She disengaged quickly, ducked under the slashing blow of the second tren, and spun around as she rose. Careful to keep beyond reach of the wicked spikes that thrust back from the tren's elbows, she whirled past the creature, bringing her sword around level in a hard, slashing, two-handed attack.

With speed and agility remarkable in a creature so large, the tren managed a nimble two-step dodge and leaned sharply away from the attack, its long arms flung up to retain balance.

Arilyn had anticipated this. She changed the direction of her stroke, shifted to her back foot, and then came in straight ahead with a hard thrust. Her sword bit deep into the tren's exposed armpit. She felt the blade grate against bone, and she threw her weight into the attack.

The moonblade sank deep into reptilian flesh, piercing the lung and seeking the creature's main heart. Blood burst from the creature's maw, a sign that she had struck true.

Arilyn planted one foot against the tren's body and kicked herself off. As the sword came free, she spun back toward her first attacker. The moonblade cut through the air with an audible swish, which ended with the rasp of metal against reptilian scales. A line of blood welled up across the breadth of the creature's chest.

She retreated a few steps and assessed the situation. The cut she had dealt the tren was not a mortal wound. Grunting with outrage, the tren reached up with clawed hands to pinch the edges of his hide together. His reptilian eyes glazed as he called upon his next attack.

Immediately a foul miasma filled the tunnel. Arilyn fell back, choking and gagging at the stench. Elaith was at her side in a moment, pressing a square of linen into her hands. Though she doubted this would prove much of a barrier to the debilitating spray, she clapped the cloth over her nose.

A faint, floral scent swirled deep into her, filling her with a sensation like sparkling wine drunk too quickly and deeply. The terrible stench faded into memory as the antidote took effect. Arilyn blinked tears from her streaming eyes and brought her sword up in guard position.

Just in time. The wounded tren, thinking her beyond battle, was coming in confidently for the kill. One of his clawed hands still clutched at the wound, the other reached for her throat. Behind him came the leader, his sickle blade raised in anticipation.

Arilyn danced beyond the reach of the wounded tren's grasping claws. Before she could take the offensive, a small, silver knife spun between her and her attacker, burying itself deep into the narrow gash Arilyn's sword had opened.

She glanced over at Elaith, wondering how he could consider her situation in the midst of his own battle. That was all but over. He had felled one of the creatures, and his twin daggers dealt with the last as a shark might dispatch a wounded whale—slicing off one bloody bite at a time.

Anger rose in her like a hot, bright tide. Elaith might have aided her, not once but twice, yet what of his own battle code? There was little honor in his methods, none at all in the dark pleasure written on his face.

She set her teeth, determined to end this as quickly as possible. Two of her assailants were finished. The knife-struck tren had stopped its advance as sharply as if it had hit a magic wall. Its claws made small, fluttery movements in the air and then groped for the hilt of Elaith's thrown blade. The creature's body stiffened and began to topple forward.

The leader let out a roar of outrage and charged the half-elf. Its sickle blade slashed the air in anticipation of deadly harvest.

Arilyn stepped aside, putting the dying creature between herself and her attacker. The tren kept on, too enraged to pull his attack. His curved blade hooked deep into the soft folds under the dying tren's throat. Before he could pull the weapon free, his comrade's falling weight bore him down. Arilyn lunged, her sword diving for the assassin's eye.

The tip of her sword struck the bony ridge, slid wetly across the scales and sought the narrow socket.

The tren was too quick for her. With another roar, he tossed his enormous head and threw her sword wide. Wrenching the sickle free of his comrade's slack throat, the tren backed away from the carcasses of his clan. He melted into the shadows as completely as a drop of water might merge with the sea.

Arilyn's first impulse was pursuit, but years on the battlefield prompted her not to turn her back too soon on any opponent. She spun, sword held in guard position before her, prepared to face the final tren—or its elven opponent.

The last tren was weaving on its feet, bleeding from scores of wounds. There was no fight left in the creature. Its long arms hung slack, claws scraping the stone floor as it rocked on unsteady legs.

Yet Elaith showed no signs of ending the game. Arilyn had seen barn cats show more mercy in torturing a captured squirrel, and less pleasure.

"End it!" she snapped.

The elf shot her a quick, startled glance, as if he'd suddenly recalled where and who he was. For a moment Arilyn could have sworn that his handsome features wore an expression of shame.

Elaith turned aside quickly, as if from some unwanted truth. He dropped one dripping weapon to the floor and produced a slender knife from some hidden fold of his festive garb. A quick flick sent the blade hurtling into the inner corner of the creature's slack mouth. The silver tip burst through the hide on the opposing side of the tren's throat, opening the way for a bright, quick flow of lifeblood. The tren sank quickly, almost gratefully, to the blood-soaked floor.

For a long moment elf and half-elf regarded each other. Disgust and gratitude warred for possession of Arilyn's first words. "I should thank you," she began.

"Much against your personal inclination," Elaith cut in smoothly. He lifted one hand to forestall the words one elf spoke to another after shared battle. "There is no debt, Princess. I have been pledged from birth to serve the royal house. My sword is yours."

That shut Arilyn up, as no doubt Elaith had intended it to do. The rogue elf was one of the few who knew of her heritage and the only elf who openly acknowledged it. Among the Tel'Quessar—the elven term which meant simply and exclusively "The People"—there was little honor in being the half-breed daughter of an exiled princess. Elaith, for his own reasons, seemed to think otherwise.

She turned away and busied herself with cleaning her sword. "We should follow that last tren."

''Undoubtedly," Elaith said, and smiled faintly. "Unless I miss my guess, however, another battle awaits you above. This has been a most eventful evening."

Arilyn did not dispute that. First Danilo's mishap with the skyflower spell, then the odd conversation she'd overheard.

The words Cassandra Thann had spoken came back to her—the promise to promptly deal with any trouble Elaith might cause. In the aftermath of battle with paid assassins, these words held a new and sinister meaning.

She shook her head, denying this absurd thought. Lady Cassandra might be a two-legged dragon, but Arilyn could not picture her hiring assassins to deal with misbehaving guests. On the other hand, there was the risk that Elaith might believe this to be true, and take action accordingly.

The elf kicked at one hulking carcass. "I wonder who hired this crew," he mused, echoing her concerns with discomforting accuracy.

Arilyn cleared her throat. "Any thoughts?"

"The possibilities are nearly endless," he said lightly. "Do you think this is the first time such a thing has occurred? Don't trouble yourself over it. I do not intend to."

Arilyn mistrusted his easy dismissal of the matter. "I will speak to Danilo of this," she said softly. She studied Elaith as he absorbed the many levels of meaning in her words.