Felryn took a small vial from his belt pouch. He flung droplets from the vial at the screen of skulls. A musky, sweet aroma surrounded the men.

His banishing oil used up, the healer gripped Tol’s arm. “It’s woodland magic,” he said. “A display meant to cause fear.”

Tol swallowed hard. “It works well.”

Felryn examined the nearest bones with professional detachment.

“Human, elf, human, human-and judging by the size of those two, kender, or perhaps gnome,” he said. “And they’ve been here for years. Bones don’t get this dry overnight.”

Tol felt a flush of anger drowning out his earlier horror. “Cut them down! Cut them all down!” he commanded, drawing his saber.

The task helped dispel the last traces of the Ergothians’ fear. When the way was clear, Tol sheathed his saber and the rescue party moved on.

At the top of the next rise, behind a tangle of bracken, they found a distinct path worn into the mossy earth. It was the first real trail they’d seen, and as it ran along their line of march, Tol decided to follow it. Wary of traps, the Ergothians paralleled the trail on either side, moving single file through the closely growing trees. Crake alone chose to walk down the worn path, bow in hand.

Crake suddenly stopped. Keeping his right hand low, by his side, he waved for everyone else to halt as well. The Ergothians knelt in the leaves.

The young flutist nocked an arrow very slowly, hands still held low. Raising the weapon swiftly, he loosed the arrow at a high angle. There was a screech, and something heavy came hurtling down from the tree tops.

“Tol! Now!” Crake shouted.

Trusting his friend, Tol rose with his sword in the air. “Have at them!”

They ran forward with no thought of stealth. Ahead, the path passed between a pair of tall boulders, and more waist-high rocks formed a barrier between the pair. Shouting the name of Juramona, the foot soldiers leaped onto the rocks. On the other side, still scrambling to grab their weapons, were several dozen foresters.

Tol dropped into the midst of the shocked tribesmen. Though he’d never attacked anyone with lethal intent before, the heat of the moment seized him, and he slashed forward without mercy. In such close quarters, most of the Ergothians abandoned spears and drew swords too, hacking at the unprepared enemy. The foresters fought back as best they could with wooden spears, stone axes, and clubs.

Tol struck a spear from the hands of an older man, then followed this with an underhand cut. It caught the tribesman under one arm and sent him reeling. Tol leaped over his fallen foe, not even bothering to see if he was alive or dead. He ran the next man, a painted half-elf, through, then spun around and recovered his blade. As the foot soldiers battled below him, Crake stood atop a convenient boulder, picking off enemies with his bow.

The fight was quickly over. Not one of the foresters escaped. The Ergothians, flushed with battle fever, were dazed as the fight ended abruptly. They gathered in the center of the camp and surveyed the carnage.

“I can’t believe we were able to steal up on them,” Tol said, panting. His mouth was searingly dry, his voice little more than a croak. One of the older footmen passed him a waterskin.

“They had a sentinel,” Crake said. “I shot him from the path.”

“Odovar must have come this way,” Narren observed. “The fools thought the danger had passed. Only one man on watch? Stupid!”

Twenty-eight foresters had been killed in the skirmish. Eight were half-elves-and four were women. As the elf Harpathanas Ambrodel had warned in Prince Amaltar’s camp, the women had fought as hard as their men, and died just as bravely. The Ergothians had lost not a single man, though five had received minor wounds.

One tribesman still lived, though he was wounded. He had long blond hair pulled back in a queue, and a short beard. His ears swept up to blunt points. Some of the men, eager to avenge Durazen, were ready to cut the injured half-elf s throat. Tol forbade it, though the footmen grew angry.

The awful scene of Durazen’s death would live in his dreams for a long time, but Tol stood firm. Looking at the fair-haired prisoner, the face of Vakka Zan came back to him. Tol adamantly refused to allow them to kill the captive.

One or two might have disputed the decision with force, but they were drawn away and calmed by the rest. Tol called for Felryn.

The healer examined the wounded forester, reporting the fellow had a sword cut on his calf. He applied a herbal powder and tied up the wound with a scrap of soft leather.

“It’ll hurt like a bite from the Dragonqueen, but he should live,” Felryn said.

Questioned, the green-daubed man would not reveal even his name. Felryn gave the ends of his leather bandage a tug. The tribesman’s face whitened.

“Nara,” he finally grunted. “Name’s Nara.”

There was no time to waste on interrogation. The forester’s comrades might even now be massing a force to counterattack the Ergothians. Over Felryn’s protests, Tol put him in charge of the half-elf s safety. Without the healer’s protection, Tol knew the other soldiers would likely finish the prisoner.

Uncertainty gnawed at Tol. As he walked along the row of slain tribesmen, he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake disobeying orders and coming into the forest. Like a hunter trembling after taking his first buck, he was sickened by the sight of death. His hands were shaking, and his eyes stung with tears.

Narren came up beside him, also gazing at the enemy bodies. Tol clenched his jaw, forcing the lump back down his throat. He would not shame himself by weeping at a time like this.

“Why do they color their faces?” Narren asked. He’d taken off his helmet, letting his fair hair blow free.

“To look fierce?” Tol suggested. “Or to better hide in the greenwood?”

His own words sparked a thought, and Tol turned abruptly. He clamped a hand on Narren’s arm.

“That’s it! That’s how we’ll get through!” he exclaimed. Narren’s confusion was plain, so Tol added, “We’ve been fortunate so far, don’t you see? The Panthers and the Eagles must have drawn off most of the tribesmen in these parts-the best armed, the ablest fighters. That’s why we’ve encountered only these ragged scavengers. If we go on, we’re sure to run into more fell warriors.”

“What of it?” said Narren. “We came to find our comrades. We’ve no choice but to walk the way in blood.”

Tol managed a smile. The plan forming in his mind chased away his earlier doubts. “Odovar, with two hordes at his command, foundered, so how can we hope to get through with only a hundred? We can’t, unless…” He looked again at the lifeless half-elves and their verdant skin. “Unless we become foresters too!”

It was easily done. Among their scant possessions, the slain tribesmen had small bags of paint, compounded from boar grease, leaves, and sap. There wasn’t enough pigment for the entire Ergothian band, but the veteran soldiers didn’t much fancy the idea of painting themselves up anyway. Tol and thirty-two of the youngest soldiers shed their armor and smeared their faces, arms, and hands with paint. As best as possible they copied the markings Nara bore, for extra authenticity.

The day was well advanced by the time they finished, and night would fall early under the shield of leaves. After a quick, cold meal in the boulder-ringed camp, the Ergothians set out again. Tol and his painted comrades led the way.

They detected signs of activity. More paths, leading off in various directions, were discovered. A faint smell of smoke drifted on the breeze, and twice they heard the distant pulse of drumbeats. At dusk, the drums grew louder.

By Felryn’s estimate, they’d come some five leagues from Zivilyn’s Carpet. Everyone was weary, but no one asked to stop. Night had truly fallen when they reached a small clearing. Tol signaled for the company to kneel in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. He called for Felryn.