"My Pathfinder…" The voice belonged to Felltree, the young chieftain of the Black Feather tribe. Kagonos knew that he had displayed a great deal of courage in the past. Now Felltree's voice was tight, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

Then, in a withering storm of despair, Kagonos knew why. The warrior bore a bleeding, lifeless form in his arms. The Pathfinder didn't need to look closely to recognize the body of his brother Kyrill.

More than two hundred of tbe tribe's braves had fallen during tbe battle. The slain Elderwild were buried collectively in a large cairn atop the hill, individual stones standing on end to mark each warrior. The surviving elves tumbled the dead ogres down the hill, then dragged them across the lake so that their rotting corpses wouldn't pollute the water with the coming of spring.

Afterward, Kagonos led the surviving warriors down the frozen stream, through the deep cut in the side of the mountain. The band of warriors moved quickly, in several long files, following the course of high, barren valleys until they reached the lower vale where the tribes had gathered. At the outskirts of the pastoral valley the

Pathfinder met several white-haired archers-braves too old to march to war, but who stood ready to guard their loved ones in the absence of the main body of Elderwild warriors. The older elves watched their tribemates' return, and tears streamed from their eyes as they saw the ragged gaps in the long columns.

Still, the survivors stood tall, marching proudly as the sentries fell into ranks behind them. They returned to the encampment, where hundreds of tents and huts had been erected along the shore of a deep lake. The warriors came to tell of a victory-but also with a toll that tonight would bring grief to many families.

Barcalla, Felltree, and the other chiefs went to their sections of the camp, while Kagonos sat alone before a small fire. Cries-hopeless, keening songs-began to rise from many of the lodges, as the names of the dead were tolled.

Kahanna, a young elfmaiden who had been sweetly, innocently in love with Dall, brought the Pathfinder cakes of com and venison wrapped in crispy leaves, then hurried away as if she didn't want to intrude on his mourning. Kahanna had served Kagonos for many decades, tending to most of his household needs. Now he felt a sting of guilt-surely the young maid must grieve for the loss of her lover. Yet, because Kagonos was the Pathfinder, she bit her tongue and held back her own tears.

Dimly he heard the sounds of the shamans chanting, working the healing magic that might save a limb, or prevent a deep wound from festering. The worst of the wounded received the benefit of these merciful spells, and many lives were saved. But the tribal priests were too few, their powers too limited, to hold against the tide of suffering and death.

For the first time since the battle, he unlashed the Ram's Horn, raising the trumpet to his lips. For the hours of sunset and twilight he played a song of mourning. The notes carried clearly through the camps of the four tribes and rose through the forests into the mountain heights as well. In that music was comfort for all who grieved, and a measure of hope for those Elderwild who tumbled toward despair.

Finally the chiefs joined Kagonos at his fire, and they shared a silent pipe. Only after the last of the tobacco smoke had wafted into the wind did the Pathfinder look around the gathered elves. A part of him saw them as strangers, unknown to him. They needed him, he knew- but did he need them?

The answer to the unspoken question didn't matter. Kagonos must decide what to do now, and he knew this was a decision he could not make by himself.

Abruptly the Pathfinder remembered something that Darlantan had told him. He stood and turned his back to the fire, eyes seeking the eastern horizon. Then he raised a finger and pointed. The chiefs gasped collectively as a crimson orb climbed slowly into view, rising above the ridge and ascending into the darkening sky. Another moon, this one of brilliant, crystal white, followed the first. The third moon, the black one, was invisible when it came after-but the Pathfinder sensed its stark and ominous presence. And now he understood Darlantan's truth: even gods could be punished.

"The war is finished. The gods have banished their own kin, those who gave the dragongems to Silvanos. We see them entombed before us."

"The dragons-even the blues-have gone?" Barcalla asked hesitantly. "You know this from these moons?"

"Yes-but we must be certain. Tomorrow the tribes shall march from here."

"Where do we go?" asked Feldree.

"We shall march to the camp of Silvanos. There we will see what the future holds."

From the top of a foothill ridge the wild elves could see the ogre army streaming toward the north-a ragged, panicked mob, leaving chariots, foodstuffs, and weapons strewn in its wake. The midday sky was clear, free of clouds-and of dragons. Along the southern horizon, four hours' march away, the army of the House Elves sprawled in a vast encampment across the plain.

Watching the flight of the ogre survivors, Kagonos finally knew that more than just the battle had been won. With dual victories, in the mountains and on the plains, the elves had prevailed over their enemies in the Dragon War.

Still, he felt a curious numbness as he led the Elderwild tribes toward the camp of Silvanos. From the crest the march took the rest of the afternoon, and with each step it seemed that the mass, the numbers of the House Elves, grew steadily larger. Cheers rang out as the wild elves approached, and the Pathfinder knew that their greeting would be warm.

But what lay behind that warmth?

It all depended on Silvanos, Kagonos knew. So much about the ruler of the House Elves was a great mystery to the Pathfinder, and it was not without trepidation that he took his warriors and their families among the much more numerous elves of the city-dwelling clans.

The House Elves had made their encampment on the heights overlooking the Vingaard River, within sight of the battlefield-but far enough away to avoid the stench of rotting ogre corpses. In the light of the setting sun Kagonos saw hundreds of vultures wheeling over the scene of carnage, while clusters of the birds already gathered on the ground, flocking like maggots around the multitude of gruesome remains.

The elven camp, conversely, was a riotous gathering of colored tents, crowded horse corrals, and brilliant banners trailing in the breeze. Many of these pennants blazed incredibly bright in the light of the setting sun, as if the flags themselves were living tongues of flame.

In the center of the gathering snapped the white crown pennant of House Silvanos, and Kagonos guided his column toward the patriarch's circle. Nearby waved the green-and-white birch branch that signaled the tents of the great Lord Balif and his attendants. The wild elf knew that it was Balif, even more than Quithas, who had planned and executed Silvanos's most stunning victories. Balif was the true war leader of the Silvanesti, a fact that Silvanos never failed to acknowledge. Now cheers and the sounds of a boisterous toast rose from that great captain's compound, and Kagonos guessed that Balif had played a part in yet another historic victory.

Nearby fluttered another banner, this one all too familiar to Kagonos-a golden field emblazoned with the crossed claws of Quithas's rampant steed. The Elderwild chieftain sensed with a sting of lingering hatred that the general of Silvanos's cavalry had not only survived the battle, but had showered himself with glory.