Faerыn, even among the elves. But except for that one scalding moment of hope, Elaith had never really expected Amnestria to return.

But what if she could? What if she did?

"This place troubles you?" asked Ferret.

"Perhaps we should reconsider the plan."

That was not what Elaith had expected to say, but the words seemed right to him. He'd been so busy arranging the usual web of primary, secondary, and contingency plans that he'd neglected to weigh these arrangements on any sort of moral scale. In all candor, he was not in the habit of doing so. But if he'd been spared by Amnestria's moonblade to play some part in her return, he'd damn well better get into the habit!

The forest elf's face fell slack with astonishment. "Abandon the plan? Whatever for? It is a good plan."

"But not an honorable one."

"And for that, all gods be thanked," she said tartly. "Any honorable course would bring reprisals against my people."

She brushed a lock of hair off her forehead with a quick, impatient hand. "Why these doubts? You are a fine battle leader. Foxfire has been singing your praises since he returned from Waterdeep."

"Foxfire is a competent battle leader himself-more than competent, and he knows this forest far better than I do. Perhaps he could devise-"

"No." Ferret cut him off abruptly and decisively. "Foxfire is too pure of heart to do what must be done. Why else would I have come for you?"

Her words stung Elaith more than they should have. "These are strange words to speak over Zoastria's tomb."

"If I'd known how you would respond to this place, I would have spoken them elsewhere."

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"It is traditional for the sy Tel'Quessir to honor ancestors before a battle." Ferret pointed to the Craulnober moonblade on Elaith's hip, sheathed and peacebound. Bringing it had been an act of impulse. The symbolism was important to Elaith, even though he could not wield the sword.

"I do not know the places sacred to your line," Ferret went on, "so I brought you here to honor another moonfighter's legacy."

Something in Elaith's face made her falter. "Did I do wrong?"

"No," he said in a dull, soft tone. "You did not do wrong."

You did not, he repeated silently, but it appears that I must.

And just like that, his decision was made.

Some men called Elaith impulsive, though usually not to his face. That wasn't quite true. Elaith believed in destiny.

There was a reason the Craulnober moonblade rejected him, a reason Amnestria's moonblade had spared his ill-spent life. There was a reason he was thrice-pledged to the Moonflower family: raised by the elf queen, trained by her warrior king and made captain of the royal guard, betrothed to the youngest princess. And the reason for a life entwined with the royal family seemed suddenly, bleakly evident.

He could do things they could not.

Amnestria had been pledged to the service of the forest elves. It was strangely fitting that Elaith take her legacy upon himself. There was a great need in the Wealdath, but this time, the forest people did not need a hero.

They needed him.

Thanks to Ganemede's magic, five elves stepped into the shadows of the Mytharan Woods, a place that was old and strange even by the standards of this ancient forest. The small band included the lythari and two recruits Ferret had brought back from the elven settlement Suldanessellar. One was Kivessin Sultaasar, an elf of the Suldusk tribe. The other, to Elaith's astonishment, was Captain Uevareth Korianthil, a moon elf from Evermeet. Apparently Queen Amlaruil had sent representatives to the Wealdath four years ago, after the forest elves fought off an incursion of human mercenaries. She'd made it known to Tethyr's humans that another such attempt against her forest kin would not go unanswered.

That raised the stakes considerably.

Elaith turned to Captain Korianthil. "Are you certain you wish to be a part of this?"

The moon elf nodded, his face grim. "The Lady Shalana is right; the humans who followed her into the forest cannot carry tales of an elven assassin. There would be reprisals, and Queen Amlaruil would honor her promise. I will not see Evermeet dragged into Tethyr's so-called Reclamation War.

"And I have other reasons," Korianthil continued softly. "You were my first commanding officer. It is an honor to serve under your command once again."

Elaith's brows rose. "Even in such a task?"

"Even so."

"We all have our reasons for killing humans," growled the Suldusk elf. "Should we hire a bard to set them all to music, or should we just get on with it?"

Elaith found himself liking the gruff warrior. "You're the expert on the Wealdath's ogres," he told Kivessin. "We'll follow you."

The elf headed off into a deep stand of ferns. Soon they heard the murmur of running water. A small creek wound its way through the forest floor. As they followed it north, the ground became rockier and the creek deeper and swifter. They walked without talking, keeping close watch on the forest around them.

Elaith could smell the ogre camp long before it came into sight. The humid forest air held the scent of campfire, seared meat, and the sharp, musky odor of the creatures themselves.

He raised one hand to indicate a halt. He took an amulet from his bag and looped it around his wrist. The world shifted weirdly, and suddenly he was looking down at his companions from a great height. The four elves staring up at him wore identical expressions of astonishment and revulsion.

"Green, I take it, is not a good color for me?" He spoke lightly, but his voice came out as a deep-throated growl.

"I'm serving under an ogre," Captain Korianthil muttered. "This just keeps getting better and better."

Elaith sent him a tusk-filled grin and turned toward the camp.

Three ogres left to guard the camp; the others were out hunting. The guards were busily arguing over a game of dice, so Elaith had no problem creeping into the younglings' den.

There were a half-score of the creatures, some huddled together like a pile of hideous puppies, others scattered around the small cave. A scrawny runt off to the side looked to be about Ferret's height and size. Elaith quickly cast a charm spell over the young ogre. The creature twitched as if trying to brush off the magical disturbance, but after a moment it rose, yawning. Elaith beckoned for the ogre to follow. The creature absently lifted its loincloth-his loincloth, Elaith could not help but note-and scratched himself rudely. He yawned again before following Elaith out of the cave.

The ogre guards glanced up and went back to their game. So far, so good, Elaith noted with relief. He'd feared such spells might not function well so close to the twisted remnants of an ancient elven mythal.

Suddenly the young ogre's heavy-lidded eyes widened. He looked around frantically, like a sleepwalker who'd suddenly been jarred from sleep.

Cursing under his breath, Elaith thrust a wadded gag into the ogre's mouth. He swept the creature up, slung him over his shoulder, and ran.

When they were a reasonable distance from the camp, Elaith tossed the young ogre to the ground and yanked the amulet from his wrist. The return to his own size and shape was so abrupt that for a moment he felt as if he were falling.

An almost comical look of astonishment flooded the young ogre's face. His cowed submission to an older member of the tribe gave way to rage. He leaped at Elaith, his hands reaching for the elf's throat.

Ferret dropped from the tree above, taking the creature down in mid-leap. He hissed at her like a cat and raked the talons of one hand across her face. She raised one fist to retali shy;ate; Kivessin seized it and jerked her away.

The lythari and the moon elf emerged from the bushes.

Each of the four elves with Elaith took hold of one of the ogre's wrists or ankles, and together they bore the struggling, cursing creature to the prepared site.

Fortunately, the elves did not have far to go. A few hundred paces took them to a place where the forest bordered a nightmare realm.

Skeletal night birds winged silently though swirling mists, kept aloft by some fell magic. The trees were twisted and charred as if by fire, but their branches moved, twining sinu shy;ously against the cloud-tossed moon. Black roots groped their way along the forest floor as if seeking prey. The only appar shy;ently living thing was the abundance of dark ivy that threaded its way among the roots. The vines were studded with purple and red flowers-lovely, but for the scent of rotting flesh that rose from them.

The lythari shook his head sadly. "The price for such magic is too high."

Elaith could not disagree. This was the remains of a corrupted mythal, a powerful magic cast in a long-vanished elven city. As a result of that twisted magic, every creature that died within the magic-blasted landscape rose as undead. No elves could enter it without becoming deathly ill-or without alerting Mallin, the undead wizard who had ruled over the grim realm for more than six centuries.

"Drop the beast here," Elaith directed, pointing to the moss under a large duskwood tree.

Kivessin and Ferret quickly bound the struggling creature, then tied him to a rope dangling from a high branch. The other three elves hoisted the ogre whelp off the ground and tied off the rope. Kivessin yanked away the ogre's gag pulled him back toward the tree, and let him swing toward the mythal-cursed ground.

It took a couple more pushes to get the ogre swinging high enough. When Elaith judged the distance to be right, he cut the rope. The ogre whelp flew free, howling in rage and fear. He landed hard and rolled to the very edge of the poisoned forest. The creature began to shriek in earnest, writhing as if in terrible pain.

The elves took to the trees. In moments the three adult ogres crashed into the clearing. The whelp's cries had subsided. His struggles were weaker, and his small, red eyes were glassy and staring.

"Stupid elves," one of them sneered. "Got too close. Got sick. Probably off puking up their guts."

The other two did not appear convinced. They turned this way and that, peering into the forest, weapons raised and ready.

"We watch, you untie Gloove," one of them growled.

The three advanced toward the young ogre, two of them backing slowly toward the blackened realm, their small eyes sweeping the forest.

Suddenly the foremost ogre stopped. Its green face twisted into a puzzled scowl. For no obvious reason, the creature stumbled and fell. There was a sharp cracking sound. Blood poured from a wound on the ogre's twisted shin, and a jagged edge of bone thrust out of the wound.

"Run!" it shrieked.

Before the guards could react, the thud of crossbows resounded through the forest. Four large arrows streaked down from the nearby trees, trailing thin ropes. Each arrow sank deep into an ogre's chest and punched through the other side. The ogres fell, twitching.

The elves slid down from the trees. Elaith made a quick, sharp gesture with one hand. The illusion he'd painstakingly cast disappeared, and the boundary between healthy forest and cursed land shifted a dozen paces closer to the elves. Black roots and carrion flowers appeared in the place where the ogres had fallen, replacing the illusion of green moss and living plants. The ogres, accepting Elaith's illusion as real, had walked right into the cursed ground.

"Tie off the ropes, quickly," Elaith snapped. "They must be pulled out as soon as they're dead. An undead ogre under Mallin's control is no use to us."

The four elves seized the ropes attached to the impaling arrows and tied each one to the tall, slender saplings they'd prepared earlier. Four of these trees had been carefully bent until their uppermost branches brushed the ground, then tied in place.

"I never thought the day would come when I'd use a crossbow," the moon elf captain murmured.

"Did you ever suppose," Elaith said coolly, "the day might come when you'd have to shoot an arrow that size with enough force to send it all the way through an ogre's chest?"

"A longbow arrow, well shot, would have killed them just as surely," the Suldusk elf put in.

"True," Elaith said. He took hold of one of the taut ropes and gave it a brutal tug. When the arrowhead slammed back into the dying ogre's ribcage, the point sprung apart into four hooks.

"Civilized arrows would have pulled free when we yank the ogres out," Elaith said. "These will not."

The elves waited in grim silence until the ogres' death throes ended. When Elaith gave the signal, the elves cut the lines and the young trees strung upright, jerking the ogres well away from the mythal-cursed ground.

The creatures stirred and rose, their red eyes dull and staring.

Captain Korianthil stared at the undead ogres with open revulsion. "I never thought to find myself in league with such creatures."

"If they weren't dead, they'd probably feel much the same about us," Elaith said shortly. He took several amulets from his bag and handed them to the moon elf. "Put these on them, and you wear the blue one. That will allow you to command their movements."

The moon elf stared at the amulets for a moment, then raised troubled eyes to Elaith's face. "This is.. necromancy."

"Do you know a better way to command the undead?"

A short, rueful laugh burst from Korianthil. "In all candor, Lord Craulnober, I have never given the matter much thought."

Elaith responded with a thin smile. "That's why I'm here."

Koranthil lifted the amulets. "Will the magic hold? Even though the charm spell you cast on the ogre faltered?"

"They will hold. The necromancer who fashioned them takes pride in his evil deeds-and charges accordingly," Elaith said with a wry smile.

"I see. And that would also explain how you maintained an illusion on the very borders of Myth Rhynn?"

Elaith's smile dropped away. "You do not wish to know the origin of that spell. Trust me on this."

"Forgive me," Korianthil said hesitantly, "but if you are willing to learn and use such magic, why did you not simply slay the ogres and animate them yourself?"

"I would have, if I'd been able to cast that spell," Elaith said bluntly. "I've never learned it. For some strange reason, I'd thought such magic beneath me."

"Of course," the moon elf said immediately. "Forgive me for asking."

"Tell me, captain, do you always ask so many questions of your commanding officer?"

"If you'll permit me one more, may I ask why you don't command the ogres yourself?"

In response, Elaith held up the amulet of ogre-shape. "I'll be busy."

The battle that followed was hardly worthy of the name. It was a slaughter, plain and simple.

Before it began, Elaith selected the sole survivor: the youngest soldier among the party sent into the forest to track the unknown assassin.

Wearing the illusion of an ogre warrior, Elaith crept into the camp and seized the young soldier's ears. The lad awoke with a start to find himself staring into red eyes and wicked, curving tusks. Before he could cry out, Elaith jerked his head up and slammed it back into the ground. The soldiers eyes rolled back and his body went limp.

Elaith placed huge, talon-tipped fingers against the lad's throat. Yes, the soft leap of blood continued, faint but steady. The lad would awaken to a nightmare, and carry word back to his garrison, he would survive the solitary trek through the forest; the forest elves would see to that.

The disguised moon elf rose and joined the undead ogres in the slaughter.

When it was over, Elaith took the soldiers' weapons-many of them as yet unsheathed-and hacked the undead ogres into final death. When the young soldier awakened, he would believe that his comrades had fought bravely and well.

Elaith reclaimed his amulets from the ogres, and as a final touch, placed Captain Lamphor's cap on the ogre whelp's disembodied head.

"An ogre assassin," murmured Kivessin. "Do you think the humans will believe such a creature infiltrated their garrison?"

"I plan to make sure they do." Elaith raised his eyes to Ferret. "One thing remains."

The forest elf nodded and turned to her comrades. "You go ahead. This is nothing any of you need to see."

The elves regarded each other in silence. Finally Captain Korianthil touched his fist to his forehead and then his heart, a gesture of respect for an elflord. Then the three guardians of the forest elves-Evermeet captain, Suldusk warrior, and lythari-disappeared into a shimmering circle.

"There are spells that will bind the spirits of the men you killed so that they cannot identify their killer," Elaith said. "It's much easier to cast these spells on the corpses. I know a spell that will mask the killer, but it is not pleasant."

Ferret shrugged impatiently. "Get on with it."

"I'll need blood."

The forest elf didn't even glance at the gore-drenched campsite. She held out her forearm, ready for his knife.

"This is necromancy," Elaith warned her.

"Yes."

"Some would consider such magic evil."

Ferret's smile was both sad and terrible. "I think we're both past such considerations. Do what needs to be done."

And because it was his destiny, Elaith did precisely that.