The half-elf spun, faked a stumble, and went down on one knee with her back toward him. To all appearances, it would be a fatal fumble. She could almost feel his supercilious smile as he raised his sword for the killing blow.

Arilyn listened to the whistling sweep of the descending blade; then, at precisely the right moment, she lifted her moonblade up high overhead to meet it. She leaped to her feet and turned hard to confront him, pushing their joined blades around and down as she came. The speed of the unexpected attack threw the swordsman off-balance. Arilyn, however, lashed up high and hard, severing one of the man's ears as the moon-blade flashed up over his head. Her opponent howled with pain, but only briefly, for Arilyn pivoted to the left and swept the moonblade across in a hard, level stroke. The man's head rolled from his shoulders.

Arilyn continued the swing, pulling her right elbow back until her two-fisted grip was tightly pressed against her right shoulder. She face off against the nearest man and stepped toward him, her left foot leading and sword thrusting out straight and hard toward his throat. He could not even lift a blade in time to parry.

Pulling her sword from the dead man's throat, she spun about to see how her companions were faring.

Not well. Hawkwing was down, and Ferret was pressed on all sides. The elven war leader was doing his best to work his way through to any one of the beleaguered females, but he was badly outnumbered. Even if he'd been fighting one-on-one, Foxfire's bone dagger was not designed for battle against tempered steel.

As if in response to her thoughts, the elf s dagger shattered under the attack of a mercenary's sword. The elf leaped aside, agile and quick, but several men closed in, and Arilyn knew he could not long avoid them.

Her next response was pure instinct. She held her bloodstained blade high and shouted a command to the magic imprisoned within: "Come forth! All of you!"

At Arilyn's summons, magic exploded from the moon-blade-a white, swirling mist that rose into the air with a force and fury rivaling that of a waterspout at sea.

Every combatant on the field froze and stared at the brief, spectacular manifestation. Then it was gone, and in its place stood several battle-ready elven warriors, each armed with a sword identical to the moonblade that had called them forth. These advanced on the befuddled humans, and the battle began anew.

For a moment Arilyn could do nothing but gaze in awe at her ancestors, all the elves who had wielded her moonblade since the days of its forging in long-ago Myth Drannor.

There was Zoastria, tiny and wraithlike-the most insubstantial of the elfshadow warriors. The elf woman's angular face was a mask of frustration as she slashed at the human mercenaries with her sword, a sword that drew no more blood than would a breath of wind. Yet Zoastria's efforts were not without effect. The mercenaries shrank away in terror from the ghostly elven warrior-and onto the blades of the others.

A tall, ancient elven wizard, his long white hair a mass of tiny braids, held his shadow-moonblade out at arm's length, point-down, as if it were a mage's staff. The sword blazed with blue fire, as did his eyes and the fingertips of his outstretched hand. Pinpricks of blazing eldritch light darted toward the mercenaries like vengeful fireflies.

A small, slight male elf held his sword with two hands, yet he wielded the single blade with a dizzying speed that brought to mind the dual swords of a bladesinger's dance. The crest on his tabard, a bright-plummaged bird rising from flames, proclaimed him to be Phoenix Moonflower, the elf who, centuries before, had imbued the sword with its rapid strike.

Another male elf, this one with, flame-colored hair, wielded a shadow-sword that flickered and seared with arcane fire. Heat rose from the blade, which glowed a red so intense that it brought to mind a dwarven forge. Arilyn recognized him as Xenophor, the elf who had lent the power of fire resistance to the blade, and she watched in awe as he fought, for his shadow moonblade leaped and darted and licked like wildfire in a capricious wind.

There was a tall, rangy elf woman who seemed oddly devoid of color. Her skin was starkly white, her eyes and hair the color of jet, her leathers and boots a dusty black. There was nothing colorless about her fighting, though. Never had Arilyn seen anyone fight with such bloody fury. And there were others as well-Arilyn's own elfshadow and two males, one small and fierce and the other taller than the rest and golden-haired.

All this Arilyn noted in an instant, for the churning battle did not allow for leisurely study of her elfshadow allies. But as her well-trained mind took note of the shadow warriors and the general course of battle, her eyes instinctively swept the fierce group for a glimpse of a face she had last seen when she was only a child- that of her mother, ZTteryl.

A tall, thick-bodied man reeled toward the Harper, his hands clutching at his torn and bloody jerkin. Arilyn shoved him aside and looked up into the face of his killer.

An icy fist clutched at Arilyn's chest as she gazed upon her mother. She was as beautiful as Arilyn remembered-as tall as her daughter, with the same milky skin and gold-flecked blue eyes, but her small, fine-featured face was crowned with a cloud of thick, wavy hair the color of spun sapphires. Beautiful, yes, but grim and terrible. This was not Z*beryl of Evereska, the loving mother and patient instructor of swordcraft This was the elf Z*beryl had once been: Amnestria, daughter of Zaor and Amlaruil of Evermeet, crown princess of the elves, battle wizard, and warrior. And this was the face Amnestria showed to her enemies.

The regal elf woman raised her blood-drenched sword and pointed it at Arilyn. To the stunned half-elf, the gesture seemed ominous, accusing. Amnestria spoke, but only a word: "Beware!"

Arilyn heard the ringing clash of steel on steel, so dose and so loud that it seemed to echo through her bones and teeth. Instinctively, she raised her moonblade and whirled toward the sound.

Her own elfshadow stood behind her, shadow-sword uplifted in a defensive parry against the broadsword that would have cleaved Arilyn's head from her shoulders. The man who held the sword was easily the size of Arilyn and her elfshadow combined. Grinning with sadistic delight, he forced the joined swords downward, pressing Arilyn's shadow slowly to her knees.

The half-elf recovered her wits and lunged forward. Her moonblade dug between his ribs; she wrenched it out and plunged it in again. Arilyn's elfshadow threw

aside the dying man's sword arm and wheeled away to find another fight.

Arilyn took a deep steadying breath and made a quick survey of the battle. Although she now understood that her mother's elfshadow had meant to warn her of the danger behind her, she could not rid herself of the feeling that Z'beryl-no, from now on she would forever be Amnestria-was ashamed of the course her daughter and blade heir had taken. Arilyn's mother had willingly embraced the service and the sacrifice required of those who wielded a moonblade, as had all the elves who now fought. Was Arilyn, a mere half-elf, incapable of such nobility?

Instinctively, the Harper knew this was not so. She would do what she must for the elven People, as she always had. If that meant giving up her dream of freedom from the demands of the moonblade, then so be it. She would serve the sword, throughout eternity if need be.

With new resolve, Arilyn waded through the fighting toward the place where young Hawkwing had faltered and fallen. But her own arms seemed numb and heavy, and the moonblade refused to move at quite its usual speed. Too late she remembered the warning her own elfshadow had given her: she could not expect both to call forth the magic and wield it.