Arilyn lifted the sword and faced down her elfshadow. "In you go," she said grimly. "Where I'm headed, the patrons are already seeing double."

Six

"It's been days, and no sign of them elves," Vhenlar fretted, and not for the first time. "How're we to know when they're coming? You'd sooner hear your own shadow coming up behind you than one of them unnatural things. Like ghosts, they are! For all we know, every man on patrol is lying under some bush right now with a second smile under his chin!"

Bunlap threw a queuing glance toward the nervous archer. "Maybe so, but well know," he said shortly. TU know."

As the mercenary spoke, his hand lifted to touch the livid scar on his cheek, three curving lines that combined in the simple but distinctive design of a woodland flower of some sort. Bunlap had seen that mark elsewhere, and since the day the red-haired eh7 had marked hiip, he had done his dead-level damndest to make sure other people saw it, too-people who wouldn't think kindly of the elf it identified. And by extension, the rest of Tethir"s elves. Bunlap's hatreds were nothing if not inclusive.

They were a scrappy bunch, the wild elves of Tethir, even if they were short and scrawny. The half dozen that Bunlap's men had captured from the forest glade had put up a fight all out of proportion to their size and number. And these were but womenfolk, and half-grown elf-brats! The mercenaries kept these few around as bait for a trap, but there were many other elves in the forest who might well blame the red-haired elf whose arrows Bunlap had strewn judiciously around the ravaged elven settlement.

Bunlap liked the idea of angering some of the Elmanesse border tribes and turning them against the elven warrior who had maimed him, and who had eluded him for too long. Keep the long-eared bastards busy-that was what he was getting paid to do. But when it came time to kill the red-haired elf, Bunlap wanted the honor for himself.

The mercenary propped his boots up on a bale of dried and cured pipeweed. From his left boot he pulled a small knife, with which he began to carve some of the dirt from under his fingernails. From the small window across from him, he had a clear view of the field that stretched between the drying barn and the forest's edge. Sunset colors spilled into the small, winding creek that separated field from forest and provided water for the thirsty crops. In the dying light the shadows were deep and long. Even so, nothing, and no one, would be able sneak past him.

Most of the men in the barn's loft seemed to share Bunlap's confidence. A dozen men sprawled about throwing dice, whittling, or otherwise killing time. Several days had come and gone since their last foray into the deep shadows of Tethir, and as time passed their dread of elven retaliation had faded into nonchalance.

Vhenlar, however, was still as nervous as a mouse in a hawk's nest. The archer paced the barn's loft, watching the windows but keeping well out of the line of fire. In the field directly below them, six bedraggled elves were chained and staked amid the rows of aromatic plants. It was Bunlap's plan that the elves appear to be field slaves-a plan that was about as effective as hitching three wild deer to a plow and expecting a straight furrow to come of it. The strange little folk adamantly refused to cooperate with their captors. Even the smallest child would rather take a beating than harvest a single leaf. Weakened by lack of food and sleep and by the frequent lash of the whips, the elves nonetheless showed a fierce, stubborn resistance that Vhenlar almost admired.

The archer watched as one of the mercenaries on guard duty drew back his whip to punish a recalcitrant slave. His intended victim, an elven lass not yet old enough to bed, faced the man defiantly as the whip flashed up and forward.

Up came the girl's arm, moving with a speed that rivaled that of the flailing leather thong. Even as the whip curled around her wrist, the elf maid exploded into action. Moving faster than Vhenlar would have believed possible, the girl seized the whip with both hands and threw herself into a backward roll.

The sudden tug worked with the whip's momentum to pull the mercenary off-balance. He stumbled forward. Before he could recover, the elf was on her feet. With the speed of a striking hawk, she was upon him. A quick flash of her bleeding arm, and the now-slack whip was looped around the mercenary's neck.

Darting around him, the fierce elf child leaped up high and planted both bare feet on the small of the human's back. She kicked out hard, launching herself back and pulling at the whip with all her might. Vhenlar winced as the mercenary's head snapped back sharply. He fancied he could actually hear the distant cracking of bone.

"Another man down," he noted laconically, watching as three of the guards rushed in and wrestled the girl to the ground.

When Bunlap merely shrugged, the archer turned back to the scene below. He felt oddly ill at ease in the barn's loft. Trapped, almost. Yet Vhenlar was no stranger to the task before him. During his years stationed in the fortress known as Darkhold, he'd often hidden in the rocks above some nearby mountain pass, picking off travelers. When would-be invaders challenged the Znentish stronghold, Vhenlar was always called to the walls to help pin down the attackers. His aim was almost legendary, and he had over two hundred confirmed kills to his credit. But compared to the uncanny skill of the forest elves, Vhenlar felt like a clumsy-handed novice. Not even the extra measure of precision granted him by his elven bow evened the score to his satisfaction.

Suddenly the mercenary captain leaped to his feet, his gray eyes blazing in his elf-scarred face. "There it is, men!** hissed Bunlap. "Take your places. Move!"

Although Bunlap's men exchanged uncertain glances, all did as they were told. Kneeling beside the small windows that vented the loft, they gathered their weapons, fixed then- eyes upon the tree line, and waited.

"What d'you hear, Captain?* Vhenlar murmured as he nocked an arrow-one of his own, this time, steel-tipped and fletched with the blue-and-white striped feathers of a bird that brightened the bleak landscape of his native Cormyr. The arrow felt good in his hands, not at all like the black-shafted arrows he had pillaged from the quivers of slain elves or torn from the bodies of his own comrades. There was something unnatural about those elven bolts. Vhenlar couldn't pick up such an arrow without the strange feeling that it might at any moment turn against him.

"The call of a wood thrush," Bunlap returned with grim satisfaction. "A sort of bird that never ventures from the forest to the fields. It would appear that our elven friend has less sense than the bird he imitates!"

Vhenlar squinted into the trees, but he could see nothing. He nodded toward the captured elves in the fields below. "If you recognize that birdsong, so do they," he pointed out.

This, Vhenlar thought, was the weakest point of Bunlap's plan. Surely the elven slaves realized they-were bait for an ambush. If they had bothered to count, they would have to know there had been more humans in the raiding party that destroyed their homes than the few who now guarded them. But the elves also knew enough about their human captors to realize that they themselves would probably not survive a rescue attempt. Vhenlar had no idea whether the elves would try to warn away any would-be rescuers or whether they'd keep quiet and hope for the best.

Then a pale bolt arched up high over the field, followed by two more. The arrows descended upon the three guards who were busy subduing the elf girl with considerably more force than was needed. Startled oaths and shouts of pain floated up toward the barn as the guards leaped to then- feet. The men whirled about, pawing at the arrows embedded between their shoulder blades.