Aeron hesitated. Raedel wasn't done . . . not yet.

"Is my leave not good enough for you?" Raedel added, arching an eyebrow.

Steeling himself, Aeron stepped forward, edging past the three young nobles. The stream bank dropped away almost under his feet, but he refused to get within reach of any of them if he could avoid it. He kept an eye on all three nobles as he walked past, not caring if he looked defiant.

As he passed abreast of Raedel, Regos grunted and launched himself forward, arms straight out to shove Aeron into the water. With a snort of surprise, Aeron ducked and twisted away. Regos sailed high, stumbling over Aeron and knocking him to the ground before he crashed down the short bank and sprawled into the stream. Aeron grinned with momentary triumph, then scrambled to his feet.

Too late. Raedel's broad hands clamped down on his shoulders, hauling him to his feet. "Oh, no. You're not going anywhere. I think you owe Regos an apology," the young lord hissed.

Below them, Regos kicked and sputtered. "By Tchazzar, I'm going to kill him!" he shrieked as he regained his feet. Blood streamed from his mouth, where he'd apparently struck a rock in his fall. He thrashed his way up out of the water and drew his knife from his belt. "You are dead, you stinking half-breed!"

Miroch seized a fistful of Aeron's hair and pulled his head back. "Want to cut his throat?" he asked. "Or maybe cut off his elf ears, then cut his throat?"

Raedel snorted in disgust behind him. "He doesn't have elf ears. See? You can hardly see the points." A moment later, he added, "Maybe we should give him elf ears, fellows. Would you like that, Morieth?"

Aeron's heart hammered in his chest. He twisted against Raedel's iron grip, but he was held too securely. Regos scrambled up the short slope and approached, steel gleaming in his hand. Absently he drew one sleeve across his face to wipe away the blood, pausing as he glared into Aeron's face. "Hold him still," he said.

Raedel seized Aeron's right arm, and Miroch his left. They set their feet and leaned into him, locking his torso like a stone vise. Regos grinned and abruptly struck Aeron with the hardest open-handed slap he could manage, snapping the helpless captive's head to one side. Dark spots danced in Aeron's eyes and he tasted blood in his mouth. For a long moment, he couldn't see or hear anything.

When he came to his senses, Regos was standing close, looking past his face. One hand clamped the side of his face, and the other hand . . . Aeron felt the cold kiss of steel by the side of his head. A hot sting slid across the top of his ear. A small, pale sliver of flesh pattered from his shoulder and fell to the muddy earth. Warm blood trickled down his neck.

He bucked and screamed in rage. Regos cursed and tried to tighten his grip. "Stop moving, damn you!"

Miroch leaned away from Aeron in distaste. "Hey, watch the knife! You're getting blood on me!"

For an instant, Aeron felt Miroch's hold on him relax. Howling with fear and anger, he stamped his foot down on Miroch's and wrenched his arm away. Miroch yelped and released him. The knife scraped across his skull as Aeron struggled, but he didn't stop. His left hand darted to his belt, and he drew his hunting knife. As Regos tried to capture his arm, he brought the knife up in a lightning slash that laid Regos's arm open. He turned and ducked just as Raedel's heavy fist crashed against his head. Aeron staggered and nearly fell, still held up by Raedel's other hand clamped around his arm. Raedel drew back for another punch, but Aeron reversed his knife and rammed it into Raedel's shoulder. The nobleman gaped and fell away.

Aeron clamped one hand to his injured ear. Miroch hopped backward and sat down with a thump, holding his foot. Regos leaned over, holding his injured arm. The blade with which he'd cut Aeron stuck in the ground, quivering, its grip slick with Regos's blood. Beside him, Raedel reached up to touch the hilt of Aeron's knife, buried in his left shoulder. A spreading stain of bright red marked his elegant white tunic. He looked up at Aeron, dazed. "I'm going to kill you for that," he stated.

Aeron backed away two steps, vaguely surprised by what he'd done. "You cut me first, you bastard," he rasped. "You got what you deserved!"

Phoros Raedel dropped his good hand to the hilt of a plain long sword he wore at his belt. He drew the blade with a ringing rasp of steel against wood and brass.

Nothing short of murder was in Raedel's face. Aeron retreated another step, and the hot forge fueling his resistance suddenly failed him. Phoros means to kill me, he realized. Abruptly he turned and fled toward the village. He darted and leapt down the trail with the swiftness of a panicked stag, not daring to look behind him.

"Come back here! Come back here, damn you!"

Aeron didn't look back. He kept up his sprint until the older lads' voices faded into the forest behind him.

Half an hour later, Aeron burst out of the forest into a small holding on the edge of the woods. Gasping raggedly, he came to a jarring halt, his chest and legs burning. The house where he'd grown up was a rough-hewn woodsman's cabin, sealed with mud and thatched with straw. A small farmyard penned goats, chickens, and a handful of pigs nearby, and around the house plots bloomed with green, even rows of radishes, turnips, and potatoes.

A brown-haired girl in a blue linen dress straightened up from scattering feed as Aeron staggered into the yard. She was a year younger than Aeron, with a lean and athletic build. "Aeron! Where have you been? You . . ." Her voice died as she spotted the dusty red streak of blood on the side of his head. "Oh, Aeron. What happened?"

"It was Raedel," he panted. "I think I'm in trouble, Eriale. Is Kestrel here?"

"He's splitting wood behind the barn." Eriale picked up the hem of her skirts and hurried past Aeron, circling the barn. Now that Aeron had a moment to listen, he heard the dull tchunk! of an axe biting wood. "Father! Aeron is back!"

The rhythmic strokes fell silent. A moment later, Kestrel ambled into the yard, dusting off his hands. He was a small gray man, only a few inches taller than Aeron. Like the younger lad, he had a wiry frame, but he seemed more weathered than fit. His coarse mustache and dark, close-set eyes gave him the appearance of a sea otter. When Aeron's parents died, Kestrel and his wife had taken him in for the sake of old friendship; he and Eriale were all of Aeron's kin now. "What's the trouble?" he asked. "Swords and spears, lad, what happened to you?"

Aeron leaned over to set his hands on his knees, still trying to regain his breath. "I ran into Phoros, Miroch, and Regos on my way home," he said.

"The lord's boy and his friends?"

"Yes. They'd been drinking. I tried not to provoke them, but. . . they started in on me. Regos fell into the stream, trying to shove me in, and that angered him past all sense. He drew his knife and said he was going to dock my ears. Make me look like an elf."

Kestrel scowled. He carefully drew back Aeron's hair and examined his injuries. "Damn. He notched your ear, all right. You'll carry that for the rest of your days. And there's a long cut on your scalp, too. Did he slip?"

"Yes. I mean, I struggled, and that made him slip." Aeron narrowed his eyes, thinking of what might have happened if he hadn't got away from them. Swallowing, he looked up to Kestrel's face. "It's worse than that, Kestrel. I think I'm in terrible trouble."

"Why? What did you do?" asked Eriale. Like a real sister, she usually delighted in making mischief for Aeron, but Aeron could tell by her voice that Eriale was more worried than she let on.

"Aye, Aeron. What else happened?" said Kestrel.

"I lost my temper when Regos cut me. I used my knife. I laid open Regos's arm . . . and I stabbed Phoros."